Chapter 19: The Nail Gun Symphony and the Tacticool Traitor part- 1
(Exactly. But Slaughter has a charisma cheat. He has them convinced that you are 'dead weight'. He is a Transmigrator, Hirano. He wants the girls. And you are in the way.)
Ethan scanned the surroundings. Through the reinforced glass of the hallway, he could see the courtyard. It was filled with "Them"—walking corpses.
(Listen to me. Slaughter is going to lock the library door from the inside and trigger the fire alarm in this hallway to draw the zombies to you. He plans to kill two birds with one stone: kill you, and clear a path for himself.)
Hirano's face hardened. The fear didn't leave, but something else joined it. Anger. "He wants to kill me? After I fixed his gun?"
(Yes. Now, stop shaking. We are going to survive this. And then, we are going to show Saya and Saeko who the real alpha of the apocalypse is. And hint: It is not the guy wearing the fake military beret. It is the guy holding the nail gun.)
(System, access Host Capabilities. Unlock Skill: "Bullet Time Perception". Cost: 600 Points. Unlock Skill: "Infinite Ammo Pouch (Low Tier)". Cost: 400 Points.)
Ethan felt the upgrades click into place.
(Hirano. Stand up. Adjust your glasses. And smile. It is hunting season.)
Hirano stood up. A strange calm washed over him. He looked at the nail gun. It felt like an extension of his arm. He grinned, a maniacal, joyful grin that only a true gun otaku could muster.
"Understood," Hirano whispered. "Let them come."
World 6: The World of the Undead (High School of the Dead Universe)(Note: To comply with inter-dimensional safety regulations, this world has been adjusted to a University Setting. All characters are 20+ years old.)
The fluorescent lights of the Fujimi University hallway flickered ominously. The air was thick with the copper scent of blood and the dry, dusty smell of drywall. Outside the reinforced glass windows, the campus was a chaotic hellscape of shambling figures and screaming students.
Inside the hallway, Kohta Hirano stood alone. He was a heavyset young man with thick glasses and a tactical vest he had scavenged from the ROTC storage room. In his hands, he held a pneumatic nail gun connected to a portable air compressor slung over his shoulder.
(Okay, Hirano,) Ethan's voice cut through the silence of the host's mind. (Here is the situation. That fake soldier, Sergeant Slaughter, just locked the heavy security door behind you. He is currently telling Saya and Saeko that you volunteered to stay behind to hold the line. He is painting you as a tragic martyr so he can comfort the grieving women. Are you going to let that happen?)
Hirano adjusted his glasses. A glint of light reflected off the lenses, hiding his eyes. "He thinks I am a sacrifice?"
(He thinks you are an NPC,) Ethan corrected. (He thinks you are the chubby comic relief who dies in the first act to raise the stakes. Prove him wrong. What is the effective range of that nail gun?)
"Fifteen meters for lethal penetration," Hirano recited instantly, his voice losing its usual stutter. "Maximum pressure is set to one hundred and twenty PSI. It can pierce a standard skull effortlessly."
(Good. Because here they come.)
At the far end of the hallway, the fire alarm began to blare—triggered remotely by Slaughter to draw the horde. The double doors at the end of the corridor burst open.
They poured in. Students, professors, cafeteria workers. Their skin was grey, their eyes milky white, their mouths stained with fresh blood. There were at least thirty of them, squeezing through the doorway, snarling as they spotted fresh meat.
Hirano took a deep breath. He didn't shake. The "Bullet Time Perception" skill Ethan had purchased was kicking in. To Hirano, the rushing zombies looked like they were moving underwater.
(System Active: Infinite Ammo Pouch - Engaged. No need to reload nails. Just keep pulling the trigger. Make it count, soldier!)
"Target acquired," Hirano whispered. A wide, maniacal grin spread across his face. "Let us rock and roll!"
THWIP. THWIP. THWIP.
The nail gun made a rhythmic, pneumatic hissing sound. It was quieter than a firearm, but the impact was devastating.
The lead zombie, a former gym instructor in a tracksuit, took a three-inch steel nail directly between the eyes. His head snapped back, and he crumpled instantly.
THWIP-THWIP.
Two more went down. Hirano was not firing blindly. He was tapping the trigger with the precision of a rhythmic game player.
(Nice shot!) Ethan cheered. (Left side! Three runners! Use the vending machine for cover!)
Hirano slid—actually slid—across the linoleum floor, ducking behind a tipped-over soda machine just as a zombie lunged at him. The zombie slammed into the metal box. Hirano popped up from the other side.
"Too slow!" Hirano laughed. THWIP.
The nail pierced the zombie's temple.
The hallway became a kill box. Hirano moved with a grace that defied his physique. He was no longer the bullied otaku; he was the protagonist of his own first-person shooter.
(Warning: crawler at six o'clock!)
Hirano spun around. A zombie with broken legs was dragging itself toward his ankle. Without aiming, Hirano fired from the hip. The nail pinned the zombie's head to the floor.
"Stay down!" Hirano yelled.
Within two minutes, the hallway was silent, save for the blaring alarm and the hissing of the air compressor. Thirty bodies lay in heaps. The walls were decorated with steel nails.
Hirano stood in the center of the carnage, panting slightly. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Clear."
(Outstanding,) Ethan said, genuinely impressed. (You wiped the floor with them. Now, let us go have a chat with the Sergeant. He is in the Faculty Lounge at the end of the hall. He locked the door, remember?)
Hirano looked at the heavy steel door that separated him from his friends. His expression darkened. "He tried to kill me."
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