Ch.31Chapter 5. Having No Secrets Is a Poor and Empty Thing (2)

“Through the sand, riding in a Bongo van, the feeling of driving, so refreshiiiiing, cough, cough!”

I should stop singing while driving.

Since I still can’t find a replacement for the van’s windshield, wind and dust come straight in. Because of that, I have to drive wrapped in cloth from head to toe like a Mansur, complete with sunglasses.

I was worried it might be hot or stuffy, but maintaining a speed of 40-50 km/h creates enough wind to keep me cool. If anything, when a headwind blows, the cloth sticks to my mouth, making it slightly difficult to breathe.

Of course, there’s the downside that moisture evaporates quickly, making my throat dry, but I can fix that by drinking water frequently.

Actually, I’m also controlling the speed for the sake of the vehicle’s lifespan.

The axle must have been twisted during the crash in Lambert Village when I hit something in front and got hit from behind. If I go above a certain speed, the van bounces up and down like I’m driving over consecutive speed bumps.

When the axle is gone, it means the vehicle is on its last legs. That’s a shame. I liked this van.

The past few days have actually been quite fun.

“Today will generally be clear, but some areas may experience brief showers.”

I’d turn on the radio to create a travel atmosphere.

“Alright, I’ll pay the fee!”

When stopping at gas stations, I’d shoot the zombie attendant reaching out with its hand.

“Wow, this is exhausting.”

At times like that, I’d drive to abandoned farms or warehouses. Blasting the radio or singing loudly would make all the zombies inside come running out.

Bang, bang, bang.

Control lever secure.

I park facing forward, with the bumper almost touching a sturdy wall. This prevents zombies or thieves from entering through the open front.

And then?

Close the garage door, get into the cargo area, lay down a blanket, and that’s it. True to its name as a cash transport vehicle, the driver’s seat and cargo area are completely separated. Even without a windshield, I can rest safely.

The reinforced steel plating is also reassuring. Walls that can withstand rifle fire certainly won’t be penetrated by mere zombie fingernails. The silver-haired woman’s pistol bullets were non-standard items, so they don’t count.

Perhaps due to the sense of security from being properly protected, I slept like the dead the night I escaped Lambert. When I woke up, my body was so stiff I had to stretch for quite a while.

For several days, it was truly leisurely.

While moving around looking for supermarkets, if I saw a decent-looking house, I’d stop and turn up the radio volume. Hungry zombies would walk out. A ta-tang of 5.56mm bullets would send anyone to heaven.

With more than a box of bullets and gun maintenance tools, the M4 carbine should last a long time as long as there’s no barrel issue. So I can use it generously like this.

Actually, I didn’t see that many zombies. The helicopters flying around Lambert must have drawn in zombies from quite a distance.

Up to this point it was fun, but rummaging through houses was completely unrewarding. There was nothing worth salvaging.

“Ugh.”

Out of frustration, I kicked an innocent front door. It had a “Human Non-Protection Zone Warning” and a “Gang Mark” on it.

Like dogs lifting their hind legs to mark territory, gang members wanted to show this was their area by drawing their symbols on entrances. The fire station gang drew axes, while the police gang used POLICE tape.

Just by looking at the evolution of markings, you could tell which faction had been stronger. Old marks were crossed out with X’s, and only new marks remained prominently displayed.

This house seems to have been claimed by the “Explosive Angels” something-or-other alliance, judging by the gold emblem. I wonder why they bothered marking such a worthless house, but it was probably a territorial dispute.

These territorial disputes weren’t just about houses.

Convenience stores attached to gas stations. Small shopping areas clustered around a lakeside parking lot. Warehouses with signs so worn you couldn’t tell what they stored.

Most were empty with little worth taking. Vehicles and food in particular were completely gone. I found just one expired box of crackers during the time it took to discover three boxes of nails.

The best and most valuable items would have been taken to big cities when the evacuation orders came. Whatever remained would have been hauled to each gang’s headquarters.

As I fill empty fuel cans with gasoline and kerosene, I wonder what will happen to the remaining gangs.

News of the massacre at Lambert will eventually reach each gang’s headquarters, sooner or later. Of course, the gangs won’t collapse immediately.

When the moderately strong ones go out raiding, the strongest fighters or spiritual leaders stay at headquarters enjoying their harem life.

But even a lion isn’t so dangerous when its limbs are cut off.

Gangs survive on looting. If they can’t loot, they’ll either starve to death or cannibalize themselves to survive. Gradually weakening like that, they’ll eventually scatter.

If I could find out where their headquarters are, it could be quite profitable. But I don’t know where they are.

This area is just too vast. Plus, my vehicle isn’t in great condition, limiting how far I can travel in a day. My mobility has improved, but I still can’t move around recklessly.

“A map would be nice.”

Not just a simple map with roads and place names, but one that specifically shows what’s in each area. Like those sectioned maps hanging in real estate offices.

I thought about turning on my mobile phone to search online, but I honestly don’t dare. Being out of service range is one thing, but this phone has spyware installed. The moment I turn it on, my location would be revealed, and I might get shot dead.

…Come to think of it, there is one place that meets all these conditions.

* * * * *

Humming while driving reminded me of something from the past. A story told by a relative who had lived abroad for quite some time before returning.

How many countries in the world have pizza, chicken, hamburgers, shopping centers, and laundromats all within a 30-minute distance? The point was that our country is unmatched in terms of convenience.

At the time, I just nodded along without much thought.

But driving around in this foreign place, I understand what they meant.

Right now, this vehicle is literally the only thing moving in this world.

Not even birds are flying. After seeing zombie crows, I learned that most wildlife should either be shot or avoided. So their absence is actually a good thing.

But that doesn’t change the desolation.

It reminds me of a horror story I read as a child. A couple driving at night hits someone and flees. Soon they realize they’re passing through the same area again.

Even though the car runs out of gas, it keeps moving, the engine won’t turn off, and the doors won’t open.

Only then do the couple realize they’ve fallen into a hell where they must drive forever, trapped on an infinitely looping road.

As a child, it didn’t seem that scary. I thought, “So what? At least they’re together.”

But now I understand why it’s frightening.

The terrifying part isn’t that they’re trapped on an endlessly repeating road, but that “they only realized it after being trapped.”

Living repetitive, tedious days, then casually looking at a calendar and thinking, “Huh? Has this much time passed already?”

That moment when you realize your life has been placed on a hamster wheel or treadmill—clearly busy and diligently sweating, yet nothing changes.

Eternal repetition and never-ending tedium. Sloth that gnaws at people with a scratching sound.

…Compared to then, this is almost enjoyable. Compared to those times when I was pinned to a frame like a specimen with a long spine in my back, slowly drying up, this chaos is actually better.

Yes.

The world isn’t all bad things.

* * * * *

After driving for quite some time, I finally stopped the car. The place I wanted had appeared at last.

A newspaper distribution center.

Newspapers need to be delivered directly to each home or client. That’s why distribution centers’ maps are updated almost in real-time with passable roads, blocked roads, and dangerous areas.

There’s no sign of people. Who in the world would leave a dried-up zombie corpse at their wide-open front door?

But judging by the clattering sounds from inside, there must be zombies. I carefully peered inside, equipped with a hunting knife and M4 carbine.

The lobby is empty. Just maps and notice boards on the wall, delivery schedules, scattered newspaper scraps, and overturned boxes.

I turned up the radio louder.

The clattering inside got louder, but nothing came out. The sound seemed to be coming from the “Distribution Manager’s Office.” The blinds were down, so I couldn’t see inside.

I circled around the distribution center. I broke the glass window of the manager’s office from outside with my rifle butt. I tore away the blinds with my gloved hand.

I saw a zombie tied to a chair.

The armchair was almost as large as a car seat, making it physically impossible to stand up while seated. Arms, legs, and waist were tightly bound to the chair with leather belts.

Something strange was visible on the arm of the man in a light blue uniform.

A dead dog.

The dog was probably a zombie too. It had its teeth sunk into its master’s arm, eyes rolled back, completely motionless.

I knew it was dead because the dog’s tail and lower body were missing. Only bite marks remained. I could guess who was responsible.

The zombie wasn’t looking at me. It wasn’t reacting to the radio sound either. It was just trying to somehow lift its arm to bite the dog in its arms.

I raised my gun to shoot, then lowered it. The door was the issue.

A metal cabinet had fallen over inside the steel door. It looked like a measure to prevent anyone from getting in from outside, or anyone inside from getting out.

I don’t know whether the man or the dog turned into a zombie first. But the man clearly retained his sanity until the very end.

Knowing he was infected, he must have knocked over furniture to block the door from inside, then tied himself down with leather straps.

I unconsciously looked at the wall. Various quotes about newspapers were written there.

“I would rather have newspapers without a government than a government without newspapers.”

“The press is the guardian of a nation’s liberty.”

“When a dog bites a man, that is not news, but when a man bites a dog, that is news.”

The last sentence felt particularly desolate. In this world, neither a person biting a dog nor a person biting a person would be newsworthy.

I entered the center and took down the map from the wall. I lit some well-dried newspapers with my lighter. I threw the burning bundle of newspaper into the distribution manager’s office.

Before the fire spread further, I fired twice. One shot for the dog. One shot for its owner.

I stepped on the accelerator, leaving the burning distribution center behind.

Perhaps in this world’s heaven, there’s a place for zombies and zombie dogs.

If not in heaven, then there must be in hell.

That’s the proper respect for a human who tried to remain human until the end, and a dog that tried to love its human.

If there’s no place for humans, at least let there be a place for dogs.