Up against teammates this busted in (literal) god-mode…
Hayato could only rub his temples and sigh for what felt like the hundredth time today. He probably hadn't sighed this much all year.
"According to the map, there's no student cafeteria in this city-campus setup, so we'll run short on supplies fast.
"If we're not treating this school as a base, we have to leave quickly.
"The campus gate should have a dedicated parking lot… if we're lucky there's something we can drive."
Seeing Aiden stay quiet, Hayato pressed on. "Aiden-kun, before we go, could you teach us how to actually use our guns?"
The Hunter had left a shadow on everyone's mind.
They'd had firearms but couldn't land hits—because no one knew how to shoot under pressure.
New shooters forget: it isn't just eyes and hands; it's your head.
That one instant of thunder is blinding; tinnitus and flinch are normal.
And recoil alone can wreck your stance.
Hayato felt a thorn lodged behind his sternum. He refused to relive that helplessness.
"Fine." Aiden nodded.
That was his plan anyway. From here on, this group would run like a unit—strict discipline, or get out. He didn't need dead weight.
"With where you are now, you won't leap in skill," Aiden said, drawing his Beretta M9 and demonstrating. "So I'll teach you the Mozambique Drill."
Close-quarters doctrine:
two rapid shots to the center mass,
then instantly transition and finish with one to the head.
The first pair crushes a target's ability to move; the last one ends it.
For newbies, landing first-shot headshots on zombies is a fantasy. This gives you a path that actually works.
Everyone listened hard—this was survival.
Under Aiden's steady breakdown—grip, stance, sight picture, trigger press, safety—at least they could run basics now. They wouldn't freeze with the safety on, flailing at the first infected they saw.
"Move. We're leaving the school."
They descended from the faculty office toward the lower three floors.
There weren't many zombies left; clearing was smooth.
Aiden still broke trail for most of it, but Hayato and a few braver boys forced themselves to cut down singles—earning their first blood and shaving the fear to something manageable.
Outside the building,
the air sat heavy and stale.
A weak, yellow sun hung like it was sick—casting a dim, infected light.
Late November in America bit with cold. Their breaths misted. White rime edged the ground.
Every step had to be careful—sound would draw the dead.
"So cold…"
Coddled students shivered. An hour ago they'd been in warm April.
But with Aiden here, no one dared complain.
They swallowed the cold and moved.
Per the map, they'd need to cross the quad and slip past a second classroom block to reach the main gate. From there, they could scout the parking lots for a ride.
A hundred meters took nearly fifteen minutes—socks sweaty inside chilled shoes.
The view opened up as they neared the gate.
Parking lots flanked both sides—finally, a sliver of good news.
From here they could see the street beyond.
Prepared as they were, the sight still punched the air from their lungs.
The streets crawled with more zombies than the campus—easily double.
Within a hundred meters, there had to be a hundred shamblers at least—some standing idle, others packed in tight knots, crouched and tearing at nameless bodies. Flies swarmed and buzzed.
The pavement was a quilt of corpses and parts.
Blood and viscera everywhere.
Cars lay crumpled at crazy angles. A few engines still coughed up black smoke.
Pure panic wreckage from outbreak day.
The air stank of rot, blood, and burned fuel.
To the east, hundreds of cars had fused into a total roadblock.
Westbound was clogged but not hopeless—creeping through could work.
"Look."
Yukino lifted a hand, signaling Aiden.
He followed her point—surprise flickered in his eyes.
About thirty meters to the right of the gate, a deep-yellow school bus idled crookedly.
Forty-five seats by the look of it—enough to haul everyone.
"Let's hope it still has gas."
It was all they could hope for. The bus had knocked down a power pole, but American school buses were tanks. Even banged up, only the hood looked mildly crumpled.
The door was standing open.
A few student-zombies pressed their faces to the windows, biting at nothing.
At the steps, three zombies crouched over a man whose last expression had frozen in terror.
His guts were out, trickling across the concrete.
Even from here, the stink curled into their noses.
From the torn uniform, he was the bus driver—and on his belt hung a ring of keys.
The bus key was right there.
Gulp.
Makoto nearly gagged from the reek. Taisuke clamped a hand over his mouth—if Makoto puked and set the horde off, they were all dead.
Even Taisuke was starting to think his friend was hopeless.
The group flattened behind the inner wall about twenty meters from the gate and whispered.
"What now? The keys are on the driver, and those zombies are camped right on top of him!"
Kakeru was all nerves. Hope was thirty meters away—and a chasm wide.
"We need someone to make the run," Hayato said. "Thirty meters isn't far, but there are at least a dozen within pounce range. One bad sound cue and the rest will swarm."
(End of Chapter)
[Check Out My P@treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!!][[email protected]/euridome]
[Thank You For Your Support!]