How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 10

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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The snare whipped around the zombie’s ankle.

Of course, the creature didn’t even flinch, continuing its relentless pursuit.

Snares weren’t like bear traps; they didn’t instantly incapacitate.

But that was the beauty of using them in a dense forest with deep-rooted trees.

Clang!

The wire snare, attached to a firmly planted stake, snagged between two thick trees, halting the zombie’s advance.

Even a wild boar would struggle to break free from that.

The zombie stumbled, falling forward, its outstretched arms still reaching for me with unsettling determination.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Crash!

The rocks I had placed inside the empty condensed milk can rattled violently, creating a chaotic symphony of sound.

It was like a dinner bell for the undead.

I circled the trapped zombie, my movements a mocking dance, my shoulders swaying rhythmically.

The creature, its rotting brain unable to comprehend the situation, mimicked my movements, its body twisting awkwardly as the wire snare tightened around its ankle, binding it to the tree.

I retreated to a safe distance, selecting a heavy rock from the forest floor.

With a practiced motion, I hurled it at the zombie’s head.

Crack!

The rock connected with a sickening thud, sending a spray of blood and bone fragments into the air.

Another zombie, the one that had tripped over the snare earlier, shambled towards me, its decaying jaw slack, drooling.

I stepped aside, granting it access to its fallen comrade.

The sounds of the forest transformed into a grotesque symphony: clanging metal, the coppery tang of blood, guttural moans, and the sickening crunch of bone against bone.

More zombies emerged from the trees, drawn by the commotion.

I observed them from a distance, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

It was time to visit the forester’s house.

And my stomach was growling.

Forests were disorienting. The dense foliage obscured vision, and sounds echoed strangely, making it difficult to pinpoint their source.

Every direction looked the same.

But that also made them the perfect hiding place.

As long as you didn’t draw attention to yourself.

I moved slowly, my body low to the ground, my senses on high alert.

The zombies were more widespread than I had anticipated, their presence a constant threat.

I had expected to encounter them near the arboreal recreation area, but the rustling sounds of movement, the telltale signs of their approach, were coming from much closer.

They were hidden among the trees, their movements obscured by the dense foliage.

But they were there, twenty, maybe thirty paces away, pausing occasionally, their senses scanning the environment, just like me.

Some even sniffed the air, their heads turning in my direction.

Was it my scent?

Just as Westerners had a distinct cheesy odor and Koreans smelled faintly of garlic, the zombies in this world seemed to react to unique scents.

Strong perfumes, heavy perspiration, the musk of unwashed bodies – anything unusual piqued their interest.

Fortunately, the screams and the metallic tang of blood emanating from the other side of the forest were more enticing, drawing the zombies away from me.

The forester zombie was a formidable opponent, its body ravaged, its limbs torn, yet still fighting with a ferocity that sent shivers down my spine.

No wonder they call him the Newbie Cutter.

The key to dealing with the forester wasn’t to fight him directly.

It was to manipulate him, to turn him into a weapon against his own kind.

Creating chaos, instigating conflict – that was the most effective strategy.

In a densely packed horde, the zombies would inevitably turn on each other, their hunger overriding any semblance of unity.

And in that chaos, I could thrive.

I didn’t need to fight every battle.

It was more efficient to let them destroy themselves.

I would simply guide them, nudge them in the right direction, and reap the rewards.

They lacked any sense of camaraderie, any moral compass.

They were driven by instinct, by a primal hunger that consumed their every thought.

But they were also predictable.

Their hunger was their weakness, their insatiable appetite a tool I could exploit.

I reached the forester’s house.

It was a sturdy, single-story log cabin, the size of a small apartment.

A decent base for a multiplayer game, but a bit tricky to defend alone.

I cautiously approached, checking the front door.

It was unlocked.

The occupants were gone, drawn away by the feast I had orchestrated.

“Perfect.”

I secured the house, locking the doors and windows, drawing the curtains.

The light filtering through the gaps was enough to illuminate the interior.

I methodically searched each room, a long skewer in my hand, my senses on high alert.

The storage room was empty. The bedroom was undisturbed. But the utility room next to the kitchen…

Clink.

The sound of metal against metal.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I strained my ears, listening for any signs of danger.

Silence.

The floor of the utility room was littered with empty cans and plastic bottles.

The remnants of a feast.

The forester and his companion had devoured everything in sight.

I quietly closed the door and moved on to the bathroom.

It was surprisingly clean, despite the faint smell of mildew.

And there was running water.

The house was equipped with a rainwater harvesting system and a water tank.

A valuable asset in this world.

A shower would be nice.

My clothes were filthy, reeking of sweat and grime.

And considering the zombies’ sensitivity to scent, a good wash was essential.

“…But first, let’s see what we can salvage.”

I had time.

The zombies would be occupied for a while.

They were filling their bellies, and I was about to fill my pockets.

The search was more fruitful than I had anticipated.

The forester and his companion had focused on the obvious food sources, leaving the hidden stashes untouched.

I found six bottles of water, three days’ worth of preserved food, including canned bread, and even some combat rations. Enough to sustain me for a while.

And then, I stumbled upon a treasure: two ammo cans filled with .22 caliber rounds.

And a rifle. An Emington 597, compatible with my pistol.

I continued my search, finding a windbreaker, a clean set of clothes, a towel, and even a new pair of boots.

And then, I found it.

The holy grail of zombie apocalypse survival: a bottle of Hunter’s Odor Eliminating Body Wash & Shampoo.

I had everything I needed.

The only problem was how to carry it all.

I improvised, using my clothes as makeshift bags, stuffing them with supplies.

It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

I spotted a cardboard box under the desk, the perfect size for carrying the remaining items.

It was surprisingly light.

The forester had been a hoarder, his collection of newspaper clippings filling the box.

I dumped the clippings onto the desk, freeing up the box for my own use.

I was ready to leave.

I placed my loaded rifle and hunting knife by the bathroom door, leaving it open, and turned on the water, just enough to wet my hair and body.

I lathered myself with the odor-eliminating body wash and shampoo, scrubbing every inch of my skin.

The water was lukewarm, but it felt amazing.

The screams and moans outside continued, a constant reminder of the chaos I had unleashed.

But inside the forester’s house, I felt a strange sense of peace.

It wasn’t that different from my life in the city, before the outbreak.

Except for the whole “people eating each other” thing.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in a while.

I felt like a new man after my shower, my body clean, my clothes fresh.

I opened a can of bread and a bottle of water, savoring the simple meal.

The bread was a bit too sweet for my taste, and the faint pineapple flavor was unsettling, but it was edible.

My stomach, accustomed to irregular meals, grumbled in protest.

“Meh. Not bad.”

I had been expecting worse.

The situation wasn’t as dire as I had imagined.

The human unprotected zones made sense now.

If zombies were attracted to blood and noise, then keeping them contained within designated areas was the most effective way to control the outbreak.

A single gunshot from a distance was enough to trigger a feeding frenzy, turning the zombies against each other.

But considering that they had abandoned the elderly in Mini-Bell, the starting village, I doubted the government had the resources or the will to effectively manage the situation.

“What a messed up country.”

The zombies I had encountered so far were surprisingly easy to manipulate.

With a few well-placed snares and some strategically thrown rocks, I could create chaos, turning their primal instincts against them.

Maybe the people in this world simply lacked the knowledge, the understanding of zombie behavior that I possessed.

It was like solving a puzzle. If you knew the solution, it was easy.

But if you were starting from scratch, it could take a lifetime.

In this world, I was a zombie expert.

I considered opening another can of food, but decided against it.

I didn’t want to overeat and make the journey back to the container house more difficult.

My stomach growled again, the hunger persistent.

I had just eaten, but it felt like I hadn’t eaten in days.

Maybe it was a side effect of the virus, or maybe it was just stress.

The screams outside continued, a constant reminder of the chaos I had unleashed.

I had packed my belongings, so I decided to pass the time by reading through the forester’s meticulously organized scrapbook.

But I was interrupted.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A gentle tapping sound coming from the window.

I froze, my hand instinctively reaching for my hunting knife.

Firing my gun would be a foolish move, attracting unwanted attention.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The tapping continued.

I had closed the curtains, blocking out the light.

And I hadn’t heard any footsteps.

Zombies weren’t exactly known for their stealth.

Tap!

It was coming from the windowsill.

I grabbed my knife and my rifle, cautiously approaching the window, my feet barely making a sound.

My new boots were stiff and unforgiving.

I braced myself, expecting to see a zombie’s rotting face peering through the window.

I carefully pushed aside the curtain.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It was a crow. A crow the size of a small trash bag, its eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence.

It pecked at the windowsill impatiently, as if demanding to be let in.

“Go away.”

I tapped the window frame with my knife, hoping to scare it off.

The crow cawed in protest, spreading its large, grayish wings, its half-rotten body exposed.

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