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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: High Risk High Return, Paso Robles (8)
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Finding Able Company's final advance point wasn't difficult. The road was cleared only up to that spot. Climbing onto an abandoned SUV and looking around was enough.
Creston Road branched off to the right from Highway 101, which ran north-south through the city. Walnut Drive led into the residential area. At their intersection, the wreckage of smashed U.S. military vehicles was scattered everywhere. Blood staining the asphalt bright red and mutant debris were bonuses.
Bullet marks, bloodstains, skid marks. Traces of battle littered the area. Insight and Combat Sense automatically analyzed them. A rough outline of the previous battle appeared in augmented reality. It was a hologram full of noise due to skill level limits, but enough to grasp the gist.
At this intersection, visibility to the south was blocked. Fences, houses, and street trees were obstacles. Able Company must have been ambushed from the side. You could tell from the Humvee with its door caved in like it had been hit by a massive iron maul. Another Humvee and the transport truck were wrecked right there. Winter approached and gauged the size of the fist marks imprinted on the metal plate.
About one and a half handspans in diameter.
Fortunately, it didn't seem to be the worst case of a special mutant that was also an enhanced one. And it was a type Winter knew how to hunt.
'Mutation code "Grumble." Judging by the size and depth of the marks, enhanced grade is basic Alpha. Probably two of them.'
Special mutants found in the game were given names (mutation codes) based on their form and traits.
Grumble. It meant thunderous roar. They always shouted before attacking—that was their habit.
Winter rummaged through the vehicle wreckage and U.S. soldiers' bodies. He gathered ammo, grenades, a spare pistol, and suppressor. Two sets of combat rations were a nice bonus.
He looked around for other clues or anything useful. His gaze stopped at an auto parts store on the left north of the intersection. It looked more like a retail shop for car satellite TVs and audio gear than a full service station.
Approaching for a closer look, nothing seemed off. The front glass was shattered, allowing entry without noise. Winter stepped inside, crunching over glass shards. There were several tempting items, but he couldn't take them all. He grabbed one mini TV—for the camp—and one rechargeable radio—to use as a noise maker decoy.
Across the street was a diner with a gas station. Winter just confirmed fuel came out of the pump and left it.
Not long after heading north, Winter found the first landmark.
"That's the health center, huh..."
One clue from Sergeant Cohen was the health center. Without Map Reading, it would have been hard to find. A single-story building indistinguishable from ordinary houses. The only hint was a small sign: "San Luis Obispo County Health Department."
He still had plenty of time. Winter decided to search inside. If survivors were left, and injured, they'd likely head for medicine. Even if not, considering Sergeant Cohen's wounds, antibiotics, painkillers, splints, and compression bandages would be useful.
The health center's structure offered no defensive strength. Large glass doors and windows nearly as big lined up. But they were reflective glass. You couldn't see inside from outside. Even transparent ones had blinds drawn. Not a bad spot for hiding.
Two mutants lurking near the side entrance. Winter approached from behind with knife drawn and smashed one's skull. It caved in, instant death. The other reacted to the noise; he spun a back kick. The upward kick snapped its jaw. Brain rattled. It couldn't even scream, let alone stand straight. He shoved the groggy staggering mutant and thrust the knife straight into its forehead with his full body weight.
Pshk.
A handful of dead blood spurted, and it was over. The mutant's limbs convulsed, but movement didn't mean alive. Tougher than humans, but no surviving a destroyed brain.
He cleared the bodies and tried the door. Click. Locked. Winter looked around—no easy way in. The boy went to the adjacent window. He pressed the jungle knife's tip to the glass and gently tapped the handle with his free hand.
Tap, tap, tap, crack, craaack. Once a crack formed, it spread faster.
Breaking it all at once would be a crash-bang racket. Every mutant in earshot would swarm. If there were no time limit, rounding them up and killing them wouldn't be bad—but that was for the return trip, if he really had spare time.
The small shards mostly fell inside. Plink plink. Quiet unless you listened closely. Once a decent hole formed, Winter pried the blinds apart and peered in. After a few seconds, he reached in to fumble around. Blinds got in the way, but locks were all in similar spots. The window opened quickly.
More like a large panel than a proper window—bigger than a person. Easy to enter. The interior was a mess. Equipment toppled everywhere. Facing desks, scattered charts—it seemed like an exam room.
Thud, thud. Noises inaudible from outside. Following them down the hall revealed a blood-splattered slaughterhouse. Stale air reeked. Dim room with lights out; light leaked from a windowed door ahead. Five mutants growled and pounded on it. Winter dragged a nearby mobile bed to block the hall sideways. He pushed it forward.
"Krah?"
Mutants drawn by the rolling bed noise. They twisted their heads oddly. At first, sights like that sent chills down his spine. Now even their charging roars didn't raise his heart rate. Winter accelerated the push and rammed them. The bed crashed with a rumble, tangling and toppling the mutants.
He ran atop them. Two stomping steps crushed two necks. Crunch. As others flailed to grab his legs, Winter leaped onto the fallen bed and twisted. Spinning slash. Hit the first rising one. Sliced horizontally from temple. Deep into the eye socket, damaging the brain. Both eyes burst; it clutched its face, writhing and howling. Looked like someone weeping blood. Brain partially intact, not dying yet. Its thrashing tripped the remaining two. Winter stared down at the tangled mutant mess. Drew his pistol and fired three shots.
Pfft, pfft, pfft. Three heads burst in sequence. Blood and brains sloshed. Old death stench hit his nose.
Winter approached the door they'd pounded. No reason to cluster otherwise—something was inside. He knocked firmly.
"Anyone in there?"
No reply. Winter knocked calmly again. Still nothing. Locked. The gap from their pounding was lucky. Nearby IV stand made a good lever. Jammed it in and shoved with full body. Screech. Stand bent. Door gave with a crack.
Crack-crack-crack!
Full-auto burst from a suppressed rifle. Without predicted bullet trajectories in the air, he'd be dead. Survival Instinct, Combat Sense, Insight linked. Door splintered wildly. Hall filled with fragment clatter.
Shooting stopped. Behind the ragged door: one panting U.S. soldier, one mummy-like corpse. The latter long dead, but fresh bullet holes. Soldier's state told the story. Looked like a storeroom. Shelves of meds and supplies, many spilled.
Winter slowly lowered his weapon and removed his gas mask.
"Easy. Not here to hurt you."
Quick scan of rank insignia and nametag, then added. Not a private.
"...Sergeant Ashford."
Muzzle drooped. Held one-handed, it shook. The ragged-breathing sergeant rubbed his eyes roughly and looked again. Pinpoint pupils, sweat beading on forehead.
"You're not a hallucination, right?"
"Guess not. What do you think?"
"Damn it! Don't say that! Just before, dead guys were calling me. Right there. If you're dead, go quietly, you bastards..."
Mumbling with head down, not right in the head. No wonder—comrades dying, isolated alone. Brutal mutants outside. Trapped in a fragile room with a corpse, door slowly giving way. Mind would fray.
Especially with morphine. Empty tubes nearby.
One arm injured, hence one-handed gun. Sloppily wrapped bandage soaked red.
Time to spend XP. Saved for times like this. Winter called up skill list, poured into Emergency Treatment. Bar filled steadily. Grade 5 should suffice. Mid-expert level.
"Stay still. I'll rewrap the bandage."
More tangled than tied. Blood crusted, stuck to flesh. Ripping would wreck the wound. Carefully unwound. Medicine cabinet had hydrogen peroxide. Poured on wound. Fizzed white. Mixed with clots, dripped. Penetrated deep.
Even with morphine, pain lingered. Sergeant groaned low. Good thing drug still worked; otherwise, screams.
Morphine called "last painkiller." Many side effects, especially addiction. True story: soldier hit once young, craved it till deathbed.
"How'd you get hurt?"
"Sat on Humvee turret... vehicle rolled..."
"Lucky to be alive."
Long since injured, yet fresh blood oozed under peeled skin. Skill correction moved his body automatically. Not his will, but sensations fully transmitted. Like viewer sense-sync enabled.
Compression bandage elastic like rubber. Stretched tight for hemostasis.
But not too tight. Korean incident: medic wrapped too hard. No circulation, toe necrotized. Amputated. Why Winter invested in expert Emergency Treatment.
Ashford asked,
"But who are you? No rank, suspicious..."
"Call sign Banana ring a bell?"
"Ah, the company commander's monkey, huh."
Not sane, so Winter ignored. Wrapping didn't take long.
Now what. Communication okay-ish, but long self-march unlikely. Combat no-go. Morphine sides: vision issues, impaired judgment. Armed, he'd shoot wrong people.
"Any other survivors?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Sergeant snapped. Winter swept visible meds and supplies into duffel, strapped one crutch to side. Helped sergeant up.
"Get up first. Can't stay in a room without a door."
"Annoying... gonna puke."
Still staggered up. Winter moved him to intact-door room. Checked no threats, took all morphine tubes from his pack.
"Wait here. Taking the rest of your morphine."
"Huh?... Hey, no. Where you going."
Flailing grab for both failed.
"Can't go together now. Remember Sergeant Cohen?"
"Cohen? 'Course."
"Heading to rescue him."
"That bastard still alive?"
Sergeant teared up. Despite pain and drugs, joy for comrade lingered. Winter nodded.
"About time to check in. Wait a sec. I'll connect you."
Calling Sergeant Cohen. Eagerly awaited. Reply instant.
[Hey, kid! Where you at? Almost here?]
"Calm down. Still at health center."
[Oh... right.]
Could picture the pout without video. Alone, time dragged. Winter changed subject.
"Got good news, though."
[Good news?]
"Yeah. Sergeant Ashford's alive here."
[Oh God! Thank you! That damn guy's alive!]
"...He's listening right now."
[Guh.]
Sergeant Ashford chuckled, hand out for radio. Handed over; curses flew. Not real anger. Sharing survival joy. Drug-slurred warmth genuine.
"This weekend warrior insulting a heavenly sergeant. Wanna die?"
Weekend warrior: National Guard nickname, part-time service. Officers/core full-year, unlike regular.
Watching reunion briefly, Winter tapped watch.
"Sorry, keep comms short."
"Time limit? Cinderella boy."
Recovering, sergeant joked lightly. Winter gave him two 30-round mags.
"Know why I took the morphine?"
"Go already. Embarrassed enough wobbling. Promise to return enough. And..."
Sergeant glanced sternly, scratched helmet interior.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Winter glanced back, left room. Door locked behind.
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