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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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The blackout lasted much longer than we anticipated.
An announcement instructed everyone to stay away from the windows.
Almost immediately after, bullets began to zing through the air violently.
Our room was safe, but many windows in the surrounding apartments shattered.
Outlaws.
It was utter chaos.
The outlaws began throwing Molotov cocktails, setting fire to the ground floors first and then climbing ladders to reach the second floors.
The building residents sniped at them from their windows, but strangely, someone other than the outlaws or the building dwellers was shooting indiscriminately at everyone.
“They’re doing it for fun. Probably because they’re under a lot of stress,” said Camila with a sigh.
“Doesn’t the National Gendarmerie get involved?”
“They’ll only intervene if zombies show up. When zombies appear, even the outlaws hide because the gendarmerie will shoot anything walking on two legs.
The gendarmerie focuses solely on maintaining order in Zones 1 through 9—the central parts of the city. It’s the same everywhere, not just in Hampton. And it’s deliberate.”
“What’s the point of doing that?”
“They offer outsiders a relatively safe city to live in and give people in the outer zones a chance to move to the safer central zones. They take everything from individuals in exchange for security… gradually conditioning and controlling people. That’s the point.”
Amidst this chaos, we heard a tinkling bell sound that grew louder and louder.
It was a fanatical cult group, carrying a wooden statue of a goddess and armed with massive glaives, singing hymns as they marched.
They too were met with a hail of bullets, but the cultists raised riot shields.
The flimsy bullets couldn’t penetrate the shields, and the cultists stood firm, marching like turtles while singing songs of peace.
The shooters, who had been venting their frustrations by targeting humans instead of zombies, eventually turned on one another, shooting again and again.
The power was finally restored late at night.
Electricity returned, and the street CCTVs resumed their watch.
The outlaws vanished somewhere.
Fire trucks didn’t extinguish the burned homes but focused on the surrounding houses to prevent the fire from spreading.
The streets were littered with corpses of those killed by gunfire.
People bearing flags labeled “Cleaners” swarmed in.
“Who are they?” I asked Camila.
“Odd-job workers. Remember seeing them on our way into the city? They take corpses out of the city. They live in cardboard houses, clean up bodies, and scrub blood off the streets to make a living.
To prevent cross-contamination, their cleaning work is subdivided into specialties. Surprisingly, their infection rate is low.”
Some of the cleaners returned to the hotel after their work was done.
It didn’t seem like they could afford a night’s stay.
“So this is where Hans wanted to detonate the virus bomb?”
Camila pointed toward the city’s inner district.
“Probably in the central zone. The disparity between the outer and inner zones is as stark as heaven and hell. If you turn heaven into hell, the devils would rejoice.
I bet that’s how he planned to gain support—by dragging down the privileged rather than uplifting the weak. It’s much easier that way.”
Bang! Bang!
Gunshots rang out again from somewhere. Camila and I moved further inside the living room, where the red lenses of the CCTV cameras seemed to be staring right at us.
“…Johan.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I’d feel happy even if the central district residents turned into zombies. It would just make everything worse for everyone. Why would Hans want to do something like that?”
I thought I understood.
“Some people would rather see others dragged down to their level than see themselves rise higher. Hans probably wanted to appeal to those kinds of people. They’re easier to provoke.”
“…I don’t get it.”
Camila hugged her knees.
I didn’t say anything more.
The CCTV light turned off.
A faint hum of machinery filled the air as the hotel resumed its normal operations.
From somewhere, we heard intense groaning—like someone suffering in pain.
It was as if death left a vacancy that the world was eager to refill.
The next morning at 10 a.m., I dressed in a neat shirt, jeans, and a light jacket.
My weapon was a 1911 pistol with a spare magazine.
No rifle—I’d already have to carry two bottles of alcohol, and bringing a rifle would be too cumbersome.
Besides, according to the city’s laws, pistols could be openly carried, but rifles had to be concealed in a case and used only in ‘dire emergencies.’
It was better to travel light and run fast if needed.
Camila stayed behind at the hotel to guard the jewelry and other valuables.
After experiencing the blackout, we thought it best for someone to always remain in the room.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
I wasn’t really worried.
After a good night’s sleep, she looked much more at ease.
“For someone supposedly worried, you sound completely indifferent.”
We had prepared thoroughly.
Once I left, she would block the door with a chair and be ready to shoot with the rifle if anyone forced their way in.
She wouldn’t answer the door unless it was my call or the front desk.
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’m just going to sell some liquor, gather information, and come back.”
“…Still, I have a bad feeling about this. Hold on, let me fix your clothes.”
I waited, thinking maybe I’d worn something wrong, but then she unbuttoned my shirt and started kissing down my chest and stomach, leaving a trail of marks.
“Stop it, that tickles!”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and stepped back, leaving a bright hickey on my stomach.
Counting the one on my chest, that made two.
“What are you doing?” I asked, buttoning my shirt again.
Camila leaned her chest on her elbow and pressed a finger to her lips.
“Marking you as mine. Why?”
“Isn’t it a bit much?”
“I did it on purpose. What? Want me to leave another one?”
She tossed her hair back provocatively and pushed her chest out.
“…Just wait until I get back, really.”
Camila stuck out her tongue.
I stuck mine out a little in response.
The 13th District was about 3 km away, but in a city like Hampton, that distance felt much longer.
Navigating the city’s labyrinthine paths made it feel even further.
Hampton was a complex city—perhaps all cities in this world were like this.
Because of the zombies lurking in the alleys, people built skybridges between buildings to avoid walking on the ground.
Even among the bridges, there was a hierarchy.
The upper classes used higher, sturdier skybridges built with reinforced materials like H-beams.
Meanwhile, the lower classes had rickety bridges that could collapse if you stepped wrong.
On these precarious bridges, people moved sideways like crabs, clutching their pistols and glancing around nervously, fearing someone might push them over the edge.
A scream echoed in the distance.
Everyone flinched, lowered their bodies, and gripped their weapons as the bridge shook beneath them.
A few bridges away, someone fell.
Gunshots rang out from the same bridge as the falling person.
Its occupants had turned on each other, shooting one another.
Shaken but determined, the people on my bridge hurried across, constantly checking to make sure no one beside them raised a gun.
“This is too nerve-wracking. I can’t stand crossing like this.”
“Not like you can walk on the ground, either. We don’t have a car.”
“We have cars, just no fuel. Gas prices and car costs are ridiculous…”
City life seemed to boil down to this—a constant comparison between higher and lower.
A pyramid built on a bizarre mix of envy for those above and disdain for those below.
Perhaps that’s why no one wanted to descend.
Down there, there were only zombies.
Still, people ought to be better than zombies.
When I finally arrived at the 13th District, it felt noticeably cleaner than the others.
The difference was obvious from the window: even here, outside the inner city, the National Gendarmerie patrolled the area.
The cafe in question was located on the eighth floor of a mid-level building.
The line outside stretched to about a hundred people.
From inside wafted the sweet scent of baked goods and laughter, with the occasional bell signaling a fresh batch of pies.
Guards with AK-47s stood by as staff handed out numbered tickets.
Finally, it was my turn.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. My friend reserved a table under apple pie.”
Fortunately, that apple pie fanatic had kindly booked me a spot.
The staff gave me a once-over before nodding to the guard, who escorted me inside.
People in line glared at me with envy and resentment.
It reminded me of squeezing into a crowded subway just before the doors closed.
The guard led me through the main area, past tables seating groups of four and five, and up a flight of stairs to an exclusive section.
“Wow.”
The area was entirely glass, even the floor.
The semi-transparent design allowed the people above to see below, but not the other way around.
Cool air from the air conditioning circulated the room.
The patrons here were impeccably dressed and unarmed—each table was flanked by bodyguards carrying rifles.
“Enjoy your time,” the guard said, gesturing toward a two-seat table by the window before leaving.
The view outside was breathtaking: a shimmering river, armored vehicles parked along its banks, and sandbagged machine gun posts.
Closer in, a dry but sprawling park stretched out below.
Among its withered trees and gazebos stood a dried-out statue of a goddess.
Nearby, a bucket-helmeted figure strummed a guitar while a group of gas-masked figures crouched beside them, adding a peculiar apocalyptic vibe.
“Excuse me… Are you the one who reserved the apple pie?”
Finally, the buyer arrived.
“Yes. I brought it in this bag.”
I extended my hand, but the woman didn’t shake it.
She was a strikingly large woman, her broad shoulders wider than mine.
Her short skirt and purple leggings made her legs look like wrapped radishes.
Her oversized glasses lacked actual lenses—a disguise. The rest of her makeup was garish, with heavy lipstick and bright blush.
Only her blonde hair and blue eyes, marked by a teardrop mole under her right eye, seemed untouched by the disguise.
She laughed, her broad shoulders shaking.
“Well, we can’t just call you ‘Apple Pie,’ can we?”
I introduced myself with the alias I’d prepared at the hotel.
“You can call me Caesar. And you?”
“Hmm, just call me Letty.”
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