How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 19

—————————————————————–
Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
—————————————————————–

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

Rifle slung over my shoulder, pistol tucked in my pocket, OZ shotgun in hand, and a red bandana covering my face – the Lambert gang member transformation was complete.

Now, onto phase two.

Secure a sniper position near the auction site, wait for the event to begin, pick off targets one by one, and shout, “You dared to deceive us!”

If the gangs turn on each other, great.

If not, I’ll just have to stir the pot a little more.

Phase three?

Lie low, wait for the opportune moment, eliminate everyone, grab the loot and a vehicle, and make a clean getaway.

My usual playbook.

Of course, it was risky. This plan required me to infiltrate the heart of the village.

But playing it too safe wouldn’t get me anywhere.

In a place this dangerous and with my stomach constantly growling, “moving without gaining” was practically a death sentence.

The game was set.

The question was, how many scoops could I get from this boiling pot while enduring the heat?

Play it safe, secure a small but guaranteed reward?

Or trust my skills, embrace a bit of risk, and go for the big score?

As I pondered my options, I heard the faint sound of gunshots.

Someone was sniping zombies.

Wait a minute…

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

Meanwhile, at the edge of the industrial area, in a wooded area…

A black SUV came to a stop.

Four members of the Elza Liberation Front, clad in camouflage uniforms of black, brown, and green, emerged from the vehicle.

Any observer would have been impressed by their arsenal: submachine guns, shotguns, rifles, and even a designated marksman rifle.

A small team equipped for close, medium, and long-range engagements.

Their faces were hidden behind black balaclavas, but the one leading the group, with a distinctly feminine physique, raised a hand and twirled a finger in the air, signaling the others to follow.

They moved through the forest like ghosts, their movements silent and swift.

Bang!

The group froze, startled by the sudden gunshot.

The designated marksman scanned the surroundings with binoculars.

Another shot rang out.

Bang!

They spotted a zombie collapsing, its body riddled with bullets.

Tracing the trajectory of the blood splatter, they focused on the factory chimneys.

The words “Kibele Foods” were clearly visible.

But the sniper wasn’t there.

They were further down, positioned in a small guard post, their rifle mounted on a tripod.

“Should we take them out?” a voice whispered.

“We have to.

They’re a liability.

That’s a skilled shooter, not your average gangster.

The way they handle their weapon, their posture… probably ex-police.”

“Should we crawl up to the guard post?”

“No. It’s not worth the time or energy. You hungry?”

The three subordinates nodded in unison.

“Me too. Let’s just grab the briefcase and get out of here. Still no response?”

“Nothing.”

One of the subordinates pulled out their phone.

The “Out of Service Area” message flashed on the screen, but they ignored it and sent a message to their teammate.

They knew the briefcase acted as a mini cell tower.

Which meant that if messages could be sent in a dead zone, the briefcase was nearby.

But the briefcase wasn’t here.

And V wasn’t responding.

The realization that they had been tricked dawned on them, but Hans’s orders were clear: retrieve the briefcase.

They had to at least take a picture with their phone camera to prove that the briefcase wasn’t there.

Hans was the leader.

And for the sake of Elza’s liberation, they had to follow his orders, no matter how much they disagreed.

“Keep trying to contact them. I’ll take care of the sniper.”

The leader, presumably the team captain, raised their silenced sniper rifle.

Even with a silencer, the sound wasn’t completely eliminated.

In the case of a sniper rifle, the deafening blast was reduced to a dull thud.

But the fact that the sound didn’t travel as far was enough to make it worthwhile.

And the power, even with the reduced noise, was undeniable.

It was an even more effective tactic in a situation like this, where the Lambert gang was using gunshots to lure and eliminate zombies.

As long as they didn’t waste ammo.

Another zombie wandered into view.

The Liberation Front leader took a deep breath, steadying their aim.

They watched as the gang sniper shifted their rifle towards the approaching zombie.

They exhaled slowly, emptying their lungs completely.

Inhale.

Their breath hitched.

Their body stilled.

Their heart rate slowed.

The gang sniper’s rifle fired. Bang.

Before the sound even reached their ears…

They fired.

A dull thud.

The zombie crumpled to the ground.

The gang sniper’s head slumped forward, as if they had dozed off.

They waited.

Waited.

Waited.

There was no movement from the guard post, but they kept their eye glued to the scope.

“Phew…”

Even a breath could be sweet relief.

“Damn, Camilla’s sniping skills are insane. The shots were almost simultaneous. No one will suspect a thing.”

“Don’t let your guard down. There might be more snipers in the guard post.”

“Let’s catch our breath first.”

It was a valid point.

They had heard two distinct sniper rifle shots, same caliber but different distances.

There were more zombie snipers.

“Take a sip of water, and then we move.”

Moments later, the Liberation Front operatives continued their advance.

They spotted two gang members sitting by a campfire, drinking and chatting.

Two of the operatives, their weapons slung over their backs, approached from behind, piano wire in hand.

A quick, silent movement, and the two gang members slumped forward, choking, their mugs clattering to the ground.

“Forward. We clear the path.”

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

The four ghosts infiltrated the industrial area.

There was no mistaking it.

The gunshots overlapped.

First, the sound of a zombie being sniped from the factory area. And then, almost immediately, another sniper rifle shot, so close together it almost sounded like a burst of automatic fire.

It was a common occurrence during counter-sniping operations.

That Hans fellow had sent a welcoming party.

The lack of sustained gunfire suggested that a full-blown firefight hadn’t broken out yet.

But this was an opportunity.

The three chimneys were located deeper within the industrial area.

If the area wasn’t being guarded, a firefight would have been inevitable.

If I could infiltrate the village center while their attention was focused elsewhere… it was a gamble worth taking.

I adjusted my mask and checked the camouflage on my backpack.

Everything was in order. I opened the warehouse door and stepped out onto the street.

I strolled casually through the unfamiliar yet familiar streets, as if I were on patrol.

I had to reach the village center anyway.

There was no need to sneak around, but attracting attention wouldn’t do me any good, so I stuck to the shadows whenever possible.

Thankfully, the gang’s patrol patterns were almost identical to what I remembered.

Some stood guard like statues, while others patrolled back and forth between designated points.

I blended in seamlessly, sometimes pausing, sometimes walking briskly, as if I were simply passing through.

A strong gust of wind swept through the village, kicking up dust and sand.

Everyone pulled their hats down, their faces contorted in annoyance.

I did the same, pulling my cowboy hat low over my eyes as I passed by a group of gang members.

The sporadic gunshots continued.

There was no mistaking it.

The sounds overlapped.

The zombie sniper fired first, followed almost instantly by another sniper shot.

A tactic of using sound to mask sound.

The fact that they never fired more than two shots suggested they were highly skilled.

But no one else seemed to notice.

I continued my walk-through Lambert Village, my heart pounding in my chest.

I compared the scenery before me to the memories etched in my mind, memories so vivid I could navigate these streets blindfolded.

The Lambert Village in my memories was a desolate wasteland.

Bullet-ridden walls, buildings overgrown with vines.

I remembered zombie dogs leaping from alleyways, gang members firing indiscriminately from second-story balconies.

This Lambert Village, while showing signs of destruction and fire, didn’t feel abandoned. Smoldering campfires, empty bottles resting on pornographic magazines… the remnants of human activity were everywhere.

Perhaps that’s why there seemed to be more guards, more patrols than I remembered.

Well, it wasn’t my concern.

I continued my leisurely stroll.

I couldn’t avoid being seen as I approached the village center, so I had to blend in.

Thankfully, the patterns were familiar enough.

If I pretended to be a gang member on patrol, I could easily…

“Hey, Schoolgirl Backpack Man!”

A voice boomed from behind me.

“Schoolgirl Backpack Man?” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Yeah, you! The one with the pink princess backpack! You heading to an all-girls school or something? That’s a serious crime, you know.”

…He had to come out of the building now, didn’t he?

I slowly turned around. A donkey-faced man stood leaning against the doorway, chewing on peanuts, his legs spread wide in a cocky stance.

I really wanted to shoot him.

“Oh, this? It’s my niece’s.”

I checked the backpack.

The black cloth I had used to cover it was partially torn, probably ripped by the strong wind earlier.

And of course, the exposed section revealed that damn Barbie doll’s face.

“Running errands for your niece, huh?”

“…Taking it to her grave.”

Your grave, to be precise.

The donkey-faced man flinched, his body stiffening.

I looked up at the sky wistfully, then down at the ground, my expression somber, as if mourning his impending death.

“…She really loved it.”

“My condolences.”

The donkey-faced man crossed himself.

Then he spat on the ground.

What the hell was wrong with this guy?

“…Well, what can you do? The living have to keep living, right? Ahem. Anyway, I’ve never seen a backpack like that before. And you’re carrying two guns? That one on your shoulder, is that a .22 caliber rifle? Who are you planning to shoot?”

Was he trying to change the subject out of embarrassment, or was he genuinely suspicious?

Maybe both.

“Good eye. This one’s for people.”

“And that pea shooter in your hand?”

The OZ’s reputation seemed to precede it.

A bolt-action shotgun, what a ridiculous weapon.

Only a poor communist would even consider using it.

“This one’s for zombies.”

“So, you’re prepared to kill both zombies and people. Aren’t you a little over-prepared?”

The donkey-faced man chuckled, crunching on his peanuts.

What a disgusting way to eat.

“It’s auction day. I heard a lot of gangs are coming. And the auction items…”

The donkey-faced man nodded, seemingly convinced by my logic.

“Well, a slave who can heal people is a valuable commodity.”

“Exactly. Good luck with your work.”

I took two steps forward, about to leave, when…

“Hold it right there!”

Click!

The sharp sound of metal against metal.

This bastard… I spun around, aiming the OZ at him.

Clink. Clink…

A shotgun shell rolled across the floor.

The donkey-faced man stared at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement.

He was holding a Mossberg 590.

A pump-action shotgun.

The kind you often see in movies, where you fire a shot and then rack the slide to chamber another round.

A decent all-around weapon.

Definitely better than the one I was holding.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

He scolded me, lowering his weapon.

He raised his empty hand apologetically.

I glanced around.

Three men were watching us from the rooftop of the building next door, snickering.

“Sorry, sorry. I should have warned you. You saw me unload it, right? Here, take it.”

He offered me the Mossberg, muzzle pointed safely upwards. I sighed and approached him.

The shade of the building’s entrance provided a welcome respite from the heat.

I reached for the barrel.

But he didn’t let go.

“Are you going to hand it over?”

He held on tight.

“By the way, I don’t recognize you. You new in town? Mind lowering your mask? Just a formality, sir.”

“Busy hands.”

My right hand was on the Mossberg, my left hand on the OZ. Even with the OZ’s short barrel, this was too close for comfort. He would grab me before I could even raise it.

He raised his empty hand again.

Good.

Now, if I could just get the barrel under his chin…

“You two dating or something?”

A raspy voice, like shattering glass, interrupted us. Both the donkey-faced man and I turned to see…

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇