After listening to Simon's self-revelation, Dominik felt a chill run through his body, and the hair on his arms stood on end. Escaping a grave using the bones of his comrades... it was a chilling, visceral image that no movie or game could replicate.
However, Simon's ability to survive such a hopeless situation also proved that he could remain clear-headed in extreme circumstances. Even if his methods were gruesome, the outcome was that he survived.
At this moment, Dominik gently patted Simon's shoulder and comforted him, saying, "Actually... it was Washington's spirit watching over you. He gave you the tool you needed to survive. Otherwise... I wouldn't have you here now."
"Heh heh," Simon chuckled softly, a dry sound. "I know. Washington told me before he died that no matter what, I had to escape. He made me promise to burn the cartel to the ground."
"Mm." Seeing that Simon had accepted his past, Dominik finally relaxed slightly.
Simon then continued, wiping the mask in his hands. "After that, I was rescued by a local militia and eventually contacted HQ. When I returned to base, Intel said the cartel had vanished. They had scrubbed their digital footprint, liquidated their assets. It was like they never existed."
"So, the higher-ups declared the operation a failure. It was the Joint Task Force's biggest black mark. Did you know that?"
"I... I read about a classified op in South America failing. It was a rumor on the military forums," Dominik lied smoothly, nodding. He tried to alleviate Simon's sadness. "But that's in the past, isn't it? Plus, you have a new mission now."
"I, this burden, can't survive without you. So you must live well. Live to protect me, Simon!"
"Heh heh..." Simon's sad expression finally faded, replaced by a steely resolve. "My mother's death made me retire and come here to find peace. I didn't expect to run into this crisis. You and Laura are my last remaining family. I can't lose you two again."
Dominik was moved. "That's right... we will survive together. And we'll get Laura."
Dominik didn't know what his parents looked like in this world, but he did know what Laura looked like, as there was a digital photo of his sister in the mission brief on his phone.
The reason he only mentioned Laura was because he judged that his parents might have already died or were safe in Europe. There was no mission prompt for them.
Of course, these were all speculations. But after hearing Simon's painful memories, Dominik was determined. He would rescue Laura Corvinus.
As the two talked, a roadside service station appeared in their sight.
This wasn't a modern European rest stop. It was a dusty, sprawling complex off the main highway—a cluster of fuel pumps, a mechanic's shed, and a roadside restaurant serving the truckers who plied the route between Mandalay and the border.
Since the highway was the main artery of trade, there would definitely be zombies here. Truckers, travelers, locals.
Fortunately, there were concrete barriers and rusted guardrails separating the station from the dense jungle. The zombies should only be the ones who were caught here when the virus hit.
"Slow down," Simon reminded.
"Mm."
Dominik slowed the Hilux to a crawl, about 20 kilometers per hour. The tires crunched softly on the gravel as they approached the forecourt.
As they got closer, more and more wrecked vehicles appeared. Overturned trucks, cars that had crashed into pumps. They could also see many figures kneeling on the ground in the shadows, gnawing on something. They ignored the Hilux, focused entirely on their grisly meals.
Seeing this, Simon checked his SCAR-L. He screwed a suppressor onto the muzzle, confirmed the weapon was hot, and prepared to dismount.
However, Dominik frowned when he saw this and whispered, "Hey, Simon, you're suppressed, but my Type-56 isn't. If I have to shoot, won't the noise bring every zombie in a five-mile radius down on us?"
"Wait." Simon reached into his tactical bag. He pulled out a crude, heavy-looking cylinder—an automotive oil filter fitted with a thread adapter—and tossed it to Dominik.
"It's a solvent trap. Poor man's suppressor. It won't last long, maybe 30 shots before the baffles blow out, but it'll dampen the noise enough so we don't ring the dinner bell. Screw it on."
"Holy moly, you really came prepared," Dominik exclaimed, looking at the improvised device.
Simon didn't answer. He simply put his skull mask back on and instructed, "Don't shoot unless absolutely necessary. That filter ruins your sights, so aim low. Let's go."
...As the pickup truck slowly rolled to a stop next to the diesel pump, the scene that unfolded before their eyes could only be described as "hell".
There were bodies everywhere. Some vehicles were still smoldering, filling the air with the scent of burnt rubber and pork. The concrete was stained black with dried blood and oil.
Dominik put the Hilux in park. He picked up the Type-56, screwing the heavy oil filter onto the muzzle threads. It looked ridiculous, but he trusted Simon.
Click. The safety came off.
"Get ready. I'll refuel the truck and the jerry cans. You cover my six." Simon opened the door and whispered, "Remember, let them get close before you shoot. Ammo is life."
"Mm." Dominik nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Simon performed a textbook tactical dismount. He slipped out, weapon raised, scanning his sectors in a fluid motion, his knee dropping to the pavement to minimize his profile.
Dominik, however, stumbled out of the driver's side. He nearly tripped on the running board. He stood there awkwardly, Type-56 held at high port, looking left, then right, unsure where the threat would come from.
In short, Simon looked like a tier-one operator.
Dominik looked like a frightened student holding a gun for the first time.
After confirming his side was clear, Simon stood up. Seeing the clumsy Dominik, he shook his head helplessly, then moved to the pump. He bypassed the card reader—power was out—and used a manual override tool to start the flow of diesel.
Ow...
Uh...
Ah...
Listening to the guttural moans coming from the shadows of the restaurant building, Dominik's nerves didn't settle. They spiked.
He had once claimed to his friends that he'd thrive in a zombie apocalypse. "They're slow, they're dumb," he'd said.
But now, standing in the humid heat of a Myanmar service station, smelling the rot, hearing the wet tearing sounds of the dead eating the dead... the reality crashed down on him.
The uncanny valley effect was in full force. Those things looked human. They wore jeans and t-shirts. But they moved wrong. They sounded wrong. And the fear that welled up in his heart was primal and overwhelming.