4.The Little Prince in the Ossuary

Gas stations along U.S. highways were usually accompanied by inns and restaurants. San Miguel was no different, with two restaurants on opposite sides of the road and an inn diagonally across the intersection. While the soldiers stood guard around the perimeter, refugees in gas masks, each with a firearm, jungle knife, or axe in hand, began searching the nearby restaurants.

As he watched, the boy, who was born in winter and named Winter, vaguely wondered if there were many Hispanics in town, because both of the restaurants across the street from the gas station were Spanish restaurants. One had a sign that read "Tenth Avenue Basque Cafe," while the other, more of a bar than a restaurant, served tortas and burritos.

The refugees were overcrowded. The boy didn't move because he was afraid that if a new strain of the infection came out, they would run into each other and he wouldn't be able to do his job. The people, on the other hand, were different. They were trying to stay close to the line of cars, in a relatively safe place, so they could get points for trying as hard as they could. I could hear them arguing with each other. Even with the gas masks on, they were screaming so loudly that it could be heard outside the building.

Luckily, it must have been an empty building without a single variant. Everyone got out okay. However, they were not in a normal mood. It was clear that they had struggled to fill their duffel bags with food. Some people came out crying with torn duffel bags. I don't know where my gas mask went. It must have come off during the struggle, and after being cursed out by the supervisor, the boss, they went back inside.

A burly refugee volunteer climbed into the truck with a grunt. His duffel bag was full. He was embarrassingly Korean. Embarrassing, even for a game, because in a world set in the past, the characters' personalities are based on big data from that era. The man asked the boy to translate. It was pathetic, but he translated.

"I've done my part, I'm not going any further."

The faces of the soldiers, NCOs and officers alike, crumpled as they heard the paraphrased words. Corporal Elliott grumbled. I guessed it, but this is what it's been like since the beginning. The man sitting in the bed of the truck, hugging his duffel bag tightly, asked what the American soldier had said. The boy shrugged it off.

The ten refugees, including the boy, began to move under the direction of Private Guillemie and Corporal Elliott. They were headed for the mill. From the gas station, they would have to move three blocks east and four blocks north. "Before Morgellons, these were short distances that would have been walkable, but now they were too far for the survivors.

The old boy's story is different. He took the lead when no one else wanted to. With his temporarily issued gun strapped to his back and a jungle knife in his hand, he had no choice but to take the lead. He trusted the calibration of his 9th grade "Close Quarters Combat" and 10th grade "Close Quarters Weapons Use" skills.

Cars were jumbled together in every block. With a wave of my hand, I called for volunteers and pushed the cars to the shoulder. Along the way, I kept my eyes peeled for residential neighborhoods to the left and right. Peeking over low fences and wooden hedges, unpopular one-story houses gave off an air of desolation.

"Wait, stop."

Corporal Elliott raised his fisted hands up. The refugees lowered their stances to prostrate. They all rolled their eyes like frightened herbivores. Luckily, they hadn't spotted a threat and sent up the stop sign. There was a flagpole in the direction the corporal was looking. The American flag was familiar, but not the one with the red star and grizzly bear.

"What's that flag?"

"That's a California state flag, firehouse. I didn't see it when we were practicing."

Private Guillemie replied. Sure enough, the bottom of the bear read California Republic.

Corporal Elliott decided to explore the firehouse building. While we wouldn't expect to find food, medical supplies such as painkillers, antibiotics, and bandages would be important. The fire truck was also important, as it would be used to transport drinking water if they had to leave camp.

"Even a small 5-ton fire truck can hold 3,000 liters."

Elliott laughed as he said this.

Once again, the boy went in first. I was told it was okay to take turns, but I didn't mind. I got a notification that there was a slight upward correction in the affinity of the two American soldiers. No big deal. I didn't need to get all worked up over a small increase.

Because of the small size of the town, the firehouse was single-story. There was an office attached to the garage, but unfortunately, you couldn't see inside through the special glass. The boy knocked on the solid door with the back of his knife. The noise was loud enough to be heard inside, but not loud enough to travel far, but not to the heart-stopping refugees. The boy clenched his fists.

"Hey, let's leave it at that, shall we?"

Guillemot pointed his gun at me and jerked left and right. It meant back off. If he was truly in danger, the American soldier would have stopped him. The warned refugee hesitantly backed away, then jumped to his feet. Bang, something knocked on the door from inside. I put my ear to the door and heard a muffled whine. It wasn't a human sound. It was an infectious strain.

The boy shook his head at the two soldiers standing in the doorway a few meters away, ready to fire. He grabbed the doorknob, his other hand clutching a jungle knife.

"I'll take care of it."

"Guts or insanity...."

As Private Guillemie shook his head, Corporal Elliott asked, "Are you sure you want to do this? He nodded, and the corporal gave him permission. He didn't trust the boy, but he knew the refugees needed to be provoked. Still, he didn't want the boy to be wrong; it would backfire. My finger on the trigger was tense, as if it could be pulled at any moment.

"Okay. If you're confident, go for it."

The winter boy imagined what the infected would look like on the other side of the door. If it was an infected firefighter on a call, it would be wearing a fire suit and a hard hat, and there would be few weak spots for a knife. I thought fast and acted fast. I twisted the doorknob and yanked, and the mutant that had been pushing against the door fell out of my grasp. The boy stomped on the fallen creature's back, kicked it, knocked off its hat, and brought the heavy knife down hard on its head. Kwazik. The blade sank into the skull. Bloody cerebral fluid oozed stickily from the crack. The mutant's body convulsed.

Something human-like is dying. I could feel a tingling electricity coming from the handle. This sensation was why he had chosen a virtual reality title with such a dark world. The boy held still until the sensation died down, then gave his wrist a snap. The knife came out with a snap.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"That's fine.

When Guillemie showed concern, the boy returned a calm answer. The private admired the harsh words.

"Ha, here's a badass."

The boy was the first to step through the open door. There was a small gain from a small action. There was a small upward correction in the favorability ratings of the two soldiers. Again, it didn't mean much, but these small gains add up and will pay off later.

In this small town, the fire department doubles as a government office. Even the front of the office window reads Community services district. The firefighters, who were rarely called out, also served as civil servants, taking care of administrative tasks.

The office was long from front to back. Inside, I find a packet of keys among the papers, and since I have two guns, I grab them as well. While the people behind me watch, I open a wall locker and sweep out the drugs. The boy's duffel bag is about a third full.

"Over there...."

A middle-aged man speaks up.

"Let's share fairly, what if I take it all by myself...."

The boy looked back, wordlessly. His opponent flinched back. Blood was still dripping from the boy's tightly gripped jungle sword. He must have felt threatened. He glared at him, but he couldn't meet his gaze and turned away. The boy wasted no time. There were three buttons on the other wall. They were probably switches to raise the garage shutters. Elliot lusted after the fire truck. He stood in the doorway. I gave him a look and he nodded. Without hesitation, I jerked it open.

Sure enough, I heard the whirring of a motor. As I walked out of the office, I saw people who hadn't come in yet and two U.S. Army soldiers with guns pointed in all directions. They'd heard the noise and were worried about a swarm of infectious variants.

Billion!

"What, what!"

A frightened volunteer screamed. There was a parking lot next to the fire station, and when the boy saw a variant crawling out of it, he ran over and stabbed it. In his haste, someone pulled the trigger and the boy almost got hit.

The viewer message log exploded. When I opened it up, it was mostly "I almost died lol". There were also a few "go kill her" comments.

"Meh, sorry, I never meant to do that!"

The woman, who looked like she had a child, bowed her head repeatedly. It was hard to tell how old she was based on her appearance. All of the refugees looked at least a decade older than they were, men and women alike. The boy beckoned.

"It's okay, just keep your voice down."

The dismissive attitude made the favorability change alert cry several times. Corporal Elliott shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not kidding, he's a real man, is he fearless or reckless...."

"Does it matter?"

The corporal smirked as the boy, who had gotten closer, questioned.

"You're a lot better than those redneck recruits in Iraq. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you."

An ambulance and a fire truck were found in an open garage. One of the three garages was empty. Cpl. Elliott identified a volunteer who could drive and instructed him to take it to a gas station and return. The boy dumped the supplies he had secured into the vehicle. His attitude was decidedly different from the other refugees who were trying to fill their bags and get on their way, and it was easy to win the soldiers' favor.

However, the two drivers were reluctant.

"Should I come back?"

The sobbing refugee must have been plastic, because the corporal shoved him roughly.

"Of course you're coming back."

The boy translated the words. The two men chosen to drive the car glared at the sobbing boy, then climbed into the driver's seat. Apparently, they didn't have the guts to hate the American soldiers.

Corporal Elliott radioed the base. He'd sent two vehicles to pick up the supplies and the men. The vehicles would be there in no time, as the road was seven blocks long and wide. A few minutes later, the radio came back. Confirmation that the two drivers had said they didn't need to come back. Elliott snorted and replied that he would definitely send them back.

While I waited for them, I searched the area further. Being close to the center of town, there were a few buildings that stood out as cafes or restaurants. There was a small, unnamed diner, and two similarly sized restaurants, one old and one new in Jackson. I was impressed by a restaurant called The Ranch, which boldly proclaimed that it served Mexican food. My first thought was that this was likely a predominantly immigrant town.

But I wasn't sure the coffee house was worth the search.

"Look at that. The sign says lunch special, so they must serve meals."

Elliot says. Sure enough, there was a canned ham and a bag of flour. Enough to fill seven men's duffel bags. There were also vacuum-packed coffee beans for the camp commander. It would be oxidized and unpalatable, but even that was a luxury for now. We had to deal with a few more strains along the way, but no major incidents.

When they were done searching, they still had time to clear all the cars off the road. It was also because the two men who had driven the fire truck returned with a staggeringly slow pace.

"Hurry up or I won't give you a ration card."

Elliot's warning quickened his pace. Private Guillemie spat out a small stream of profanity.

After they joined us, we went on for another two blocks. Finally, they reached an intersection with a view of the mill. The boy prepared himself. When he reached the mill, he had two choices. He can either fill his duffel bag and turn around, or he can clear the road and call a ride. If he chose the latter, he would gain a lot of experience, but he would also have to survive the staggered attacks of the infected strain. The former alone is not an easy challenge, as there are multiple strains inside the mill. This is where the boy's first "post-apocalyptic" experience ended.

"Hey, little man."

Corporal Elliott calls out to you.

"I think I can call a truck, what do you think?"

"Why don't we wait until we have the inside of the mill before we decide?"

It was an obvious suggestion, and the corporal nodded.