How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 20

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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A woman with a seagull insignia on her shoulder looked at us with disdain.

The redneck scarf and deputy badge she wore marked her as a higher-ranking member.

I seized the opportunity and snatched the Mossberg from the donkey-faced man’s grasp.

I didn’t relinquish the OZ shotgun either.

I might have been the one who took it, but he was the one who would face the consequences.

“You idiot! I told you to stand guard, and you’re here stuffing your face with peanuts? Get your ass over here! Princess Backpack, you too! And you scarecrows on the roof, get down here!”

I cursed the fact that the Disease Crisis Management Agency jumper was too small.

If it had been bigger, it would have concealed the backpack completely.

“What’s going on? Why do we have to come down?” the “scarecrows” on the roof shouted back.

“We have guests! More gang members than we were expecting, and they’re heavily armed! We need to show them some respect!”

The men on the roof grumbled as they disappeared behind the parapet.

The donkey-faced man, backing away, pointed at me with a peanut-butter-smeared finger.

“Wait, hold on. Something’s not right about this guy. I’ve never seen him before. Did we recruit someone new without my knowledge?”

The woman glared at him, her eyes burning with fury.

“Are you going to keep wasting time? We’re busy!”

“I’m serious! I’ve never seen him before! What if he’s a spy from another gang?”

The woman with the seagull insignia approached me and ripped off my mask.

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise, before taking a step back.

“Ahem. Ahem.”

…I wasn’t sure why she was acting so flustered.

“Um, where are you from? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The donkey-faced man continued to babble, but the woman’s demeanor had completely changed.

She was incredibly polite, even a bit shy.

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Of course it matters. We don’t have anyone as handsome as you in our ranks.”

I hadn’t noticed any significant changes in my appearance when I looked in the mirror.

My slight facial asymmetry wasn’t exactly a chick magnet.

Or maybe… was I secretly attractive?

“Just tell us where you’re from if you don’t want to die. What squad are you with?”

…Playing games, huh? I leaned closer to the woman, my face inches from hers. She stumbled back, flustered.

“You just called me handsome.”

“Is this guy crazy?” the donkey-faced man exclaimed.

“Are you lying to me?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

Another reason to add to my kill list.

The woman, her expression a mixture of disbelief and annoyance, placed her hand on the pistol holstered at her hip.

She was going for her weapon. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to stop me from pointing the OZ shotgun at her head.

I pulled the trigger.

The woman’s body jerked, her head snapping back as if searching for something that was no longer there.

Then she collapsed, her body hitting the ground with a thud.

“Wha- what the…?” “What happened? What’s going on?”

The donkey-faced man was wearing decent armor.

I circled behind him as the three men from the rooftop rushed down the stairs, firing their weapons.

The donkey-faced man, caught in the crossfire, screamed in agony.

“Looks like you’re the one going to school, buddy.”

I fired the OZ shotgun over his shoulder, taking down one of the attackers.

I dropped the OZ and drew my pistol, aiming for the head.

One shot.

Missed.

Another shot.

The second attacker went down.

The donkey-faced man’s body shuddered as the last attacker’s bullets found their mark.

I tilted my head, dodging the spray of blood, and fired three more shots: two to the head, one to the chest.

“Gah… ugh… argh…”

The attacker I had shot with the shotgun thrashed on the ground, his hand reaching for his weapon, trying to fire back.

I finished him off with a single pistol shot.

“Gasp… gasp… gasp… gasp…”

The donkey-faced man, gasping for air as if he had just run a marathon, collapsed to his knees.

“P-please… spare me… please…”

“This is for my niece.”

“You don’t have a niece, you bastard…!”

“You’re right. I don’t. And neither will you.”

I pulled the trigger.

His body slumped to the ground.

I grabbed a handful of shotgun shells from his vest.

Click.

I reloaded the Mossberg.

I could hear shouting, the sound of running footsteps approaching.

I sighed.

“Well, let’s shake things up a bit.”

It was time to kill everyone.

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On the other side of the village, in the industrial area…

The Liberation Front team was nearing their destination.

But they still hadn’t received any messages.

No messages meant the briefcase, with its built-in mini cell tower, wasn’t nearby.

If it weren’t for Hans’s explicit orders to “visually confirm and take a picture with your phone camera,” they would have retreated long ago.

But orders were orders.

They had to follow them, no matter how reluctant they felt.

Camilla, the team leader, held up a hand, signaling the others to stop.

She pointed to her ear, urging them to listen.

It was faint, but they could hear gunshots.

Multiple gunshots, a cacophony of different sounds.

A firefight?

The situation had changed.

They could hear the panicked voices of the factory guards over their radios.

The guards who had been resting inside were now pouring out of the building.

“Factory 3! Respond!”

The radio they had taken from the guard they had strangled crackled to life.

“Damn it, are you slacking off again? This is an emergency! Report!”

Camilla tapped the radio’s microphone rhythmically with her finger.

“What’s wrong with your radio? Tap once if you can hear me! Tap twice if you’re in trouble!”

Tap.

“Good, listen up! There’s a firefight near the village. We don’t know what’s going on, so stay alert! If things go south, abandon the factory and regroup at the village! The human auction is still on schedule, just so you know!”

Tap.

The radio went silent. The Liberation Front operatives lowered their voices.

“What do we do, Camilla?”

The village was quite a distance away.

They could just check for the briefcase and leave.

But the words they had heard over the radio had given them pause.

“…Did they just say, ‘human auction’?”

“Yes, they did.”

Camilla’s face contorted in disgust.

The expressions of her teammates were grim.

“Look over there. Dust cloud. A big one. Looks like the biker gangs are converging.”

A massive plume of dust rose from the horizon, like a tantrum thrown by the earth itself.

This was on the scale of a gang war. The chaos was only going to escalate.

“…Humans treating other humans like livestock. It’s an abomination. And as liberators of the people, we cannot stand idly by, especially when it involves civilians in a human unprotected zone.”

They were Elza’s people.

Their beloved Elza shouldn’t be like this.

They had to cleanse the filth.

“But first, we find the briefcase. That’s our mission.”

The corners of her teammates’ eyes drooped.

Their balaclavas hid their expressions, but Camilla found their dejection endearing.

“But let’s move quickly and make up for lost time. If the operation is successful, we can dedicate ourselves to this rescue mission with a clear conscience. And if it fails…”

“If it fails?”

“Did anyone enjoy coming here? I know I didn’t.”

They all shook their heads.

Camilla smiled, a cruel twist to her lips.

“Then let’s have some fun, shall we? What do you say? We’ll crush those who defiled Elza. Slowly…”

“I like the sound of that.”

Camilla, thinking how simple and straightforward her team was, picked up the radio and stood up.

“Forward!”

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I rushed into a nearby general store, grabbed a long plank from a shelf, and propped it up against a stack of heavy bricks on one end and a sandbag on the other.

I used my hunting knife to puncture a hole in the sandbag, creating a slow leak, then slipped out the back door and hid behind a dumpster in the alley.

Crash!

The bricks tumbled to the ground, drawing the attention of the three men who had been pursuing me.

They spun around, their weapons raised. I fired my rifle, taking down two of them: one with a headshot, the other clutching his throat.

The last one reacted belatedly, but I was faster.

“Gah! You bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

I saw more men rushing towards me from the distance.

I raised my hands and shouted.

“Over there! The general store with the red sign! He’s hiding inside! Hurry!”

“Argh! That damn bastard!”

No one paid attention to the cries of the fallen.

I fired at the legs of the approaching men, dropping them to their knees, then finished them off with a shot to the back of the head.

I ran.

Even as I ran, I kept track of my surroundings, my mind’s eye mapping out the streets.

I pulled my mask up higher and sprinted up the stairs of a nearby building, diving behind a low wall.

I propped up my pink backpack as a makeshift shield and reloaded my rifle and pistol, my hands working quickly. I wished I had spare magazines, but it didn’t matter.

I could just grab any weapon I found, fire indiscriminately, and discard it.

Sometimes, that was faster and more efficient than reloading.

I was one.

They were many. Accuracy didn’t matter.

If I sprayed bullets like a fire hose, someone was bound to get hit.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder and waited for two men to pass beneath the roof before firing my rifle.

One went down instantly, but I missed the other.

He ducked behind a corner and returned fire.

Ping!

Crack!

Cement chips flew as bullets ricocheted off the wall.

I recalled the countless deaths I had experienced during my thousands of hours of gameplay.

I remembered watching streamer walkthroughs, studying their tactics.

When you were pinned down, trapped in the enemy’s line of fire, the best option was to throw a grenade, forcing them to retreat.

Then you could pick them off as they scrambled for cover.

But if you didn’t have any explosives, staying put was a death sentence.

You had to move, flank them, find a new angle.

The sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears calmed me.

I crawled backwards, then sprang to my feet, leaping across the one-meter gap to the roof of the adjacent building.

I crouched low, keeping my body close to the edge of the roof as I circled around.

I spotted the man who had been firing at me, still hiding behind the corner, his eyes scanning the area where I had been moments before.

Our eyes met.

I winked at him before firing. Blood splattered against the wall, like a burst of paint from a paintball gun.

“Ha.”

There were no immediate threats in sight.

I could hear shouting, screams, and panicked calls for retreat.

Even from a distance, I could recognize the distinctive gang dialect.

But it was time to change my tactics.

The men I had encountered so far had been armed for “zombie duty.”

That’s why their primary weapons were shotguns and pistols.

Sure, some of them used slugs instead of buckshot, turning their shotguns into powerful, albeit slow-firing, rifles.

But their lack of firepower meant that prolonged engagements favored me.

But now, I had to face opponents armed for “human combat.”

My advantage had diminished significantly.

Their weapons would be equal to, if not better than, mine.

I needed chaos.

More chaos.

Even more chaos.

I had to blend in, become one of them, use the chaos as cover, and pick them off one by one.

‘…The slaves in the apple warehouse. I should free them.’

What better way to strike fear into the hearts of slavers than to unleash their captives?

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