Chapter 79: Soldiers Do Not Fear Death
“How do you feel?”
Mori asked.
The four wounded city guards who had climbed down from the wall had each eaten a different food item.
Guard Number 12, who had eaten the roasted sweet potato, said, “It smells so good… It’s been so long since I last tasted a roasted sweet potato. Was it always this sweet?”
Mori: “…I’m asking you how the corruption feels on your body.”
“Noticeably better! Way more effective than the injections!”
Guard Number 8, who was sipping the rice porridge, said, “Captain Mori, look. The corrupted skin on my wrist seems… it’s not hardening as fast?”
Mori leaned in for a closer look.
Indeed.
The corrosive slime of the mutant frogs was extremely aggressive. The moment it made contact with bare skin, it caused an intense, agonizing burn, and the affected flesh would swiftly turn into a hardened green crust resembling the skin of a mutant frog.
Many in the squad bore scars of that exact nature.
The newly treated corrosive wound on Number 8’s wrist, still weeping with fresh blood along the edges, was now only slowly changing color.
“The pain isn’t nearly as sharp, either,” Number 8 added.
Guard Number 7, who was cherishing his boiled corn, had only eaten half an ear. “Captain, I feel like I’m not nearly as exhausted. As soon as my hazard suit is patched up, I can get back up on the wall!”
Guard Number 13, who had finished his sugar-roasted chestnuts, had even rolled the empty shells around in his mouth. “This is pure bliss… Hand me my rifle, I can drop another hundred of those bastards!”
Mori pushed him back down with an amused snort, but her eyes held a spark of excitement as she looked back at the large plastic sacks.
She raised her whistle to her lips.
One long blast, one short.
Soon, two figures descended from the wall.
“Rotating shifts tonight. Teams Seven and Fourteen, as your squad members rotate down, distribute rations according to this list. The baseline quota is two items per person, allocated according to individual status. Those with severe injuries get three. The remainder is to be held as tactical reserves.”
Mori handed over the paper. Team Leader Seven, thoroughly perplexed, took the sheet and leaned in with Team Leader Fourteen to read it.
Moments later, the eyes of both strike team leaders widened like copper bells.
“Coordinate among yourselves first and memorize the tactical buffs of each food item so you can distribute them efficiently.”
As Mori spoke, she pulled the strap across her shoulder and tightened it anew.
“Yes, but… this…”
“Direct any questions to him.” Mori pointed to the city guard who had arrived with Beverly.
“The assault just broke, so there shouldn’t be any immediate emergencies for now. My unit rotates down to rest in ten minutes; Unit Two rotates down in thirty minutes; Unit Three rests in fifty minutes. Each rotation gets twenty minutes of downtime.” She looked over at Number 8 and the others who were still eating. “You have twenty minutes to rest as well. Report back to the line the moment your time is up.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Whoosh—
With a tether cord secured at her waist, Mori bounded nimbly up the wall using the grappling line anchored at the battlements.
She landed in a low crouch beside Beverly, who was maintaining a vigilant watch with her rifle raised.
“These are exceptional supplies. Outside the West Wall… the Chinese Restaurant?”
Beverly didn’t turn her head, merely nodding once.
“An Awakener’s ability?”
“Not an Awakener.”
Beverly turned her head, asking, “You’ve tried them? Did they help?”
Mori let out an affirmative grunt. “A massive help.”
Purging toxins, mitigating the mutations inflicted by mutated creatures, and even replenishing physical stamina.
For the current strike team, this was an indispensable “reinforcement.”
The two exchanged a brief, knowing look; certain things didn’t need to be voiced aloud.
They were soldiers. Soldiers did not fear death.
What they feared was facing a hopeless impasse and utter despair before the end came.
Fortunately…
That despair had finally been broken.
…
The Black Fields Quarantine Sector.
The Medical Bay.
This could easily be considered the best-equipped medical facility in Seed City.
Whether it was suturing, debridement, or minor surgical procedures, the doctors here were capable of handling it all.
The sanitary conditions were vastly superior to the clinics within the inner city.
Yet right now, faced with an overseer succumbing to toxic corruption, the things a doctor could actually do were pitifully few.
The overseer lying on the cot had shed his hazard suit, wearing only his dark blue uniform.
The stencil on his chest read: “2.”
His sleeves were rolled up, and his entire right forearm was wrapped in thick bandages.
His neck was in similar shape.
The doctor peeled back the blood-soaked gauze and carefully cleansed the deep bite wound along Overseer Two’s neck once more.
Disinfected, then redressed.
Overseer Two cracked his eyes open, his brow knotting in pain.
The blood soaked into the discarded gauze was tainted with a sickly green hue.
The lacerations themselves weren’t the lethal threat; the wounds on his forearm had already been sutured, and while the bite on his neck was deep, it had spared the carotid artery.
The fatal threat was the poison.
The emerald discoloration on Overseer Two’s skin had already crept into his irises.
Having finished dressing the wound, the doctor pushed open the door leading to the back room of the medical bay.
When he emerged, he held an ampoule in his hand.
The green tint of the solution inside was diluted to the point of being nearly imperceptible.
A detox serum diluted several times over was already the most precious medical resource this entire ward possessed.
He sat down beside Overseer Two, ready to administer the injection.
The man on the bed raised his left hand, pressing it gently against the doctor’s wrist.
The gesture meant: Don’t bother.
The doctor froze.
Overseer Two parted his dry lips, his voice raspy and faint: “Don’t waste it.”
Perhaps speaking pulled at the bite wound on his neck, for he let out a sharp hiss of pain.
Then, reaching up, he tapped his left breast.
The doctor understood his meaning instantly.
Stitched into the interior lining of every soldier’s uniform, over the left breast, was a thin fabric patch.
Embroidered upon it was each service member’s military identification number.
Using that number, one could look up the life-and-death declaration every soldier signed upon enlistment after the cataclysm.
In other words: a final will.
The doctor gave him a solemn nod.
He set the syringe down, rose to his feet, and rendered a crisp military salute to Overseer Two, whose irises were rapidly drowning in a deep, murky emerald.
Bang—!
The heavy door to the medical bay was violently kicked open from the outside.
Chief Overseer Nelson burst into the room in a furious hurry, clutching several sheets of paper in his fist.
He was flanked by several city guards.
“Chief Overseer…?”
“Which ones are the most critical?!”
“Huh?”
“Answer me, now!”
“The ones along the far wall—all the cots marked with red tags!”
“Jack, take your squad! Work with Doctor Warren and force-feed them! Move, fast!”
Nelson barked orders: “Orange tags are moderate trauma?”
“Yes…”
“Fifteen, take your team and stuff them full of roasted sweet potatoes! Move it! Doctor Bai, get over here and help!”
Nelson jabbed a finger at several overseers trailing behind him.
The two duty doctors who had been singled out joined the force-feeding operation in a daze.
With the Chief Overseer storming in like this… was he here to save lives, or to poison the wounded?
“Chief! This one’s fading fast—his jaw is clamped shut!”
“Pry it open!”
Nelson marched over to the cot and forcefully pried the man’s jaws apart.
“Do we have a feeding syringe?!”
Doctor Warren hastily retrieved a wide-bore syringe with a soft rubber tube and handed it over.
Stepping up to the cot, he took one look and sucked in a cold breath.
With the force the Chief Overseer had used… the patient’s jaw was almost certainly dislocated.
Just as Overseer Two’s eyes were about to slip shut for the final time, a sharp crack of pain shot through his jaw.
Immediately after, a thick, viscous substance was aggressively forced down his throat.
The shock forced his drooping eyelids wide open once more.
Through his blurred vision… he vaguely made out the ferocious, contorted face of the Chief Overseer.
“…”
Was Chief Overseer Nelson… giving him a mercy kill?
