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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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3:00 PM. The rain had intensified, making it hard to see. It felt like we were filling up a fish tank.
“Uh, Yohan. Shouldn’t we take a break?”
Even the indomitable Camilla sounded uneasy, gripping the armrest tightly.
“We can just creep along. I read somewhere that driving at a moderate speed is good for fuel efficiency.”
“What if we hit a zombie?”
“I’ll just pay a little extra insurance.”
The reason I was pushing on, despite the conditions, was the safe house.
It wasn’t a place that granted invincibility or magically replenished health and ammo overnight.
It was just a place that was relatively inconspicuous, good for storing supplies and taking a short rest.
The term “safe house” was just a convenient label used by players; it wasn’t an official designation.
‘How can a place everyone knows about be a safe house?’
I used to think the same thing when I was a newbie.
But after gaining experience and understanding, I realized the deeper meaning.
This kind of survival game eventually led to players establishing their own territories.
Protecting their own territory, repelling invaders, and avoiding encroaching on others’ unless absolutely necessary – the predator’s logic.
And the safe house was the heart of that territory.
A bird’s nest.
A beast’s lair… So, if a player occupied a safe house, you could infer what they were after, the extent of their territory, and how to avoid or engage them.
If someone occupied a safe house in the forest, it meant they aimed for self-sufficiency.
Forests provided easy access to food and water, and with luck, some basic medicine.
Conversely, occupying a safe house in the city meant they were after electronics, luxury goods, and manufactured items – things that fetched high prices on the black market.
This indicated they were heavily armed and likely to hire mercenaries to fight other factions.
The safe house I was heading to was on the outskirts of Hampton City, neither forest nor city.
It was more of a transit point, advantageous for trade, like a transfer station or logistics center, a place not meant for long stays.
With the existence of the bunker in question, a safe house was the next best option.
The plan was to distribute supplies among various safe houses and then move everything to the bunker when the apocalypse hit.
Given its importance, I should have thoroughly scouted the area before entering, but I was going in blind.
Of course, I had a reason.
This world was “single-player,” and there were no other players besides me.
The distinction between “single-player” and “multiplayer” was the tutorial.
Starting in Mini Bell Village, like I did, meant single-player.
Starting anywhere else meant multiplayer.
So, even if it wasn’t 100% safe, others wouldn’t know about this place.
No one would deliberately target it.
…Of course, this was also based on the pre-patch version.
But if I kept thinking like that, I’d never get anywhere.
The safe house I was going to might not even exist.
This was a time period long before the original game’s setting.
There had been some discrepancies in Mini Bell Village too, like the change in the location of early-game items that were supposed to be fixed.
But even so, what choice did I have?
I’d proceed with what I knew and adapt to any changes or discrepancies.
I was confident.
I didn’t know any surefire methods, nor did I expect them.
I just knew how to tilt the odds in my favor.
Constants and variables.
The range of possibilities.
Minor errors.
I utilized them all.
…Except for the woman next to me who was drawing “Idiot on board” on the window with her finger.
Anyway, we’d passed the gas station, the small bus stop, and it should be around here… Ah, yes. There it was.
The abandoned fire station.
Like any fire station, it had parking space and a sturdy structure.
However, the heavy rain obscured the view inside.
But I’d already driven past it.
Because of Camilla.
She hadn’t been like this when we first met, but in the past few days, she’d developed a rebellious streak.
She’d listen to me, but do the opposite.
Especially after we kissed.
“…No. How much further are you going?”
Finally, Camilla, unable to bear it any longer, spoke up.
I feigned ignorance.
“What else can we do? Just stay here?”
“I saw a fire station back there. We can park the truck in the garage.”
“There was? I didn’t see it.”
I pretended to be surprised, and her nose immediately went up in the air.
“Hmph, this is what you call a tracker’s instinct. Turn the car around. We didn’t go too far.”
She didn’t know why I was smiling.
Pretending to agree, I turned the truck around.
The rain had lessened slightly, but visibility was still poor.
I parked the truck a short distance away and turned off the engine. Camilla and I quietly discussed our plan.
Sounds traveled further in the rain, so we agreed not to use guns.
Instead, we put on ponchos and gas masks from the gear we’d prepared in the back seat.
It was a bit stuffy, but the anti-fog treatment on the masks provided a clear view.
We got out of the truck and grabbed two axes from the trunk.
I also picked up a stone.
The fire station’s doors were long gone, and the windows were missing entirely.
Someone must have taken them.
The inside was even worse, with nothing left but dilapidated cabinets.
There were also piles of newspapers, dirty blankets, traces of a fire, and three wandering zombies dressed like homeless people.
Thump, thump.
I knocked on the cabinets with the axe.
The zombies, who had been staring blankly, shuffled towards the sound.
I calmly backed out of the building.
The zombies quickened their pace, curious about the unfamiliar sound.
I lured all three of them out to the road.
A dark figure appeared behind them.
Camilla.
Thwack.
One zombie fell, its head half-split.
The heavy rain washed the blood everywhere, and the other zombies bared their teeth, looking around.
Camilla took down another one, and I finished off the last.
Whoosh!
I rinsed the axe in the downpour.
I didn’t think it was contaminated, but just in case, I carefully unfolded my poncho and re-entered the fire station.
Camilla pointed upstairs.
I nodded.
Gripping the axe handle tightly, I climbed the stairs.
Thud, thud. Drip, drip.
Water streamed from my poncho with each step.
The door was closed.
Camilla grabbed the handle and yanked it.
I threw the stone at an angle against the wall.
It ricocheted inside, rolling around before coming to a stop with a thump.
“Groan.”
Camilla made a series of hand signals.
‘Four. Lure them out?’
I shook my head and pointed my thumb down.
We’d take care of them inside. This time, I went in first.
I reversed my grip on the axe.
I didn’t want to be surrounded by three while dealing with one.
A quick strike to the forehead with the pickaxe…
“Groan!”
…wouldn’t kill them outright, but it would buy me time.
One down.
Camilla kicked a wheeled chair, knocking over two zombies.
I took the opportunity to split one’s head open.
Thwack.
Crack.
The axe danced.
I brought it down hard, crushing the last zombie’s skull against the cement floor.
Camilla paused, as if wondering why I’d chosen to fight inside, but I ignored her and went outside.
I’d explain later; those zombie corpses would be useful.
I opened all the windows on the second floor and closed the metal shutters. Fortunately, the roof and fire watchtower were empty.
Finally, I checked the garage.
It was large enough to hold three fire trucks.
Two shutters were down, and one was up.
If we parked the truck close to the wall, it wouldn’t be easily visible from the outside.
But that wasn’t the only reason I was here.
Neatly arranged shelves and cabinets lined the wall.
And in front of them, a metal plate about a meter square.
Found it.
The safe house.
While Camilla was looking elsewhere, I knelt and swung the axe.
Clang… clang… clang.
Startled, she turned to look at me.
I got up, brushing off my knees, as if I’d just tripped.
I didn’t know how she could read my expression through the gas mask, but I pretended not to notice and tapped the metal plate with my foot.
Clang… clang… A deep, resonant sound.
Of course, it was hollow underneath.
Camilla, finally sensing something was amiss, came closer.
I brushed away some dirt, revealing a handle.
One, two, three.
I carefully lifted it.
Creak.
I’d need to spray some WD-40 on it later.
There it was.
A staircase leading down.
The emergency lights, probably red originally, were off.
The stairs were covered in a thin layer of dust and dirt, but relatively clean.
A metal door was firmly shut.
Camilla stopped me as I was about to go down.
She insisted on going first. I let her. It was likely empty anyway.
It was a “safe house,” after all.
She descended the short staircase and opened the basement door. It opened silently.
“…Wow.”
It was much cleaner than I remembered.
I was glad I was wearing the gas mask.
It hid my smile from Camilla.
The safe house was much cleaner and more spacious than I remembered.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, with bare concrete walls and floors.
It should have had moldy linoleum, posters of half-naked men and women on the walls, a scavenged refrigerator and television, and empty liquor bottles strewn about.
But now it was clean enough to open a cafe.
Perfect exposed concrete.
It even had a bathroom with a toilet and shower.
There were originally two rooms, but now there were six.
“…What is this place? Why is this under a fire station?”
I feigned ignorance and shone my flashlight on the wall.
A brass plaque detailing the building’s history gleamed.
Camilla traced the letters with her finger.
“Ah, this was a checkpoint during the war. A place to hide during bombings. So they demolished the checkpoint and built the fire station on top of it? But for that, the renovations seem relatively recent. Did they plan to use it as staff quarters?”
I didn’t know the reason either.
Camilla, after examining the interior with her flashlight, pointed to a small box.
“Let’s open that.”
We peeled off the stickers that read “Firefighting equipment, handle with care, fragile” and carefully opened the box.
Surprisingly, it contained actual firefighting equipment.
New dust masks and gloves.
Waterproof and fire-resistant, and lightweight too.
Perfect for contamination-free scavenging.
Underneath, we found carefully wrapped liquor bottles and a letter.
“So that’s why it said ‘handle with care’.”
While Camilla examined the letter, I looked at the bottles.
All high-proof, expensive, luxury items.
You could distill most alcohol with a still, and with alcohol, you could make various things, from Molotov cocktails to disinfectants, but these were too good for that.
These were from Minsk. “Rare contraband,” highly valued on the black market.
“I see.”
Camilla handed me the letter. I chuckled as I read it.
Whoever the fire chief was, he’d planned to open a gambling den here.
Gambling.
Liquor.
And men and women for entertainment.
Unfortunately, despite finishing the interior renovations, his plans had fallen through.
“Johan.”
Camilla stretched and her eyes sparkled.
“I’m hungry. Let’s eat. I want some warm stew and…”
“Let’s unload the truck first.”
…At least there were plenty of rooms, so we could have separate ones.
Those Minsk liquors would fetch a good price on the black market…
I wondered if there even was a black market in this time period.
A short while later, I heard the sound of the truck being moved.
Camilla, seemingly having the same thought as me, cleverly parked the truck against the wall, positioning the driver’s side door close to the bunker entrance for a quick escape if necessary.
“The black market?”
Camilla asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I was wondering if there was one here.”
“Of course there is. Why?”
“Those liquors look valuable. We could sell them and buy other things.”
“Hmm… there are several scattered around. In the non-protected human zones and the protected zones. But not many places will accept Minsk liquor.”
I hadn’t told Camilla, but I also needed to get rid of the jewels from Lambert. And for that…
“Johan. Do you want to go to the city with me?”
“Can you?”
“There are several entry routes, but most of them are through Liberation Organization connections… so we’ll have to be careful. There are ways to force our way in, but it’s better to be safe.”
It made sense.
Camilla was a member of the Liberation Organization, a well-known advertising model, and even a propaganda spokesperson.
Many people would recognize her.
“But there’s a problem.”
She suddenly lowered her voice. An unsettling thought crossed my mind.
“Is it because your face is so well-known… that you can’t enter now that you’ve left the Liberation Organization?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m Camilla, the supermodel who can pull off any look. Even at the height of my career, I could go anywhere unnoticed with a little disguise. I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I lack courage.”
I thought she was talking nonsense, but she rubbed her stomach and grabbed a bottle of liquor, wrapping it in her hands.
“Only this can fill the void.”
“…Okay, I get it.”
“But not this one. Something else.”
She put the bottle down and pointed upwards. I knew what she meant.
“…You want to drink what’s in the truck?”
Camilla winked.
“But you said we should sell this?”
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