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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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A long time after Johan left, a military transport truck with “On Duty” painted on its side pulled up to the road in Mini Bell.
The engine roared, spewing out thick black smoke, but the driver didn’t turn it off.
Instead, he flipped a switch, bathing the area in a blindingly bright light.
Soldiers in hazmat suits emerged from the truck in an orderly fashion, a full platoon.
Their assault rifles were equipped with flashlights, so bright they were impossible to look at directly.
The soldiers quickly secured the perimeter, their movements precise and efficient.
A moment later, a man was thrown out of the truck.
He was wearing only underwear, his hands and feet shackled.
His body was covered in bruises, but there wasn’t a single cut.
A thick book, like a phone directory, could inflict serious damage without breaking the skin, if used correctly.
An officer, wearing a helmet with a lieutenant’s insignia, emerged from the truck.
He, too, was wearing a hazmat suit and a gas mask. He was the one who’d thrown the man out.
He ignored the groaning man on the ground and walked towards the burned-out house, followed by two soldiers.
They searched the wreckage, but all they found were charred remains and the blackened corpses of zombies.
The officer walked back towards the man, his pace quickening, his frustration evident.
The man, still groaning from the fall, let out a scream.
“No! I swear, I don’t know anything! I know what’s in that briefcase! Why would I set it on fire? It doesn’t make any sense!”
The officer ignored his pleas, kicking him repeatedly in the stomach and back.
The man, his body a broken mess, curled up, trying to protect himself with his shackled arms.
“Please, stop! I surrender! I came to you! You can’t treat a prisoner of war like this!”
The officer’s phone buzzed.
He climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, ripping off his gas mask. He was young and handsome, but his face was contorted with rage.
The driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the officer waved him off and answered the phone.
“Sir.”
“Redeker. How are you holding up?”
The voice was sharp, impatient.
Lieutenant Redeker swallowed hard.
“…I’m fine, sir.”
“Haven’t you arrived yet? Your report is late.”
“I apologize, sir. There’s been an unforeseen development. The cabin where Hoot claimed he’d hidden the briefcase… it’s been burned down. We’re searching the area.”
“Really? What about Hoot?”
“He’s with us, sir. He claims he’s a prisoner of war. In reality, he’s a civilian who abandoned his mission and fled with the briefcase because he was afraid of getting caught.”
A light chuckle.
“Our commander is… displeased. Don’t stress too much about it, Redeker.
You’ll be seeing a lot more of these types in the future. Since you’re already there, use Hoot as bait and switch from a “search” operation to a “sweep.”
We’ve mobilized men and vehicles, we need to show some results. Otherwise, what am I supposed to write in my report?”
“A sweep… sir?”
The driver, unable to help himself, glanced nervously at Redeker.
He quickly turned back to the road, but Redeker pretended not to notice.
He wasn’t fond of “bait and sweep” operations either.
“Yes, sir. I’ll report back if there are any developments.”
“Good work.”
The call ended before Redeker could even salute.
“Sir… are we changing the mission?”
Redeker couldn’t bring himself to reprimand the driver for his weak voice, even though he was a corporal.
Sweeps were the most dangerous operations for drivers.
There were arguments that officers should take the wheel during sweeps, but it wasn’t practical.
Redeker didn’t blame the driver.
He didn’t want to be harsh with his men, the men he’d been through hell and back with.
“It’s not confirmed yet. Can you hand me the key to the glove compartment? Thanks. This will do.”
He picked up a long wrench, the kind used for vehicle maintenance.
It wasn’t too long or too short, but it was heavy enough to break bones.
He put his gas mask back on and stepped out of the truck.
Bait.
Redeker came from a long line of Romer military officers. Like most Romers, he considered citizens of other countries to be inferior.
He despised people like Hoot, who’d joined the Elza Liberation Movement and endangered innocent lives with their terrorist attacks.
He wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot Hoot if ordered to do so.
He would have broken every bone in his body if it meant upholding justice.
But the thought of using him as bait… it filled him with a deep sense of unease.
He couldn’t explain why he felt that way. He just knew it went against everything he’d been taught since childhood.
‘Be polite to your neighbors. Help those in need. We can’t survive alone.’
“I have to do this.”
He steeled himself and crouched down in front of Hoot.
He picked up the wrench and slammed it down on Hoot’s hand.
“Aaargh! My fingers! My fingers!”
“Where’s the briefcase?”
Redeker pressed, but Hoot could only whimper.
He slammed the wrench down again, harder this time.
Hoot’s right index finger bent at an unnatural angle, like a piece of overheated metal.
His eyes rolled back in his head.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, you filthy animal!”
Redeker couldn’t contain his anger.
The naked man whimpered, curling up into a ball.
“You were so eager to blow yourself up for that pathetic Elza Liberation Movement! And now you’re begging for your life? What kind of game are you playing?!”
“I didn’t run away!”
Hoot screamed, tears streaming down his face.
“My mission wasn’t to blow myself up! I was supposed to deliver the briefcase and the phone…!”
“The phone?”
Redeker muttered.
Hoot gritted his teeth.
He’d been saving that card for last, but he’d played it too early.
“What about the phone?”
Hoot trembled, not from the cold or hunger or pain, but from the primal fear of a prey animal facing its predator.
Redeker, unable to hold back any longer, raised the wrench again.
“It had the evidence!”
“What?”
“The Prime Minister’s assassination! There were rumors that the first infected appeared there! I… I thought it was just a rumor, until I saw it!
The phone had a video! The first human to eat another human alive, the one cursed by the blood-soaked, hungry goddess statue… it was all there!”
“What are you talking about? Does Hans know about this?”
“He knows about the video! But the network connection was unstable, so I couldn’t send anything except text messages! I barely managed to install the organization’s spyware app!”
“Where did you get the phone?”
“I stole it, of course! Who brings their own phone to a bombing? I stole a random phone, installed the spyware, and then… I saw it.”
“You could have run away with the phone. Why did you leave it with the briefcase?”
“The spyware app tracks my location in real time! They would have known if I went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to! That’s why I turned it off!”
It was either a well-crafted lie or a truth so absurd it sounded like fiction. Redeker hesitated.
He knew that excessive torture could lead to false confessions. It was basic interrogation protocol.
Just then…
“Sir!”
Two soldiers approached, their movements efficient, conserving energy as per military regulations.
“You need to see this.”
They were careful not to let Hoot overhear them. “Smart.” Hoot felt a surge of hope.
The three men stood in front of one of the intact houses, across the road.
The “Human Non-Protection Zone” notice had been defaced with a knife.
Briefcase for sale. Limited time offer. Text only. Negotiable. – V. OOO – OOOO – OOOO.
“Stay here.”
Redeker returned to the truck, dismissing the driver with a wave.
He dialed a number.
“What is it? Did you find something?”
“Commander. We found a lead. And Hoot has provided additional testimony…”
He reported everything, sticking to the facts, no matter how absurd they sounded.
It was the commander’s job to analyze and interpret the information.
“Excellent work, Redeker. You’re a blessing to your family.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Redeker was pleased. He’d achieved a significant result.
Which meant they wouldn’t have to do a sweep…
“The search operation was a success. Now we just need to finish the sweep.”
Redeker’s stomach dropped.
“Are we proceeding with the sweep, sir?”
“Victories are hard-won, Redeker. We have to push our advantage when we have it. The search operation was a success, wouldn’t it be even better if the sweep was flawless as well? But keep Hoot alive. You can use all the ammunition you need, but don’t be wasteful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work. Get some rest and have some canned food when you get back.”
The call ended.
Redeker sighed and issued an order.
“Bring out the cage.”
He was glad his men were wearing gas masks.
They wouldn’t have to see the disgust on his face.
He was a kind officer, but he was also a young, arrogant aristocrat, even more so than his peers.
The soldiers retrieved a metal cage from the back of the truck, barely large enough to hold a single person.
It was a triple-layered mesh cage, filthy and rusty. Redeker was sure it was a tetanus hazard.
But it had sturdy wheels.
“No! Please, no! Not the cage! Please! Please! God, no…”
Hoot begged and pleaded, but the soldiers ignored him, silently attaching the cage to the back of the truck with a thick chain.
“Cage secured, sir.”
“Hoot. You’re not going to die here. You’re going back alive. But you lied to us. And you have to pay the price. Put him in the cage.”
Redeker’s voice was filled with displeasure, but Hoot didn’t notice.
The soldiers grabbed him and shoved him into the cage.
Redeker pulled out his military knife and slashed Hoot’s leg, a long, deep cut.
Hoot screamed, his voice raw with pain.
“If you stay still, the bleeding will stop soon enough. It’s not a fatal wound. Your life is in your hands now.”
“Damn you!”
Hoot screamed from inside the cage, his voice muffled by the metal bars.
Blood dripped onto the ground.
“The Goddess of Hunger will curse you all! You call yourselves human? You invaded our country, and now you’re taking our blood…”
Redeker didn’t listen to the rest of his rant.
He ordered his men back into the truck.
This time, he climbed into the back, joining his men.
“Move out! Sound the siren!”
He pounded on the side of the truck.
The driver turned on the siren and flashing lights. Red and blue lights pulsed, illuminating the words painted on the side of the truck: “8th National Gendarmerie Special Task Force.”
The truck lurched forward, the chain taut. The cage rattled, bouncing along the road.
Even though the road was relatively smooth, blood spurted from Hoot’s wound with every bump.
“Slow down! Reduce speed!”
The truck moved at a brisk walking pace.
After a while, figures began to emerge from the roadside: dogs, cats, humans. Their eyes were blank and white, their flesh rotting.
Zombies.
Drawn by the siren and the scent of blood.
Redeker sighed.
“Ready weapons! Single fire!”
He and his men aimed their rifles in all directions.
The zombies were closing in from all sides.
Hoot screamed, his voice hoarse.
A fast-moving zombie lunged at the cage, its fingers brushing against the metal bars.
Hoot squealed like a pig.
“Increase speed!”
The truck accelerated slightly.
“Open fire!”
It was a slow, methodical sweep, all the more gruesome for its efficiency.
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Meanwhile, at the 8th National Gendarmerie Special Task Force command tent…
The command post was buzzing with activity, even though it was night.
Information didn’t respect time or schedules.
There was a mountain of data to analyze, the makeshift ashtrays—empty artillery shells—overflowing with cigarette butts, the liquor bottles long drained.
But the Special Task Force commander was unfazed.
She leaned back in her chair, lighting a fresh cigarette.
Her violet eyes gleamed in the dim light.
Crimson lipstick stained the white filter.
“Interesting. He’s bold, trying to sell that briefcase.”
He wasn’t in their database.
He could be a spy from the Western Republic, an information broker who’d stumbled onto a valuable asset, or, worst of all, an agent from another Romer or Elzan intelligence agency.
Interagency rivalry was fierce.
Sometimes, agencies would even sabotage each other.
People said that if she hadn’t been the Special Task Force commander, they wouldn’t have been able to detain that incompetent fool, Hoot.
“I need to know who he is.”
She stood up, the lamp on her desk flickering as she moved.
Her nameplate, “Virginia Helford, Commander, 8th National Gendarmerie Special Task Force,” glinted in the light.
The burning cigarette glowed in the darkness, like a viper’s eye.
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