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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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The distribution center map was divided into zones: industrial, commercial, agricultural, middle-class, and slums.
No upper-class zone.
This made prioritizing my looting strategy easy.
Each zone had the number of newspaper deliveries listed.
More deliveries meant a higher population density, and a higher population density meant more loot.
My first stop was the agricultural wholesale market, a 30-minute drive from the distribution center.
It boasted a large parking lot, a small shopping district, a repair center for agricultural machinery and vehicles, and even an agricultural research and testing facility.
The map proudly proclaimed it as “the lifeblood of our region,” hinting at its importance.
But as I approached, all I saw was smoke, ruins, and a pervasive stench of decay.
I parked the van a kilometer away, climbed the ladder of a large billboard – the kind you often see along highways – and spent thirty minutes observing the area.
Burned and charred buildings.
A collapsed repair center.
Vehicles with missing doors.
Crushed zombie corpses.
There were dozens of them, their bodies forming a gruesome line down the center of the road, like a macabre yellow dividing line.
They were all facing away from the market, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
What had happened here?
I noticed dried bloodstains on the asphalt, barely visible after days of exposure to the elements.
The bloodstains formed a trail, leading away from the market, in the same direction the zombies were facing.
I unfolded the map and traced my finger along the bloodstained path. It led straight to Lambert Village.
The Gendarmerie.
They had used the cages, the ones containing the bleeding human and the zombie, to lure the zombies away from the market.
“Well, at least it’s safe.”
I drove into the parking lot.
The vehicles, the corpses, the buildings – they were all empty shells, their contents stripped bare.
Even the gas tanks of the vehicles were open, their fuel siphoned off.
Vines had begun to reclaim the abandoned structures, their tendrils snaking through cracks in the asphalt, their leaves a sickly green.
I spotted a building the size of a small shopping mall, smoke still rising from its charred remains.
The stench of decay intensified as I entered the market.
There were signs of human habitation: a burned-out cot, a scorched oil drum, a barricade made of car doors.
But they had all fallen.
A rusted gun, its metal stained with dried blood.
Torn clothing.
A gnawed-on ballistic helmet.
The remnants of a desperate last stand.
In the midst of the debris, a single market stall stood defiant.
Plastic fruits and vegetables were displayed on its shelves, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the surrounding decay.
The immortal replicas, replacing their rotting counterparts, served as a silent reminder of what this place had once been, of what it was supposed to be.
A sign beneath the stall read: Seed Cultivation, Testing, and Sales – 2F.
I gripped the M4 carbine and climbed the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the silence.
I picked up a loose piece of concrete and tossed it into the hallway.
Tick. Tick. Tick…
Silence.
Only the sunlight streaming through the windows.
The stench of decay was even stronger here.
I opened the door to the testing facility, the source of the foul odor.
It was a large, spacious room, its ceiling high, like an auditorium.
One side was dedicated to hydroponics, the other to soil-based cultivation.
And both were overgrown with vegetation, their growth unnatural, their forms grotesque.
This was the source of the stench.
The first thing I noticed were the cucumbers.
They were the size of daikons, their skin pale green, with dark green stripes, like zucchinis. But their bumpy texture was unmistakable.
The stripes were cracks, the skin unable to contain the rapidly growing flesh within.
The vines were thick, the leaves oversized.
The yellow flowers, drooping like wilted umbrellas, added to the unsettling scene.
It wasn’t just the cucumbers.
The pumpkins, the blueberries, the grapes, the tomatoes – they were all monstrously large, their flesh bursting through their skins, their colors faded and sickly.
Growth Day 20.
The label on an acrylic board mocked me.
It was a ridiculous notion. I walked through the testing facility, my mind reeling, until I reached a bulletin board covered in posters and announcements.
Emergency Seminar on Excessive Plant Growth in Certain Regions of Elza.
Research Report on Compost Enhancement to Address Soil Depletion.
Report on Abnormal Animal Behavior: Rabies-like Symptoms?
10 Years of Kibele Cultivation Process Commercialization: Freedom from Hunger. Expanding Government Support Projects: How Should It Be Done?
Public Forum on the Coexistence of the Kibele Cultured Meat Industry and Traditional Livestock Farming.
The last poster had been crossed out with red marker, the words “Corporate Scum” scrawled across it in neat, precise handwriting.
The anger, the resentment, was palpable.
Kibele.
I searched my memories, trying to recall any information about the company.
I had encountered their products during my countless hours of gameplay.
The game developers, with their meticulous attention to detail, had included brief descriptions for even the most mundane items.
*
One of the most popular and challenging locations in the game, the “Research Facility,” was based on a Kibele laboratory.
Its labyrinthine corridors were filled with valuable loot, attracting experienced players.
But the nature of their research was never explicitly stated.
And no one seemed to care.
It was a game with a minimal storyline, and the developers weren’t interested in world-building.
Most players, myself included, were only interested in acquiring and selling valuable items.
At the end of the testing facility, I found a laboratory, its walls made of glass.
A lone figure stood by the window, their body suspended from the ceiling, a rope tied around their neck.
Their head was tilted downwards, their limbs dangling limply, their posture conveying a sense of profound sadness.
Their face was hidden behind a curtain of long hair, their gaze fixed on the world outside.
A breeze, blowing through the open window, swayed the researcher’s body gently.
I kicked the wall in frustration.
A wooden shelf, labeled “Free Samples,” caught my eye.
It was filled with small packets of seeds.
Tomatoes.
Carrots.
Onions.
“Free for the taking?”
I kicked the wall again, as if urging the dead researcher to respond.
I opened the laboratory door and cautiously approached the shelf, collecting the seed packets.
Maybe I could grow something, even if it was just in a water bottle filled with tissues.
I followed the researcher’s gaze, my eyes scanning the scene outside.
A large, open field, littered with corpses.
Zombies, their bodies mangled and torn.
Humans, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.
And vines, creeping over the bodies, covering them like a macabre shroud.
A crumpled banner lay on the ground beneath the window.
I turned to leave, then stopped.
I grabbed a mop handle, attached my knife to it, and cut the rope, freeing the researcher’s body.
The body swayed, then collapsed, landing on its back, its arms and legs sprawled out, as if taking a nap.
There was a strange sense of peace in its posture, as if it had finally found release.
The sunlight bathed the body in its warmth, turning the stained and faded lab coat into a shimmering shroud of gold.
A more fitting burial garment than any shroud or coffin.
My next destination was the Rowing Country Golf Club. It was a sprawling complex, with a large golf course, a resort, amenities, a water treatment facility, and even a solar power plant.
There were over twenty buildings, large and small.
But there was no guarantee that the facilities were still operational.
The distribution center map had labeled it as “slumified,” suggesting it had been in decline even before the outbreak.
Which meant it was either occupied by a gang, a group of survivors, or overrun by zombies.
I had chosen this location for three reasons: I was familiar with it, having spent countless hours exploring it in the game; its valley location made it easy to scout; and its multiple entry and exit points provided flexibility for infiltration and escape.
And with the Lambert gang weakened, the remaining gangs would be less organized, less prepared.
Of course, not all of their members would have been at Lambert Village.
The charismatic leaders, the strongest fighters, would have stayed behind, enjoying their spoils.
But even a lion was less dangerous with its limbs severed.
The remaining gang members would be a handful of thugs, their skills limited to firing guns.
I could handle them.
And if things went south, I could always retreat.
Proper reconnaissance would prevent any unpleasant surprises.
And I had plenty of time.
As I drove towards the golf club, my van bouncing merrily along the uneven road, disaster struck.
The engine sputtered and died at the crest of a hill.
I tried to restart it, but the key turned uselessly in the ignition.
“Hey, what the…? Don’t tell me it’s dead. I just filled the tank!”
My heart pounded in my chest as I tried the ignition again.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Thud… I had heard that sound before, in cartoons.
It was the sound of a car about to explode.
I checked the dashboard.
The engine temperature gauge was pegged at “H.”
I slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the van, and looked underneath.
A trail of green fluid marked my path.
Radiator coolant.
“Shit.”
Stranded in the middle of the road?
Seriously?
This van had limped its way through Lambert Village, and now it decided to die here?
“Grrrr…”
Of course.
Zombies emerged from the surrounding woods, their shuffling footsteps a death knell.
I could take them out with the M4, but the gunshots would attract every zombie in the area.
There were no bloodstains on the road, which meant the Gendarmerie helicopters hadn’t been here.
“Should I hide in the cargo hold?”
It was a ridiculous idea.
I would be trapped, surrounded by a horde of hungry zombies.
And the partition separating the driver’s cabin from the cargo hold meant I couldn’t escape that way.
I was in a bad spot. A very bad spot.
“Damn it.”
I grabbed the M4, the hunting knife, and two spare magazines from the ammo box, then climbed onto the roof of the van.
I could hold them off from here, using the knife to stab any that got too close.
My jacket, wrapped around my arms, would provide some protection.
The zombies were thirty paces away, their movements sluggish, their eyes fixed on me. They hadn’t registered me as food yet.
I shrugged off my jacket, preparing for a fight.
And then, I saw it.
A flash of light on the hill across the road.
I instinctively dropped to my stomach, pressing myself against the van’s roof.
Crack!
A zombie’s head exploded in a spray of blood and bone fragments.
Whoosh.
The sound of the bullet arrived a moment later.
A sniper.
Someone was using a silenced sniper rifle.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I cursed under my breath, my body pressed against the cold metal of the van’s roof.
Another zombie nudged the fallen one, then knelt beside it, its head bowed, as if in mourning.
Crack!
Another headshot. Whoosh.
“This is insane.”
I scrambled back into the driver’s seat. More zombies emerged from the woods, their attention focused on the feast before them. I buckled my seatbelt, released the parking brake, and slammed my body against the seat.
Thump.
Thump.
The van rolled backwards, its movement more of a controlled descent than a proper reverse.
The zombies, their mouths full of flesh, looked up at me, their expressions a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
I gave them the middle finger and gripped the steering wheel.
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