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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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I started the van and turned on the radio, carefully adjusting the dial until a voice emerged from the static.
A robotic voice, reciting the news.
I continued to turn the dial, finding a sweet spot where the voice was clear, but a background hiss of static remained.
Pure static was easy to ignore, but the occasional burst of comprehensible speech was infuriating.
It was human nature.
And I doubted the zombies, with their human origins, were any different.
I cranked up the volume.
The sound, amplified by the van’s open doors and windows, echoed through the wasteland.
I shifted into neutral, wedged a rock onto the accelerator, and secured the steering wheel with a stick.
The van lurched forward, its movement slow and unsteady.
I added another rock to the accelerator, the speedometer needle creeping upwards.
The van bounced and swayed, its damaged axle turning the ride into a macabre dance.
The chain connecting the van to the corpse cart rattled, but thankfully, the cart remained upright.
I checked the rearview mirror, making sure the zombies were following, then scrambled up the side of a nearby cliff.
There was a horseshoe-shaped indentation at the top, the perfect hiding spot.
A glint of light flashed from the guard posts at either end of the resort.
Snipers. I watched as they aimed their rifles, their heads exploding in a spray of blood and bone fragments.
Bang!
The sound of Camilla’s rifle echoed through the valley.
Silencers didn’t always just muffle the sound of gunfire.
Some, like Camilla’s, dispersed the sound, making it difficult to pinpoint the shooter’s location.
It seemed to have some effect on the zombies as well. Several of them paused, their heads tilting, their senses confused.
But they quickly refocused on the van, its engine sputtering, its body swaying, its distorted music a siren song of chaos.
An alarm blared from inside the resort.
Too late.
Crash!
The van slammed into the fence.
A flash of light.
I covered my ears and ducked.
BOOM!
The explosion reverberated through the air, the shockwave slamming into me, even with my hands covering my ears.
A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out all other sounds.
Debris from the van and the shattered fence rained down around me.
Warning! Warning! Evacuate immediately! Warning! Warning! Fire! Fire!
The resort’s alarm blared, its siren a piercing wail.
Even from this distance, I could sense the zombies’ excitement.
Bang!
And then, a gang member, panicked and foolish, fired his weapon.
A wild, inaccurate shot.
The zombies, their limbs flailing, surged through the gap in the fence.
He reminded me of the Dutch boy who had saved his village by plugging a hole in a dike with his finger.
This grown-up version of the boy, however, had abandoned his post, his weapon clattering to the ground as he fled.
I watched him run, his trajectory leading towards the largest building in the complex, the main building.
…There are more zombies than I expected.
Flames and black smoke erupted from the wrecked van.
The fire hadn’t spread, but the random gunfire coming from the resort was drawing in every zombie in the area.
And it wasn’t just humans anymore.
The pack of feral dogs I had encountered earlier joined the fray, their bodies a blur of motion as they tore into a wounded human zombie, its flesh sizzling from the van’s explosion.
Zombie humans and zombie dogs clashed, their teeth and claws a whirlwind of death.
There was no sign of vehicle movement inside the resort.
They had set up a defensive perimeter. I could see the zombies swarming, the occasional burst of flame, the buildings crumbling under their relentless assault.
It was a familiar sight.
The ruined resort from my memories.
The front door, ripped from its hinges, lying in the parking lot.
The fence, its shattered fragments embedded in the walls of the buildings.
I felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
Like pushing a precariously balanced glass of water away from the edge of a table.
Like watching a stray hair, clinging to a stranger’s shoulder, finally detach and float away on the breeze.
Like rearranging a set of books, their spines perfectly aligned, except for volumes four and five, which had been swapped.
This was the resort I remembered.
The feeling of familiarity was unsettling, like waking up next to a stranger, their body warm and comforting, their face unknown.
What was this feeling?
I spotted a figure scaling the fence at the far end of the resort.
Camilla.
She had made it over.
She had told me to focus on my own task, to let her handle hers.
I had planned to do just that.
Wait here, observe the situation, and then scavenge whatever I could…
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something.
Yesterday, in the warehouse, I had asked Camilla why she was risking her life to rescue a slave whose existence was uncertain.
Her answer had been simple: “I won’t tolerate Elza people enslaving their own kind.”
“I’ll be honest with you. Römer is in control now, but Minsk used to rule us. You probably know…”
“Camilla, just pretend I know nothing.”
She had hesitated, so I had quickly added, “I just want to understand your perspective on this situation.”
“My perspective? Why?”
“I want to understand why you’re doing this.”
It was a lie.
The information I had gathered was fragmented, incomplete.
I needed a narrative, a thread to connect the scattered beads.
And Camilla, surprisingly, had indulged me.
She had given me a concise history lesson, her occasional glances suggesting she assumed I already knew this information.
Elza was a nation sandwiched between Minsk to the west and Römer to the east.
Its land was vast, its resources plentiful, its soil fertile.
But its population was significantly smaller than either Minsk or Römer.
Centuries of conflict, of constant invasions, had decimated its people.
Elza had rarely been an independent nation, its history a cycle of subjugation, its fate controlled by either Römer or Minsk.
But Elza had endured, its survival attributed to a “curse.”
Not a supernatural curse, but a political and economic dilemma known as “The Curse of Elza.”
Elza’s land was too vast, its resources too valuable.
It was easy for rebellions to hide, to regroup, to reemerge stronger than before.
The Elza people refused to be subjugated.
They clung to their identity, their history, their land, fighting for their freedom generation after generation.
Families.
Friends.
Neighbors.
They had all died at the hands of Römer and Minsk.
The cycle of hatred and revenge continued, fueling an endless conflict.
The stronger nation would conquer Elza, only to find itself bogged down in a quagmire of resistance, its resources drained, its military stretched thin.
And while the victor struggled to maintain control, the defeated nation would regroup, its forces replenished, ready to reclaim its lost territory.
This was the curse of Elza.
Perhaps, after centuries of pointless bloodshed, Minsk and Römer had finally learned their lesson.
They had signed a treaty, agreeing to divide Elza between them.
Minsk would rule the west, Römer the east.
They wouldn’t directly govern the occupied territories.
They would install puppet governments, carefully selecting and placing individuals who were loyal to them, individuals who were willing to crush their own people to achieve their goals.
Leaders, government officials, soldiers, police officers, teachers, nurses…
“It’s no surprise that the police, the firefighters, the court officials turned into gangs. They were always like that.
They were born in Elza, but they yearn to be Römerian or Minskian. They try to prove themselves by oppressing their own people, but in the eyes of their true masters, they’re just monkeys mimicking humans.
That’s why they can’t leave the human unprotected zones. They know what awaits them outside.”
I remembered the soldiers in the helicopters.
“Is the National Gendarmerie the same?”
“It’s a mix. The officers are either dispatched from Römer, or they’re collaborators, their loyalty to Römer absolute. They know the Elza local police are nothing more than thugs.
That’s why they stationed the Gendarmerie here, even though there’s already a police force. To prevent an attack.”
“What kind of attack?”
“A counterattack from Minsk. If Minsk attacked while the National Gendarmerie was stationed here, it would trigger an automatic military response from both Elza and Römer.”
The treaty between Minsk and Römer had held for years, but the relationship between the two nations had deteriorated.
Minsk was growing stronger, the balance of power shifting.
Minsk had successfully implemented a political system based on unfettered competition, free market capitalism, and a corporate-state alliance.
Römer, on the other hand, had adopted a parliamentary dictatorship.
The “parliament” was nothing more than a collection of noble and military families who had ruled Römer for generations.
Both nations claimed to be democratic republics, but it was a facade.
And it was clear that Minsk, with its dynamic and adaptable system, was outpacing the rigid and stagnant Römer.
Ten years ago, Minsk had declared war on Römer, claiming ownership of Elza.
They had been confident.
Minsk’s soldiers were well-equipped, well-paid professionals.
Römer’s army, on the other hand, was filled with conscripts, men who had joined the military for an extra bowl of gruel.
And then, ten days later, Minsk surrendered unconditionally.
Römer’s high-altitude bombers had obliterated twelve of Minsk’s secret underground bunkers.
The president, the prime minister, and all high-ranking government officials were dead.
The leaders of the five corporate alliances were missing. The unified command center, responsible for coordinating the five corporations’ tactical and strategic operations, had been destroyed.
Minsk had been blinded, deafened, and dismembered in a single, decisive strike.
Its army, demoralized and defeated, had sold its equipment to the Elza people and fled.
What followed was even more chaotic.
Römer had clearly infiltrated Minsk’s government and its corporate alliances, but no one knew how.
The five corporations, their interests now divergent, turned on each other, filing lawsuits, accusing each other of sabotage and espionage.
Minsk’s economy crumbled.
Römer seized the opportunity, occupying the remaining Elza territories, installing a puppet government, and forcing Minsk to sign a treaty recognizing Elza’s “independence.”
Minsk agreed, but with one condition: Römer had to remove all heavy military equipment from Elza, including tanks, armored vehicles, and fighter jets.
Römer, eager to avoid another war, agreed to the terms.
Elza was under Römer’s control, but the situation had changed.
Minsk’s advanced military equipment flooded the black market, fueling the resistance.
The Elza liberation movement gained momentum, their attacks becoming more frequent, more daring.
Römer, determined to crush the rebellion, responded with brutal force.
And then, the zombie outbreak.
“Römer did what they always do. They divided the land into protected zones and unprotected zones. They built walls, established checkpoints, and are now monitoring the situation, trying to prevent the spread of the virus. Minsk is doing the same in the west.”
“So, this is…”
“The unprotected zones are lawless wastelands. In the long run, the people here have two choices:
Become zombies and slowly die, or cross over to the human protected zones, submit to Römer’s rule, and become domesticated. Die in the trash or live in a cage.”
There was something about her words that felt off, a dissonance, a sense of unease. But I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
Camilla continued.
“I’ve never seen helicopters in a human unprotected zone before. They’re usually deployed in protected zones, to quell rebellions.
It’s more convenient for Römer that way. Minsk’s weapons are everywhere. They can’t control them all.
So, they don’t care what happens in the unprotected zones. They’re focusing on maintaining order within the protected zones, where everything is censored and controlled. In the end…”
“Elza will lose even its weapons.”
“Exactly. They’re managing the zombies, not eradicating them. They don’t have the resources or the manpower.
And because of the treaty, there are no tanks or fighter jets in Elza. Only small arms. And their administrative capabilities are abysmal. It’s not a functional nation.”
She smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes.
“People call us dreamers. They say an independent Elza is a fantasy. And they’re right. We’ve rarely had our own government.
But… we don’t need to find the right answer. We just need to eliminate the wrong ones. And slavery is definitely the wrong answer. Elza people deserve to be treated as equals.”
Gunfire erupted from the direction Camilla had entered.
The sound echoed through the resort, moving from one building to the next.
She was alive, and she was fighting.
I felt a surge of relief.
Relief?
Why was I relieved?
I blinked, refocusing on the situation below.
The zombies were still pouring into the resort.
The gang members inside were holding their ground, but they wouldn’t last long.
They were outnumbered, their defenses spread thin. They would be picked off one by one.
Why weren’t they more concerned about the zombies?
Even Camilla seemed strangely unconcerned.
She had dismissed the zombie threat as if it were a common cold.
She had talked about patriotism, about her hatred for Römer and Minsk, about her love for her people.
Eradicating the zombie virus wasn’t her priority.
She feared and hated her fellow humans more than the undead.
The possibility of the world ending because of the zombies wasn’t even a consideration.
They were using the virus as a political tool.
They were complacent, their guard down.
I finally understood what Cassandra had meant when she said, “You’re the only one who talks about the apocalypse.”
I wasn’t the only one using the zombies.
Everyone in this world was doing it.
That’s why I had felt so… comfortable.
I understood now.
I was just an ordinary human in this world.
“…But I’m the one who understands zombies the best.”
Correction.
I was the most knowledgeable ordinary human in this world.
“Time for another experiment.”
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