Marauder of the Apocalypse-Chapter 90: Urban Warfare

Amateur radio equipment had been installed in the conference room, scavenged from who knows where. It looked surprisingly professional.

I flopped down into a chair, carelessly setting down my light machine gun. One by one, the people focused on communications turned to look at me.

"You've arrived? We heard the news. Are you injured anywhere?"

The hospital director in a white coat looked me up and down, searching for wounds. His gaze was both gentle and professional, but I shook my head with a sour expression.

"Luckily, I wasn't injured. But what's with this radio equipment?"

This was the same man who made poison cocktails. No one here could be dealt with casually.

Ho the scavenger snickered.

"Found a house with a long antenna. Looked useful, so I grabbed everything."

"Don't you need a license for that? Seems like the kind of technology you'd need proper training to use."

The line between legal and illegal had already collapsed in this world. Licenses didn't matter anymore. But knowledge to use technology was always necessary.

Amateur radio was a technique for operating wireless communications equipment by hobbyists, and it seemed to require considerable specialized knowledge.

'Professor Kim did say it would be useful in disaster situations.'

From my perspective, with no relevant knowledge, it just looked like some incomprehensible machine.

But even in this world, people stubbornly survived, and naturally, some experts had survived too.

"We found an amateur radio operator. Recruited him immediately. He installed all this and taught us how to use it," RiderZero said, tapping the helmet resting on her knees. She stared into space with a faraway look.

"If it works well, we could connect with people farther away, more people. People in other cities, other countries."

I wasn't so sure. Wouldn't this just attract strange people?

Of course, it could provide information from overseas or other cities to replace the communication networks that had collapsed at some point, but it could also create new risks.

Just then, I heard a voice speaking coldly.

"It's live or die, one or the other. Let's see what happens."

It was the one-eyed archer, holding the radio transceiver. Perhaps because they were engaged in a psychological battle with threats, he was displaying his sharp personality without restraint.

A response came through the radio.

"That should be our line. Better to fight than starve to death."

The relatively clear voice belonged to the company commander I'd seen at the market before. But the atmosphere in his voice had changed. The voice that had once mixed confidence and dignity had transformed into one filled with hostility.

"You think we can't commit terrorism too? Improvised explosives? We can make them better than you."

The people in the conference room hesitated for a moment.

Thinking about it, that made sense. The military had proper explosives. Just tying a string to a grenade pin or placing a grenade in a cup made an excellent trap, and if they used shells too...

Biochemical weapons weren't far off either. Zombies were essentially virus generators.

But perhaps not wanting to lose the battle of intimidation, the archer continued with an eerie tone.

"That means nothing in the face of fire. If we set the entire city ablaze, everyone dies. With no firefighters, who's going to put it out?"

"Stop the bluffing. In the end, we're all just trying to survive, aren't we?"

Not me. I inwardly clicked my tongue as I looked around at these bleak people. Humans focused on survival instead of dreams like self-realization or achieving goals.

No one lived a fulfilling life like mine. With the joyful purpose of being a raider and having that purpose become my life, I felt sorry for them.

What a waste of talent, having the qualities of an exceptional raider...

The company commander's voice, mixed with static, came through the radio.

"We just want food to feed our troops. We have kids who've passed their discharge dates but still can't go home—they need to eat too."

At that point, the archer put down the radio and looked around. His single eye rolled about.

"Seems like the atmosphere is right for negotiation now. Who wants to handle it?"

Everyone tried to avoid the responsibility. The position of leading negotiations was desirable enough, but since the military wasn't to be taken lightly, they prioritized capability.

The police squad leader and Ho waved their hands or shook their heads, pushing their chairs back.

"Not my job. I'm good at fighting, not convincing people. My attitude is bad enough to get complaints."

"I can't do it either. Maybe if it were picking up trash, but not this."

Others showed similar reactions. The electricity nomad refused with disgust, and the firefighter turned away, saying he hated the idea.

After an argument that resembled choosing a group project leader, the evangelist elder from Hope Community and RiderZero from the Delivery Vigilantes were finally nominated.

"Would you like to do it, Elder?"

"...No. Unlike the pastor, I lack the ability to persuade people."

The evangelist elder spoke bitterly, seemingly recalling the late pastor.

Compared to the pastor who had rebuilt a fallen church, he seemed to think he lacked ability, barely managing to run the church the pastor had left behind.

The evangelist elder gestured toward the radio, as if telling RiderZero to hurry.

"You were the first to track the military's movements and suggest an alliance. You should do it."

RiderZero didn't refuse further. She stood up and approached the radio. Her once well-trimmed bob cut from the early apocalypse had become a rough cut that looked like it had been done with kitchen scissors.

I watched her back silently.

'Is she really like the pastor?'

I had thought of her simply. A person clumsily fixated on romanticism. Someone using her foundation as a delivery rider to make deliveries and letters a tool for survival.

But if she truly had abilities like the pastor—the ability to draw people in, connect them, and gather their strength—wouldn't it be right for her to meet the same end as the pastor?

***

The negotiations proceeded in a form close to a ceasefire. Establishing a buffer zone and agreeing not to act suspiciously beyond it. No drone surveillance or entering armed.

This was possible because resources still remained in the city.

Raiding just a few apartment complexes would yield plenty of food.

They also agreed to exchange necessary resources in the buffer zone.

"You have chickens? Really?"

"Not many. A lot died or were washed away during the typhoon and monsoon. But we can trade eggs at least."

RiderZero swallowed audibly, perhaps already thinking of her group's cook. Even just having eggs would dramatically improve the quality of their cooking.

No, the eggs themselves were precious. Fresh food. The people who had been listening intently to the communication couldn't hide their excitement, shaking their legs and standing up abruptly.

RiderZero quickly added:

"What about green onions, onions, garlic, things like that?"

"All rotted and died. But we haven't mentioned what we want yet."

The company commander seemed to hesitate before quickly listing his requirements.

"Medical support, communications support, and diesel fuel. Is that possible?"

The excited people sat down glumly. Medical was fine. Communications too. But diesel fuel?

RiderZero quickly told a lie.

"We have diesel, but it's past its expiration date and in bad condition. It's absorbed a lot of moisture."

"Don't lie. We've sent people out for reconnaissance and gathered information. We hear the Delivery Vigilantes have stockpiled fuel treated with stabilizers."

Somehow, they had figured out the alliance's involvement suspiciously quickly.

They must have suspected the alliance as soon as I attacked.

Just then, the archer suddenly snatched the radio and snapped:

"Fuel is out of the question. We absolutely won't provide materials that can be used in military vehicles."

"So medical and communications are possible? Good."

The argument continued in that fashion. I listened quietly.

When asked if they knew any government news, the company commander answered that communications had been cut when the typhoon passed through, so they didn't know. When the commander asked how they could give him a radio without knowing anything when they had wireless facilities good enough to provide it, the alliance replied that their equipment didn't have that kind of range yet.

No one mentioned the dead. The survivors killed by the military, the two squads I had killed. They spoke and acted as if these people had never existed.

That's the kind of world it was.

***

While the negotiations dragged on, I went outside. In truth, the conflict had been clumsily patched up after just one preliminary skirmish. For now, at least.

'It won't end like this come autumn.'

We were at the tail end of summer. I looked up at the bright sky, trying to gauge when autumn would arrive. The zombie outbreak that had started in March had continued until September was in sight. During that time, so many things had disappeared.

I counted the vanished things one by one, folding down my fingers.

Electricity, moral concepts, running water, vegetables and fruits, milk, internet and communications...

'More things will disappear.'

How long would the gas last? Somehow gas was still maintained now, but in the end, the ability to produce and transport gas would disappear.

And what about food? How much would have spoiled during these six months? Even ramen had a shelf life of six months.

Fuel was the same. Fuel also had a six-month shelf life. Many resources couldn't withstand this period.

"Autumn of famine..."

Rice might last, but would it stay in good condition abandoned in places without people? It would absorb moisture, grow mold, be eaten by insects.

And with failed crops, this world was even worse off. This autumn wouldn't be a season of harvest. It would be a season of famine, plagued by poverty, and the winter that followed would be a season of death.

I stared blankly at the heavy light machine gun.

Suddenly, I remembered what the survivor we'd encountered on the way back after killing the squad had said.

"How long are we going to live anyway."

He was right. How long could we live? One year, two years, even if we somehow held out, we'd live a life much shorter than the average lifespan in a normal world.

All the more reason to live a joyful life without regrets.

I sauntered back to the mercenaries. It was time to gather the mercenaries who had served their purpose as the conflict was patched up.

The mercenaries sitting under the shade of a tree stood up when they saw me. I asked them:

"Is there anything you're short on?"