Ch.81Chapter 11. Doing Our Best in Our Respective Positions (4)

“Your father was the head of the Syndicate?”

Cassandra shook her head at my question.

“He was one of the founders and leaders, but not anymore. He passed away a long time ago.

His death was sudden, and the other founders divided up my father’s shares. That’s what was written in the will he had prepared in advance. Well, there are hardly any parents who would tell their only daughter to take over as the head of a criminal organization.

Cassandra didn’t want to become a woman of the underworld either. It’s too dark and gloomy. Instead, her father left her something else. Money, debt, and sin.”

I was about to ask what she meant by inheriting sin.

But Cassandra swerved the steering wheel, preventing me from doing so. Whether there were people coming or not, the lead car drove aggressively. Startled pedestrians jumped out of the way, and other drivers slammed on their brakes and hurled curses, but our convoy paid no attention.

Eventually, we veered off the road. Thankfully the car’s clearance was high enough; otherwise, the undercarriage would have scraped against the curb. The lead car trampled over the park grass recklessly, pushing forward, with our car and the trailing vehicle following behind.

Soon, an eight-lane road appeared before us. The lead car immediately jumped onto it. Looking at the occasional signs, I could figure out where we were heading.

The outskirts of Hampton, a hub connecting to the highway. Seems like they’re planning to take the highway.

District 4 Gate is behind us. Urgent reports came through radio and mobile phone messages that other gates had been blocked. The opposite lane looked increasingly congested with cars piling up, but our lane was quite empty.

“Hmm. Come to think of it, you mentioned before that you had a lot of money and houses all over the place.”

Back then, I had just let that comment slide.

“Yes. But that has little to do with the Syndicate. It belongs to Cassandra, not them.”

“Don’t you have any connection to the Syndicate?”

“No. Cassandra has no shares in the Syndicate, no authority, no responsibility, and no obligations. They don’t really care much about Cassandra either.

The only reason the Syndicate tries to do things for Cassandra is because of their emotional debt to my father. Gratitude, longing, indebtedness—whatever it may be. They’re just trying to repay to Cassandra what they wanted to do for my father. That’s all there is to it.”

So they take all the substantial assets, but they don’t completely disregard her. Cassandra’s father must have had considerable influence.

“Then what about the jewelry store employees?”

“They’re a bit different. They are members of the Syndicate, but they’ve also been working at our mansion for generations. Secretary, butler, gardener.”

Camilla groaned from the back seat.

“Does that kind of custom still exist in Elsa? I thought it had disappeared.”

“It has disappeared in Elsa. Our family was originally nobility from Römer. We were uprooted during my grandfather’s time and pushed to Elsa, and during my father’s time, we tried to put down roots again but were uprooted once more.”

Servants who remained loyal for generations despite all that. From my perspective, having grown up in a democratic country, it was hard to understand.

Perhaps it’s better to call it inertia rather than loyalty. If it’s a force passed down through generations, how powerful must that inertia be?

Camilla asked in a sharp voice, as if suddenly remembering something.

“What’s your relationship with Fernando?”

“Fernando, the manager of the Continental, used to work in the finance department of my father’s power company. When he was young, he had thick hair and was very handsome.”

“So that story about him being a finance manager at a power company was true?”

“I’m not sure about his exact position. But he was definitely in the finance department. My father was very fond of him.”

“So your father was like, what, the president of a power company?”

I asked.

“It was much bigger than that, but that’s irrelevant now.”

Camilla, who had been quietly listening to Cassandra’s story, rested her rifle on her leg. She seemed to have accepted the explanation to some extent and lowered her guard a little.

“Your father seems to have been well-loved by the Syndicate people.”

“Yes. He tamed con artists, murderers, robbers, people with antisocial tendencies who hadn’t committed crimes yet, and those who wouldn’t hesitate to step on others to achieve their goals. Among them, especially those who cherished their own families.”

Camilla couldn’t hide her shock. Even to me, it sounded like an odd requirement.

“Hmm. That’s a rather unusual hiring condition.”

“My father didn’t want people; he wanted obedient dogs. Thoroughly insane dogs. But only those that cared for their own families. He said dogs that bite anyone indiscriminately should just be shot dead, and he actually did that.

Even in a criminal organization, it’s still a group activity, and my father’s principle was that there should be at least minimal socialization.

He also said that since the most basic unit of socialization is family, you can tell whether someone has potential by how they treat their family. So think about it. What would dogs do after losing their master? Just stick out their tongues and pant in front of a tombstone.”

“That’s cynical.”

“To my father, everyone was a dog. You, even his own daughter. Just dogs panting with their bellies exposed for their master.”

“Who was the master, then?”

“Römer.”

“Römer?!”

Camilla reacted sharply. But despite her continued prodding, Cassandra showed no further reaction. Camilla didn’t ask more, but still urged with an edge in her voice.

“Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t. But why do you keep referring to yourself in the third person? ‘Cassandra is,’ ‘Cassandra has’—you’re not a baby, what’s with that?”

“Ah, that…”

After pondering deeply, Cassandra shook her head again.

“It can’t be helped.”

Oh, this is a dangerous way of speaking. I feel like I might get angry without realizing it if I keep listening, so I quickly cut in.

“You don’t want to talk about it right now, right? Okay. I understand. One last question—you mentioned research earlier. You said you knew a place. Can you tell us where it is?”

“The research itself can be done anywhere with electricity and water. Kibele’s research facilities, universities, corporate private labs, even large general hospitals. General hospitals have their own analysis centers too.

But those places are near urban areas, so they’re very dangerous. The place I know is special. It’s quite far from Hampton.”

“There’s such a place? Which area?”

“The outskirts of Samarano.”

Samarano. It sounds vaguely familiar. What’s there? Fields, a river, more fields. But no matter how much I think about it, all I can recall are ruins.

“Isn’t that just wheat and corn farms? There are large ranches too, and some wind turbines spinning. They do research there?”

Camilla seems quite curious too. But Cassandra nodded vigorously, as if certain.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Samarano is actually a worthless area.

Unless you want to gather zombies on the yellowed grassland and play with fire. Above all, you can find much more valuable things in the surrounding cities and towns, both large and small.

They say one mistake can make you lose everything in the Erysichthon Protocol, but there are always people who manage to extract content from it.

Things like surviving for over 100 days with just a hunting knife, or living in extreme terrain full of zombies. But Samarano is a worthless place that can’t even produce such content.

Because nothing remains after the bombing. Whatever grudge someone had against that area, everything—land, roads—was completely devastated. The bombers must have really unloaded on it.

Moreover, being off the main route, users even speculated, “Maybe they’re saving this land to build something later.” Well, you need such empty spaces to create anticipation.

But it seems that’s not the case.

Samarano wasn’t a place where something was “coming,” but where something “was.” At least according to Cassandra.

“…What kind of research facility is there?”

“One of the cultured meat research facilities is there. It’s disguised under some name like ‘Livestock Promotion Center,’ but it’s actually a facility for researching cultured meat. Most people in Elsa loved traditional livestock farming, so they disliked artificially produced cultured meat.”

A meat research lab.

I don’t know much about research, but if it’s a place that studies biology, it seems like a good place for Cassandra too. The problem is that I don’t know anything about that place.

I know “what happens” to it later. But I don’t know “what it looked like” before that. However, it’s clear that the cultured meat research lab must have been extremely dangerous, so much so that it had to be destroyed even by bombing.

“Um, Cassandra? It’s safe, right?”

A cautious question.

“Yes. 100% safe. As long as there was no leakage, it should be fine. We can check that from outside, so there’s no need to worry.”

“…Leakage?”

Leakage? Isn’t that a term used for radioactive materials or chemicals? And the word “leakage” is usually associated with major accidents.

“Yes. As long as there was no virus leakage, it’s fine.”

“What on earth are they doing there?”

“They put cells in culture medium injected with viruses and grow them. To add, it’s not the Cro virus. Above all, you can’t make cultured meat with the Cro virus. So zombie meat canned goods are impossible. Period.”

I looked back at Camilla. She seemed to be thinking the same thing as me.

“Um, Cassandra. How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve done it.”

“Why did you experiment with such things?”

“Because I want to cure it.”

Cassandra asked as if stating the obvious, and an embarrassed Camilla buried herself in the seat and nibbled on her fist. Cassandra consoled her in a gentle voice.

“It’s something that hasn’t happened yet. No need to worry in advance. More importantly, we need to think about how to get out of here first. We already have pursuers on our tail.”

The sound of sirens could be heard. From all directions—front, back, left, and right. A dark shadow covered the car and quickly passed by. It was a helicopter.

It wasn’t the combat helicopter we saw in Lambert. It was a small helicopter for reconnaissance and surveillance. But in some ways, it’s more threatening than a combat helicopter. Because it continuously reveals our position.

Eventually, the lead vehicle left the road. It crossed through a park with meticulously planted grass. As we crossed the park’s parking lot, Cassandra’s phone rang. This call was also brief.

“The stupid military police are on the move again. They were forming a cordon around District 4 Gate and are now rushing this way in a panic. But of course, it’s too late. They can’t catch us.

However, the helicopter above is really annoying. Since attack helicopters might take off, they think we should move around Hampton city a bit. We should pass through districts 17, 18, and 19.”

Boom.

A dull explosion was heard. A small cloud of dust could be seen rising in the distance.

They had blown up part of the wall separating Hampton’s inner and outer city areas with C4. A section of the reinforced concrete wall collapsed neatly. Thanks to the vehicle’s thick tires, we could easily cross over the building debris.

The sign “District 17” was clearly visible.

“Alright, now if we enter the streets…?”

That’s when it happened.

Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! Motorcycles poured out from between buildings everywhere. Military police motorcycles. Some had sidecars. They were armed, as expected.

“H-how?!”

Cassandra was flustered. The military police in the sidecars were armed with rifles, as if it were the most natural thing. I quickly looked back at our vehicle.

A military police motorcycle was racing at an insane speed behind our trailing vehicle. The trailing car was desperately moving left and right on the road to block its advance, but the motorcycle was persistently keeping up.

“Ah! Ah!”

Perhaps there was a microphone inside the helmet. A human voice poured out from the speaker mounted on the motorcycle.

“Three vehicles with covered license plates, stop immediately. Three vehicles with covered license plates, stop immediately.”

It was a woman’s voice. One I’d heard somewhere before.

“…That.” “That voice.”

Camilla and Cassandra answered simultaneously. Though she couldn’t possibly have heard them, the woman on the motorcycle continued as if in response. Her voice was distinctly audible even over the sirens of the surrounding motorcycles.

“This is Virginia Helford, Commander of the Special Task Force, 8th National Military Police of Elsa. You are currently driving illegally. Stop your vehicles immediately. Slow down gradually and stop according to the hand signals of the surrounding military police. If you do not comply, we will open fire immediately.”

The lead car roared forward with a beast-like exhaust sound. Cassandra also floored the accelerator. My body was thrown back. I slightly lowered the window and aimed the muzzle of my M4 carbine rifle outside.