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The air inside the fortress was heavier than usual. Not from tension or panic—but grief. The kind that lingered like smoke after a fire.
Rei Miyamoto sat alone in the common room, eyes red and distant. Her father's dog tags hung loosely from her fingers, clinking gently like wind chimes.
Marco stood by the doorway, watching her silently.
He didn't need to ask what was wrong. He already knew.
Kyoko had given him the update earlier: Rei's father was confirmed dead, body found on the scene. A gunshot wound to the head. Self-inflicted. And clear signs of infection at the wrist.
He died a soldier.
He died human.
Marco stepped forward and placed a quiet hand on her shoulder.
"We'll bring him home," he said.
Rei didn't respond, but her hand closed around the tags tightly.
In the strategy room, Marco stood beside Takashi Komuro, the two hunched over a new tactical layout. Saya and Kohta sat nearby, reviewing comms maps.
"We head out in the morning," Marco said. "Target: Komuro residence. Takashi-kun will lead us to the location. Objective: locate his parents—dead or alive."
Takashi looked grim, but steady. "It's in a suburban sector near the old overpass. Minimal foot traffic, but multiple blind spots."
"Rei-chan stays behind," Marco continued. "She's still grieving. We'll recover her father's body en route and bring him back for a proper cremation. Saeko and Kyoko are prepping the pyre, precaution against the infection and still respectful enough."
Shizuka-sensei raised her hand lazily. "I'll drive. Hammer's gassed up and ready."
Marco nodded. "We go in light. Three-man core: Me, Takashi, and Shizuka. Recon and retrieval."
Saya frowned. "You're going too deep with too few."
"That's why your team stays here on standby," Marco replied. "If things go sideways, you roll out and extract us."
Kohta grinned. "Finally, a reason to stretch my trigger finger."
Marco glanced at Hiroki. "Your team's on reserve. Eyes on the comms, backup ready in ten minutes."
"Got it."
Inside the weapons room, Marco strapped on his combat vest and holstered his twin revolvers: two customized Taurus .38s, each fitted with a precision suppressor and reinforced recoil dampening.
He spun the cylinders slowly, checking the loads.
Hollow-points. Six per chamber. Lubed. Balanced. Whisper-dead.
Each gun bore a name etched in silver: Lamp and Santana.
Izana entered with a box of speedloaders. "Want the special ones?"
Marco nodded. "AP rounds?"
"AP and incendiary. Just in case you meet something that laughs at regular lead."
Marco loaded one speedloader into each back holster.
"Let's go find some ghosts."
The Hammer rumbled across cracked asphalt, weaving between overturned sedans and burned-out trucks. Shizuka drove with surprising focus, her bright demeanor hidden behind tactical shades.
Takashi sat up front, tense.
Marco sat in the rear, door open, rifle across his lap, scanning every alley and rooftop.
"Almost there," Takashi muttered. "That white house with the flower gate. That's it."
Shizuka slowed the vehicle, pulling behind a wrecked delivery van to mask their approach.
The street was dead silent. No wind. No birds. Just the occasional creak of a swaying power line.
Marco and Takashi advanced on foot, side by side. Shizuka stayed with the vehicle, engine idling.
The gate was slightly ajar. No visible blood. No broken glass.
Inside, they found the door unlocked. The hallway dark.
Takashi moved slowly, flashlight trembling in his hand.
"Mom? Dad?"
No answer.
Kitchen was clear. Living room, clear.
Then the hallway.
Marco signaled. They opened the bedroom door together.
Two bodies.
His mother, curled in bed. Sheets clean. Peaceful.
His father, collapsed on the floor. Gun in hand.
Bullet wound in his chest.
Marco knelt, checking the scene.
"No signs of infection," he said quietly. "But it was recent."
Takashi sank to his knees, tears falling freely.
Marco placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll cremate them with Rei's father. They deserve that."
Takashi nodded.
They carried the bodies to the Hammer, wrapped in cloth. Shizuka helped load them carefully, face uncharacteristically grim.
Marco stood last, eyes scanning the map on his tablet.
"The Takagi estate is roughly 14 klicks south," he said. "Most roads are blocked. I want to test a new route—through the industrial zone. Less residential, fewer infected. But if it goes wrong..."
Shizuka nodded. "You'll call Saya-chan. And we'll fly in."
"Exactly."
The Hammer turned south, tires crunching gravel. Marco rode shotgun now, revolvers in hand.
The streets grew tighter. Darker.
Then—movement.
Marco's eyes locked on a figure darting between two buildings.
Another.
Then five.
Too fast for walkers.
Too organized.
Shizuka hissed, "Marco-kun... those aren't zombies."
He gritted his teeth. "Eyes up. We're not alone out here."
He opened the side door, crouched low, both .38s aimed.
Then—
Gunfire. Not theirs. Not infected. Real, tactical bursts. Controlled.
The Hammer's windshield cracked.
Takashi shouted, "Contact front!"
Marco's eyes narrowed.
"Drive, Shizuka-sensei. Drive us into hell."
He leaned out, Lamp and Santana barking in deadly sync, twin trails of smoke rising as the first hostile dropped.
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The moment the first bullet kissed the reinforced front of the Hammer, everything inside snapped into motion.
"Contact left! Suppressed fire—multiple hostiles!" Marco roared, bracing against the steel frame of the open side door.
The air filled with the crackle of gunfire and the high-pitched ping! of rounds ricocheting off reinforced plating. Shizuka Marikawa gripped the wheel with surprising calm, swerving around debris like just a rally driver possessed.
Takashi Komuro leaned out the passenger window, returning fire with a scoped M4, muzzle flashes illuminating his clenched jaw and furious eyes.
Marco fired one revolver—Lamp—with cold precision, the silenced .38 barking once, twice, three times.
Three deads dropped behind cover.
He spun, Santana in his left hand, taking down another crouched figure trying to flank from the alley. The man didn't even have time to scream.
"This isn't a goddamn raider gang," Marco hissed into the comm. "These are trained. Tactical. They're not shooting at random."
Takashi ducked as return fire sprayed the side panel. "Could they be mercs? Leftovers from JSDF?"
"Doesn't matter," Marco growled. "They're in our way."
Shizuka slammed the Hammer into a hard right, tires screaming over asphalt, narrowly avoiding a spike strip rigged between two lampposts.
"Oh my god!" she cried, barely keeping control. "They're trying to box us in!"
Marco twisted toward the rear.
"Back-left! Rooftop—three o'clock!"
Another double tap—two rounds into the chest, one in the face. A man dropped from the ledge like a bag of meat.
"Shizuka-sensei, punch it. Hard right at the corner. Shortcut through the warehouse yard!"
Takashi reloaded, eyes scanning. "What if they follow?"
"They won't," Marco said, voice cold. "Because they're about to eat dust."
He threw a grenade from his belt—a homemade flash-bang—with a smirk.
"Fire in the hole."
BOOM! A blinding burst echoed down the alley, followed by confused shouting from the ambushers.
The Hammer roared forward, crashing through a rusted gate and skidding into the yard behind an old distribution warehouse. The back entrance exploded open from the force.
Shizuka yanked the wheel as sparks flew across the windshield.
Takashi muttered, "Remind me never to doubt your shortcuts again."
After some time waiting a little in the Hammer we got a place to hide.
Inside, the warehouse was a maze of rusted shelves, collapsed crates, and half-shattered skylights. Moonlight bled through the dust like searchlights from heaven.
"We cut through the east exit," Marco ordered, motioning them low. "Eyes open. Keep silent. They might have scouts inside."
They moved in tactical formation. Marco on point, Takashi rear guard, Shizuka in between.
The air smelled like mold, oil, and something else—blood.
Footsteps echoed.
Marco raised a fist.
Silence.
A shadow moved.
He raised Santana slowly, breath even, hands like stone.
Then—movement.
He fired once. Pfft!
A figure crumpled.
It was a teen. Maybe seventeen. Wearing scavenged armor.
Eyes wide, confused.
"What the fuck is this," Takashi whispered.
Marco exhaled. "Desperation. They're recruiting anyone."
More footsteps. Close.
Marco turned, pulling Shizuka against a crate. "Stay down."
Three men entered the far aisle—rifles raised.
Marco didn't wait.
Double draw. Both revolvers raised. Six rounds total.
Six men down.
It was surgical. Brutal. Beautiful.
They slipped through the far door, bursting back into the open road as the warehouse behind them lit up—gas lines punctured in the chaos had caught fire.
The blaze painted the sky red as they sped off already inside the vehicle of them.
Shizuka was white-knuckled on the wheel. "Where now?!"
Takashi checked the map. "Route 17 is choked with debris. We double-back through the southern bypass. It loops to the hillside near the Takagi compound."
Marco nodded. "Go. We're almost there."
As the Hammer roared up the final hill, a glimmer of fortified walls appeared between thick lines of bamboo and cement barricades.
Floodlights clicked on.
Rifles glinted.
Shouts in echoed.
"STOP THE VEHICLE! IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!"
Marco grabbed the external mic.
"This is Marco Di Balla, accompanied by Takashi Komuro and Dr. Marikawa. We request asylum and speak in the name of Takagi-sama."
A pause.
Then the gates opened slowly, metal grinding against concrete.
Inside, beyond sandbagged defenses, rows of uniformed men stood armed but steady.
And at the front, standing tall in her crimson dress and armed to the teeth—Yuriko Takagi.
She looked the three over, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly.
"You survived the gauntlet," she said calmly. "Good. We have much to discuss."
Marco stepped out of the Hammer, bloodied, but standing tall.
"You've got one hell of a neighborhood, Takagi-dono."
Yuriko gave the faintest smile. "Then let's see if you're the kind of man who deserves to stand in it."
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