00004 - The Little Prince in the Ossuary
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#Supply Delivery (3), San Miguel
Typically, a motel and restaurant are located near gas stations along American highways.
San Miguel was no exception, with two restaurants across the road and a motel situated diagonally at the intersection.
While the soldiers were keeping guard, refugees wearing gas masks held tightly onto firearms, machetes, or axes and began searching the nearby restaurants.
Watching them, the boy, whose name he had earned from being born in winter, vaguely thought there might have been many Hispanics among the townspeople.
It was because both the restaurants opposite the gas station were Spanish eateries.
One had the sign "10th Street Basque Café," which was more of a bar, while the other advertised selling tortas and burritos.
Too many refugees had flooded in.
The boy did not move, fearing that if one of them was an infected mutant, they would clash and be unable to fulfill their roles properly.
On the other hand, people seemed to think differently.
Perhaps they were trying to score points by doing their best from a relatively safe location near the vehicle line.
There was even noise of conflict.
The shouting was loud enough to be heard outside the building, even through the gas masks.
Fortunately, the building seemed to be empty of any mutants. Everyone came out unharmed, albeit not in a normal state.
Evidence of their struggle to fill their duffle bags with food was apparent. One person even came out clinging to a torn duffle bag, crying.
Somehow, their gas mask had gone missing; it probably came off during the scuffle.
They were scolded by their supervising sergeant and had to go back inside.
A large refugee volunteer arrogantly climbed onto the truck, holding a duffle bag stuffed full.
He was, embarrassingly enough, Korean. Even though it was a game, the embarrassment was real.
This was because the personalities of characters in a world with a historical setting are crafted based on the big data from that era.
The man demanded the boy translate for him. It was frustrating, but he relayed the words.
"I've done my part. I'm not going out there again."
Upon hearing the translation, the soldiers, noncommissioned officers, and officers all had their expressions collapse.
Corporal Elliot grumbled.
It was a foregone conclusion, but it was already a mess from the start. The man hugging the duffle bag while sitting in the truck's cabin asked what the U. S. military had said, but the boy ignored him.
Including the boy, ten refugees began moving under the directions of Private Guilherme and Corporal Elliot.
They were the crew headed for the mill. It required moving three blocks east, then four blocks north from the gas station.
Before 'Morgellons', it was a short distance one might casually walk. Now, for survivors, it felt like an unbearably long distance.
For the experienced boy, the situation differed. At a point where no one else volunteered to take the lead, he chose to guide.
Though he was temporarily provided with a gun, it was slung over his back, and he held a machete in one hand.
He relied on his Level 9 「Close Combat」 and Level 10 「Melee Weapon Proficiency」 skills.
Cars were chaotically piled up at every block. Using gestures, he summoned volunteers to move the vehicles off the road.
He constantly surveilled the surrounding neighborhoods, aware of the eeriness that the single-story houses beyond low fences or wooden barriers evoked.
"Wait, stop."
Corporal Elliot raised his fist high. The refugees almost immediately flattened themselves low to the ground.
They looked around with eyes like frightened herbivores. Fortunately, he didn't halt due to discovering a threat.
There was a flagpole in the direction the corporal was looking. While the American flag was familiar, the flag adorned with a red star and grizzly bear was unfamiliar.
"What flag is that?"
"That's the flag of the California state government. It's a fire station. We didn't fully check during the terrain exercise."
Private Guilherme answered. Indeed, beneath the bear, it read "California Republic."
Following Corporal Elliot's decision, they agreed to explore the fire station building.
Though not hopeful for food, medical supplies like painkillers, antibiotics, and bandages were crucial supplies.
Furthermore, a fire truck could be essential. If they ever needed to leave the camp, it could be used to transport potable water.
"Even a small 5-ton fire truck could easily carry 3,000 liters."
Elliot said, laughing.
Once again, the boy took the lead in entering. Though they said it was okay to rotate turns, he didn't care.
A notification showed a slight increase in the two American soldiers' affection ratings.
It was insignificant, bearing little meaning. There was no need to rejoice over minor changes.
The fire station was single-story, in line with the small scale of the village.
The office was attached right next to the garage, but unfortunately, it was made of specialized glass, making it impossible to see inside.
The boy knocked on the door with the back of his knife. It should be audible enough inside, yet not loud enough to be heard far away.
However, from the perspective of refugees with hearts in their throats, it must not have seemed that way.
One of them snatched the boy's collar, asking if he was insane.
"Hey, that's enough, isn't it?"
Guilherme swayed left and right with his gun. It indicated to back off. If it was truly dangerous, the American army would have stopped the boy.
The refugee who had been warned stepped back awkwardly, but suddenly collapsed, seizing.
It was because something inside knocked on the door. Pressing their ear against the door, they heard a moaning sound.
It was not a sound one would associate with a human. It was a mutant.
The boy shook his head toward the two soldiers who stood a few meters in front of the door, preparing to fire.
He grabbed the doorknob, clutching the machete in his other hand.
"I'll handle it."
"I can't tell if you're brave or just out of your mind..."
While Private Guilherme shook his head, corporal Elliot asked if he was okay.
When the boy nodded, the corporal granted permission. It wasn't that they trusted him; they believed the refugees needed stimulation.
Still, they didn't want the boy to get hurt. That would backfire. Their fingers on the triggers were tense, ready to fire at any moment.
"Alright. If you're sure, have at it."
The winter boy imagined the infected entity beyond the door.
If a firefighter on standby had been infected, they would be in a fire suit and helmet, providing few vulnerable points for a knife.
Thought was swift; action, even swifter.
Twisting the doorknob and pulling sharply, the mutant that had been pressing against the door tumbled outside, overwhelmed by its own momentum.
The boy stepped on its back and kicked off its helmet, then forcefully drove the heavy knife into its head.
Whack.
The blade cleaved through the skull. Sticky, bloody brain matter oozed out from the split. The mutant's body convulsed.
A humanoid figure lay dying. From the handle, an electric sensation traveled up to his palm.
It was this sensation that had drawn him to choose this dark-themed virtual reality title.
The boy relished the feeling until it faded, then gave his wrist a snap. The knife popped free and upward.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
The boy calmly replied to Guilherme's concerned inquiry. The private expressed admiration with rough words.
"Ha, there's a badass here."
The boy was again the first to enter through the open door. A small gesture was met with a small gain.
The soldiers' affection ratings increased slightly.
Though it wasn't significant, these small gains could accumulate into good results.
In such a small village, the fire station also functioned as public services.
In fact, written across the office's main glass window was "Community Services District."
Firefighters with little to do frequently handled administrative duties as civil servants.
The office had a long back-and-forth layout. Inside, amidst piles of documents, they found a bunch of keys.
Discovering two rifles, they took those as well. While the followers who entered after stood dumbfounded, the boy swiftly swept medical supplies from the wall cabinets.
A third of his designated duffle bag got filled.
"Hey..."
A middle-aged man spoke up.
"We should share and stuff. What are you doing trying to take it all by yourself?"
The boy turned back silently.
The other man drew back, intimidated.
Drops of blood still dripped from the machete the boy firmly grasped.
Feeling threatened, the man couldn't meet the boy's gaze and turned his head away. The boy didn't drag out the moment.
On another wall, there were three opening switches. Likely, they were meant to raise the garage shutters.
Elliot did have an interest in the fire truck. He stood by the doorway. Seeing the boy's glance, he nodded.
Without hesitation, he pressed the buttons successively.
Indeed, there was the sound of motors whirring.
Once outside the office, those who hadn't yet entered, and the two soldiers, had their guns aimed in all directions.
They worried that the noise might attract a horde of mutants.
Bam!
"What, what's going on!"
One startled volunteer screamed.
A mutant crawled out from the parking lot next to the fire station, which the boy quickly ran at and struck down with the machete.
In shock, someone nearly pulled the trigger, almost shooting the boy.
Spectator message logs surged. Briefly glancing revealed that most messages were like, "「Almost died in a funny way lol.」
Many also advised going back to finish off that person.
"Oh, oh no! I didn't mean to do it on purpose!"
A woman, who seemed to be in her mid-thirties, repeatedly apologized, lowering her head.
Based solely on appearances, it was hard to deduce ages; refugees all looked haggard, whether men or women, appearing at least ten years older than they were.
The boy gestured.
"It's fine, just keep your voice down."
His nonchalant attitude triggered multiple notifications of altered affection ratings. Corporal Elliot tilted his head incredulously.
"No joke, he really is a badass, right? Whether it's fearlessness or recklessness..."
"Does it matter?"
The Corporal chuckled at the boy's skeptical question.
"Much better compared to the redneck rookies whining in Iraq. We'll count on you."
"Thank you."
In the open garage, they found an ambulance and a fire truck, one each. One of the three garages was empty.
Corporal Elliot designated possible drivers and instructed them to bring the vehicles back to the gas station and return.
The supplies the boy secured were also offloaded into the vehicle.
His attitude differed as he worked to fill his bag and hurried back, unlike other refugees, earning favor from the soldiers.
Yet, the two selected drivers seemed indecisive.
"Do we really have to come back?"
The sulking refugee earned a rough shove from Corporal Elliot.
"Of course you have to come back."
The boy translated the corporal's words.
The two drivers, glaring at the boy with resentment, climbed into the driver's seats. They couldn't muster the will to anger the U. S. military.
Corporal Elliot radioed the main body.
He informed them that two vehicles were sent, instructing them to recover the supplies inside and send the drivers back.
Given the journey was only a seven-block round trip, the vehicles would arrive quickly.
Shortly after, a response came through. The return of the two drivers wasn't necessary, prompting a verification request.
Elliot scoffed and insisted they must be sent back.
While waiting for the two to return, they conducted additional area searches.
Being close to the town center, there were visible buildings like cafes and diners.
There was a little unnamed restaurant, and a medium-sized joint named Jackson's Old and New.
Notably, the Ranch, which openly declared they served Mexican food. As initially thought, the town seemed to have a dominant immigrant population.
However, regarding the coffee house, the boy pondered its search value.
"Hey, look. It says lunch specials on the sign, doesn't it? They must have served meals too."
Elliot noted. Indeed, they found canned hams and sacks of flour. Seven people's duffle bags were filled and then some.
For the camp commander, they took vacuum-sealed coffee beans.
Though likely oxidized and lacking original flavor, even that was a luxury now. Despite additional encounters with few mutants, no accidents occurred.
After completing the search, they cleared the road of vehicles. It was partly because the drivers who operated the fire truck trailed back slowly on foot.
"If you don't hurry, you won't get ration cards."
Spurred by Elliot's warning, their pace increased. Private Guilherme muttered a small curse.
After rejoining with their two members, they advanced another two blocks, eventually reaching the intersection with a view of the mill.
The boy prepared his mindset.
Upon reaching the mill, there were two choices.
One: fill the duffle bags and return; or
Two: clear the road and call in vehicles.
Choosing the latter provided significantly more experience points, but survival through delayed attacks from infected mutants was essential.
Even in choosing the former, numerous mutants existed within the mill, presenting complex challenges for those encountering them for the first time.
The boy's first experience in the world of 「After the Apocalypse」 had ended right there.
"Hey, little badass."
Corporal Elliot called out warmly.
"Think we should call for the truck?"
"What if we secure the inside of the mill first and then decide?"
It was an obvious proposal, and the corporal nodded in agreement.