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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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The main clubhouse, second floor.
Members of the Court-Civil Servant Alliance gang scurried about, their movements frantic and disorganized.
They opened gun cabinets, distributing rifles, and pried open ammunition boxes, loading magazines.
But their actions were clumsy, their movements lacking the practiced ease of seasoned soldiers.
One gang member fumbled with a magazine, accidentally cutting his finger on the sharp edges of the bullets.
Another tried to convince his comrade to swap rifles, complaining about the weight.
Yet another had crawled under a desk, muttering about their impending doom.
The country club was their fortress, their sanctuary.
They believed they were invincible within its walls.
They had undergone rudimentary combat training, their confidence boosted by their successful defense against a few minor attacks.
The country club had gained a reputation as an impenetrable fortress.
But the loss of half their forces in Lambert Village had shaken their morale.
Some argued that they should abandon the country club and relocate, but the leadership had overruled them.
There was no immediate threat, and besides, they could always recruit more members.
Who would dare attack us?
They knew they were vulnerable, but the belief that “we’ve always been fine, so why worry now?” was deeply ingrained.
They weren’t the only gang that had suffered losses in Lambert Village.
All the gangs had been hit hard, and the police gang had been completely wiped out.
So who would attack them?
It was a ridiculous notion.
If only that madman hadn’t driven a van filled with zombies through their fence, destroying their CCTV cameras…
“Another one’s out!”
A shout from the monitoring station.
A fifth of the monitors, arranged on the wall like a giant insect’s compound eye, were blank, displaying only the words “No Signal.”
“That damn rat!”
A gang member, his face contorted with rage, was systematically destroying the CCTV cameras with his M4 carbine.
He wasn’t firing randomly. He knew exactly where the cameras were located, his shots precise and deliberate.
“Everyone to their positions! Non-essential personnel, fall back!” a voice barked over the radio.
The monitoring station operator relayed the intruder’s movements.
“Incoming! He’s heading towards Parking Lot 2. Be careful!”
A response came from the restaurant and shopping center.
“We need backup at the restaurant! That woman is a monster! We’ve lost the fourth floor!”
The situation there was different.
The cameras were operational, providing a clear view of the carnage unfolding inside.
A woman with a ponytail was wreaking havoc, her movements swift and deadly.
She was targeting their exposed faces and necks, the areas not protected by their helmets and vests.
She would duck behind cover during their suppressing fire, then emerge at the precise moment they were reloading.
A barricade of lockers and desks blocked her path.
This time, they were ready, their magazines full, their movements coordinated.
They would stop her here.
It was a futile hope.
The woman grabbed a doorknob from the floor and hurled it at them.
The gang members, mistaking it for a grenade, scattered.
The woman’s rifle and pistol barked, their bullets finding their marks.
One of the gang members, his patience exhausted, grabbed a phone.
“Judge! We need orders! We’re all going to die! That crazy bitch is slaughtering our comrades in the shopping center, and that lunatic is destroying our cameras in the parking lot!”
But there was no response from the other end.
Only silence.
And the sound of muffled sobs.
What do we do? What do we do? The thought echoed through their minds.
The Court-Civil Servant Alliance gang was poorly trained.
They didn’t even know how to properly maintain their weapons, and their equipment was in a sorry state.
They had grown accustomed to a life of ease, delegating the menial tasks to slaves, enjoying the country club’s amenities, and raiding the surrounding areas whenever their supplies ran low.
Their only advantage had been their CCTV network and their communication system.
They could monitor the movements of their enemies, deploying their forces strategically.
But now, those advantages were slipping away.
Their numbers had been halved.
Their cameras were being destroyed.
The zombies were no longer confined to a single location, their movements unpredictable, their presence a constant threat.
Car horns blared.
Distorted music and voices crackled from radios.
Car alarms wailed.
The zombies, their senses overloaded, stumbled and swayed, their movements erratic.
There was too much information.
They didn’t know what to prioritize, what to ignore.
Their instincts, their training, the strategies that had always worked, were now failing them.
“…Look at that bastard! He’s heading for Parking Lot 2!”
If the main building was the heart of the country club, then Parking Lot 2 was its aorta.
All vehicles and personnel passed through it.
It was a chokepoint, a strategic location, monitored by numerous CCTV cameras, some hidden in plain sight, to prevent theft and sabotage.
And it was completely exposed, except for the parked vehicles.
The gang members, fearing the sniper fire and the approaching zombies, huddled behind whatever cover they could find.
“We don’t have visual yet. Stand by. Stand by.”
The monitoring station operator relayed the information. And then, the madman emerged from a cluster of bushes.
“Bush line! He’s by the bush line with the peace flag!”
But the madman, his M4 carbine raised, didn’t fire.
He ducked, avoiding the incoming bullets, and sprinted towards the bushes, grabbing the flag.
“What the hell is he doing?”
He discarded the flagpole, rolled up the flag, slid across the pavement, and took cover behind a car.
“Don’t do it.”
The monitoring station operator gritted his teeth.
The madman opened the car’s gas tank, shoved the rolled-up flag inside, ignited it with his lighter, and then sprinted away.
“I said don’t…!”
The monitors displaying Parking Lot 2 went blank.
The car had exploded.
They could almost hear the boom.
The burning car rolled forward, colliding with another vehicle.
The leaking fuel ignited, the flames spreading rapidly.
Another explosion.
“Bombing! We’re being bombed! Where the hell is that bastard? Control! Control! We need intel! We can’t… aghhhh! Help! Help! Over there! Aghhhh!”
The radio crackled, then went silent.
A plume of black smoke obscured the CCTV cameras.
“…It’s over.”
Zombies filled the monitors.
One.
Two.
Four.
Eight.
Sixteen.
Thirty-two…
Ring, ring.
The phone rang.
It was the “Judge.”
His voice was still shaky, but the alcohol seemed to have steadied his nerves.
“Forget the parking lot. Are the buses still operational?”
“We pulled them back.”
“Send them to the shopping center! Secure the first floor and work your way up. Take out that woman first! Let’s eliminate the immediate threats! Then we’ll use the main building and the shopping center as our strongholds and push back!”
Yes.
Maybe it wasn’t over yet.
The radio crackled back to life.
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Camilla counted down.
Three, two, one.
She burst from her hiding spot, her pistol blazing.
The gang member, his weapon empty, his hands fumbling with a fresh magazine, collapsed, his body riddled with bullets.
His comrade tried to return fire, but it was too late.
He joined his fallen friend on the floor.
“Gasp… gasp… gasp…”
Camilla paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, her chest heaving.
She let her overheated pistol cool down, then ejected the empty magazine and reloaded.
It was heavy, but she was glad she had brought extra ammunition.
She had fought her way up to the fourth floor of the five-story shopping center.
The resistance had been stronger than she had anticipated, the gang members putting up a surprisingly fierce fight.
Fortunately, their training was subpar, their movements clumsy and predictable.
She had been able to overcome them with a combination of skill and improvisation.
She still hadn’t found the slaves.
The first four floors were occupied by restaurants and small shops, none of them suitable for holding prisoners.
But the fifth floor was dedicated to offices and storage rooms.
This was the most likely location for the hostages.
She peered out the window, assessing the situation.
Fires raged throughout the resort, explosions echoing through the air.
But the most irritating thing was the noise.
Car horns blared, their sounds blending with the discordant melodies of car alarms, creating a cacophony of noise that grated on her nerves.
Another explosion.
The zombies, their senses overloaded, were swarming the resort.
The zombies are following the sounds.
Could it be Johan?
Her heart pounded in her chest.
They had agreed to work independently, to avoid interfering with each other’s plans.
Johan shouldn’t be here yet.
He had said he would wait for the zombies and the gang members to destroy each other.
But she couldn’t imagine anyone else causing this level of chaos.
It was reckless, unpredictable, and undeniably effective.
It wasn’t hindering her progress.
In fact, the distraction was working to her advantage, dividing the gang’s forces.
Some of the gang members had already left the building, heading outside to deal with the zombies.
They couldn’t afford to focus solely on her if the horde continued to press their attack.
They were facing a three-pronged assault: Johan, her, and the zombies.
I need to increase the tempo.
Johan had created the distraction.
Now, she had to capitalize on it.
She gripped her rifle, her mind racing, recalling the tactics she had learned in the Elza Liberation Front.
She avoided the large, open central hall, sticking to the narrow corridors, using the walls to her advantage, minimizing her exposure.
She cleared the third floor, then ascended to the fourth.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
A hail of bullets greeted her as she reached the top of the stairs.
Thud!
A bullet embedded itself in the floor, inches from her combat boot.
She quickly retreated, her heart pounding.
Honk! Honk!
The loud blare of a bus horn.
She peered through a window and saw a bus parked outside, its occupants disembarking, their weapons raised.
Some of them fired at the approaching zombies, while others entered the building.
She was trapped.
Camilla made a decision and rushed back down to the fourth floor.
She scanned the hallway, searching for a hiding spot, a place to set up a defensive position.
Her eyes fell on a blinking red light.
The emergency generator was still operational.
The building had power. The red light belonged to a fire alarm.
And then, an idea struck her.
She didn’t know much about zombies.
They were obsessed with food, they were aggressive, and their bites were infectious.
That was the extent of her knowledge.
But the zombies were clearly drawn to sound.
Too loud, irritating, repetitive sounds.
They seemed to be moving randomly, but whenever a new sound emerged, they would gravitate towards it.
So…
“…This is your fault.”
She muttered, her lips twisting into a wry smile.
“You infected me with this madness. I wasn’t like this before. I’ve changed because of you.”
She swung the butt of her pistol, shattering the acrylic cover of the fire alarm.
Smash!
She pressed the button.
The piercing wail of the alarm filled the air.
It worked.
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