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How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 31

.。.:✧ A Life Without Secrets is a Poor and Empty Thing (2)✧:.。

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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“Cruising through the sands, in my trusty van, feeling refreshed… oh yeah! Cough, cough!”

Note to self: no more singing while driving, especially with a missing windshield.

The wind and dust whipped through the open space, turning the van’s cabin into a miniature sandstorm.

I had resorted to wrapping my head and face in a cloth, like a desert sheikh, sunglasses completing the ensemble.

I had worried about the heat and discomfort, but maintaining a speed of 40-50 km/h created a constant flow of cool air.

In fact, when a strong gust hit, the cloth would plaster itself against my mouth, making it hard to breathe.

The dry air made me thirsty, but that was easily remedied with frequent sips of water.

I was also mindful of the van’s condition.

The repeated collisions in Lambert Village had twisted the axle. Going any faster than 50 km/h turned the ride into a bone-jarring experience, the van bouncing up and down like a lowrider on hydraulics.

A damaged axle meant the van was on borrowed time.

A shame.

I had grown quite fond of it.

The past few days had been surprisingly enjoyable.

“Today’s forecast is mostly sunny, with a chance of showers in some areas,” the radio announced.

The radio provided a sense of normalcy, a connection to the world beyond the wasteland.

“Alright, alright, I’ll pay for the gas!”

I would stop at abandoned gas stations, filling the jerrycans with fuel, a single bullet silencing any zombie attendants who dared to approach.

“Man, I’m exhausted.”

I would then drive to a deserted farm or warehouse, crank up the radio, or sing at the top of my lungs, drawing the zombies out like moths to a flame.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Safety off.

I would park the van close to a sturdy wall, the front bumper almost touching, to prevent zombies or looters from entering through the exposed front.

And then?

Close the garage door, retreat to the cargo hold, spread out a blanket, and sleep.

The van, true to its name, had a secure partition separating the driver’s cabin from the cargo hold.

I could sleep soundly, even without a windshield.

The reinforced steel walls provided an added sense of security. They had withstood rifle fire.

A few zombie scratches wouldn’t even leave a dent.

That silver-haired woman’s ridiculously powerful handgun was an anomaly, of course.

The feeling of safety, of being protected, allowed me to sleep soundly for the first time since escaping Lambert Village.

I woke up stiff and sore, my muscles aching from the unaccustomed rest.

For a few days, life was good.

I would drive, searching for a supermarket, stopping at promising-looking houses along the way, cranking up the radio to lure out the hungry occupants.

A few well-placed 5.56mm rounds, and they were on their way to zombie heaven.

I had over a box of ammo and a gunsmithing kit, so the M4 carbine would last me a while, barring any major malfunctions.

I could afford to be generous with my bullets.

There weren’t many zombies around.

The helicopters in Lambert Village had probably drawn them all in, creating a temporary safe zone.

But the looting was disappointing.

The houses were mostly empty, stripped bare.

“Damn it.”

I kicked the front door of a house in frustration.

It was adorned with a “Human Unprotected Zone Warning” sign and a gang symbol.

Like dogs marking their territory, the gangs had sprayed their symbols on every surface, claiming ownership.

The fire department gang had painted axes, the police gang had plastered POLICE tape.

The evolution of the markings told a story of shifting power dynamics.

Old symbols were crossed out, replaced by newer, bolder ones.

This house, judging by the gold-plated symbol, had been claimed by the Angels of Explosions… or whatever their full name was.

It was a pointless gesture, considering the house was empty.

But it was probably a territorial dispute.

The territorial battles weren’t limited to houses.

Gas stations with attached convenience stores.

Small shopping centers clustered around a lake.

Warehouses with faded signs, their contents a mystery.

Most of them were empty, devoid of anything valuable. Vehicles and food were especially scarce.

I had found three boxes of nails and a single, expired box of crackers.

The good stuff, the valuable items, had probably been transported to the cities when the evacuation order was issued.

The rest had been looted by the gangs, taken back to their bases.

I filled the jerrycans with gasoline and kerosene, wondering what would happen to the remaining gangs.

The carnage in Lambert Village would eventually reach their ears.

But they wouldn’t collapse immediately.

The mid-level thugs would be out on raids, while the strongest fighters, the leaders, would be back at their bases, enjoying their spoils, their harems.

But even a lion was less dangerous with its claws and teeth removed.

Gangs relied on looting.

Without loot, they would starve, or turn on each other.

They would weaken, fracture, and eventually disintegrate.

Raiding their bases would be profitable.

If only I knew where they were.

This area was too vast.

And the van’s condition limited my range.

I had more freedom of movement now, but I couldn’t just drive aimlessly.

“I need a map.”

Not a simple road map with names and locations.

I needed a detailed map, the kind real estate agents used, with property lines and zoning information, showing me exactly what was where.

I considered turning on my phone and searching online, but the thought filled me with dread.

I was probably out of range, and the phone was infected with spyware.

Turning it on would reveal my location, making me an easy target.

…Actually, there was one place that fit the bill perfectly.

As I drove, humming a tune, a memory surfaced.

A relative who had lived abroad for several years had told me, “How many countries in the world have pizza, chicken, hamburgers, shopping malls, and dry cleaners within a 30-minute drive? Korea is the best when it comes to convenience.”

I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But now, driving through this desolate wasteland, his words resonated with me.

The only sign of life was my van.

Even the birds had vanished. After the zombie crow incident, I had learned to avoid or eliminate any wild animals I encountered.

Their absence was a blessing, but it also contributed to the unsettling silence.

I remembered a horror story I had read as a child.

A couple, driving at night, accidentally hit a pedestrian and fled the scene.

As they drove, they realized they were driving in circles, passing the same landmarks over and over again.

Their car, despite running out of fuel, continued to move.

The engine wouldn’t turn off, and the doors wouldn’t open.

They realized, with growing horror, that they were trapped in an endless loop, condemned to drive forever.

It hadn’t scared me as a child. So what?

At least they’re together, I had thought.

But now, I understood the true horror of the story.

It wasn’t the endless loop that was terrifying.

It was the realization, the dawning awareness that they were trapped.

The feeling of living the same day over and over again, of glancing at the calendar and thinking, Wait, has it really been that long?

The realization that your life had become a treadmill, a hamster wheel, a constant, meaningless cycle of activity, leading nowhere.

The endless monotony.

The insidious, soul-crushing boredom.

…Compared to that, my current situation was almost enjoyable.

It was chaotic, unpredictable, dangerous.

But it was also… liberating.

Yes.

The world wasn’t all bad.

I drove for hours, my eyes scanning the horizon, until I finally spotted my destination.

A newspaper distribution center.

Newspapers had to be delivered, either to individual houses or to businesses.

Which meant the distribution center’s maps would be up-to-date, marking safe routes, roadblocks, and dangerous areas.

There was no sign of life outside.

No one would leave a rotting zombie corpse sprawled across the entrance.

But I could hear movement inside, a faint clattering sound.

I grabbed my hunting knife and the M4 carbine, cautiously approaching the building.

The lobby was deserted.

Maps and bulletin boards lined the walls, alongside delivery schedules and scattered piles of newspapers.

Overturned boxes littered the floor.

I turned up the radio.

The clattering sound intensified, but no one emerged.

It seemed to be coming from the distribution manager’s office.

The blinds were drawn, obscuring the interior.

I circled the building, locating the office window.

I smashed the glass with the butt of my rifle and ripped down the blinds.

A zombie, strapped to a chair, sat inside.

The armchair was massive, the size of a car seat, making it impossible for the occupant to stand up.

Leather straps bound the zombie’s arms, legs, and torso to the chair.

Something strange was attached to the arm of the man, who was dressed in a pale blue uniform.

A dead dog.

It had probably been a zombie dog as well.

Its eyes were rolled back, its teeth sunk into the man’s arm, its body motionless.

The reason I knew it was dead was because its tail and lower body were missing, torn away by something.

I had a pretty good idea what had happened.

The zombie didn’t even look at me.

It didn’t react to the sound of the radio.

It just kept trying to raise its arm, its teeth gnashing at the dog in its lap.

I raised my rifle, then lowered it.

The door was blocked.

A metal cabinet had been overturned, wedged against the steel door, effectively sealing the room from both sides.

I didn’t know who had turned first, the man or the dog.

But it was clear that the man had retained some semblance of his humanity until the very end.

He had barricaded himself inside, securing his body to the chair with leather straps, knowing what was coming.

I glanced at the wall.

It was adorned with quotes about newspapers.

“I would rather have a newspaper without a government than a government without newspapers,” one quote read.

“The press is the guardian of the nation’s liberty,” another proclaimed.

“A dog biting a man is not news, but a man biting a dog is,” the final quote declared.

The last quote was particularly poignant.

In this world, neither event was newsworthy.

I entered the distribution center and ripped the map off the wall.

I used the lighter to ignite a pile of newspapers.

I rolled them up, creating a makeshift torch, and tossed it into the manager’s office.

Before the flames could spread, I fired two shots.

One for the dog.

One for its owner.

I stepped on the gas, leaving the burning building behind me.

Perhaps there was a special place in heaven for zombies and zombie dogs.

Or maybe they belonged in hell.

It was the least I could do for a man who had clung to his humanity until the very end, and for a dog who had loved him unconditionally.

If there was no room for humans in heaven, then at least there should be a place for dogs.

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How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse

How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse

Score 9.4
Status: Ongoing Type: Author: Artist: Released: 2023 Native Language: Korean
I was transported into a hardcore zombie apocalypse game that I played for over 1,000 hours. But the world is much more intact than I remember. For now.

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rent
2 days ago

damn

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