Chapter 1: Family TieZ

Hiroaki Dewa, at your service.

My surname, by virtue of being fairly unique, tended to leave a lasting impression on people. They’d sometimes ask me to write it down, and bam! They’d get hit with the double whammy. Not that my name had ever benefited me in any tangible way.

Especially not on the battlefield.

There I was, all by my lonesome, weaving my way through decrepit skyscrapers, with nothing but my trusty SCAR-H by my side.

A giant crack ran through the ground, tearing into the earth like an open wound. Among the wreckage was a fully functioning crane; it seemed to beg for someone to take it away from the surrounding destruction before it was swallowed whole. The streets were cluttered with debris and upturned cars.

Mighty structures that had once kissed the heavens were now jagged heaps of iron and rubble; cars that had carried their drivers through thick and thin were hollowed out and devoid of life. Both were littered with the broken shards of their former utility, and it was a terribly lonely sight.

There was death, destruction, and chaos as far as the eye could see.

But amid all that, there was a glimmering beacon of life, shining like the sun.

Gunshots, explosions, and impassioned screams breathed life back into the desolate street and gave the upturned cars renewed purpose as makeshift cover. Attempting to count every individual bullet among the swarm would’ve been a fool’s errand, but suffice to say, the vehicles served their purpose well.

So yeah, as I was saying... Names were meaningless out here.

Code names, on the other hand, were widespread. They called me “Hound Nine.” If you tried using your real name in earnest for a day, you’d be lying in a ditch by nightfall.

I positioned myself against an armored vehicle and flicked my gun’s safety switch to “off.” I then pulled out a pocket mirror to scan the area.

“Huh?!”

The second I popped that sucker open, a red dot began slithering across my body.

A laser! This is bad; he’s got his sights on me. Definitely got an itchy trigger finger.

I rolled out of sight to a nearby pile of rubble. Sparks flew off the body of the car, and then a gunshot rang out in the distance.

Judging by how long it took for the sound to catch up, the shot must’ve been taken from at least 400 meters away. A sniper, no doubt.

“Not half bad,” I said.

Less than five minutes had passed since I set foot on the battlefield. All means of communication were currently blocked off by electromagnetic interference; GPS signals were no exception.

Despite all that, this deadeye had been able to spot me and single me out as an enemy on this chaotic battlefield as though it were child’s play. His expertise and swift decision-making skills were unquestionable.

What he did lack was decent arms and a dash of luck.

Had it not been for the laser sights, he might’ve gotten the drop on me... If I were fresh fish, that is.

“But not good enough.” I cracked a devious grin.

Predicaments like this were precisely why I had opted for the SCAR-H over the SCAR-L, despite the latter’s lighter weight and superior magazine size. I had also coughed up a pretty penny to equip the little rascal with a state-of-the-art optical sight. Why, you might ask? Well, the SCAR-H was chambered in 7.62mm cartridges, which allowed it to achieve an effective firing range of over 700 meters with the standard barrel variation—more than enough to deal with a pesky sniper on my back.

To make it as a mercenary, you couldn’t just be a jack-of-all-trades; you had to be a master of everything.

“See you in hell!”

I popped the selector into full auto, planted the gun firmly against a tiny gap in the rubble, held down the muzzle to minimize recoil, and sprayed like there was no tomorrow.

A truckload of empty shell casings later, I caught a glimpse of a blurry figure plummeting to its doom way out in the distance.

“Next time, try putting your back into it... and the same goes for you guys too!” I spun my trusty SCAR-H around and lobbed a ’nade from the MK 13 EGLM I had mounted under the barrel.

They’d thought it was safe to peek out because I had no means of retaliating, but they had another thing coming.

The 40mm grenade emerged with a loud thwump, a sound comically out of place among all the sharp cracks of assault rifles. Slowly but surely, it soared over to the enemies’ hiding spot.

“Update your algorithms and try again, bozos!”

“Oh, God!”

After gracing me with an eerily realistic scream, they scrambled back behind cover without realizing what a futile move it was. Grenade launchers did not require direct line of sight, so all these guys could do was blankly stare at the ’nade as it flew over their cover and detonated right in the middle of it.

“Nothing personal,” I said, grinning even wider as the enemy soldiers flailed through the air.

It wasn’t really satisfying to trash-talk NPSs (Non-Player Soldiers), although it could be done for the sake of immersion. NPSs turned into a series of ones and zeroes upon death, so it was easy to tell them apart from regular players.

“Man, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” I muttered, switching out the empty magazine. “You’re all NPSs? That must mean that the sniper from earlier was one too.”

At that moment, a music track began to play, signaling the end of the simulation.

“Wait, that’s it?! I just got on a few minutes ago, what gives?!”

No one was around to answer my complaints.

The battle-ravaged city instantly fell away, seamlessly transitioning into a drab control room. Besides the fifty-something foldable chairs, the room was completely barren. The striking emptiness gave it an otherworldly vibe. It was clean, sure, but that sterility made it all the more stifling. I personally found it a little charming, though.

A robotic voice resonated throughout the room. “The combat simulation has been completed. Here are the results.”

The massive screen mounted on the wall displayed various notable stats: damage taken, accuracy, ammo expenditure, play time, and the total score, which was calculated by throwing together the four initial variables.

Under normal circumstances, one’s total score would be posted on a leaderboard and compared to that of other competing players.

[1st place: “Hound Nine”]

[2nd place: ]

[3rd place: ]

But these were no normal circumstances.

“Is the game dying or what? Sure feels like it these days,” I asked the inconspicuous character idling by the wall.

“You’ve been the only active player these last five days, Hound Nine,” she replied. This was Raven, an AI assistant whose appearance was sickeningly sweet; she had beautiful blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and glistening, ocean-blue eyes.

Raven was a key NPC in the VRFPS game Field Battle. She handled ammo refills, unit arrangements, bounty notices, tips and tricks, and much more. She did it all, and she did it well.

The express purpose of her design was to outfit Field Battle with its very own original mascot character. She might not have been the most unique character out there, but she did manage to garner a fair bit of attention. In fact, I was pretty sure that a life-size figure of her was in the works, according to a fairly recent announcement made by—whoops, getting a little too off-track here.

“You’re yanking my chain. You gotta be.”

“Look at it this way: you’re officially this week’s top player!” she said with a great big smile. “Allow me to congratulate you.”

“Aw, shucks. I couldn’t have done it without you. Wait a sec, doesn’t that mean this game is officially dead?!”

For a brief period of time, Field Battle had been all the rage. Player counts wouldn’t dip below 100,000 even outside peak hours... yet here I was, all alone. Granted, the game had been leached of players by competing franchises for a while now, and the lackluster patches certainly hadn’t helped. Still, I marveled at how the mighty had fallen.

“It’s not just Field Battle either; the entire FPS genre is on its last legs.” I swiped the air, bringing up a bunch of windows. Paramilitary Company, Strait Jacket, Crack Hound, The Juggle, Seraphim Zone... Everything from futuristic FPS games to those with a World War II theme was effectively dead. There had been an obvious downward trend in user bases across the board.

I tried looking through my friends list. Wouldn’t you know it, none of them had been online in the past five days. To be fair, my total number of friends was just above the double-digit mark, but they were all hardened VR gamers who would easily sacrifice basic necessities such as eating or going to the bathroom just to squeeze a little more game time into their day. I didn’t believe for a second that these same people had been able to resist indulging in their favorite pastime for days.

“How? I mean, it wasn’t bleeding users that fast.”

“Enough to give the game developers a good scare, that’s for sure.”

I’m sure they appreciate you telling me this, I thought.

“Still, a game as big as Field Battle doesn’t just die out like that.”

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Who knows?”

“It’s the devs’ fault, isn’t it? It has to be.”

In that case, wouldn’t the users just migrate to a different FPS with better devs?

“It’s past peak hours and all, but it’s never been this empty.”

“Who knows,” Raven repeated.

Good thing Raven’s AI just happens to deteriorate when I need answers.

“Well, I am a lone wolf at heart. Getting close to other people would just make me weak.”

Brooding aside, I would’ve gladly taken a human player of any skill level over some bot. There was a gap that computers just couldn’t fill.

Raven just smiled and nodded.

So, what now?

I shrugged in an overly exaggerated, dare I say theatrical manner, when suddenly...

“Not you again!”

My stomach had just made itself known with a bout of intense growling, totally destroying the mood.

Guess I can’t fault you for doing what you were made to do, little buddy. Shame noise cancelers don’t work on these kinds of sounds, though.

“I’m off.”

“As you wish.” Raven bowed. “Best of luck, Hiroaki.”

“You too... Wait, what did you just—”

Before I could get an answer, my screen went black.

“What was that all about?”

Did she just mix up her lines?

“Best of luck” was the signature voice line used when a player was dropped onto the battlefield directly from the control room. It makes sense in the given context but not so much outside of it, especially not for logging out.

She’d also addressed me by my real name, unless I just misheard her. Players were required to provide their first and last names, addresses, credit card information, and phone numbers to complete the sign-up process—in case of microtransactions, of course—so the devs obviously had my name stored away somewhere. But the fact that Raven, an NPC, had said it out loud could only mean one thing...

My stomach resumed its protests, derailing my train of thought.

“Alright, alright, I get the memo.”

I’ll just press Raven about it the next time I hop on. Not like it’s a matter of life and death or anything.

“I really need to grab a bite to eat,” I muttered as I pulled off my VR headset.

I was immediately greeted by none other than my greatest enemy: reality.

There I was, in my six-mat room. Aside from the VR platform right in the middle of the room, there was little worth noting... just some cheapo furniture and lots of garbage.

“I could’ve sworn I had some snacks left around here somewhere.” I set my gun controller down on the bed. It was a perfect replica of the SCAR-H, crafted with meticulous attention to detail so it looked and felt just like the real thing. After that, I popped off my VR shoes and stepped off the platform.

My hand instinctively reached inside the bag of chips on the table... but, much to my displeasure, it was empty.

“I really should’ve gotten some shut-eye.”

Yes, who would’ve thought that pulling an all-nighter might have consequences later down the line?

What made matters worse was how physically draining these types of VR games were. Every single movement required manual input, and the heavy, custom-made controller didn’t help. It was only natural to get peckish after a long sesh.

That being said...

“That slop they’ve been trying to pass off as food lately isn’t fit for human consumption.”

To tell you the truth, I hadn’t had a decent meal in close to a week now, and my snack stock was running low.

“I still get nightmares when I think back to yesterday or the day before.”

My family’s mistreatment of me, the oldest child, wasn’t anything new. It had all started when I dropped out of high school halfway through my first year. For brevity’s sake, let’s just say it wasn’t for me.

Anyway, I had a lot of free time on my hands, so to keep myself busy I set out to dominate the Field Battle leaderboards for an entire year straight. Such a feat was bound to make me famous, and then I’d ride that hype train to my career debut as a pro gamer. Graduating high school, getting into a decent college, job hunting... I’d get to breeze past all that boring stuff. The freelance life came with the added perks of working from home and, better yet, no office politics.

It was just perfect... Except for the fact that my family wasn’t exactly on board with the idea. They pretended to show their poor son love and support at first, but when they realized I was dead serious, their true colors started to show. It wasn’t anything too egregious, initially, but it only got worse by the day until it officially went from casual neglect to targeted harassment a little while back.

I only ever left the sanctity of my room to dash to the bathroom or sneak in a midnight shower. The shower and the toilet were both on the second floor, so fortunately, I hadn’t had to go down to the first floor in over a month. I should mention, though, that the kitchen was down there.

My family members placed my meal portions at my doorstep, and it was all just peachy until two days ago, when my lunch came in spoiled.

While I would have been willing to turn a blind eye if the rice had only been a little bit past its expiration date, something about the putrid stench had told me that wasn’t the case. Just to be sure, I had dipped my finger in—the grains stuck to it like glue.

I did appreciate that they’d used their finest china. A wonderfully passive-aggressive gesture.

Did they purposefully leave out a bunch of rice and let it collect as much moisture as possible? Or did they boil it and then let it sit for days on end? Either way, admirable dedication on their part.

If I so chose, I could have gone down there and pitched a fit, but they’d put in so much effort just to spite me that I would’ve almost felt bad for doing it. Instead, I’d dumped it in a trash bag and continued to pretend it didn’t exist. I wondered if this was their idea of attrition warfare.

“What’s the big deal, anyway? I’m just taking a short break from it all.”

I had my whole life ahead of me, so what did it matter if I took a year or two to do some much-needed self-discovery?

On the flip side, you have those dreaded normies who just get to do whatever they want. They sleep or play mobile games in class, or they skip class altogether to do it whenever and wherever: the bathroom, the infirmary, the gym storage room, you name it. Only a fraction of these people actually take their schoolwork seriously.

I, on the other hand, never did any of those things. Yet just because I happen to be an FPS junkie, I’m somehow worth less than them in the eyes of society? Unlike those guys, I’ve got life goals that’ll rake in the cash. On top of all that, VRFPS experience basically doubles as army service, so I’m also doing this for the betterment of my country.

Okay, I’m getting a little too heated; I should drop it.

“Who do they think they are, anyway, treating me like complete garbage?!”

Being hangry is no joke.

In a fit of rage, I picked up a plastic bottle and flung it as hard as I could at my school uniform, which had been hanging on the wall ever since I dropped out.

A cloud of dust burst out from the impact, and I was seized by a violent coughing fit. I quickly reached over and popped the window wide open to get some fresh air.

“God dammit!”

If life were a game, the unbalanced system would make it totally unplayable.

People’s general attitudes toward gamers like myself were invariably rooted in disdain. Neither my fellow classmates nor my family were exceptions; they all thought I was sick in the head, and they felt justified enough in this belief to say so out loud.

“How dare they lump me in with those filthy mobile-game casuals,” I grumbled, turning to face the VR platform.

No matter how “fake” virtual reality was, it didn’t change the fact that every single in-game motion had to be input by the user with no outside assistance.

The replica SCAR-H came with counterweights, which accurately simulated the recoil you’d get from the real thing. Besides the fact that everything was virtual, there was no real difference between Field Battle and an actual warzone.

“Look at this perfectly chiseled body. You might not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like.”

The replica SCAR-H alone weighed over five kilograms. If you tacked on the weight of all the backup magazines and my sidearm of choice—the HK VP9—I was basically getting a full-body workout every time I stepped on the platform.

“Unlike those filthy overweight NEETs who gorge on chips and pizza all day, us VR gamers are a force to be reckoned with!”

Let’s just, uh, ignore the fact that I’ve basically been surviving on nothing but chips these past few days.

“Enough’s enough. It’s about time I gave them a piece of my mind. We could’ve settled this like adults, but nooo, they just had to pull the attrition card, didn’t they?”

I looked at the clock. It was 7:00 a.m. Breakfast time.

My parents, and even my little brother, were uptight folks, to say the least. You’d think they were NPCs running on a script with how anal they were about having breakfast at exactly seven o’clock sharp.

Around the same time, Mom brings up my serving of food, as though daring me to confront her.

How ’bout this time I throw open the door and yell a little to scare her? You serve a man food unfit for dogs, and you deserve whatever comes your way. What more can I say?

Now that I was all fired up, I put my ear against the door and listened carefully. I could hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

There we go. All according to plan.

She was getting closer and closer. Soon I could pick out the distinct sound of clinking silverware. There was no doubt about it—Mom was bringing me breakfast.

Wait for it... Wait for it... Now!

“If you think I’ll stand for this one more time, you’ve got another thing coming!” I shouted, shoving the door open.

Now that I think about it, it’s been about a month since I’ve interacted with my mother. But hey, that’s the cost of working toward my dream.

“I’ll have you know that... that... Huh?”

My tirade died in my throat. There was something slightly—scratch that, noticeably off about her.

“Um, are you feeling alright?” I blurted.

Mom always had a pallid complexion, but her skin had never been quite this pale; it looked almost translucent. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. The area around her left eye was also horrifically swollen. I couldn’t tell if it was pus or blood, but something was oozing out from the wound and onto her collar and apron. It must’ve been going on a while, because the stain was both big and putrid.

All that I could still chalk up to coincidence. But it didn’t end there.

I stared at her veiny neck. As much as I would’ve liked to pretend I didn’t see it, her skin had begun peeling off at the throat, revealing a mess of bloodied tissue underneath.

This can’t be... There’s no way.

“That Halloween costume must’ve taken you ages.”

“Grrrghh...”

Mom let out a growl and began approaching me with the tray.

“Wow, uh, you’ve even got the whole zombie act down pat!”

“GraAAaAgh!”

“Okay, you can stop now. No, seriously, please stop!” I cried, backing away from her.

She’s not stopping. Somebody help me! This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. My dear, sweet mother just wants to hand me the tray in person! Yes that’s it. That’s gotta be it. Oh, who am I kidding?! She’s... She’s...!

“A-Are you mad at me?”

Bro, do you hear yourself right now?!

“GraAaAAgh!”

“I promise I’ll be a good boy. I’ll, um, start going to school again! W-Will that make you happy?”

“GraAAaAgh!”

“I’ll lay off the games, I swear! Please, for the love of God, go back to being my mother!”

My pleas fell on deaf ears. She just kept on creeping closer, making those awful, guttural screams. Within moments, I had my back pressed against the wall.

“Back off or you’ll be sorry!” I screamed, clutching my gun controller.

There’s no way this is real. I must still be in the game.

In the virtual world, a single pull of the trigger would’ve been enough to put an end to this torment. But this wasn’t the virtual world, nor did I have a real gun by my side. As well-made as the replica was, it couldn’t shoot bullets.

I held back the tears as best as I could and menacingly held up the SCAR-H. She didn’t even flinch. Those milky eyes of hers weren’t even looking at me; they were looking through me.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!”

Still, my pitiful attempts at intimidation went nowhere.

I couldn’t force myself to pistol-whip my own mother with a five-kilogram weight, so I just aimlessly swung it around in the air, hoping she’d go away.

She didn’t. In fact, she lunged straight at me.

I blacked out for a second, and next thing I knew, my SCAR-H had made solid contact with her skull, producing a wet thump. The tray fell out of her hands, its spoiled contents scattering all over the floor.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear...! Huh?”

She was still standing, albeit hunched over with her neck bent unnaturally to one side. The impact had left most of her body momentarily frozen, save for her arms, which appeared capable of operating on their own. With inhuman strength, they tried to rip the gun controller out of my hands.

“Oh no you don’t!” I said as I managed to pry it away from her.

Had I been holding the gun properly, my index finger would’ve probably gotten crushed against the trigger guard. The force was just that intense.

“GraAagh!”

I couldn’t utter another word. True fear whisked away one’s voice; there was no screaming, only deafening silence.

Jaw unhinged, she resumed moving toward me. Half her teeth were missing, while the other half were in the process of rotting away, which added an extra layer of believability to the whole thing.

I’m gonna get eaten alive, I’m gonna get eaten alive!

My fight-or-flight response kicked in, telling me to make a break for it. The problem was that I had no real escape route. Mom was currently blocking the exit, and I didn’t have it in me to jump out of a second-story window. We had spikes nailed to the top of the fence as a measure against trespassing. If I were to fumble my fall, there was a very real chance I’d impale myself by accident.

This must all be one big nightmare. There’s no other feasible explanation. But wait, what if I really am still in the virtual world? Like, I got sucked into some new zombie FPS that’s all the rage. I’ve just got to take off my headset and everything will go back to normal.

“GraAaAagh!”

“Get away from me!”

I hastily emptied out my tactical pouch, where I had stored away my HK VP9 and any spare magazines, and then I chucked them at her one by one. Once those ran out, I resorted to throwing books, plastic bottles, and even heftier pieces of trash. That was the best I could do, given the circumstances.

“Get away, get away, get away!”

One of the plastic bottles I threw still had some liquid inside, and it got all over my room. It was going to stain if I didn’t clean it up, but I didn’t exactly have the time or patience to be doing that right now.

I’m out of ammo!

Game, set, match... or so I thought.

“Sweet Jesus!”

I caught sight of sparks flying out of the wall socket and leapt away immediately. A second later, my mother’s body began violently convulsing.

“No way,” I murmured.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed she was standing on top of a power strip drenched in a puddle of water. She was being electrocuted.

“GraAA—grggh—aAar—rgh!” The current was so strong, she couldn’t even keep a proper roar going for more than a moment.

Her being locked in place had nothing to do with pain; the electrical current passing through her body was zapping her nervous system and assaulting her with muscle spasms, preventing her from moving voluntarily.

A few moments later, the power strip burst into flames.

This appeared to be the final nail in the coffin, as she fell flat on her face right then and there, knocking the nearby bookshelf off balance in the process. Well, it had been a bookshelf two years ago, anyway. Since then, it had become my dumping ground for all sorts of boxes.

“Mom?”

She was pelted by all the boxes as they slid from the shelves until the whole piece of furniture came down on her full force.

“...Mom?”

There was an audible splatter, followed by silence.

“Mom, a-are you okay?”

A well-timed pool of thick, rancid blood started seeping out from underneath the bookshelf. It really drove the point home.

She’s dead. There’s no question about it. Her head got cracked wide open. There’s no way in hell she’s recovering from that. Still, it feels wrong to call her “dead” in the first place. Part of me feels like...

“You were never even alive to begin with.”

Any normal, fully functioning human being would’ve paid the doctor a visit by now, or at least have refrained from serving their own child spoiled food. Zombies could groan and move about, but their actions completely lacked the drive and vitality possessed by the living.

“This is all just a bad fever dream, right?”

There was no reply.

◆

“If anyone’s out there, send help! Please, I’m begging you...”

After God knows how long, I finally returned to my senses.

I decided to go downstairs in search of help.

While I might’ve stopped myself from retreating into the deepest recesses of my mind, I wasn’t exactly stable. From an outsider’s perspective, I was nothing more than some antisocial shut-in who’d lashed out at his very own mother for undeniably petty reasons. No one was going to bring her back to life, so calling for help would only accomplish one thing: getting me thrown in jail for matricide. Needless to say, I wasn’t thinking straight.

If I had been in control of my mental faculties, I would’ve noticed one teeny, tiny discrepancy: how did Mom’s condition go unnoticed? Pretty funny now that I think about it, in a dark, twisted kind of way.

“Dad, is that you?”

As I mentioned earlier, my family was an uptight bunch. Before leaving for work, Dad would always take the time to meticulously shine his shoes. Maybe if the cheapskate bought a new pair instead of holding onto the worn-out ones, he wouldn’t have to waste his time doing that.

And wouldn’t you know it—there he was, shining his shoes like any other morning...

“Grarrrgh.”

...except for the fact that he was making those same weird growling noises as my mom.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Luckily, he didn’t notice me. I snuck past him and into the living room, where my dear little brother, Yoshiaki, was watching TV.

“What on earth are you doing?”

No response. He just kept giggling and giggling at, presumably, some comedy show.

“Mom and Dad are acting all weird, and you’re just sitting there on your ass watching... TV...?” My voice trailed off as the realization hit me.

There was nothing on. The screen was pitch-black, save for a tiny “no signal” message tucked away in the corner.

“In that case...” I gathered the courage to sneak up behind him.

I peeked over his shoulder and noticed that his hands were caked with some sort of fleshy chunks. It took me a good few seconds of mental processing to realize that they were leftovers. As I tried wrapping my head around it all, I noticed our Shiba Inu’s collar resting at his feet.

“This has got to be some sort of sick joke...”

That being said, this kind of thing was to be expected. With both parents being afflicted, it only made sense that their middle-school-aged child had fallen victim as well.

I decided to leave him be and made my way to the kitchen. I intended to leave the house through the back door. I couldn’t stomach this place for even a second longer. I didn’t know where to go, but I needed it to be anywhere but here.

“Where’s that foul stench coming from?” I wondered aloud as my nostrils were assaulted by a horrific smell. The power of it made me reflexively squeeze my eyes shut.

When I opened them again, I saw our desecrated kitchen. Blood, chunks of flesh, and guts were spilled everywhere; not a single inch of the tile had been fortunate enough to escape the mayhem. The fetid odor wafting out of the open fridge was a cut above all of that. There wasn’t a single item inside that hadn’t spoiled to some degree.

“Here goes nothing.” I pinched my nose shut, squinted, and scanned the room for any items of interest.

I noticed a kitchen knife, so I went and picked it up. Loose pieces of flesh fell to the floor with a smack. What was supposedly a stainless steel knife was now peppered with spots of rust. It must’ve been left out unwashed for more than a day. Three days? Five, maybe? I couldn’t say for sure.

“I think I’m about to hurl...” Before I had a chance to, I heard someone behind me.

“GraAaagh!”

Shit! They found me!

I turned around and saw my father and brother heading into the kitchen, arms outstretched.

Maybe they just want to give me a nice big hug for finally stepping out of my room? Oh, how I wish that were the case.

“Stay back or else!” I pointed the knife in their direction, but they kept on coming.

Just like my mother, they either didn’t feel pain or were incapable of processing language, or both. Either way, they were a force to be reckoned with, if not for...

“Grrrgh... Grr.”

“Grgh, grgh, grgh.”

...their limited intellectual capabilities.

While trying to barge into the kitchen at the same time, they both got stuck in the doorway. It wasn’t about who would get dibs on some fresh human meat—they were just that oblivious to their surroundings, kind of like a fly repeatedly bashing into a window to make its way outside.

“Haha... Hahaha! Just look at you; you’re pathetic! Pathetically stupid that is!” I couldn’t help but laugh at the unexpected turn of events.

This isn’t real, this can’t be real, tell me it ain’t real, why won’t anyone tell me it ain’t real?

“You guys are killing me! Ahaha...haha... Wait, what the...?”

They started making an awful lot of noise, so I looked up and saw them trying to break down the walls by punching them repeatedly. Even after breaking every bone in both of their arms, they persisted, their legs in constant motion so as not to miss the opportunity to squeeze through.

Whatever those things are, they’re not human. No sane human would ever seriously consider destroying their body to accomplish a task as meaningless as getting through a doorway. At least, not as far as I’m concerned.

“I can’t... This is too much.”

I step out of my room one day, and it turns out my whole family has been zombified. Sounds like some scrapped B movie premise.

“To hell with all of you!” I cried.

I turned back one last time, and after taking a good, hard look at what I once considered family, I left through the back door and into the outside world.

◆

Getting arrested was now the least of my worries.

I decided to head to the nearest police station.

If memory serves, it should be just three minutes away on foot. I’d dial 110, but it’d take too long and time is of the essence.

“That’s... odd.” As I trekked across the neighborhood, I noticed a striking lack of people. There wasn’t a single soul in sight.

Granted, it’s still pretty early... Wait, no, that’s the whole problem! It’s rush hour right now, and there’s nobody out! Nada! Zilch! That can only mean one thing...

“Keep it together, man.” I nipped my thoughts in the bud and kept on running. I couldn’t bear to lose all hope just yet.

Soon, I reached the local police station.

“There’s been an accident. I need help, pronto!” I stood at the door and cried out for help... but nobody answered.

They’re probably just out patrolling the streets. Why they thought that was a good idea when somebody could need their help at any time is beyond me, though.

From what I understand, 24/7 convenience stores are the ideal place to hide from any shady individuals... But in this case, beggars can’t be choosers.

“It should be safe here,” I told myself as I locked the door.

Not even a full second later, I heard a distant thwump.

“What if there’s someone sleeping in there?” I wondered aloud, looking toward the other door where the sound had come from.

I’d heard once that police stations had their own dedicated nap rooms where they’d take turns recharging their batteries.

I circled around the counter and approached the door. This area was most likely off-limits to civilians, but I honestly couldn’t have cared less.

Do what you want with me; I just want some peace of mind.

Unfortunately, fate had something else in store for me.

“Ugh, there’s that nasty stench again.” I had opened the door just a crack, only to be greeted by a familiar foul odor.

I should’ve gunned it right then and there. Instead—whether I was just desensitized or totally off my rocker—I decided to do the exact opposite and step inside.

A uniformed police officer was on his knees, zealously chowing down on something in his hands.

Nom. Nom. Nom. Nom.

He munched and crunched away without a care in the world.

Beside him lay a girl’s corpse, clad in my former high school’s standard uniform. You heard me right—a corpse, without a shadow of a doubt. The massive, gaping hole in her stomach was all the proof I needed. Judging by the absence of any oozing blood, it was safe to assume that her heart had long ceased functioning.

Half of the internal organs rested in the officer’s grubby little hands, while the other half was, presumably, getting all warm and cozy inside his belly.

That could’ve been me.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed another two bodies sprawled across the floor. One of them had an excavated stomach, just like the girl, and the other was missing a good chunk of its neck. Common sense would dictate that they were dead, and it would’ve been right on the money in a normal world, but their jaws were quivering, indicating life.

“Th-They’re...”

Alive. All of them! Well, actually, they’re dead, but they’re also not? Man, this is way too confusing.

Anyway, I think it’s fairly safe to assume that these kids sought out the policeman, hoping he’d make the big bad monsters go away, only to find out that he’d been one all along.

This line of reasoning made me realize something else.

Wait, I’ve been doing the very same thing. Doesn’t that mean if I don’t change my course of action, my bowels or my neck are also gonna become dinner, and then I’ll become a mindless, flesh-eating zombie just like them?!

I’ve gotta get out of here, stat.

I carefully crept back to the door.

So long as the officer doesn’t take notice, I should be in the clear. The zombie fledglings are too busy violently convulsing to pose any tangible threat. Don’t you dare turn around. Yep, that’s what I thought. Good boy.

One imaginary exchange later, I was scarcely a meter away from the door.

Free at la—

“Eek!”

I was so sure I was in the clear, up until the Field Battle opening theme started playing out of nowhere, causing me to shriek.

I forgot to turn off my alarm!

My buddies and I had a set time for when we’d get together and chill in the virtual realm. I had the alarm set as a reminder... and now it was about to signal my time of death. I would’ve tried to turn it off, but it was already too late.

“Grrrgh?” The police officer lifted his head and slowly turned around.

Easy does it.

I tried calmly backing up, only to immediately trip on a folded steel chair.

Oh, gimme a break.

I tried getting back on my feet, but to no avail. My body wouldn’t—no, couldn’t move.

Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!

“S-Stay back! Stay back, I said!”

He kept getting closer and closer until I could feel the warmth of his rotten breath as his face approached mine.

“Grargh...”

Is this game over? Am I done for? It can’t end like this!

“GraaAar—hrk!” Next thing I knew, the incessant growling had stopped.

“Hm?” I pried my eyes open and saw that the zombie’s head had fused with the blade of a shovel. Well, not exactly “fused”... More like the thing was sticking out of its skull.

This was what happened to one’s mind under copious amounts of stress.

Once I started coming back to my senses, I assessed the situation a little more objectively. The shovel’s blade had entered the zombie’s skull through its left temple and pierced it about halfway through before losing momentum and grinding to a halt.

“Eep!”

Just as I finished my evaluation, it slipped out of the skull, splattering blood all over the place. The shovel-wielding renegade must have pulled it out.

Having suffered a fatal blow to the head, the zombie fell to the ground, revealing the person behind the act.

“Is that... a girl?”

It was indeed. She appeared to be in her teens, roughly my age.

Her hair was cut in a short... whatchamacallit... bob, I think? Anywho, she had something of an androgynous vibe, but not the outdoorsy kind. Well, not with those red plastic frames resting on her nose, in any case.

The pink barrette was kinda cute... until I realized it was weeping big black tears, and that it had one eye and a chunk of its cranium missing. It wasn’t an adorable little piggie like I’d initially thought; it actually resembled a cartoonish zombie.

Questionable taste, but hey, whatever floats your boat.

The well-rounded facial features, the tapering jawline, the doe-eyed expression... This girl was plenty cute.

She perched the shovel atop her shoulder and then made a masterful horizontal swipe, slicing the officer-zombie’s head clean off.

His dome-piece bounced off the wall and landed by my feet, and I stared down at the gray matter peeking through loose bits of cranium. I’d thought I had gotten desensitized to these kinds of horrific displays by now, but the sight was so disturbing I couldn’t even muster the will to scream.

The girl walked right up to the remaining fledglings and chopped off every single one of their heads with mechanical precision, completely unfazed. It was oddly satisfying seeing fountains of blood going off to an almost rhythmic beat of tearing flesh in the background.

“Atta girl!”

Glad I never got the chance to turn off the music; makes this whole thing feel like a crazy slasher film.

Once she was finished, she turned back and started heading in my direction. As she approached, she brought the shovel overhead in one fluid motion.

Is she thinking what I think she’s thinking?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill, chill!”

The girl froze mid-swing. I could feel the blade tickling my hair.

Whew, way too close for comfort. Who is this girl anyway? And why’s she so... businesslike? It’s almost as if she’s been doing this for a living. Doing what, exactly? That I’m not so sure about.

“Are you some unique type of zombie?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Uh, ‘type’?”

What an odd way to classify other humans... or what’s left of them anyway.

“Not that there haven’t been instances of talking zombies in the past, but their speech patterns were distinctly different from yours in that...” She lowered the shovel, rested her hand against her cheek and trailed off into an incoherent monologue like nothing had happened.

And here I was thinking that the zombies were bad, but this girl takes the cake.

“So that’s that,” she concluded. “I think I’ll bash your head in just to be safe. No reason not to.”

“I’m human! What more do you want?!” I cried, trying to appeal to her humanity.

She stopped in her tracks.

“...Fine.” After an intense bout of staring, she begrudgingly chose to spare my life.

“Are you okay?” she added offhandedly.

Call me unreasonable, but something about her deadpan delivery felt lacking in sincerity.

“Am I okay? You almost killed me back there! And put that thing down, will ya!”

She reluctantly lowered her shovel after some deliberation.

“I didn’t know there were other survivors.”

What a half-baked attempt at an excuse. But if what she’s saying is true, then that means...

“So that’s where the obnoxious tune was coming from.” She pointed toward my pocket.

“Oh, umm, sorry; I’ll shut it off right away.” I took out my phone and turned off the power. Leaving it on would’ve put me at risk of receiving unwanted phone calls and messages. At least alarms were somewhat predictable; calls and texts could come at any time.

“Hold this.” She handed me the bloodstained shovel, which my hands reflexively took from her. Considering how heavy it was, I was surprised she’d been able to wield it with ease, but it didn’t seem that was much of an issue for her.

I didn’t quite get why she’d given me the shovel, but I had a feeling she was up to no good. I watched closely as she took the gun out of the officer’s holster.

“What’re you doing? You’ll get us both in trouble.”

“How so?”

“Japan’s gun control law prohibits civilians from carrying guns. We’ll get arrested on the spot!”

“By who?”

“What do you mean by who? The police, ob...viously...” It slowly dawned on me that this cop’s zombie status had some pretty far-reaching implications.

“Think this thing’s loaded?” she asked, staring down the barrel. I tossed away the shovel and immediately pried it from her hands.

“Do you have a death wish or something?!”

“Hey, I called dibs on that.”

“Now’s not the time for games! You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“My finger was off the trigger.”

“There’s so much wrong with that statement that I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. Here’s how you check if this particular piece is loaded or not.” I looked over the gun.

Let’s see here...

It was a S&W M360J. The police models were marked “SAKURA M360J.” This gun was a variant of the Model 36—also known as the “Chief’s Special”—with a lanyard ring attached for Japanese law enforcement.

Two-inch snub-nosed barrel, five-round cylinder... About what you’d expect from your typical police revolver.

I had practiced using a Chief’s Special before in a police-themed FPS game I’d played back in the day, so I was probably good to go. This one was a different model, but in all actuality there was very little variation between them, seeing as they were made by the same manufacturer. That being said, this would be my first time handling the real thing, so I decided to put on an air of confidence so this girl wouldn’t question my authority.

“Watch and learn, newbie. First, you push down the cylinder release.” I held down the latch and gently flicked my wrist to the side. The cylinder came out with no issue.

“I see.” The girl was in awe. While she might’ve had a massive leg up on me in terms of zombie knowledge, I too had a domain of my own. “So, is it loaded?”

“Right. Lemme check real quick... Uh, yep, fully loaded.” It was clear from the condition of the cases that they had yet to be fired. Poor cop must’ve been caught off guard.

“Good.” She plucked the gun right out of my hands without even giving me time to react.

My mind ran amok with all sorts of paranoid delusions, but the only shot that fired next came from her lips.

“Shoes,” she barked, pointing at my feet.

“What about them?”

“You’re missing ’em.”

“Hah! You think I’d fall for tha—”

I looked down and realized that I was, in fact, shoeless.

Wow, I was panicking so hard back home that I totally forgot to put my shoes on. Then again, who wouldn’t have freaked out that badly if they were in my shoes... or lack thereof. My whole family got turned into zombies, then took turns trying to feast on my flesh. Our pet dog was eaten alive by my little brother. Yeah, I think I’ve got the right.

To be fair, we never really got along anyway, so I can’t say I feel too distraught over this. Then again, that could just be the desensitization talking.

“Just nick a pair. They’re basically ours now.” With that, she started digging through the police lockers like it was no big deal.

I swear to God, she’s doing that thing RPG players do where they enter some random NPC’s home and immediately go around furiously mashing the action button on anything even remotely resembling an interactive object, stealing what little food the poor NPC has to use as a healing item for their own selfish purposes.

“It’s survival one-oh-one. Get with the times.”

“You know what, I will.”

If that’s the only alternative to staying barefoot like a good boy, I’ll gladly take it.

I began rooting through the lockers myself. Upon noticing this, my companion ditched my newly established turf and began rummaging through some drawers.

“Grab anything useful,” she said flatly. “Spare ammo, food, you know the drill.”

“Spare ammo? As if you’ll find any.”

“No kidding?”

“You’re messing with me, right?”

I was hoping this was a really bad joke. A police officer, of all people, would never leave ammo out in the open.

“That’s how it works in the movies.”

“Uh, that’s because those movies were made by Americans.”

After a few quippy back-and-forths, I finally stumbled across a pair of perfectly fitting shoes and humbly “borrowed” them.

“Can I ask you something?” I said while tying my shoes.

“Go right ahead.”

“It’d be nice to get your name. Mine’s Hiroaki Dewa. Yours?”

“Otoha. Otoha Judou.” She toyed with a police baton she’d nabbed off the cop’s body. “Just Otoha will do.”

What a character...

And that was how I first met the self-proclaimed zombie guru, Otoha Judou.