How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 35

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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8th National Gendarmerie Special Task Force Medical Unit

The Special Task Force building was old and dilapidated, but no place was as “creepy” as the medical unit.

It was the trees.

Two massive zelkova trees, the kind that should have been gracing a village entrance, loomed over the building, blocking out the sun and wind.

A perpetual dampness and chill, like the breath of an old man, permeated the air.

Even during the day, the building was shrouded in gloom.

But when fog rolled in, or when rain fell, the atmosphere became truly oppressive, like a cursed manor sinking into a swamp.

Even the seasoned soldiers and officers avoided the medical unit on those days.

Buildings like this were breeding grounds for ghost stories.

Tales whispered among the guards, embellished by officers eager to spook the new recruits, growing more terrifying with each retelling.

Perhaps ghost stories were a defense mechanism, a way for humans to cope with fear.

They were stories, after all.

And stories needed a cause and effect, a narrative that was easy to understand.

Of course, understanding fear didn’t make it disappear.

Fear was primal, an instinct, an emotion, a matter of the heart, not the mind.

Understanding fear wasn’t about banishing it.

It was about embracing it, about transforming the unknown into the familiar, the familiar into the mundane.

Like a childhood monster toy, its power diminished until it held no sway over you.

The medical unit personnel, as well as the officers and soldiers dispatched from the 8th National Gendarmerie, understood this principle well.

Thirty-five people had been rescued from Lambert Village.

They were all quarantined in individual cells within the medical unit, under strict observation for signs of zombification.

They were subjected to a three-week isolation period, with daily physical examinations and tests.

Any anomalies triggered further, more invasive procedures.

It was a tedious and uncomfortable process.

“Wow, I haven’t seen this machine since med school. You’re still using this?”

Thankfully, most of the detainees were doctors and nurses from the Disease Crisis Management Agency.

They were familiar with quarantine protocols and cooperated with the military’s investigation.

But they were still human.

They didn’t enjoy being confined to their cells, their lives reduced to a monotonous routine.

So, they focused on their surroundings, on the outdated equipment, on the constant stream of visitors.

“It’s the military way. They love the latest and greatest technology, but they won’t touch anything that hasn’t been thoroughly tested.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If something has been thoroughly tested, it’s not new anymore, is it?”

“That’s why no one wants to join the military. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the scholarship.”

Thirty-five doctors and nurses, confined to their cells, their skills wasted.

The 8th National Gendarmerie saw an opportunity.

All military doctors, nurses, and medics were ordered to assist the Special Task Force medical unit.

The military medical personnel found themselves in the unusual position of being examined by their “doctor patients.” It was a mandatory training program, disguised as an order.

“Hey, medic! I told you twice! Just tighten it!”

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Pain is best served all at once! Just do it! Ah, ah, ah! Yes! That’s how you tighten it! Tighter! You got it? Tighter! Harder! Aghhhh!”

Of course, not all interactions were like that.

“Does the military pay you properly? We only get the basic salary. I’d rather have meal coupons.”

“It’s the opposite for us. They only give us meal coupons. I guess they expect us to sell them on the black market.”

Some lamented the woes of being a government employee.

“Excuse me, can I make a phone call?”

“Send a letter. They’re cracking down on phone calls these days.”

Some even found unexpected connections.

It wasn’t just the medical personnel who visited the detainees.

Soldiers and officers from the investigation unit also interviewed them, trying to piece together what had happened.

Of course, the “investigation” was more of a sympathetic inquiry.

“We understand this must be a difficult time for you. You must be traumatized. Can you tell us what happened?”

They were civilians who had been kidnapped, not criminals.

There was no reason for the military to treat them harshly.

Their testimonies were consistent.

The driver had suddenly deviated from the safe route, leading them into an ambush.

They had engaged in a brief firefight with the gang, but were ultimately captured and imprisoned in the apple warehouse.

And they all expressed a deep hatred for the Lambert gang member who had worn the Disease Crisis Management Agency jumper, the nameless “bastard.”

“If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll turn him into a zombie. He fractured my jaw with the butt of his rifle. Ow, ow, ow.”

“He’s a sadist. A complete sadist. I still wake up in cold sweats, remembering that day. He rescued us from the warehouse, tossed us the keys, then announced over the radio that ‘the slaves had escaped.’ What kind of monster does that?”

“He’s a classic example of a ‘self-justifying perpetrator.’ ‘I didn’t want to do this, you made me do it!’ He blames everyone else for his actions. A maladjusted, resentful individual who can’t function in a normal society.”

“He even shot his own gang members! He killed them all to save himself. He’s a psychopath.”

Leticia, the elite officer, meticulously documented their testimonies, compiling them into a comprehensive report.

She made sure to add a footnote to every mention of “that bastard”: Presumed to be V.

“Here’s the report. Where’s the Commander?”

The orderly, accepting the report, answered Leticia’s question.

“She’s in the special isolation ward.”

“Still?”

“Still. That woman is something else. I’m terrified of being in the same room as the Commander, but that woman is still refusing to talk.”

Leticia thought about the woman.

She had large breasts. So large that Leticia had wondered if they were a hindrance in her daily life.

The Commander was well-endowed herself, but the woman’s breasts were even larger.

Size isn’t everything.

It’s the shape that matters.

Leticia, her mind wandering, glanced towards the isolation ward.

Despite its gloomy and dilapidated appearance, the medical unit building was surprisingly sturdy.

It was soundproof, waterproof, fireproof, and even escape-proof.

Its only flaws were the persistent mold on the exterior walls and the perpetually grimy windows.

And within this building, the most secure room, the room reserved for the most dangerous detainees, was the special isolation ward.

It looked like any other hospital room, but it was equipped with special features.

Special Task Force Commander Virginia Helford sat on a chair in the ward, her long legs crossed, her body leaning back, her posture radiating an air of casual confidence.

“There are many ghost stories about this building. But the reality is far more terrifying. During the war, this was an interrogation room. The trees outside concealed the screams.

After Römer gained the upper hand, it was used to confine mentally unstable soldiers.

Most of them never saw the light of day again.

Then the 8th National Gendarmerie took over, and it was eventually assigned to the Special Task Force.

“It looks harmless, doesn’t it? But this building still retains its past. For example, if you remove that white sheet over there, you’ll find ‘that room’ from the war. I had it cleaned up. The previous commanders had simply ignored it.

I haven’t had the opportunity to use it yet, but perhaps… you’ll be the first.”

Virginia looked at the patient strapped to the bed.

The bruises on her arms and hands had faded, and the gunshot wound on her back had almost completely healed.

The bullet had grazed her, leaving a long, jagged scar, but thanks to the military doctors’ dedicated care and the Disease Crisis Management Agency’s “supplies,” the scar was barely visible.

“As you may know, we used some of the medicine from your vehicle. It was for medical purposes, of course. Not embezzlement. It’s quite effective. It accelerates cell regeneration and repair, allowing for rapid healing… I thought it was just a fantasy, but technology is truly remarkable.”

But the patient had acquired new wounds.

She had struggled so violently, trying to escape, that the Gendarmerie soldiers had been forced to sedate her with a tranquilizer gun and restrain her to the bed.

Leather straps bound her wrists, ankles, and waist to the bed, which was bolted to the floor and wall.

The restraints were strong enough to withstand even a zombie’s strength.

Virginia smiled, her expression a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

“So, I suggest you stop resisting. The other patients are cooperating. We have no reason to mistreat you.

But if you continue to obstruct our investigation, we’ll have no choice but to respond accordingly. You’ll be treated the way you deserve to be treated. And you seem to be asking for very, very bad treatment.”

Virginia’s violet eyes widened, their gaze intense, predatory, as if trying to consume everything in sight.

Her subordinates often described it as “that look.”

The patient on the bed met her gaze calmly. Unlike Virginia’s, her eyes were devoid of any emotion, any spark of life. They were dead, empty.

“Let Cassandra go.”

“I’ll repeat myself. We need your cooperation. What did you discuss with V? What happened in that van? Did he threaten you in any way?”

“Cassandra doesn’t betray.”

Virginia laughed, her body shaking with amusement.

She wiped a tear from her eye and stood up.

She ordered the soldiers outside, the ones holding the tranquilizer guns, to turn away, then closed the small window on the door, sealing the room.

“This room… what do you think? It’s padded with soft mattresses, from floor to ceiling. Bright lights, no windows. It’s designed to block out all external stimuli. The perfect environment for someone with a complex mind like yours.”

“Witch.”

Cassandra glared at Virginia.

“You have no right to hold Cassandra captive. Cassandra is a senior researcher. An important asset to Elza. Cassandra won’t stay silent.”

“I hope you don’t.”

Virginia approached the bed, her footsteps slow and deliberate.

One step.

Another step.

Cassandra remained motionless, her expression unchanged.

But when Virginia untied her wrists and ankles, she looked up, her eyes filled with a flicker of confusion.

“What are you doing?”

Virginia returned to her chair, crossing her legs.

She tapped her fingers against the armrest, then snapped them.

“Cassandra. Cassandra… what an interesting name. It suits you. Cassandra Wilson. That’s the name you’re using, isn’t it?”

“That’s the name Cassandra chose.”

“No. Names are given, not chosen. It doesn’t matter what you call yourself. If a pig calls itself a swan, but everyone else calls it a pig, then its name is pig.”

“Cassandra will forge her own destiny. No one can stop her.”

Virginia nodded.

“I have no intention of stopping you. But I’m offering you a choice. Choose one of two options. One, you return to the Disease Crisis Management Agency as Cassandra Wilson. And the other…”

“…You let Cassandra go.”

“No. You return to the Disease Crisis Management Agency under a different name.”

Cassandra’s body convulsed. She covered her ears with her hands, her eyes wide with terror.

“No. No. No. Don’t do this.”

Virginia stood up and grabbed Cassandra’s wrists, her grip firm.

“I’m not afraid of a little struggle. I inherited your father’s strength.”

“Let Cassandra go!”

“Cassandra? What kind of name is that? Those fools in the administrative offices might have believed your little charade, but the military leadership knows your ‘real’ name.”

“Don’t!”

“I’ll repeat myself. You have a choice. One, you return to the Disease Crisis Management Agency as Cassandra Wilson. You can continue to refer to yourself in the third person, if that’s what you prefer.”

Cassandra struggled against her restraints, but Virginia easily dodged her kicks.

She leaned closer, her face inches from Cassandra’s.

“Or, you return under your ‘real’ name.”

“Don’t say it!”

Cassandra tried to headbutt Virginia, but Virginia grabbed her neck, pinning her to the bed.

Cassandra struggled, but her muscles, weakened from days of confinement, betrayed her.

“Ophelia Osborne. Co-founder of Kibele, pioneer of biotechnology, sole survivor and rightful heir to the Osborne family fortune, a family purged after the war for war crimes.”

“Stop it… please…”

“You chose your own name?”

“Ugh…”

“No. Names are given. Live the life you were meant to live. That’s your role. I’m not interested in playing your little make-believe games.”

Virginia released her grip on Cassandra’s neck, her thumb tracing the red mark on her pale skin.

Cassandra sobbed, her body trembling.

“Think carefully. Cooperate, and we’ll reward you accordingly.”

“…Let me go… you have to believe me… I have to find a counterexample…”

“Because the world is ending because of the virus?”

Cassandra tried to sit up, but the strap around her waist prevented her.

“Y-yes. That’s right. If this continues, the Eruptor Protocol will be triggered. Everyone is underestimating the virus. But I… I can stop it. If you release me, if you let me go… I can…”

“I believe you.”

But Virginia was already walking towards the door.

Cassandra, or rather, the bioengineer Ophelia Osborne, lowered her head.

“…If you believe me, then why won’t you let me go?”

“Because I believe in the end of the world.”

Ophelia looked up, her eyes wide with shock.

“You…”

She pointed a long, slender finger at Virginia.

“You… what are you planning…?”

But Virginia just smiled, her head bowed.

“Take care of yourself, ‘Cassandra.’ I expect your full cooperation next time. If you help us track down V… I’ll give you back your name.”

Virginia left the room.

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