Hiding a House in the Apocalypse

The best way to uncover the enemy’s intentions and identity is to capture a prisoner.

But prisoners are usually taken when you have superior firepower and can strike at the enemy at your chosen time.

Setting a goal or even hoping to capture a prisoner in a one-against-many, desperate situation is nothing short of the delusions of a madman.@@novelbin@@

Last night, I had no way of knowing how many enemies there were or if they would receive reinforcements, so I made sure to kill everyone I could.

One boy had barely been clinging to life, but judging by his injuries and condition, he was in no state for interrogation. So, I granted him mercy with a single bullet.

After securing the perimeter with the soldiers, we waited until dawn to clean up the corpses.

With four soldiers assisting, the work was relatively easy.

Aside from the one corpse whose face had been mangled by a direct hit from grenade shrapnel, the rest remained largely intact. Their features were undamaged, and there were no grotesque mutilations, so the process of handling the bodies wasn’t as disturbing as it could have been.

However, once we had laid the bodies neatly in one place, a few suspicious details became apparent.

They weren’t wearing military uniforms or anything that indicated affiliation, yet they shared one common trait.

“They’re all just kids.”

The soldiers seemed to focus only on the fact that the attackers were young.

“Where the hell are these kids from?”

“Did they escape from a facility?”

I saw things differently.

Though their faces had grown pale in death and their bodies had cooled, the unmistakable traces they left behind told a different story.

First, their nutrition.

None of them were overweight, but neither were they malnourished.

Even as their faces turned pallid, their bodies still retained enough fat to suggest a consistent diet—fat doesn’t just drain away like feces leaking from an open wound.

Second, their hygiene.

They were all clean.

These weren’t kids who had been living in filth, unable to secure proper sanitation.

Even their clothes carried a faint scent of detergent.

But the biggest issue was their weapons.

The eight I had killed were all armed.

One carried a riot shield. Others wielded pistols, shotguns, rifles, and even a semi-automatic sniper rifle.

They lacked night vision goggles or other high-grade accessories, but their weapons were well-maintained, in pristine condition, and fully stocked with fresh, gleaming ammunition.

In short, they were kept at a military-level standard.

“······.”

A chilling thought flickered through my mind.

Manhunters.

The mysterious entity that periodically raided Outpost 328, whose identity had never been confirmed—could its true form be something far greater, something that no individual could stand against?