"Skelton, over here."

    Following the sniper''s daughter into a low-rise building, I found myself staring at an unexpected scene.

    The interior was a chaotic shrine to Americana.

    There were signs from U.S. franchises, statues of a fried chicken-loving colonel, posters of comic-book heroes, American road signs, neon lights with English lettering long extinguished, stacks of old English newspapers, and even a certain superhero’s shield.

    The wide, cluttered space was filled with objects that screamed “America.”

    On the upper floor, where cold wind swept through makeshift barricades, the sniper was prone, aiming her rifle downward.

    Without looking away from her scope, she spoke in her halting Korean.

    “Enemy. RPG. Have.”

    Her daughter knelt beside her, scanning the area below with binoculars.

    “Don’t see.”

    “They hide.”

    The sniper added grimly.

    “RPG dangerous. They aim at us.”

    I quickly understood the situation.

    The men creating a ruckus below were bait. Somewhere out of sight, a man with a rocket launcher waited, ready to obliterate the sniper and her daughter in one strike.

    That was likely why the sniper had called me.

    But I couldn’t just rely on her assessment.

    From experience, people in desperate situations often exaggerated the danger.

    “Let me take over for a moment. Draw me a map of their positions.”

    Taking the sniper’s rifle, I felt the sweat-slick grip in my hands.

    Peering through the high-magnification scope, I confirmed it—these weren’t ordinary raiders.

    They were survivors of countless battles, the kind who had clawed their way to the top by killing others of their kind.

    The men causing the commotion were intoxicated, laughing and shouting like madmen, but behind them, hidden beyond the range of gunfire, were heavily armed, cold-eyed raiders watching every angle with predatory focus.

    The rowdy ones were just cannon fodder.

    There were women in the group, too, though they didn’t seem to be fighters.

    “Skelton.”

    The sniper handed me a hastily drawn map.

    Glancing at her left foot, I noticed it was awkwardly elevated, wrapped in nothing but a bandage despite the freezing wind.

    The way she had struggled to stand earlier made sense now.

    Her injuries weren’t just slowing her down—they were disabling her.

    Her blue eyes met mine, clouded with a mix of sadness and fatigue.

    “Your leg—what happened?”

    “Need medicine.”

    Her face darkened as she glared at her injured foot.

    “...my leg. Rotting.”

    “We’ll look at it later,” I said, trying to focus on the map she’d given me.

    It was drawn with the precision of someone with military training, highlighting the critical points.

    After a moment of analysis, I reached my conclusion: this was a losing battle.

    The enemy wasn’t just numerous—they were patient hunters.

    They knew they had the upper hand and were using their numbers to choke the life out of their prey, bit by bit.

    The RPG wasn’t a direct threat yet—it was just there to unsettle them, to make them imagine every worst-case scenario and break down faster.

    “This is a hard fight,” I said to the sniper.

    “So?”

    “There’s space in my bunker,” I offered.

    Her eyes flickered, betraying a moment of turmoil. She knew the reality of her situation.

    She glanced at her injured leg, her expression one of resignation.

    “Sue.”

    The sniper called for her daughter.

    So that was her name—Sue.

    The girl seemed to understand her mother’s unspoken words immediately. She shook her head and threw her arms around her mother.

    The sniper whispered something in English, likely trying to reassure her.

    As she held her daughter, she looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

    “Sorry, Skelton. I knew it was dangerous. But I called you anyway.”

    Her sudden confession caught me off guard.

    I responded plainly. “Do you have any other weapons?”

    “Other weapons?”

    “Yeah. I remember you had plenty of heavy arms in that Humvee. Where are they?”

    The sniper gently pushed Sue away and gave her a nod. The girl adjusted her oversized helmet and sprinted ahead.

    “Skelton. Follow me.”

    The sniper gestured for me to come along, her expression forlorn.

    She wanted me to take Sue and leave, but I shook my head.

    Her eyes widened briefly in surprise before I followed Sue upstairs.

    The weapons were stored in a second-floor room.

    It was a treasure trove of firepower: recoilless rifles, 7.62mm machine guns, Claymore mines, grenades, and even two Javelin launchers.

    A veritable weapon emporium.

    But there was a reason she hadn’t used them.

    Both Javelins had dead batteries, and the other weapons—while powerful—had limitations in range and accuracy.

    More importantly, her injured leg meant she couldn’t wield any of them effectively anymore.

    But that didn’t apply to me.

    I found what I was looking for: an American-made recoilless rifle.

    I’d used one back in Paju. Light, reliable, and with excellent firepower. Its effective range was just under 200 meters—perfect for what I had in mind.

    “Let me borrow two of these.”

    “Two?”

    The sniper seemed surprised by my request.

    Nodding, I asked her, “What’s your name?”

    She hesitated, then met my gaze with steady eyes.

    “Rebecca.”

    *

    Now, with heavy firepower in my hands, the plan was straightforward: make it count.

    Though I carried two launchers, there would only be one truly effective chance to strike.

    The goal was simple: kill as many as possible in one shot, especially the heavily armed veterans hidden deep within their ranks.

    The drugged-up cannon fodder could wait—though their sheer numbers might still be a problem.

    My strategy wasn’t original. In fact, it was strikingly similar to the sniper’s: stay hidden, bide my time, and seize the perfect moment.

    I could only imagine what it felt like—to live every moment surrounded by people who spoke a language that wasn’t yours, to feel isolated in a world where every word was foreign.

    For Rebecca, that alienation was her everyday reality.

    “Our language...”

    Maybe that constant alienation was what had truly sickened her soul more than her body ever could.

    But what could I do?

    How could I send her back to America in this world, where the concept of “home” barely existed anymore?

    I was about to offer her hollow platitudes when something struck me.

    Wait.

    There was a way.

    “Hey, Rebecca.”

    I called her name.

    “Come here.”

    Opening my laptop, I navigated to the one place that could grant her wish.

    Viva! Apocalypse!

    “What’s this?”

    Sue, curious as ever, peered over my shoulder.

    It was time for magic.

    Not the kind of magic that required incantations or elaborate rituals—just a few clicks of a mouse.

    The spell began, the scroll bar sluggishly dragging down the screen.

    anonymous45: Is it actually hard to find protein-rich plants in the wild to eat if one is starving?

    In_domini_LK: It depends on the season and place.

    PennKIX1978: Wild amaranth is pretty high in protein.

    anonymous71: Meet my WAIFUs.

    Awkwardly worded English posts filled the screen.

    This was the Viva! Apocalypse! English forum.

    In truth, it was the main hub of the community, with several times more users than the Korean boards.

    There was a built-in translation function, but I rarely used it.

    The Korean forum was my home, after all.

    But for someone like Rebecca—someone from another world—the voices of people like her would be far more comforting.

    “Is this... real? Are these... living people?”

    Of course.

    It was the sound of her homeland.

    “Of course.”

    Seeing her face light up like a little girl’s, I stepped aside.

    Her trembling hands hovered over the keyboard.

    For the first time in years, she could send her own words, in her own language, to people who would understand her without effort.

    SKELTON: Hi guys :)

    *

    "Get out."

    I admit it.

    I, Park Gyu, am not a gentleman.

    "I said, get out."

    "Just a little longer."

    "No, you''ve been on it all night. How much longer are you planning to do this?"

    "Just a bit more."

    The sniper is one thing, but her daughter is just as relentless.

    "Skelton, what''s this?"

    "Hey, hey! Put that away. Kids shouldn’t be looking at that!"

    She has an uncanny knack for finding the most embarrassing items.

    It''s like dealing with my sister''s pet ferret.

    By the time I finally managed to usher the disastrous duo out, it was almost noon.

    "...Thank you, Skelton."

    "Thank you! Skelton!"

    Rebecca whispered something to Sue.

    Sue nodded and, in surprisingly fluent Korean, asked me:

    "Mom wants to know why you helped us back then."

    "Back then?"

    "When you changed your mind and told us to run away."

    I smiled faintly.

    There was no need to explain.

    There was no need for them to know that Rebecca, holding her daughter with tear-filled eyes, had looked so much like my mother in her final moments—holding my sister just before her death.

    "Because we''re neighbors."

    It was half true.

    Though I had kicked them out of my main bunker, I had offered them one of my decoy shelters.

    One way or another, it seemed these two were nearing their limits.

    Rebecca still appeared reluctant to leave her territory.

    I didn’t press her.

    After all, sharing my living space with someone—even for just half a day—had been far from easy.

    I’d learned that the hard way.

    We both needed more preparation.

    Both the mother-daughter pair and myself.

    "Just one more hour on the computer?"

    "Out."

    From beside the truck, I watched them climb the stairs of the abandoned building.

    Rebecca moved with a noticeable limp, but as she passed, she turned to give me a polite nod.

    I called out to her suddenly.

    "Do you still need the drugs?"

    Rebecca responded with a bitter smile and shook her head.

    Sue clung to her mother’s arm and waved at me energetically.

    I stayed there for a while, watching them leave.

    The magic potion did exist after all.

    I left, hoping to find a magic potion that would work for me too.

    "...."

    This Christmas, I should just stick to exchanging radio transmissions.