Ch.33Chapter 5. Having No Secrets Is a Poor and Empty Thing (4)

Creak, creak. The car tilts backward. It seems like it’s about to roll down the slope in reverse. I gently tap the brake while carefully turning the steering wheel.

“Grr.”

Despite trying my best to avoid provoking them, the zombies keep glancing over as if they’re watching some fascinating show. Well, I’d probably do the same in their position. Enjoy your meal, though I’m not the one who paid for it.

Thud!

A sudden impact. More zombies crawl out from behind. Two, maybe three of them. Crunch, crunch, crunch. They’re grabbing the car and trying to chew through the body. Just as I’m thinking there’s no way they could succeed, one raises its claws sharply.

“Don’t do that.”

Screeeech!

“Ah, shit.”

Is it true that fingernails on a chalkboard sound similar to the low-frequency sounds carnivores make? I’ve heard that’s why it’s so irritating, but I don’t know if it’s true. What matters is that the zombies who were sitting down are now standing up, clearly annoyed.

It’s like hell in both directions.

“Kruk.”

Of course, they didn’t just stand up—they’re each grabbing a limb and tearing it apart while eating. This is why adults tell you not to eat while walking. It looks too messy.

“Grrrr?”

The one in front stands awkwardly and extends its leg. I can’t tell if it’s offering me a bite or warning me that I’m next on the menu. But why is it pointing its toes at me?

“You’re not even pointing with a finger but with your foot? How rude. Hey. Come here.”

“Krrrr.”

“Yeah, you with the raised leg, I’m talking to you. Ah, this bastard is so messy. Finish what’s in your mouth before mumbling! Swallow it, damn it! Where are your manners, talking with food in your mouth?”

Its throat bulges—probably a coincidence. It tilts its head and walks straight toward me.

I throw my hunting knife hard. It sticks into its arm with a thunk. The leg it was carefully cradling drops with a thud and rolls down the slope.

“Sniff, sniff!”

The zombie goes down the slope looking for the leg. Hey, if you walk that unsteadily—oops. That’s right. It ends up tumbling down.

“Krrruk, kyaaak!”

The zombies clinging to the car react. The smell of blood from the fallen leg and the wounded zombie’s arm has stimulated them. Even those who had detached from the car rush down the slope.

“That’s it!”

I turn the steering wheel toward the slope. Gear in drive. As I release the brake, the car bumps and rolls down the slope.

“Excuse me, coming through.”

I wave my hand through the broken windshield at the pursuing zombies, the knife-wounded zombie, and the rolling leg as I pass them by.

Refreshing breeze. Blue sky. Clouds that look like they were just roughly thrown up there. A flapping leg.

Leg?

Looking in the passenger side mirror, I see the leg I just passed twitching and following me. It’s not even standing upright but lying on its side, jumping like a frog’s leg swimming.

It’s a dog.

A black dog is following me with the leg in its mouth.

Drooping jowls. Ears pulled back. Rolled-back eyes. Sharp teeth and a lion-like head. Its skin is torn, revealing muscle and bone, with many small wounds, but it still shows off impressive muscles.

I know this dog. It’s a Cane Corso breed. Or rather, it was. It’s a zombie dog now.

“Kruk, kruk, kirruk.”

As if possessed by some strange competitive spirit, it tries to catch up with the van that’s coasting with its engine off.

It glances at me with its milky white eyes. Feeling oddly offended, I slightly turn the steering wheel.

Thump.

“Krrrrruk!”

The dog bounces off after hitting the bumper. It must have clenched its jaws tight because the mangled leg drops. After gulping it down, it lets out a high-pitched howl.

Dogs emerge from both sides of the road. Big dogs, small dogs, long dogs, fat dogs.

“Kyaaak!”

Wait, why are you all fired up too? The human zombies that were chasing from behind suddenly start running on all fours and dive into the pack of zombie strays.

The Cane Corso howls and moves closer to me as the human zombies rush toward the retreating heap of metal.

“Krrrng!”

All the dogs follow it and me in unison.

‘The alpha dog.’

I’ve seen this in documentaries about wild dogs. In packs of feral dogs with strong wild instincts, one emerges as the leader. That must be this one.

The human zombies, seemingly offended at being ignored, follow behind, foaming at the mouth.

The downhill slope gets steeper. The car picks up speed. Due to the bent axle, the car bounces up and down like it’s dancing.

“Kyaaaaaaak!”

The zombie dog goes berserk. It probably thinks I’m taunting it. Well, if someone next to you is shaking like an ostrich, anyone would get angry.

“Graaa!”

Why are the humans going wild just because the dogs are? The human zombies behind also make vicious sounds.

Vrooom!

A high, urgent engine sound. It’s a motorcycle. A helmeted person stands at the top of the hill behind us, looking down. Then they ride the motorcycle down the hill.

“This is crazy.”

I can see a rifle slung over their shoulder. It’s a K11 SWS model classified as a designated marksman rifle, with a silencer attached. Must be the sniper who blew off the zombie’s head earlier.

Their right hand grips the motorcycle handlebar tightly, while the left holds a pistol. A Glock 19 automatic pistol with a silencer and laser pointer. I can see the red laser light. But they don’t shoot, instead placing their left hand back on the handlebar.

The car speeds up more. The short-legged zombie dogs fall behind. Instead of retreating, they growl and cling to the human zombies running like dogs.

The motorcycle passes by them precariously. They seem to slow down a bit, but then accelerate again. After increasing speed slightly, they maintain a steady pace.

The rider raises their pistol. I can see the red laser pointer light in the side mirror. Their left hand trembles. The pointer light dances along with it.

Seemingly deciding it’s impossible, they firmly place their left hand on the handlebar. The pointer stabilizes. It’s on the back of the head of a zombie greyhound that must have been quite cute when alive.

Phew. Phew. Phew. Three shots.

“Kihing!”

I can see blood spurting from the zombie dog’s back. The formation on the left collapses instantly. The motorcycle disappears from the left side mirror, then reappears after passing through the scattered formation.

Vrooom! It catches up with impressive momentum. I pull up my M4 carbine and put my foot on the brake. If necessary, I’ll slam it down, and when the motorcycle passes in front, I’ll shoot them in the back.

“…!”

The rider seems to be shouting something, but I can’t hear clearly. Instead, they spin their left hand holding the pistol in circles above their head.

Are they requesting backup? It’s possible. Not all the local gang members have disappeared.

If they’re staying here instead of going out to loot, it’s one of two things:

Either they’re strong enough to be a gang leader, or they’re too weak to even go looting. But judging by their sniping skills, they’re not weak.

Then I mustn’t let them catch up.

I turn the steering wheel to the left. The motorcycle, noticing I’m trying to hit it, pulls back sharply. It disappears from the side mirror, then reappears on the right.

This is getting annoying. I extend my M4 carbine toward the passenger side.

The gun barrel resting on the windshield frame wobbles up and down with the car’s vibration. It’s just like a fishing float. The Cane Corso growls.

“Hey! Look at this!”

The persistent Cane Corso that keeps following without getting tired growls.

“Your family doesn’t have one of these, does it?”

“Karrruk!”

I jerk the steering wheel to the right. Bang! Another zombie dog gets hit and bounces off. I can see the motorcycle behind hesitating. Now left. Then right. Back and forth continuously.

The car’s speed decreases, but that’s unavoidable—as long as the motorcycle slows down even more, it doesn’t matter. All speed is relative.

“Krararrak!”

Unable to contain itself any longer, the Cane Corso zombie dog jumps up. Kak! Kak! Two times, three times.

“Good job, good job, gooood job!”

“Kak! Kak! Kiyayak!”

The frenzied dog leaps up. It finally bites down on the gun barrel. If I hadn’t secured the gun to the car body, it would have been strong enough to snatch it away.

“Taste some bullets, will you!”

Ratatang!

“Kakak!”

The zombie dog with its muzzle blown off tumbles to the side. But tough as it is, it lunges again even as blood gushes from its shattered muzzle.

However, gradually, its speed slows, its knees buckle, and thump. I can see the pack of dogs becoming agitated.

“Wooo, awoooooo.”

Eventually, the zombie dogs fall back. They gather around their leader. There are so many that the motorcycle stops and observes the situation.

They nudge the fallen leader with their noses. Some even bite it gently. When there’s no response, they all howl in unison.

“Awoooooo!”

“Karruk, kak!”

Their attitude changes dramatically. They lower their bodies. Attack posture. One already opens its jaws wide and bites the head of another dog beside it. It’s trying to establish dominance.

“Kung kung kung, kung!”

The dogs follow one after another. With the leader dead, they need to elect a new one—their version of an election. It doesn’t seem very democratic, but I guess it doesn’t matter since anyone who complains will die.

The motorcycle stands awkwardly in the middle of the chaotic dog pack, unable to move.

“Adios.”

Flash. The reflection from a sniper scope.

“Ah.”

They’re really persistent. I duck down quickly.

Bang! I feel the left rear tire collapse. Bang, bang! The right rear tire collapses too.

The air rapidly escapes from the rear tires. They rattle and eventually come off the wheels.

Screeeech! Long sparks trail behind. “Kyeng! Kyeng!” The dogs that were barking at me tuck their tails. Vrooom! The motorcycle takes advantage of the gap and comes forward.

“Come on.”

The van’s speed gradually decreases. I pull the car to the right side of the road.

“Come on. Come on. Try to ram me. Try to ram me.”

I grab the driver’s side handle with my left hand. With my right hand, I hold the carbine and rest it on the window frame. I can see the rider holding a pistol in their right hand.

“Hit me. Hit me. Hit me. Try to hit me!”

Vrooom!

The motorcycle slides forward. The rider extends their right arm. I yank the car door open. Impact.

“Aaaak!”

A sharp scream. Unfortunately, the motorcycle doesn’t flip over. But it staggers, having taken quite a hit. I point my M4 through the open driver’s side.

The laser pointer light flickers on the front wheel. Bang! It bursts without fail.

“…Ah, come on!”

I desperately turn the handlebar to the right. I barely manage to avoid flipping over, but the car drifts and comes to a stop right in the middle of the road.

I shouldn’t get out of the car. I need to maximize the advantage of being in an armored vehicle. I can’t shoot behind or to the sides, but neither can they.

The rider dismounts from the motorcycle. Despite limping, they stubbornly walk toward me. Rifle in the left hand, pistol in the right.

They stick to the back of the car. They probably don’t want to get shot and die either.

“Hey!”

A sharp yell.

“Come out and show your face! Let me see you! Cough, cough, cough! Ugh… blegh. Let’s, let’s… let’s talk! It’s damn… hard to talk like this!”

What’s this? Zombification? If so, that’s somewhat reassuring. Won’t they just die if left alone?

“What? You want to bite me too?”

“Why would I bite you! Shut up and come out so we can talk!”

“What kind of conversation can I have with someone who blew out all the tires of a perfectly good car?”

Brazenly, there’s no answer.

“Perfect? You call that perfect? A car leaking all its coolant with bent axles and a missing windshield is perfect? I gave you signals to stop but you just kept running away!”

This woman isn’t in her right mind either. Does she think it’s okay to blow out tires just because the car isn’t in perfect condition? Unbelievable.

“…Stop it. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Are you possessed by a ghost who died from lack of conversation?”

“No, hey! Listen to me! Stop nitpicking! Let’s work on something together!”

This is ridiculous. After blowing out my tires, this is what she has to say?

“Don’t you have friends?”

She should do that with her own friends. In a world where people might not help even when asked politely, she’s holding up a busy person and saying this.

“…Hey, I have lots of friends and I’m a model so I’m very popular! Why am I… ah, ah! Why am I even saying this!”

Seems like she really doesn’t have friends.