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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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I prepared lunch.
The menu was a simple vegetable stew, nothing fancy.
I placed a pot of clean water on the gas stove, added a pinch of salt and some “flavor enhancer,” then lit the burner.
I diced the potatoes and parboiled them to remove excess starch, ensuring they would cook faster.
I heated some soybean oil in a frying pan, added the drained potatoes, and stir-fried them until they turned translucent.
Then, I added the diced onions and continued to stir-fry.
Thump.
Camilla stomped her foot on the floor above me.
It was a signal: a zombie had entered our perimeter.
The K11 SWS had an effective range of 1,300 meters.
It wasn’t an immediate threat, but I covered the frying pan with a lid just in case.
The aroma of cooking vegetables wafted through the air, a tantalizing scent.
A few days ago, during a sleepless night in the van, Camilla and I had established a set of rules for our uneasy alliance.
One of them was: “When sharing a meal, we take turns cooking and keeping watch.”
I hadn’t wanted to change any of the rules.
I had learned, through countless study groups and work projects, that compromising on individual rules could lead to the collapse of the entire system.
It was better to scrap the whole thing and start over, or to stick to the original agreement.
But after yesterday’s “miracle,” everything seemed pointless.
The house we had visited yesterday had contained some leftover food supplies: vegetables, potatoes, sacks of grain, cooking oil, and even flour.
I had thoroughly scouted the area, ensuring it was safe to cook.
We had flipped a coin, and Camilla had ended up with the cooking duty, while I was on watch.
“Time to show off my culinary skills!”
Camilla, her hair covered with a bandana, an apron tied around her waist, had performed a “miracle.”
She had somehow managed to transform flour dough into leather.
It was tough enough to use as a tambourine.
The appearance, the taste, the texture – it was all there. The unmistakable flavor of leather.
“This… this is strange. This shouldn’t be happening.”
Her face flushed, her fingers fidgeting nervously.
“…What were you trying to make?”
“Pancakes.”
“Pancakes require baking powder, eggs, and milk. We don’t have any of those ingredients.”
She looked at me, her eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t you just mix flour and water and cook it? That’s how I’ve always made them.”
“…That was pancake mix. This is pure flour dough. It’s different.”
“It is?! I-I’m sorry. What should I do?”
It was an understandable mistake.
I cut the “leather” into small pieces with scissors, fried them in oil, then slathered them with strawberry jam, another salvaged item from an MRE.
“Croutons. I used strawberry jam because we don’t have any sugar. They’re actually quite good.”
Even shoes tasted good when deep-fried.
The same principle applied to leather made from flour dough.
It wasn’t exactly a meal, more like a snack, but it was surprisingly tasty.
“Are you an angel?”
“Pay me with a can of applesauce.”
“You greedy devil.”
She grumbled, but she handed over her can of applesauce.
She still seemed apologetic.
“Johan, I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”
“It’s fine. Let’s focus on positive reinforcement.”
“How?”
“You didn’t fail at cooking. You succeeded at a material science experiment. This is revolutionary. If you hadn’t cooked it so thoroughly, we could have made a leather jacket…”
Anyway, we amended the rule to: “When sharing a meal, Johan cooks, and Camilla keeps watch.”
We had established several other rules as well.
What’s yours is yours.
We sleep separately, unless there’s an emergency.
We’re responsible for our own safety.
And we enforced these rules.
“Here, take your weapons back.”
I returned her pistol, rifle, and body armor.
“And I’ll entrust you with this.”
She handed me her cell phone.
It was an unexpected gesture.
Why her phone, of all things?
“It’s a sign of good faith. I won’t contact my comrades behind your back. Not that I could, without a cell tower. But I wanted to show you that I trust you.”
Of course, it was password-protected.
I turned it off and stored it with my own phone.
We decided to use a walkie-talkie for communication.
I had found it in an abandoned police car.
It was waterproof, and its solar panel and battery charger meant it would last a while.
It was also a way for us to communicate while maintaining a safe distance.
Work together, live separately.
That was the essence of our agreement.
We were bound by necessity, not trust.
And if that necessity ceased to exist, we would part ways without hesitation.
I had made my intentions clear, and she had agreed.
However, she had insisted on adding a final clause: “All clauses are subject to change by mutual agreement.”
When we had amended the cooking rule, she had said, “See? I told you it would work out!” with a smug smile.
She was probably mistaken.
I had to believe that.
The aroma of sauteed vegetables filled the air.
The potatoes and onions, once translucent, were now a beautiful golden brown.
I removed the lid from the frying pan and added the diced carrots, tossing them gently.
Fried potatoes and onions were delicious, but their colors were a bit bland.
The reddish-orange carrots added a touch of visual appeal.
And in this case, with the potatoes starting to crumble and the onions caramelizing, they also provided a much-needed textural contrast.
After all, this was a meal, and meals required something to chew on.
The carrots softened, their edges turning brown.
I carefully transferred the contents of the frying pan to the pot of simmering water.
I added a splash of water to the frying pan, deglazing it, scraping up the caramelized bits and adding them to the pot.
Burnt food was bitter, but these were well-cooked carrots, onions, and potatoes, their flavors adding a sweet, savory depth to the stew.
The potatoes, cooked to perfection, were starting to break down, thickening the stew.
The caramelized onions glistened, their sweetness intensifying.
I tested a carrot with a fork.
It yielded easily, its flesh soft and tender.
I carried the pot of stew and a ladle upstairs, filling our mess tins.
I had made enough for dinner as well.
Camilla took her position by the north window, while I settled in by the east window.
We had to remain vigilant, even while eating.
“Let’s eat.”
I dug in, but Camilla bowed her head.
She was offering a prayer to the “Goddess of Hunger.”
I didn’t understand her choice of deity, but it wasn’t my place to question her beliefs.
I took a spoonful of stew, blowing on it to cool it down.
It was still too hot, and I burned my tongue.
Camilla, however, seemed to be enjoying her meal without any issues.
“Did you burn yourself?”
She covered her mouth with her hand, her cheeks flushed.
She shook her head vigorously, then stuffed her cheeks with stew, chewing rapidly.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“You must have burned yourself pretty badly.”
“…No. It’s nothing.”
“Did you bite your tongue?”
“No!”
“Is it… not to your liking?”
“No. It’s…”
She set her mess tin aside, covering her face with her hands.
Her voice was muffled, almost a sob.
“It’s… so good…”
It wasn’t that good.
“R-really?”
She nodded, then forced a smile.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
She might have been a terrible cook, but she was an amazing eater.
She ate with such gusto, such enthusiasm, that it was like watching a commercial.
She took small, delicate bites, chewing thoroughly.
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, her forehead beaded with sweat.
She tilted her mess tin, scraping the bottom with her spoon, determined to savor every last drop.
“…Camilla? I made extra for dinner, so you don’t have to scrape the bottom of your mess tin.”
“Oh. Right.”
She reluctantly set her spoon down, but her eyes lit up as I refilled her mess tin.
“It was that good?”
It was gratifying to see her enjoy my cooking.
She nodded enthusiastically.
“It tastes like… a memory. It tastes exactly like the vegetable stew they used to serve at the diner near my university. The owner swore it was just vegetables, but it tasted exactly like this. It was cheap and filling, so I ate it all the time.”
She was radiating energy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling.
“…You’re a good cook. How did you do it? It tastes like there’s meat in it! What’s your secret?”
I had used meat broth, of course.
I had been running low on salt, so I had diced some jerky from an MRE and added it to the stew.
That was my “flavor enhancer.” Which meant the diner owner had been lying to her all along.
“It’s simple. Just follow the recipe.”
She fell for it again, her smile wide and genuine.
“Hey, let’s live together. I’ll do the laundry, heat the bathwater, take care of the zombies. You just cook. I’ll do the dishes. Three meals a day, every day. It would be perfect.”
I appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
“Just learn how to cook. I’ll teach you.”
“…Hey, I make a mean apple pie. I’m really good at it.”
“Everything tastes good with beef.”
“You idiot! You can’t make apple pie with beef… you’re messing with me!”
I chuckled and refilled my own mess tin.
It was time to leave.
We hadn’t been detected yet, but there were zombies lurking within a kilometer radius.
I didn’t want to engage in unnecessary combat, so it was best to avoid them.
“I’ll do the dishes.”
I took the pot and the frying pan downstairs, burying them in a pre-dug hole, covering them with dirt.
“…It’s a shame about this house.”
Camilla looked around the house, her voice filled with regret.
It was a good location.
A large house with an attached farm.
The farm was surrounded by a wooden fence, which could be easily reinforced to keep out a few zombies.
The house itself was a bit old, but sturdy, and it had been recently renovated.
The new furniture was still covered in plastic.
The only problem was that the house was partially collapsed.
A large truck had crashed into one of the walls.
Judging by the desiccated corpse in the driver’s seat, the driver had been infected, losing control of the vehicle.
“We’ll find a better place. Let’s grab the gas canisters.”
“Okay.”
We loaded the canisters into the bed of the one-ton truck I had parked in front of the house.
“One, two.”
The mattress I had placed in the truck bed muffled the sound.
“Let’s go.”
We returned to our new hideout: a warehouse nestled among the ruins, easily mistaken for just another abandoned building.
Even I had trouble finding it.
I remembered this area, although not as well as the Transmission Tower Forest or Lambert Village.
It was the kind of place my body remembered, even if my mind couldn’t quite recall the details.
But this world was less devastated than the one in my memories.
The buildings were in better condition, and the surrounding landscape was different.
It had taken me a while to find the warehouse, comparing my memories to the reality before me.
And I couldn’t just announce, “Hey, I know a great place!” without arousing Camilla’s suspicions.
I didn’t trust her completely, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t trust me.
I had to make her believe that I was trustworthy, even if I wasn’t.
It was the only way to ensure my own safety.
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