How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 25

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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A simmering stew pot, its contents bubbling and churning – that’s what came to Camilla’s mind as they entered Lambert Village.

The acrid smell of burning fuel, flames erupting from every corner, vehicles colliding in a symphony of destruction, exploding LPG canisters…

She attributed the absurd imagery to the strange hunger gnawing at her insides.

But deep down, she knew it was a coping mechanism, a desperate attempt to make sense of the senseless by reducing it to a grotesque caricature.

Everyone was laughing.

Laughing as they fired their weapons, laughing as they were shot.

Laughing as they were launched into the air from their motorcycles, laughing as trucks collided in a brutal display of vehicular dominance.

Laughing as they tossed Molotov cocktails over barricades, setting their enemies ablaze, then gunning them down as they stumbled out, engulfed in flames.

The gang members seemed… liberated.

As if they had finally found peace in the destruction of everything, they held dear.

They have no will to live.

The thought clung to Camilla like a shadow, dragging her down.

“Camilla! What do we do?”

The rifleman shook her shoulder, snapping her out of her trance.

She blinked back tears, her vision blurring.

“It’s too dangerous! It’s a complete free-for-all! They’re not just killing each other, they’re destroying the entire village!”

“We can’t locate the hostages!”

Mouths. Mouths. Mouths.

Those gaping maws beneath their balaclavas filled Camilla with dread.

Why… why are you making me decide?

We’re all the same.

Do what you want.

Why are you forcing this responsibility on me?

The shadows at her feet whispered and giggled.

Because you’re the one who wanted to come here.

You’re the one who wanted to rescue those people.

Brave Camilla.

The red-maned warhorse, the hero of our nation, Red Camilla.

This is your specialty, isn’t it?

Act.

Pretend.

Be strong.

Lead us, warrior Camilla!

Camilla wanted to scream.

Someone, please, just give me an order.

“I… I… I…”

“What? What did you say?”

“Camilla! Look! Disease Crisis Management Agency vehicles!”

It was true.

A convoy of vehicles bearing the distinct emblem of the Disease Crisis Management Agency was struggling to navigate the chaotic streets.

Their sirens wailed, their horns blared, but they were trapped, unable to move forward or backward.

“The alley is blocked! There’s been an accident! They can’t get through!”

They were like rats in a cage.

“Their movements are strange… are they being shot at?”

Their progress was sluggish, hesitant.

Camilla increased the magnification on her binoculars.

There was no driver.

She wanted to scream, but she forced herself to focus, her eyes scanning the vehicle.

She noticed something resting on the steering wheel. Something wriggling, squirming.

Toes.

“…They’re steering with their feet? Why?”

A gust of wind cleared the smoke, revealing the interior of the vehicle.

People were piled on top of each other, some using their feet to steer, others pressing the pedals.

The person in the passenger seat was frantically mouthing instructions, their back arched unnaturally as they tried to see over the dashboard.

Handcuffs.

They’re handcuffed.

Their hands are tied behind their backs.

That’s why they’re struggling.

They’re the hostages!

All three vehicles were in the same state.

They were sturdy, but not sturdy enough to push aside the mangled wreckage blocking their path.

“Get down!”

The Liberation Front operatives dropped to the ground, their reflexes honed by years of combat.

There was a deafening roar, and a jet of water arced through the air, drenching them.

It wasn’t just water.

It was laced with tear gas, the acrid stench unmistakable.

The smell they all hated, the smell that would forever be etched in their memories.

An armored fire truck emerged from the smoke, its engine roaring.

They had done something to the engine, somehow managing to maintain its power despite the added weight of the armor plating.

It even had a bulldozer blade mounted on the front.

The crane, controlled manually from inside the vehicle, swung back and forth, its water cannons spraying indiscriminately.

Five people were thrown into the air, their bodies ragdolls tossed aside by the force of the water.

A wooden wall crumbled and splintered, the roof collapsing inwards.

It was an absurd display of power, even for a makeshift structure.

“…We need that truck. We can use it to clear the road.”

“But how?”

“I’ll get you there. Get ready!”

The Liberation Front operatives scrambled across the rooftops, their movements agile and swift.

Bullets whizzed past them, ping, crack, as buildings collapsed around them.

“Ugh!”

Camilla stumbled, a piece of debris embedding itself in her back.

“Camilla!”

“I’m fine! It’s not a bullet! Keep moving!”

The debris had struck her right shoulder blade.

It wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate her body armor, but the searing pain told her it wasn’t a minor injury.

The fire truck, like a tyrannical king surveying his domain, slowly rolled into the street.

Muzzle flashes flickered from the gun ports, indicating that the occupants were firing from inside the vehicle.

They couldn’t penetrate the armored truck from their rooftop position.

The armor plating was too thick, too strong. But they could try to ricochet their bullets.

Camilla decided to take the gamble.

She waited for her teammates to get into position, then raised her rifle.

“Oh, Goddess of Hunger…”

She trusted her MK11 SWS rifle.

She remembered her firearms instructor’s words: “Trust your weapon, and it will reward you.”

But as she shouldered the rifle, a wave of pain shot through her injured shoulder.

“Grant me… your patience…”

She pressed the rifle stock against her shoulder, ignoring the pain.

A steady stance was crucial for accurate shooting.

She had to show her weapon how much she trusted it, reassure it.

“When I stumble… and falter… on the path of pain…”

Two muzzle flashes flickered from the gun ports, alternating rapidly.

She lowered her aim slightly, focusing on the edge of a gun port, where the armor plating had been welded at an angle, creating a makeshift ramp.

“With my final breath…”

Two shots.

Clang!

The bullets ricocheted off the angled armor plating, their trajectory altered.

“Aghhhh!”

The gang member inside the truck, struck by the ricocheting bullets, instinctively fired his weapon.

The recoil, uncontrolled, sent the weapon bucking wildly.

Blood splattered from the gun port, like ketchup squirting from a squeezed sandwich.

Camilla quickly shifted her aim to the driver’s side.

The armor plating here was more intricate, a series of small, circular holes drilled into the metal.

But the gaps were smaller than a bullet, so it would still work.

“I shall return your gift!”

One shot.

She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain that ripped through her injured shoulder, and fired another shot at the same spot.

The first bullet had created a spiderweb of cracks in the bulletproof glass.

The second bullet shattered the glass, embedding itself in the driver’s shoulder.

The steering wheel spun, but the truck, heavy and slow-moving, didn’t overturn.

It skidded sideways, crashing into a nearby building.

The driver’s side and passenger doors swung open, hands clutching weapons emerging like snail tentacles.

The Liberation Front operatives kicked the doors, pinning the arms between the doors and the vehicle. The weapons clattered to the ground.

They pushed the doors open, firing their weapons into the vehicle, turning the occupants into human pincushions.

They dragged the bodies out, tossing them aside.

“Get in, Camilla!”

They threw smoke grenades and flares.

The smoke concealed Camilla as she rushed towards the truck, the flares illuminating her path.

She squeezed into the space between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat.

She activated the siren and the horn.

The fire truck, like an enraged rhinoceros, emerged from the smoke and debris, its bulldozer blade pushing aside the wreckage blocking its path.

“Disease Crisis Management Agency vehicles, Disease Crisis Management Agency vehicles! This is the Elza Liberation Front! We’re clearing a path for you! Repeat! This is the Elza Liberation Front! Follow us!”

Short and long blasts from the horns of the Disease Crisis Management Agency vehicles acknowledged the message.

The rifleman grabbed the steering wheel and swerved, avoiding a burning car.

The operative in the passenger seat manipulated the various levers and buttons.

“I got it!”

He pressed a button, and a jet of water erupted from the cannon, blasting a group of charging gang members off their feet.

The fire truck surged forward, its bulldozer blade pushing aside debris and mangled vehicles.

“The Disease Crisis Management Agency vehicles are following us! Keep going!”

Whoosh.

A chilling sound.

Then a deafening explosion.

BOOM!

Everyone inside the truck covered their ears.

The metal frame groaned as it buckled under the force of the blast.

Tear gas filled the air, stinging their eyes and throats.

Crash!

The mangled crane detached from the fire truck, tumbling onto the pavement beside them.

“…RPG!”

They spotted a gang member standing in the middle of the road, blocking their path.

He was wearing a white coat with the words “Angel of Explosions” emblazoned on the back in gold lettering.

He had an RPG shouldered, aimed directly at the fire truck.

Even with its armor plating, it was a fire truck, not a tank.

It wouldn’t stand a chance.

Just then, a black van burst through the wall of a nearby building, slamming into the gang member.

The RPG, launched prematurely, exploded harmlessly in the air.

The words “Emergency Cash Transport” were painted on the side of the van.

The driver’s side door swung open, and two figures, a man and a woman, tumbled out, grappling with each other.

The woman had the upper hand, her legs wrapped around the man’s waist, her face buried in his chest.

Camilla couldn’t help but think that a chest that large could probably suffocate someone.

“…That woman is wearing a Disease Crisis Management Agency jumper.”

But the man was strong. He lifted the woman off his feet and tossed her back into the driver’s seat.

Camilla couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pink princess backpack strapped to the man’s back.

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“Just drive!”

“I can’t see! Get off me!”

I tried to throw her off, but I knew I would be dragged out of the driver’s seat if I let go.

This woman was incredibly strong.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Cassandra can see your chest.”

And she was crazy.

“I can only see your chest! I need to see the road! Stop petting my head and get off me! We’re both going to die!”

I had been a fool.

I should have shot her when I had the chance.

But my arms were sore from loading the van in the garage, and I had hesitated.

I tried to push her away, but her grip was like iron.

I scrambled into the driver’s seat, but before I could close the door, she wedged her knife between the door and the frame, forcing it open.

She tried to climb on top of me, and in the ensuing chaos, my foot slammed down on the accelerator.

The van lurched forward, crashing into something.

I couldn’t see what it was.

We both tumbled out of the driver’s seat, and as I tried to push her away, she wrapped her arms and legs around me, pinning me to the ground.

“Damn it!”

Bullets whizzed past our heads, but she seemed oblivious to the danger.

I lifted her off the ground and tossed her back into the driver’s seat.

This was bad. The roads were a disaster.

Cassandra, perched on my lap, bounced up and down with every bump and swerve.

The pressure of her breasts against my chest was becoming unbearable, and her weight on my lap wasn’t helping.

“Cassandra is sad. Dying is bad. Stop saying bad things.”

“I can’t breathe!”

“Oh, how lucky. Johan will die with his face buried in Cassandra’s breasts. Cassandra will die with a rebar piercing her heart. Oh, to die as a passenger next to an incompetent driver. Poor Cassandra. Who will ring the bell and dress my corpse? To die without ever having a boyfriend. Oh, the fleeting nature of youth. How tragic.”

This was it.

I had to shoot her.

But my weapons were a problem.

The rifle was too long, constantly getting caught on things.

The M4 was shorter, but still too cumbersome in this confined space.

Bang! Bang!

Explosions rocked the van, but I couldn’t see what was happening.

I swerved erratically, narrowly avoiding collisions.

I reached for the M4 I had placed on the passenger seat.

Screech!

The van lurched violently, and the rifle discharged, firing a random burst of bullets.

“Aghhhh!”

Someone screamed.

Not Cassandra, thankfully.

She continued to bounce on my lap, her body swaying rhythmically, her voice a low murmur in my ear.

“Johan. I’m giving you a choice. Cassandra is being very generous.”

“What crazy scheme are you concocting now?”

“You can either raise Cassandra or become her pet human. Which do you prefer?”

“Neither.”

“Then what do you want, Johan? You must have something you desire. What do you live for? What do you fight for? Why… why are you still here, by Cassandra’s side? Why haven’t you abandoned this wicked, terrible woman?”

What do you say to a woman who asks existential questions while cupping your face in her hands, her eyes locked on yours?

The last part of her question seemed irrelevant.

My goal was simple.

“I’m going to escape this place.”

“And then?”

“I’m going to survive the apocalypse.”

Cassandra stared at me, her green eyes wide with surprise.

I held my breath, my chest constricting.

I swerved the van at the last second, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision.

Aghhh!

Someone screamed as we clipped another vehicle.

Not my fault.

He shouldn’t have been standing in the middle of the road.

“You… you understand.”

Her green eyes widened, her cheeks flushed.

A smile spread across her face, a smile of pure joy.

Like a flower opening its petals to the sun, revealing its delicate beauty.

Was she in love?

No.

This was the face of a woman consumed by madness.

“Wh-what?”

“You understand the apocalypse. You know about the inevitable end. Cassandra always said… Cassandra always warned them… but no one listened… The Eruptor Protocol’s trigger…”

I was surprised she could even form coherent sentences in this state.

But she trailed off, her words dissolving into a jumble of incoherent sounds.

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