Marauder of the Apocalypse-Chapter 89: Urban Warfare

After collecting weapons from the first squad in the apartment, we moved sluggishly. We could have made it back to the general hospital today if we'd walked briskly, but we deliberately avoided doing that.

Our bags were stuffed with food instead of bombs, the soldiers' gear, weapons, and magazines were heavy, and zombies occasionally roamed the streets.

We also encountered people from time to time.

"Freeze."

"...Are you talking to me?"

A survivor crouched by the roadside, tearing up clover with his bare hands, stared at me blankly.

I adjusted my grip on the light machine gun with difficulty. It was incredibly heavy. I couldn't understand how anyone carried this weight around.

My arms felt like they might snap off, my shoulders and neck like they might break under the burden, and my legs were gradually going numb...

I snapped back to attention. This wasn't the time to be distracted.

"What are you doing?"

"Exactly what it looks like. Picking clover. The leaves are edible."

Even with me pointing a light machine gun at him, this survivor calmly gathered handfuls of clover. Then, spotting something, he exclaimed and held out a single clover to me.

"A four-leaf clover. Maybe you'll have good luck? Any chance you could spare some food?"

I wondered if I'd fallen asleep. Was I dreaming? What kind of survivor would beg in front of rifles and a light machine gun?

Just then, a mercenary who had regained his confidence after getting a gun lost his temper and waved his weapon in the air.

"Does this look like a toy? The food we risked our lives for, huh!"

"If you don't want to, that's fine."

The survivor resumed plucking clover, then stood up leisurely. He put the clover in a plastic bag and regarded us with calm eyes.

"So what are you going to do? If you're going to kill me, just shoot quickly. But I'm a beggar, so you'd be wasting bullets."

He had a point. This person wasn't worth looting. Though his mental fortitude seemed unusual, he was clearly starving, skin and bones. A genuinely hungry person.

He had nothing to trade for bullets. If he'd had plenty of food, I might have used some precious ammunition, but...

I sighed deeply and lowered the light machine gun. I was too exhausted to deal with this.

"Go far away. The military has come to this area. They're killing everyone they see."

"Oh my. As if that matters for how long we'll live anyway."

That was the end of it. The survivor turned without hesitation. He walked away casually and disappeared beyond the street.

I discreetly aimed the heavy light machine gun at the survivor's back, then relaxed my grip. Killing that person here wouldn't be raiding.

"Let's get back quickly. I'm dying of exhaustion."

"You're not going to kill him?"

Do-hyung suddenly said something strange. I stared at him in disbelief, then ignored him. True to his nature as someone who stole the nation's electricity just for fun, he was thinking about killing people without purpose.

***

On our way back to the general hospital, we encountered people and zombies here and there, but they were nothing more than scarecrows before our overwhelming firepower.

People fled as soon as they saw our appearance, while zombies approached fearlessly only to be torn apart by a hail of bullets.

Courage seemed to well up from deep within me, my companions, and the mercenaries. In this world, the number of guns and amount of ammunition had become sources of courage.

The mercenaries, who had been terrified during the close-quarters combat, began cracking jokes one by one.

"When you think about it, is there any reason to fear the military? Everyone here has served anyway. If we all have guns, we might even be better than them."

"That's right. We've got nothing to lose. In my day, service time was over two years."

They boasted about how they wouldn't be outmatched based on length of service, or stroked the serial numbers on the guns, saying the soldiers were their juniors.

'A sergeant who couldn't be discharged would have served two years. There are non-commissioned officers and officers too.'

Anyway, having confidence was what mattered.

But Sa Gi-hyeok tilted his head as he hooked a finger on the trigger.

"I never served in the military. So, why isn't this gun firing? I pulled the trigger pointing at the sky earlier, but no bullets came out."

People stared blankly at Sa Gi-hyeok before scattering in panic. It was as if a grenade had dropped in our midst.

"What the hell are you doing! Hey! Take your finger off! Off I said! What if it fires!"

"What? What?"

His voice was genuinely confused.

I contemplated shooting this idiot, Park Yang-gun had already grabbed a string with both hands ready to strangle him but hesitated, and Do-hyung demonstrated with frustration:

"Did you really not serve? You need to switch the selector lever."

"Selector lever? What's that?"

Was he insane? Why was Do-hyung even telling him this? Sa Gi-hyeok would kill allies with friendly fire. He might be competent when using his mind, but physically incompetent—an internal enemy.

As Sa Gi-hyeok shook the gun around looking for the selector lever, the muzzle swept across everyone. People jumped like grasshoppers in terror.

"Finger off—no, put the gun down!"

"Whoa!"

"Oh, is this it? Single shot? Automatic? I see."

Before Sa Gi-hyeok could cause a real accident, I strode over and grabbed the muzzle, twisting it upward.

"Mr. Sa Gi-hyeok. Stop it."

"Now that I've got a gun, I should practice, shouldn't I? I've never fired one before."

I couldn't understand why he wanted to practice here, in this situation. Unless he was practicing friendly fire.

"That's exactly why you shouldn't. Train later. Do you know how common friendly fire accidents are?"

Tens of percent of wartime casualties were from friendly fire, and it was common for soldiers to kill allies during training. If Sa Gi-hyeok fired here while "practicing," the results were obvious.

We might lose half our group that had miraculously defeated the platoon.

Sa Gi-hyeok reluctantly removed his finger from the trigger. Then he clicked the selector lever back and forth.

"Keep the selector on safe, and keep your finger off the trigger. If the trigger gets pulled by mistake or accident, someone dies."

After repeatedly warning him, I pressed my throbbing head. The pain and dizziness felt like symptoms of heat stroke.

"Let's rest for a bit. Need to cool down before moving again."

It was a suffocating summer day. The heat itself was an enemy. Even minor symptoms needed careful attention.

***

We walked at a leisurely pace during the day and moved at night when the heat was less intense, returning to the general hospital around lunchtime.

Police officers with shotguns watched us warily, and I approached them slowly.

"Do I need to report the mission? I figure you saw everything with the drones."

"...They're waiting inside. Only you may enter, Mr. Da-in."

Were they really that wary? Well, the light machine gun I carried was a terrifying weapon of slaughter. The rifles too. There were about ten mercenaries armed with such weapons. They probably felt like disposable hunting dogs had transformed into wolves that could tear their throats out at any moment.

I grinned and slung the light machine gun over my shoulder. It felt deadly heavy, but when I thought of it as the weight of power, nothing was too heavy to bear.

Just then, someone walked out from the general hospital entrance.

"My friend's back."

The police raiding squad leader. He approached casually with a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder like mine.

The police leader looked us over and laughed.

"Really, only one death? No injuries? And you killed two squads. Quite impressive. But you know..."

I observed the raiding leader quietly. His questioning tone felt awkward. Did he think his status as a legitimate gun owner was being threatened?

The police leader came close and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Was all that really necessary? The more I think about it, it seems like our friend took unnecessary risks out of greed."

He was criticizing me indirectly. Saying I used explosives and poison to loot firearms.

From the alliance's perspective, my actions weren't appropriate. Rather than killing two squads, it would have been better to burn the enemy's storage or mix poison into their food.

Unknown accidents and deaths are what truly frighten people.

Just as I had lived as a raider while hiding my identity, it would have been better to keep the alliance's attacks mysterious.

"You told me it was up to my discretion. So I risked my life to fight."

"Why? There were safer, better methods."

"Because risking your life gets you more. Resources to survive."

I smirked and held out the light machine gun for him to see. The source of my courage. Power that made others reluctant to deal with me even if I went astray, as long as I didn't betray them.

The police leader looked at the light machine gun. A weapon that had nothing to do with gun control or revenge, which the police used as their justification.

Eventually, he stood subtly centered around me and looked at the mercenaries holding guns. Humans who had unwittingly stepped into the boundaries I had planted in their minds.

"You really are skilled. Right, this is how it should be. Let's continue being friends."

With those words, the police leader slapped my shoulder and spun his shotgun. After twirling his shotgun like a toy, he turned around.

I signaled to my companions and the mercenaries to wait, then followed the police leader.

"How is the military movement?"

"They've stopped. Barking like frightened dogs. Those explosives our friends made must have been quite shocking."

His voice mocked them for not abandoning their habit of carelessness even after being hit so hard by zombies during the mart clearance operation.

But I couldn't mock them. Wasn't there a saying that safety rules are written in blood? This remaining military force quickly corrected their mistakes.

The police leader shared information:

"That company commander we saw at the market contacted us. He's communicating from that conference room."

"What did he say?"

They would have adapted to our improvised explosives and terrorism.

Indeed they had. The police leader let out a strange laugh and thrust his fist forward.

"He said if we don't negotiate and continue fighting, they'll bring tanks. They'll operate sniper teams for indiscriminate shooting and target our strongholds with mortars."

A perfectly plausible threat. Unless roads were blocked by landslides, tanks could move if they pushed hard enough. They would crush the cars blocking the roads and advance.

Not to mention snipers and mortars.

But the alliance wasn't backing down either.

"We should threaten them too. After using explosives, I think we could attach them to drones."

"We are threatening them. But they're just arguing without fighting, which is why I got fed up and left."

We arrived at the conference room after crossing through the maze-like hospital. When the door burst open, a noise like a marketplace floor reached us.

Beyond amateur radio equipment, the company commander was making moderate threats: Did we think they didn't know urban warfare doctrine? They could snipe us so we couldn't move during daylight. Did we think they couldn't destroy buildings and were just choosing not to?

In contrast, the alliance was extreme: We'll terrorize your residential areas. We'll start fires simultaneously, turning the city into a sea of flames. If we turn electric cars into landmine-type bombs, do you think tanks can enter?