CHAPTER 49: CLEARED

Hearing that the gate was finally closed by Riku, the other five were invigorated and pushed harder against the stragglers left inside the supermarket. Pipes, machetes, and broom handles struck down with newfound strength, their panic replaced by adrenaline and relief. Riku rejoined the line, M4 tucked into his shoulder, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Miko. She fired methodically, her Glock barking each shot clean and controlled. Together, they swept the floor, until the last corpse twitched and fell still.

Ten minutes passed. No groans, no shuffling, no scratching on glass. Just silence. The silence of survival.

Riku let out a long exhale, lowering his rifle. Beside him, Miko slumped slightly, sweat clinging to her temple despite the bandage. Even the five strangers dropped their weapons and leaned against the shelves, panting like men and women dragged back from the brink of death.

Mamoru, chest heaving, approached them. His pipe clattered against the floor as he pressed both hands to his knees.

"That... that was a godsend," he said between breaths. His voice was shaky but sincere. "If you hadn’t come when you did, we’d be corpses by now. All of us."

The others nodded fervently, their faces pale but grateful. One of the women clutched her broom handle to her chest, whispering a quiet "thank you" like it was a prayer. Another man muttered something about miracles, eyes fixed on Riku as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen.

Riku simply gave a short nod, wiping his tomahawk clean against his sleeves before sliding it back into its loop.

"It’s fine," he said. His tone wasn’t dismissive, but neither was it prideful. Just matter-of-fact. "We didn’t come here to play heroes. We came for supplies."

Miko glanced at him, her expression softening. She knew him well enough by now to catch the edges of truth behind his blunt words. He didn’t care for thanks. What mattered was food, water, things that kept them alive tomorrow.

Mamoru straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Supplies, huh? Then you’re in luck. Now that the zombies are cleared, we can finally breathe. Once we clean up the mess, we can split what’s left of the stock. Fair share." He paused, eyes flicking toward the shadowed escalators at the far end of the hall. "But first... we’ll have to inform the others."

Riku raised a brow. "Others. You said there were fifty-five of you, right? That wasn’t a joke?"

Mamoru shook his head firmly. "No joke. Fifty-five souls, counting us five. Elderly, kids, families. They’ve been hiding below. We promised we’d keep this floor secure before we bring them up."

The number sat heavy in Riku’s mind. Fifty-five mouths to feed. Fifty-five people to protect. In this world, that was more liability than strength. But at the same time, fifty-five survivors clinging together in one place was no small thing. They had managed, somehow, without real weapons. That alone was worth noting.

"Alright," Riku said, adjusting the sling of his M4. "Take us to them. I want to see who I’m dealing with."

Mamoru nodded and gestured for the group to follow. They moved toward the back of the supermarket, passing the frozen food section where shattered glass glittered on the floor like ice. The escalators loomed ahead, frozen mid-descent. The upward lanes leading to the ground floor had been barricaded with wardrobes, desks, even overturned vending machines. It was a wall of scavenged furniture, clearly designed to buy time if the dead ever broke through.

As they walked, Mamoru fell in step beside Riku. His tone lowered, quiet enough that the others didn’t overhear.

"I’ll be honest with you," he said. "Seeing you two... kids... armed with rifles and pistols—gear not even the Japanese military carries—it shocked me. I used to be a police officer, before all this. I know what’s legal here. And that," he nodded at the M4 in Riku’s hands, "that doesn’t exist in our country."

Riku didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting this question sooner or later. "My old man was a collector," he said evenly. "Didn’t care much about laws. Smuggled, bought under the table, pulled strings. Half our house looked like an armory before all this started."

Mamoru blinked, processing. "A collector..." He almost smiled, though it was weary. "Then I suppose I should thank your father. His collection just saved my life. Where is your father?"

Riku was silent for a moment and then seconds later, he spoke. "I haven’t made contact with him yet. But I believe he’s still out there alive and surviving like everyone else in this country."

"I see..."

Miko heard that and knew Riku was lying. She understood, he has to come up with a plausible explanation to deter unwanted probing questions that would make him uneasy.

They reached the bottom of the escalators. A pair of heavy steel fire doors marked the entrance to the basement. Mamoru rapped on the door three times in a distinct pattern. After a pause, the metal clicked, and the door groaned open.

The sight that greeted Riku made him halt in place.

The basement floor sprawled wide, lit by the pale glow of battery-powered lanterns and a few jury-rigged emergency lights. Dozens of people milled about. Mothers holding children close, old men seated against walls, teenagers huddled in groups whispering. Mats and blankets were spread across the floor, creating makeshift living quarters.

They really were fifty-five strong. Survivors. Men and women in their middle-ages, early twenties, teenagers, even elderly people. It was mixed.

An old man, leaning on a cane, pushed through the crowd and approached. His face was lined deep with wrinkles, his eyes sharp despite his frail frame.

"Mamoru," he rasped, "who are these two? Soldiers? Army finally came?"

Before Mamoru could answer, Riku spoke, his voice steady. "We’re not from the Army. Not Japan’s, not anyone’s. Just survivors. Same as you."

The old man’s brows furrowed. He studied Riku, then Miko, then back to Riku. "Then you’re well-armed survivors. That makes you different."

Mamoru interjected quickly. "They’re the reason we’re still standing. They closed the front gate and cleared the supermarket floor."

Murmurs rippled through the basement. Eyes turned toward Riku and Miko—hopeful, skeptical, desperate all at once.

The old man’s grip tightened on his cane. His voice wavered when he asked the next question. "How many did we lose today?"

Mamoru hesitated, his eyes dropping. "Three," he admitted softly. "But... we also gained. The floor above is clear now. The supplies are safe to organize again."

A murmur swept through the crowd, this time louder. Relief. Excitement. A mother hugged her child tighter, whispering that food was coming. An elderly woman clasped her hands together and wept quietly.

Riku watched it all with a neutral expression. He didn’t let himself feel the weight of their joy—not yet. Supplies meant survival, yes, but it also meant responsibility. And responsibility for fifty-five people was something he had no intention of carrying.

Mamoru caught his eye and gave him a nod of respect. "You did what we couldn’t. For that, we’re in your debt."

Riku adjusted the sling of his rifle, his tone cool. "Save the thanks for later. Right now, we need to rest. An hour or two, you’ll need every able body to organize and secure the supplies. We’ll take our share and..."

Riku paused as if something had interrupted him, and something did interrupt him. It was the system.

[Survivors encountered!]

[If you make this building as your new fortress, you can get 5,000SP per survivor, and a new feature unlocked.]

"Wait...what?"