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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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The newly built town hall stood out in Lambert Village like a sumo wrestler amongst elementary school children.
It certainly wasn’t a gift from the impoverished Elza government.
It was a shiny monument to corporate generosity, built by the Kibele company in exchange for setting up a cultured meat processing plant in this poor, rural village, whose main industries were dairy farming and herding.
The Elza local government had pulled out all the stops to secure this deal.
They were so eager to appease Kibele that they even granted official IDs to the private security personnel and factory workers.
Gun-toting guards became police officers, office clerks transformed into civil servants, line workers were designated as technical civil servants, and the volunteer fire brigade was officially recognized as firefighters.
Of course, it wasn’t a complete sham.
There were some perfunctory vetting procedures.
The fire brigade, for instance, had to demonstrate their proficiency in operating a powder fire extinguisher.
With the exception of a few disgruntled herdsmen who had met untimely ends, everyone in Lambert Village was ecstatic.
They had become legitimate civil servants, a dream come true.
That is, until their beloved village was declared a human unprotected zone.
They knew their newfound status was tied to Lambert Village.
Leaving meant returning to the bottom rung of society, becoming nameless drifters in a world gone mad.
They couldn’t abandon their home.
The police chief, a man of questionable ambition, emerged as their leader.
He rallied his officers, muttering something about preferring to be a “glorious sewer rat” than a “lowly city dweller.”
How it happened, no one could say for sure.
Perhaps it was fueled by alcohol, or maybe a bad batch of hallucinogens consumed while listening to outdated music had fried his brain.
Whatever the reason, he led his officers in a siege of the police chief’s house, tossing a flaming gas canister into the building as the crowd roared its approval.
After all, the police chief was an outsider, a representative of the central government, not a true “Lambert man.”
“Lambert is ours! We live here! We die here!” he bellowed, his back to the inferno consuming the chief’s house.
Under his leadership, the police force united, emerging victorious in a series of brutal clashes with rival gangs: the fire department gang, the city hall-court-sanitation worker alliance, the Kibele factory union, and the ridiculously named Lambert’s First Explosive, Drunken, Legendary Angel Association.
They seized control of the town hall, establishing themselves as the dominant force in Lambert Village.
So, the police chief’s current state, slumped over a desk, drunkenly rubbing his belly and moaning, could be attributed to the immense pressure he was under.
He had no real leadership skills, relying solely on intimidation and brute force.
But he was also a man who craved love, a man who grieved for his crumbling home.
The beautiful village that had allowed him to shed his delinquent past and become a respectable civil servant was being ravaged, and he was powerless to stop it.
“Sob… sob… heh… why… why me… why? Why me?”
BOOM!
Another explosion rocked the village.
Flames spread relentlessly, consuming everything in their path.
The frantic chatter on the radio intensified, but the number of responders dwindled with each passing moment.
He switched to the patrol frequency, hoping the voices were just hallucinations, a side effect of his increasingly fragile mental state.
But the voices persisted.
“Who is doing this? No, who are they? Tell me why! Why are you doing this to me? Why? What did I do to deserve this… no, no, I couldn’t have been that bad… my life… my life! Aghhhh!”
But the true horror was yet to come.
The destruction of Lambert Village was just the beginning.
Out there, in the wasteland, kicking up dust clouds like a horde of bleached blondes, the combined forces of the fire department, city hall, court, sanitation workers, factory union, and the Lambert Angel Association were converging.
“Stop… please stop… no more… no more… you’re destroying Lambert…”
But he was also a man of action.
He downed half a bottle of whiskey, the alcohol igniting a spark of defiant masculinity.
“Lambert… is mine. I won’t let anyone take it…”
He grabbed his gold-plated .357 revolver and rose to his feet, his legs wobbling slightly before he steadied himself.
A minor stumble wouldn’t diminish his resolve. He grabbed the microphone.
“This is the chief speaking.”
His voice, despite the tremor of fear, still commanded authority.
“Listen up, you morons. You’ve all done a great job. I have no regrets in this life. I hope you can say the same. You’ve got eyes, right? You can see the storm coming. I don’t think we can weather this one.”
An unusual silence followed his words.
Where were the usual insults and jeers?
A shadow of sadness crossed his face.
This was it.
They were all going down together.
He chuckled wryly and continued.
“This is my final order. Everyone except those stationed near the town hall, stay at your posts. Shoot everything that moves.
Don’t let the storm take you without a fight. Resist. Rage. Rage with all your might. And when the dust settles, when the skies above Lambert are clear once more, I’ll see you on the other side. Over and out.”
“Roger that.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Pay up, asshole.”
“It’s been a hell of a ride.”
He imagined he could hear beautiful music, and he danced like a ballerina, his belly rippling like a fleshy tutu.
In that moment, he was the happiest man alive.
He stepped out onto the square, his stage.
A horde of motorcycles, cars, and vans roared towards him.
He recognized the familiar fire truck, its water cannon dangling from a crane, dripping with an unknown liquid.
“This is so fucked up,” he muttered, a strange sense of calm washing over him.
One hundred and twenty?
One hundred and fifty?
Maybe more.
They were desperate, their lives on the line.
This was a battle of wills.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the chief himself. Looking good, buddy.”
The former fire chief stepped out of his vehicle, a modified fire axe slung over his shoulder.
“Looks like you have a fire to put out.”
The former clerk, always eager to state the obvious, joined the group.
“What’s going on, chief? Giving up on the slave auction?”
The union chairman, scratching at something beneath his shirt, approached as well.
“…”
And then there was the idiot, standing there silently, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He was wearing a shiny leather jacket with a flaming skull and the words “I think, therefore I am” emblazoned on the back.
Why?
“Welcome to Lambert Village,” the police chief said, spreading his arms wide.
“But unfortunately, something came up. It’s going to take a while. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, and come back later?”
“…Are you serious?”
“Of course, I am. I’ll talk to the guys in the industrial area. Take some canned goods with you.”
“Canned Kibele cultured meat? I won’t say no to that. But tell me, what the hell is going on here?”
They all stared at the police chief.
He sighed and raised his revolver, the polished metal glinting in the sunlight. It was the signal. The elite members of the Lambert gang, positioned strategically around the square, aimed their weapons.
“Zombies,” he said simply.
“Bullshit.”
They all laughed, their shoulders shaking.
Even the Angel of Explosions.
“Come on, don’t you know our chief is obsessed with zombie prevention? He wakes up in a cold sweat just thinking about them. We didn’t see a single zombie on the way here.”
“Yeah, he’s been doing a great job. The roads were clear. All the zombies in the world are piled up over there, right?”
The police chief was about to respond when another explosion ripped through the air, followed by gunfire and screams.
The sounds were coming from all directions now.
There was the distinct crunch of metal as vehicles collided.
“…Chief, I’m only saying this because of our old mercenary days, but you should just hand Lambert over to us. It’s going to be destroyed at this rate.”
The fire chief tried to reason with him.
“We’re here to help you. What kind of zombie starts fires? And that black smoke over there, that’s where the gas station used to be. Tell me, are you under attack?”
The clerk pointed out the obvious.
The police chief chuckled, his eyes vacant.
“…So, if it weren’t for the gas station explosion, you would have let it slide.”
“What?”
“Never mind. And my dear firefighter brother, not a blood brother, but close enough, I have a confession to make.”
“What is it with you and confessions?” the fire chief asked, rubbing his arms, goosebumps erupting on his skin.
“When you were arrested, you know, when you were going door to door “inspecting” fire extinguishers and selling drugs… I was having fun with your wife.”
“I knew.”
“You did?”
“I knew before you were arrested. I wasn’t angry, just… disappointed. I was working my ass off to support my family, and there you were, walking out of your brother’s house with that pretty little smile on your face. But I’m grateful. You helped keep my family afloat.”
“Didn’t your wife die suddenly, not long after you were released?”
“That’s what I’m saying. It’s all water under the bridge, chief. I’m a loyal guy, you know.”
But the police chief hesitated.
He wanted to confess everything, like a penitent seeking absolution.
“Actually, there’s one more thing.”
“…What is it now?”
“Your sister-in-law.”
The fire chief’s face contorted in confusion.
“…Excuse me?”
“Your sister-in-law, the one whose left breast was slightly larger than her right, she said she enjoyed it more with me. She likes it when I run my fingers down her spine. You should try it sometime.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“You fell for it.”
The police chief pulled the trigger.
The fire chief crumpled to the ground.
The Second Lambert Gang War began with a burst of maniacal laughter.
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In the alley behind the bank…
Tires screeched.
A motorcycle burst through the black smoke.
I fired two quick bursts from my M4, aiming for the front tire.
Bang! Bang!
The tire exploded, sending the motorcycle careening off course.
The rider, as if defying gravity, was launched into the air, his body a projectile hurtling towards a nearby house.
He crashed through a window, his body coming to rest on the windowsill.
He twitched once, then lay still.
But I couldn’t dwell on his fate.
The motorcycle, as if avenging its fallen rider, continued its trajectory, crashing into a Lambert gang guard post.
The guards inside scrambled to escape, but it was too late.
BOOM!
The guard post erupted in flames.
A Humvee, its camouflage netting discarded to accommodate a mounted M2 machine gun, roared past the wreckage.
The driver and gunner were the only ones alive, their faces contorted in rage as they sprayed the street with bullets.
“Whoa.”
This was the Eruptor Protocol I knew and loved.
Utter chaos.
Gunfire echoing from every direction.
Fires raging, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning fuel.
A bitter taste coating my tongue.
The fallen biker twitched.
“Oh, dear.”
He was having a seizure.
He gasped, choked, then went limp again.
Bad dreams, perhaps.
I noticed two grenades tucked into his waistband.
No wonder he couldn’t sleep peacefully.
“Lucky me.”
I grabbed the grenades and a nearby rock.
I tossed the rock into the bank, shouting, “Grenade!”
“Aghhhh!”
I heard panicked scrambling inside.
So, there were still people alive.
I pulled the pin on one of the grenades, released the lever, then squeezed it again, the safety lever clicking back into place.
I counted to two, then tossed it in the direction of the sound.
BOOM!
An explosion, followed by screams.
Prolonged screams.
There were definitely people inside.
I repeated the process with the second grenade.
Click. One, two, three.
I threw it.
A muffled cry, then silence.
I vaulted through a window, landing inside the bank lobby.
No one reacted, despite the noise I had made.
I jumped over the reception desk and entered the employee hallway.
It was deserted. The sounds from outside were muffled, thanks to the soundproofing.
They didn’t want conversations with VIP clients overheard.
But that was a secondary concern.
The important thing was that one of the doors was slightly ajar.
It was supposed to be locked.
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The words on the flaming skull guy jacket remind me of A.M/Allied mastercomputer also known as the biggest hater, with his signature words “cogito ergo sum, I think therefore I am”
Thank for the chapter
One man army still on the loose…