WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator/Editor: Ryuu
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◈ The Little Prince of the Ossuary

00004 <-- The Little Prince of the Ossuary -->

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#Material Procurement (3), San Miguel County

In the US, gas stations along national highways are usually accompanied by motels and restaurants. San Miguel was no exception; two restaurants were situated across the road, and a motel was diagonally opposite the intersection. While the soldiers maintained perimeter security, refugees wearing gas masks and clutching firearms or machetes started searching the nearest restaurant.

Observing this, the boy, named after the winter in which he was born, speculated that the village's residents might have predominantly been of Hispanic descent. This guess was based on the fact that both restaurants across the gas station served Spanish cuisine. One was named ‘10th Street Basque Cafe,’ and the other, more akin to a bar, advertised tortas and burritos.

The refugees flocked there in large numbers, raising concerns that they might not be able to fulfill their roles properly if an infected mutant appeared due to the overcrowding. Thus, the boy chose to stay put. In contrast, the others seemed eager to show their diligence at a relatively safer location near the convoy, perhaps in hopes of scoring some points. There were even disputes among them, loud enough to be heard outside the building despite their gas masks.

Fortunately, it seemed the building was empty of mutants, as everyone emerged unscathed. However, their appearance was far from normal, bearing signs of struggling to fill their duffel bags with provisions. One individual, tearfully clutching a torn duffel bag, had lost their gas mask, presumably in a scuffle, and was scolded by a supervising NCO before being sent back inside.

A large refugee volunteer boastfully climbed onto the truck, his duffel bag brimming. Shamefully, he was Korean. It was embarrassing even in a game because the characters' personalities in worlds based on historical settings are constructed using big data from the respective eras. The man requested translation from the boy, which was reluctantly provided.

"I've done my part. I have no intention of going out again."

Hearing the translated words, the faces of the soldiers, NCOs, and officers alike fell. Sergeant Elliot muttered under his breath. It was a bad start, as expected. The man sitting in the truck bed, clutching his duffel bag, asked what the US soldiers had said. The boy ignored him.

Including the boy, ten refugee volunteers began moving under the direction of Private Guilherme and Sergeant Elliot. They were headed to a mill. The journey required moving three blocks east and four blocks north from the gas station. Before the ‘Days after Apocalypse,’ this would have been a short walk akin to a stroll, but for the current survivors, it felt like an enormous distance.

The boy, seasoned by experience, took the lead when no one else wanted to. Armed with just a gun slung over his back and a machete in hand, he relied on his skills, Grade 9 ‘Close Combat’ and Grade 10 ‘Melee Weapon Mastery.’

Vehicles were chaotically entangled at every intersection. With hand signals, the boy directed the volunteers to push the cars to the roadside as they advanced, continuously keeping watch over the residential areas to their sides. The sight of desolate single-story homes beyond low fences or wooden barriers lent a forlorn atmosphere.

"Hold on, stop."

Sergeant Elliot raised a clenched fist upward. The refugees crouched down as if they were scared herbivores. Fortunately, the stop signal wasn't due to a detected threat. In the direction Elliot was looking, there was a flagpole. The US flag was familiar, but the flag featuring a red star and a Grizzly bear was unfamiliar.

"What's that flag?"

"It's the flag of the California state government. Looks like we're at a fire station. We didn't check this during the tactical drills."

Private Guilherme responded. Indeed, beneath the bear, it read ‘California Republic.’

Deciding to explore the fire station was Sergeant Elliot's call. While food might not be expected, medical supplies like painkillers, antibiotics, and bandages were also crucial resources. Additionally, the fire truck itself was valuable. In case they had to leave the camp, it could be used for transporting water.

"A small 5-ton fire truck could easily hold up to 3,000 liters."

Elliot said this with a smile.

The boy was the first to enter. Despite being told they could take turns, he didn't care. A notification indicated a slight increase in the favorability ratings of the two US soldiers towards him. It wasn't of much significance. He didn't need to be overly concerned about such minor increases or decreases.

The fire station was single-story, fitting the small size of the village. The office was attached right next to the garage, but unfortunately, the special glass prevented visibility inside. The boy tapped the door with the back of his machete. The noise was loud enough to be heard inside but not so loud as to reach far. However, the jittery refugees didn't see it that way. One grabbed the boy's collar, accusing him of madness.

"Hey, stop that, will you?"

Private Guilherme brandished his rifle, motioning them to back off with a sideways wiggle of the gun. It was a signal to step back. If there had been any real danger, the US soldiers would have intervened. The warned refugee reluctantly stepped back but then collapsed in a fit as something inside banged on the door. Pressing an ear against it, a low moaning sound was heard, unlike any human. It was an infected mutant.

The boy stood a few meters from the door, ready to shoot, but signaled to the two soldiers not to. Holding the doorknob with one hand and the machete with the other, he was prepared.

"I'll handle this."

"Are you brave or just out of your mind...?"

While Private Guilherme shook his head, Sergeant Elliot asked if he was sure. Nodding, Elliot gave permission. It wasn't so much trust in the boy as a belief that the refugees needed a stimulus. However, he didn't wish harm upon the boy, as that would be counterproductive. His finger was tense on the trigger guard, ready to fire at any moment.

"Alright. If you're confident, go ahead."

The Winter Boy imagined the mutant inside. If it was a firefighter on standby who had been infected, it would likely be dressed in fireproof gear, leaving few vulnerabilities to exploit with a blade. His thought process was brief, his actions swift. Twisting the doorknob and pulling the door forcefully, the pushing mutant stumbled out due to its own force. The boy stepped on the fallen creature, kicked off its helmet, and forcefully brought down his heavily weighted machete. Crunch. The blade penetrated the skull, spilling blood-mixed brain matter from the split. The mutant's body convulsed in death throes.

It felt like electricity flowing into him from the handle as the humanoid figure died before him. This sensation was why he chose dark-themed virtual reality titles set in post-apocalyptic worlds. Savoring the feeling for a moment, the boy flicked his wrist, and the machete popped out as if bouncing off.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I’m fine, thank you."

The boy calmly responded to Guilherme's concerned inquiry. The private expressed his admiration with coarse words.

"Ha, we've got a real badass here."

The boy was the first to step into the open door. Even such minor actions yielded small benefits. Notifications of slight increases in the favorability ratings of the two US soldiers appeared again. Although these were of minor significance, accumulating these small gains could eventually lead to a favorable outcome.

In such a small village, the fire station also served the functions of a public office. The phrase ‘Community Services District’ was even written across the front windows of the office. The firefighters, often with little to respond to, also took on the role of civil servants managing administrative tasks.

The office was long and stretched from front to back. Inside, among piles of documents, the boy found a set of keys. He also took two guns that were present. While the others were still dazed, he opened a wall cabinet and swiftly gathered medicines. His duffel bag was now a third full.

"Hey..."

A middle-aged man spoke up.

"We should share these fairly. You can't just take everything for yourself..."

The boy turned to him without a word, and the man recoiled. The machete in the boy's firm grip was still dripping blood. The man must have felt threatened. Unable to meet the boy's gaze, he turned away. The boy didn't waste time. On another wall, there were three switches, likely for raising the garage shutters. Elliot had shown interest in the fire truck. Standing by the door, Elliot nodded when their gazes met. Without hesitation, the boy pressed the buttons.

As expected, the sound of motors whirred, signaling the shutters opening. Stepping outside the office, he found several people and the two US soldiers aiming their guns in all directions, concerned that the noise might attract a swarm of infected mutants.

Thump!

"What, what's that!"

Startled, one of the volunteers screamed. A mutant crawled out from the parking lot next to the fire station, and the boy dashed over and dispatched it with his machete. In the confusion, someone nearly shot the boy, mistaking him for a mutant.

The viewer message log exploded with comments. Glancing through, most were mocking remarks like "Almost died in such a ridiculous way lol." There were also numerous suggestions to go back and finish off the culprit.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to do that!"

A woman, who might have been the mother of a child, apologized profusely. It was hard to guess her age by appearance alone, as all the refugees looked at least a decade older due to their rough condition, regardless of gender. The boy gestured for her to lower her voice.

"It's okay, just keep it down."

His nonchalant attitude triggered several notifications of changes in favorability ratings. Sergeant Elliot seemed puzzled.

"No joke, are you really a badass? Are you fearless or just reckless...?"

"Does it matter?"

The boy countered, prompting a small laugh from Elliot.

"Compared to the rednecks who whined in Iraq, you're much better. Looking forward to working with you."

"Thank you."

Upon entering the open garage, they found an ambulance and a fire truck, one in each of the three bays, with one bay empty. Elliot ordered those who could drive to take the vehicles to the gas station and return. The boy's collected supplies were also loaded into the vehicles. His willingness to fill his bag and quickly return set him apart from the other refugees, making it easier to earn the soldiers' goodwill.

However, the chosen drivers were reluctant.

"Do we have to come back?"

A refugee grimaced, seemingly finding the idea laughable, prompting Elliot to push him roughly.

"Of course, you have to come back."

The boy translated, and the two drivers, lacking the courage to resent the US soldiers, begrudgingly took their seats. Elliot radioed the main force, instructing them to retrieve the vehicles and their contents, and to send the people back. Since the round trip was only seven blocks, the vehicles would return shortly. A follow-up message asked for confirmation that the drivers didn't need to return. Chuckling, Elliot insisted they be sent back.

While waiting for the two, they conducted a further search of the area. Being close to the town center, notable buildings like cafes and restaurants caught their eye. There was a small, unnamed eatery, a restaurant called Jackson's Old and New, and The Ranch, which openly advertised Mexican food, confirming the boy's initial guess that the town was predominantly inhabited by immigrants.

Yet, the value of searching a coffee house was questionable.

"Look at that. The sign says 'Lunch Special.' They must have served meals."

Elliot's observation proved accurate; they found canned ham and bags of flour in abundance, enough to fill seven duffel bags with surplus. They even packed vacuum-sealed coffee beans for the camp commander. Although the beans might be oxidized and not at their peak flavor, such luxury was rare nowadays. They had to deal with a few more mutants, but no significant incidents occurred.

After completing their search and still having time to spare, they cleared the road of all cars. The two who had driven the fire vehicles returned, trudging slowly.

"Hurry up, or you won't get your rations."

Spurred by Elliot's warning, their pace quickened. Guilherme muttered a curse under his breath.

With their return, the group advanced another two blocks until they reached the intersection where the mill was visible. The boy prepared himself mentally. Upon reaching the mill, there were two options: either fill the duffel bags and return or clear the road and call for a truck. The latter option promised significant experience points but required surviving a potentially timed attack by infected mutants. Even the former option wasn't easy, as the mill might be infested with numerous mutants. This was where the boy's first experience in a ‘Days after Apocalypse’ setting had ended.

"Hey, little badass."

Elliot called him over with unexpected warmth.

"It looks like we can call the truck, what do you think?"

"Why don't we secure the inside of the mill first and then decide?"

It was a sensible suggestion, and Elliot nodded in agreement.

Footnotes:

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