Ch.19Chapter 4. Lambert Drive (4)

Rifle slung over the shoulder, pistol in the pocket, OZ shotgun in hand, and a red mask on the face. Disguise as a Rambert gang member complete.

Now on to the second phase.

Take position at a sniping point near the auction house, wait until the auction begins, then pick them off one by one while shouting, “How dare you deceive us!”

If the gangs fight each other, that’s good; if not, just stir up another fight.

The third phase?

Hide somewhere suitable, kill them all, grab the goods and vehicle, then escape. Just like I always play.

Of course, it’s risky. According to this plan, I’ll need to enter the central area.

But playing it too safe won’t get me anything. In a hungry and dangerous region, “moving without gaining anything” is practically a death sentence.

The game I’ve set up won’t change anyway. It’s like being in a boiling pot, enduring the heat, and deciding how many ladles to scoop out.

Should I settle for safe and certain but small gains, or dive in trusting my skills with a bit of luck?

While pondering this, I faintly heard gunshots picking off zombies.

Wait, hold on?

* * * * *

At that time, in the forest area on the outskirts of the factory district.

A black SUV stopped at the perimeter. Four members of the Elza Liberation Front, dressed in camouflage mixing black, brown, and green, got out.

Anyone passing by would consider their armament quite comprehensive. Submachine guns, shotguns, rifles, and one member carrying a designated marksman rifle. A small team capable of handling short, medium, and long-range engagements.

Though their faces were obscured by black balaclavas, someone with a feminine build took the lead. She raised her finger and twirled it in the air.

They moved through the forest like ghosts.

Bang!

Startled, the group froze. The sniper among them scanned the surroundings with binoculars. Again, bang! A zombie collapsed after being hit by a bullet.

Following the trajectory of the blood spatter, they spotted a factory chimney. The words “Cybele Foods” were clearly visible.

But the sniper wasn’t there. Rather, they were positioned at a smaller outpost below, with a sniper rifle already mounted.

“Should we capture them?”

Someone’s low voice.

“We have to. They’re in our way. Pretty skilled for a gang member. Judging by the gun and posture, probably ex-police.”

“Should we crawl up to the outpost?”

“No. That would waste time and energy. Are you hungry?”

All three subordinates nodded simultaneously.

“Me too. Let’s just focus on getting the bag and leaving. Still no signal?”

“Nothing yet.”

One subordinate took out a mobile phone. Despite the “Out of Service Area” notification, he sent a message to his colleague anyway.

They knew the bag functioned as a small base station. In other words, if messages could be transmitted in a no-service area, it meant the bag was nearby.

But the bag wasn’t here. And this V person wasn’t responding either.

The thought ‘We’ve been deceived’ filled everyone’s minds, but Hans had ordered them to retrieve the bag.

At minimum, they needed to take photos with their phone cameras to confirm the bag wasn’t there.

After all, Hans was the leader. For the liberation of their homeland Elza, they had to follow the leader’s orders, despite their many grievances.

“Keep trying. I’ll take care of that one.”

The apparent leader aimed a silenced sniper rifle.

Even with a silencer, sound doesn’t completely disappear. For a sniper rifle, it merely reduces the ear-shattering blast to a dull thud.

But just preventing the sound from traveling further makes it worth using. Moreover, its power is worth the trade-off for reduced noise.

In fact, it’s an even better tactic in situations like this, where the Rambert gang is using gunshots to attract and pick off zombies.

As long as they don’t waste bullets.

Another zombie approached. The Liberation Front leader steadied her breath. Seeing the gang gunman turn his muzzle toward the zombie, she squeezed out the last air from her lungs.

Inhale.

Her breathing stops. Her trembling ceases. Her heartbeat slows. The gang sniper’s muzzle flashes. Before the bang even reaches them.

She fires.

A dull sound. The zombie falls. The gang gunman slumps forward, his head hitting the ground.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

No spotter raises his head, but she doesn’t take her eye off the scope.

“Phew…”

Even breath can sometimes be sweet.

“Seriously. Sister Camilla’s sniping skills are amazing. The sounds almost overlapped. No one would have noticed, right?”

“Don’t let your guard down. There might be more in the outpost.”

“Finish catching your breath before talking.”

Not wrong. More than one sniper shot was heard. Same type of gun, but clearly from different distances. Meaning there were more zombie snipers.

“Let’s drink some water and continue moving forward.”

Shortly after, the liberation members advanced again.

Two gang members were seen drinking tea around a campfire. Two agents with guns slung on their backs took out piano wire, circled behind, and strangled them. There were choking sounds and cups falling, but the noise ended there.

“Forward. We’re pioneering.”

The four ghosts entered the factory district.

* * * * *

The gunshots definitely overlapped.

There was a shot from the factory area picking off a zombie, and immediately after, almost like rapid fire, another sniper shot was heard. This happens often during counter-sniping.

It seems that Hans guy has come out to greet us. Judging by the lack of intense gunfire, no full-scale battle has broken out yet.

But this is clearly an opportunity. The area with three consecutive chimneys is a bit deeper into the factory district. If they haven’t abandoned that position, there’s no way a firefight wouldn’t have broken out.

If I infiltrate the central area while their attention is focused there… it’s a gamble worth taking.

I readjust my mask and check the camouflage on my bag. Everything is in order. I open the warehouse door and step out onto the street.

I walk casually down streets I’ve never been to but feel familiar with. As if I’m just on patrol.

I need to head to the central area anyway. No need to sneak around, but it’s better to stay in the shadows to avoid unnecessary attention.

Fortunately, the gang members are positioned almost exactly as I remember. Some standing like posts, watching. Others patrolling between fixed points.

Sometimes stopping. Sometimes passing through as if just walking by, I naturally move between them.

A strong wind blew, sand scratching my cheeks. Everyone grimaced, pressing down their hats. I pushed down my cowboy hat as I passed by the group.

Intermittent gunshots can be heard. It’s clear. The sounds overlap. The zombie-hunting sniper shoots first, and less than a second later, another sniper fires. A tactic of hiding one sound within another. Since there aren’t more than two shots, they must be excellent marksmen.

But no one except me has noticed.

I walk through Rambert’s streets with a calm mind, comparing it to the landscape in my memory—streets I’ve roamed so often I could navigate them blindfolded.

The Rambert in my memory was a completely devastated town. Bullet marks. Vines growing on crumbling walls. Zombie dogs suddenly jumping out between buildings, or gang members hiding on second-floor railings suddenly firing guns indiscriminately.

In contrast, while there are collapsed and burned buildings here, it doesn’t feel abandoned. Extinguished campfires, liquor bottles placed on adult magazines—many traces of human presence.

Is that why? There seem to be more gang members on guard, and quite a few patrolling the routes I remember.

Well, it’s their business, not mine to worry about. I just keep walking casually. As I get closer to the center, I can’t avoid being seen completely, so I need to pass through without incident.

Fortunately, it’s similar to what I remember, so if I pretend to be a patrolling gang member, I can blend in quite naturally…

“Hey, high school girl mister!”

A shout suddenly comes from behind.

‘High school girl mister.’ What the hell is that?

“Yeah, you with the pink princess bag! What, are you heading to a girls’ middle school? That’s a serious crime, you know?”

…I didn’t expect him to walk out from inside the building. I turn around slowly. A donkey-faced man is leaning against the entrance, standing with one leg crossed, munching on peanuts.

A face I’d really like to shoot.

“Oh, this? It’s my niece’s.”

I checked the bag. A half-torn cover flutters. It must have torn when the strong wind was blowing earlier.

Of all things to be exposed, it had to be that annoying Barbie doll face.

“Running errands with your niece’s bag, huh?”

“…I’m taking it to her grave.”

Right after yours.

The donkey-faced man freezes momentarily. I gaze wistfully at the sky, then look down at the ground dejectedly, thinking about the funeral of someone not yet deceased.

“…She really loved it.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The donkey-faced man crosses himself. Then he spits. What’s he doing?

“…Well, what can you do! The living must live on, right? Anyway, I’ve never seen a bag like that before. By the way, are you carrying two guns? Is that a .22 caliber rifle on your shoulder? Who are you planning to shoot?”

Is he trying to change the subject out of embarrassment, or is he suspicious and stalling? Maybe both.

“Good eye. This one’s for people.”

“And that piece of crap in your hand?”

The OZ’s infamy seems well-known even among these guys. Well, a bolt-action shotgun is something only a poor communist would consider.

“This is for zombies.”

“So you hunt both zombies and people. Aren’t you a bit over-prepared?”

The donkey-faced man chews his peanuts noisily, seeming amused. What a disgusting way to eat.

“It’s auction day. I heard other gangs are coming too. And the auction items are quite special, aren’t they?”

The donkey nodded, apparently finding this reasonable.

“Well, slave healers aren’t exactly common.”

“Exactly. Take care.”

Just as I was about to take two steps away.

“Wait!”

Click! A sharp metallic sound.

This bastard? I spin around, aiming the OZ.

Tick. Tick…

A shotgun shell rolls on the ground. The donkey-faced man looks at me with a somewhat bewildered expression. In his hand is an Ossberg 590.

A pump-action shotgun. The kind often seen in movies, where you pull the cylinder below after each shot to reload. Overall decent performance. At least much better than what I’m holding.

“I startled you!”

He shouted back and lowered his gun. The man showed his palm apologetically. I quickly scanned the surroundings. Three guys on the rooftop of a nearby building were looking down at us, snickering.

“Sorry, sorry. I meant to speak first. You saw I unloaded it, right? I want you to take this.”

The man held out the Ossberg. Like a considerate person, he kept the muzzle pointed upward. I sighed deeply and approached him. It was quite cool in the shade of the entrance.

I grabbed the barrel. But the man wouldn’t let go of the gun.

“Mind letting go?”

The man didn’t release his grip.

“By the way, I don’t recognize your face among the ex-Rambert police I know. If you don’t mind, could you lower your mask? Sir.”

“My hands are full.”

My right hand is holding the Ossberg, my left the OZ. Even with the short-barreled OZ, this distance is too close. I’d be caught before I could raise and aim it.

The man raises his empty hand. Good. At this rate, I can put the gun under his chin…

“Are you two dating?”

A gravelly voice. The donkey-faced man and I turned simultaneously.