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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 47
Chapter Title: #Signs (3), Atascadero
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To a soldier, meals are orders too. To maintain combat effectiveness, you have to eat whenever the opportunity arises. Meal times were given in two shifts.
It was sudden, but Winter prepared his meal without a word of complaint. Hunger was a 「bad status」. In this unprecedented situation, he wanted to stay in peak condition. All he needed was to fill up on calories somehow.
What he tore into was simplified combat rations (FSR). As Winter pulled out an energy bar, Lieutenant Jeffrey, who had been mixing tuna and mayonnaise, piped up.
"That thing looks just like a clump of shit, doesn't it?"
Military preserved rations don't care about aesthetics. The energy bar's shape could pass for squished yokan from one angle, or lumpy stool from another. Winter set the energy bar down. Jeffrey grinned from ear to ear.
"How about that? Cockroach revenge!"
"...."
Jokes in the face of fear are a sign of a veteran. But this just seemed immature. Winter sighed and chewed on his sandwich. It had a faint, salty beef flavor, barely there.
The meal was hasty. Jeffrey slurped from his water bladder (CamelBak) and said.
"In my opinion, that wasn't sent by a person. It's more like… you know, some automated transmission device that's gone haywire? That could explain the jamming too."
"We can't ignore it anyway. The mission is recon. We have to find traces of the advance team too."
Jeffrey muttered with a uneasy look at Winter's response.
"In horror movies, anyone who picks up a radio like that always dies."
"...."
Nonsense. Was this guy really that immature?
After the meal, the radioman attempted communication with the unidentified multiple contacts.
"Creepy. At least we're not dealing with a broken machine."
The radioman wiped cold sweat after ending the contact.
"There's a reaction every time we transmit. The message transmission cuts off instantly, the jamming gets stronger. Then their transmission resumes shortly after, now including my message freshly added."
"What the hell?"
Lieutenant Jeffrey looked dumbfounded. Winter asked.
"Any other peculiarities?"
"Uh, well. Not sure, but...."
Winter nodded, and the radioman voiced his unease.
"It feels like the sensitivity is increasing the more we repeat contact."
"Meaning the target's approaching?"
"Put it that way, yeah, high possibility."
Rising sensitivity proves shrinking distance. The mood sank. Winter suggested.
"Might be for the best. Let's keep the comms contact while preparing a welcome."
Jeffrey pointed to the open lot outside the main gate.
"Fire concentration point over there? We've got cover here too."
"Looks good."
The soldiers moved busily. They were relocating the lobby booby traps outside. Soldiers who'd set up claymore mines dragged tripwires over. Attach detonators, and they could remote-detonate on cue.
Like all public facilities, a flagpole stood at the center of the lot. Jeffrey ordered the soldiers to lower the flag. He didn't want to dishonor the Stars and Stripes even in this unavoidable situation. It was a formal procedure, but the soldiers carried it out without complaint. The Stars and Stripes were retrieved alongside the California Republic flag. Jeffrey folded them neatly and stowed them away. Souvenirs, he said.
Meanwhile, the radioman kept attempting contact.
"My messages are coming back."
Tense report. Meaning the unidentified foe was copying and repeating even the radioman's words. On top of that, noise was intensifying, reception sensitivity rising. Soon, it was receivable even on the headset. Loud as hell. Jeffrey grumbled.
"Are they mocking us, or is it a real ghost? Can't even tell how close...."
Distance was definitely closing. The uncertainty fueled anxiety.
How long did they wait? Across the parking lot, beyond the fence amid prefab buildings and conifers, a blurry shape flashed by.
"Something's there."
Not human, at least. Winter shouldered his rifle.
"What? Where?"
The whole platoon tensed in an instant. Muzzles peeking over cover, scanning ahead.
"Where?"
Jeffrey's anxious voice. Winter gauged the distance. Visual estimation gets a boost from 「Personal Firearms Proficiency」.
"12 o'clock, about 120 meters, behind the second prefab on the left."
The thirty-odd muzzles shifted slightly. Aiming where Winter indicated.
The radio was going berserk. Winter switched his off. No normal comms possible anyway, and the whole platoon was together. Jeffrey and the soldiers followed suit.
The target didn't show easily. Instead, small things started crawling over the fence. The soldiers panicked.
"...Those look like babies?"
Not just like—actual babies. Infected babies, precisely. Winter's eyesight let him see them clearly. Their bodies twisted like burn victims.
Normal babies couldn't climb fences. These did. Despite not standing on two legs, they hauled over with enhanced strength. Flailing on the railing, then dropping. Rolling down the grassy slope.
Kyaeeeaak— kyaeeeaak—
Eerie cries. No mothers came running. Pitch-black babies crawled furiously. Surprisingly fast, like short-legged dogs sprinting. Approaching spread out. Nodding heads side to side, mutant trademark. Teeth clacking.
"Oh, Jesus. It's getting worse."
Someone muttered.
Mutant babies were trickier targets than expected. Small size, and they'd leap like frogs sometimes. Crawled under vehicles too.
Lurking in the rear was probably a new special mutant. One Winter hadn't seen. The babies were special mutants themselves, in a way. Like they were testing them.
"Terrorist bastards. Sending kids violates ROE. Fire!"
Creepy as baby-shaped they were, couldn't let them close. Jeffrey's fire order dropped.
Drdrdrdr!— drdrdr!
Machine guns spat first. The Army's recent silencer push made even support weapons whisper-quiet.
Winter conserved ammo. Kneeling, aimed shots—one per target, precise. More efficient than soldiers hosing bursts. Pop! Pop! Pop! Each trigger pull sprayed red across the lot.
Splat! A headshot baby flipped in midair. Groove from forehead to crown, like scooped with an ice cream spoon.
"Damn! Rough dreams tonight!"
The SAW gunner swapped drums. Assistant helped—done in seconds—targeting mutants near the flagpole. 200 rounds in the drum. Full auto spray.
Past the lot, no more cover in the open area. Mutants in the kill zone shredded. Like a blender on transparent. One torn baby hit grass—half body gone. Undripe guts spilled. Twitched once, limp.
"Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord...."
Endless prayers right beside Winter.
Truth be told, Winter hated this too. Couldn't dismiss it as spectacle disgust like some other world's observers.
"Claymores! Detonate 7 and 8!"
Jeffrey's firm shout. A soldier gripped both detonators tight.
Ground shook. Claymores spray 700 ball bearings forward 120 degrees. Overlapped kill zones—1,400 steel balls crossed. Rain-soaked earth erupted white.
Overkill. No shape left intact. Just two blasts swept the lot clean.
In the sudden quiet, only Winter fired. Emptied one mag, then another. Everyone baffled—what was the boy officer shooting?
"Lost it."
Jeffrey asked.
"What?"
"You got distracted and forgot. What were we watching for first?"
"...Ah, shit."
Smack. Jeffrey slapped his helmet. Cursing his own stupidity for a moment. Soldiers same. While the unknown fled, they'd stood idle. Jeffrey groaned miserably.
"Did you see what it looked like?"
"Just one leg. Hidden by bushes and trees."
"Hit it?"
"Dead on. Don't know damage, but at least one mag's worth of hits."
"Good. Lucky we have you. Earning that medal...."
He demanded max details on what Winter saw. Silhouette from before, plus one leg gave rough size. Conclusion: special mutant.
"Smaller than a 「Grumble」, but no ordinary mutant."
Under soldier cover, Winter and Jeffrey advanced past the lot. Hunting traces. But blood and footprints vanished on asphalt. Winter's rank 4 「Tracking」 couldn't push further. Persistent rain a problem. No blood trail—just diluted runoff in gutters.
One thing clear: new mutant had low or no physical resistance.
"Where'd this bastard run... Urban search is dicey."
Missing advance team might've chased the mystery signal into town too. To brooding Jeffrey, Winter said.
"Who knows. Might not need search right now."
"Huh?"
Instead of explaining, Winter switched his radio back on. Static poured. No message sent, but noise intensity insane—like peak approach, or worse. Listening, Winter confirmed.
"This one's still hunting us."
Hunter and hunted might be reversed.
Silence fell. Rain dripping from lowered muzzles.
"Cocky bastard... Who's hunting who?"
Jeffrey grinned.
"Runs after getting smacked, still lurking? Saves us the chase."
Words barely out—distant razor wire rattled. Violently. Everyone looked. Toward state hospital isolation ward. Breaking glass followed. It'd gone inside for sure. Jamming weakened suddenly.
"Ah, damn it. This fucker won't go easy."
Briefing said CDC had 1,200 infected mutants in isolation. Loose, it'd be hell. Ammo'd run dry before stamina. Winter eased his worry.
"It's fine. Briefing said each section's locked. We checked one ourselves. Individual rooms too."
Rooms were cells, really. No key, no entry.
"Whew. No choice. Alright, let's go. Into the labyrinth."
Jeffrey shrugged, but led anyway.
En route, Winter rummaged advance team's vehicle. Resupplied spent ammo. Grabbed a few grenades and flashes too.
============================ Author's Note ============================
1. Atascadero State Hospital was the model for the Pescadero State Hospital where Sarah Connor was held in Terminator 2. Might help visualize the backdrop.
2. Lots of questions about special and enhanced mutants appearing too soon...
Can't help it. Opponent's the Land of the Free. Haha.
3. Readers wanting per-chapter payments, hang tight a bit more.
- Hearing from multiple publishers. Contract likely next month. Print + ebook adds 1-2 more months after.
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