Ch.21Chapter 4. Lambert Drive (6)

Unlike the bustling town, an eerie silence hung over the factory district. Only a fallen radio on the ground spat out urgent noise, as if trying to wake its collapsed owner.

“…Alert from Factory Team 9, alert from Factory Team 9! We’re under attack! They appear to be well-trained! Repeat, attack…!”

“What? I thought the town was the problem? What’s this about the factory? The guests haven’t even arrived yet!”

“Those gang bastards are circling around in the wasteland! Judging by the dust clouds in the distance, they seem to be waiting for reinforcements!”

Camilla pressed her full lips together. The situation didn’t look good. She knew an auction was going to take place, but guests ‘reinforcing’ their forces before arriving was practically a show of force.

“Command, Command! Give us some orders! We’re getting hammered from both sides!”

Camilla turned down the radio volume and quickly issued instructions. All Liberation members drew their pistols—9mm Rock automatic pistols equipped with silencers and laser pointers.

Since they’d already been detected, speed took priority over stealth. Moreover, the factory had fewer blind spots than the forest, making a circuitous ambush more time-consuming and dangerous. Using firearms was unavoidable.

Pioneer.

A quick “huh” and two shots to the leg of a gang member raising his gun. The person beside her waited until the gang member fell to his knees before putting one in his head.

Hearing the scream, a patrolling gang member fired—wild suppressive fire. Camilla hit his shoulder and hand. Her comrade fired one shot each to his neck and head.

Two-person teams. One incapacitates, the other finishes. They avoided shooting areas protected by body armor to conserve ammunition.

The Liberation members quickly breached each floor and finally reached the roof. Three tall chimneys stood in a row. This was the meeting place. There were quite a few spiral staircases, but nothing they couldn’t climb.

While a man and woman with shotguns and submachine guns stood guard, Camilla and a man with a rifle quickly climbed up one of the chimneys.

As expected, there was no bag.

“That guy V tricked us. Or he died on his way here. I’ll stomp him to death with my feet if I catch him.”

Camilla lamented as she slumped to the floor. Though it was her version of cursing, the man with the rifle briefly thought that suffering such a fate from Camilla might actually be a reward.

It wasn’t just a fantasy. Before the war, she had majored in artistic swimming at a sports university and worked part-time as a fashion magazine model. Now, she was the model for the Elsa Liberation Front’s propaganda.

Yet few people recognized Camilla. Even when standing in line at food distribution centers in major cities, no one recognized her.

That was her charm. Depending on the camera angle, the clothes she wore, wigs, glasses—she could look like a different person at any time. Someone who concealed herself while highlighting the appeal of what she wore. The type of model designers loved most.

It sounded like she might be a femme fatale or a spy using her beauty as a weapon. The Elsa Liberation Headquarters had actually considered such roles for her.

But the role of “Fulcrum”—a high-level infiltration agent embedded in the Elsa government or leadership to extract information—went to someone else. The woman hiding such charms behind a black balaclava was now sitting there, looking dejected.

The rifle man took out his phone and photographed various parts of the empty location. He was following Hans’s orders: “Go to the meeting place, and if nothing’s there, bring back evidence.”

While doing so, he offered some consolation.

“It’s better this way, sis. I didn’t like that bag bomb terrorism. No matter how much we want to make an example of Römer’s lackeys, innocent people would inevitably get hurt.”

Camilla also took out her phone and took pictures. She took more with the phones she’d collected from the guards.

If all four of them made it back alive, that would be ideal, but if not, at least one person needed to survive to deliver the information.

While taking photos, Camilla answered in a subdued voice.

“…It’s Hans’s order. More broadly, it’s the Elsa Liberation Front’s decision.”

“You should have been the leader, sis Camilla. Hans is completely moody and does whatever he wants…”

“Don’t say that. Hans carries a heavy burden too. I understand what you mean, but talking like that among ourselves… it hurts my heart.”

Sometimes frustratingly innocent and upright—a person who looked like a fox on the outside but was like a bear inside. That was Camilla.

Someone who loved only her homeland Elsa and, like all people in love, would stop at nothing. A woman so blind that even if she saw 99 flaws, she would overlook them all if there was just one benefit.

“I’m sorry, sis.”

“…No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t being level-headed. Go down first.”

It meant she would cover him while he retreated quickly. The rifle man rapidly descended the stairs. Camilla surveyed the surroundings with binoculars.

There was no sign of the Lambert gang. Instead, she noticed gun barrels protruding from each guard post. They seemed to have switched to a defensive posture.

Probably because of the rider gang circling in the wasteland.

Their numbers had definitely increased. Judging by the dust cloud in the distance, reserve forces that had been hiding nearby were joining the main force as the situation grew tense.

‘That’s a fire truck.’

A fire truck covered in metal plates. An unforgettable object.

Not for extinguishing house fires, but for extinguishing the cries of protesters who wanted to establish an independent government for Elsa—water cannons spraying tear gas solution. High-pressure sprayers that could easily penetrate thin wooden house walls were aimed directly at protesters.

Those who oppressed citizens even when the world was intact were now gangs, looting as they pleased. She wanted to shoot them right then and there.

Thump thump. The metal stairs rattled. A signal to come down. Camilla snapped back to reality. She scanned the wasteland area one last time.

‘…What is that?’

In the distant horizon, she saw something strange. Dust.

Not the high dust clouds that form when vehicles pass by. This was low and long. Enough to cover the horizon. Like waves approaching from a calm sea.

Unnatural.

Was the wind blowing strongly? No. There was a sense of artificiality to it, independent of wind direction. The more she looked, the stranger and more ominous it seemed.

But she couldn’t see clearly. Bang bang! The stairs rattled. A signal to come down quickly. Camilla, still gazing at the horizon, quickly ran down the stairs.

Camilla and the rifle man returned the phones to their respective owners.

“Still have plenty of bullets?”

“Used some pistol rounds, but rifle ammunition is sufficient. About three magazines.”

The other two were in a similar situation. Just the right amount for a small-scale engagement. Camilla instructed everyone to put their heads together.

“Alright, comrades. As you’ve probably guessed, we failed to retrieve the bag. This V guy played us. Originally, we would have switched to the slave rescue operation from here. But the situation…”

Just tapping the radio was enough to convey what she meant. The situation was rapidly changing. The fact that the bike gang had gathered in such numbers meant there was a high possibility of all-out war.

Enough to dismantle at least one gang before the day was over. In such a situation, should they infiltrate deeper to rescue hostages whose location they didn’t even know?

“I’m against it. The risk is too high.”

The man with the shotgun objected.

“I’m for it. How can we just leave when suffering Elsa citizens are in there? The gang conflict could actually be an opportunity.”

The woman with the submachine gun shook her head. The rifle man, however, hesitated a bit.

“Sis, just give us an order. That would be easier.”

The other two nodded at the man’s suggestion.

“Like Hans?”

Everyone chuckled at Camilla’s joke. Camilla smiled and shook her head.

“No. I won’t give orders. We’re all comrades, and all comrades are equal. I just wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“Then don’t give orders.”

The submachine gun woman continued. When Camilla looked at her quizzically, she gave a faint smile.

“Instead, make a decision for us, sis. There will inevitably be some dissatisfaction, but we’re happier knowing you listened to our opinions.”

“Me too, sis.”

“Same here, sis.”

Camilla hung her head.

“…You all live to torment me, don’t you? Knowing that this kind of choice is what I find most difficult…”

The radio continued to crackle with static. The three members gazed at Camilla with loving eyes. A fighter in distress. Frustrating, but all the more charming as their spiritual pillar.

“Well, I think, I…”

Camilla closed her eyes and swallowed dryly.

“…Command! I repeat, situation developing!”

A shrill voice rang out from the radio. As if trying to avoid the uncomfortable situation, Camilla carefully turned up the volume.

“Slave group escape! Repeat, slave group escape!”

“Hey, you idiots! What did you do to make the slaves run away?!”

“Change frequency! Switching to patrol frequency! The radio has been seized! Repeat, don’t follow orders…”

Static.

The communication cut off. The frequency had changed.

“…Camilla sis? What on earth is happening?”

“Let’s go save those people!”

Camilla shouted. The Liberation members all rushed down the stairs.

* * * * *

Near the Lambert apple warehouse.

Guns were hung on wall mounts with shoes or sandbags attached to the triggers. Run out of the building, hide nearby, and wait for the slowly pulled trigger to go BANG.

Then the mole-like hidden men would open fire on the empty house. Identify the muzzle flash positions, sneak up from behind.

Raise a .22 caliber rifle, aim, and fire.

“What the—!”

A man in the guard post recoils at the bullet that seemed to miss over his shoulder. Missed? No. Hit exactly where intended.

“Argh!”

Not shooting the back of this guard post guy’s head, but piercing the forehead of a man far away.

“I told you not to shoot, you bastards!”

Shout and duck back into cover.

The other guard post opens fire on this one. They use radios and loudspeakers to shout all manner of denials, but there’s no stopping those who have already lost their minds.

Gunfire exchanges between the two guard posts. The other post has gone quiet, but one man is still squirming here. Pull the trigger and send him off peacefully. Footsteps. Lean against the corner and show an open palm.

“Here! Over here! There’s someone here! He’s taken position at the guard post! Be careful!”

Give them a friendly warning. The Lambert gang friends quickly pull me back as I stagger, covered in blood that isn’t mine. I reward these helpful friends with bullets to the backs of their heads and necks.

I am alone. The enemy is many? No problem. Troops can be ‘borrowed.’

In truth, if their faith and bonds had been strong, this unfortunate incident of gang members pointing guns at each other wouldn’t have happened.

Don’t they say that in the French counter-terrorism unit, the initiation involves shooting a .357 caliber round into the chest of a comrade wearing body armor? The guts to offer even your heart to your comrade. Faith in the equipment.

These people had none of that, which is why they met this end. Making such a fuss over one misfire—shows the level of the gang.

“Verify identity before shooting, you idiots! We’re still being manipulated!”

This is exactly why you shouldn’t do this over the radio.