CHAPTER 50: CLEANING UP THE MESS

5,000SP and 1,000XP per survivor and there’s 55 of them here. Riku mentally calculated how much it would be if he were to stay in this new base.

That’s 275,000SP and 55,000XP.

By that number, he knew it’s a massive boost in his SP balance and level. And the most obvious thing to do at this point was to relocate in this establishment and make this his new fortress.

Just as he was thinking of leaving after they got the supplies. He chuckled to himself, even Mamoru noticed it and asked.

"What’s the matter?"

"No no, everything is just fine. Anyways, let me rest here for two hours and we can organize the supplies. You better look for people who can help us upstairs later."

"Of course," Mamoru said before making his way towards the people.

Riku leaned his head back against the cold concrete wall of the basement, eyes closing as the adrenaline ebbed. The crowd of survivors had settled down into small clusters—families whispering, children clinging to parents, the elderly laying on mats near the lanterns.

Beside him, Miko sat quietly. She shifted closer until her shoulder brushed against his, her pistol resting across her lap. Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion finally winning out. For once, Riku didn’t move away. Let her rest. She had earned it.

The sound of hesitant footsteps made him crack one eye open. It was one of the young women from earlier—the one who had clutched the broom handle upstairs, nearly overwhelmed before he shot a corpse off her. Now she carried two bottles of water in both hands, labels faded but still sealed.

She stopped in front of them, bowing her head slightly. "For you," she said softly, extending the bottles. Her hands trembled. "We... we wouldn’t be alive if not for you two. I wanted to say thank you again."

Riku accepted the bottles with a curt nod. "Survive. That’s thanks enough." He handed one bottle to Miko, who accepted it with a tired smile.

The woman looked like she wanted to say more, but no words came. She gave a short bow before stepping away, disappearing back into the cluster of survivors.

Riku twisted the cap open and drank deeply. The water tasted fresh and refreshing.

He exhaled, then capped it again and set it beside him. For a while, the only sound was breathing—theirs, and the muffled shuffles of fifty-five people trying to cling to the last remnants of normalcy.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Riku dozed more than anything, senses half-awake. But two hours later, the shuffle of boots against concrete stirred him. He opened his eyes to find Mamoru standing in front of him with a group of men behind him. Seventeen in total.

"We’re ready," Mamoru said. His pipe was replaced with a proper hatchet he must have scavenged. "These men volunteered. Some aren’t strong, but they’re willing. We’ll help clean up."

Riku scanned the group. The two men from upstairs were there, faces grim but resolved. The rest looked like salarymen, laborers, a few students—ordinary men trying to look braver than they were.

He stood, slinging his M4. "Good. We need to clean fast and clear the corpses before they rot and spread infection." He turned to Miko, who was rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Stay here. Watch them."

She frowned slightly. "Riku—"

"This is the best way we split ourselves. We are going to clean the mess upstairs while you protect them in case something comes out, which I hope not."

Hearing that, Miko nodded.

Riku gave a faint smirk before turning to Mamoru. "Let’s move."

The group climbed back up through the emergency exits and into the supermarket floor. The silence was eerie, the air heavier now with the stench of blood and decay. Corpses lay strewn across the aisles in twisted heaps where they had fallen, their bodies tangled together in grotesque knots.

Some of the men gagged at the sight. One even turned aside, retching into the corner.

"Get used to it," Riku said flatly. "You’ll smell worse before this is done."

They worked in teams. Riku directed them to gather bleach, rubber gloves, plastic tarps, and mops from the shelves. The bleach burned the air as they poured it across blood-slick tiles, white fumes mixing with rot. The men dragged corpses onto tarps, tying the ends and heaving them toward the back storage room.

The sound of bodies sliding, thumping, piling—it was relentless. Some of the men flinched every time a skull lolled or an arm twitched post-mortem.

"Check for bites," Riku ordered, his voice sharp. "If any of them still move, crush the head. Don’t take chances."

Mamoru backed him up, his tone carrying authority from years as an officer. "You heard him. No hesitation. Dead is dead only if the head is gone."

Hours blurred as they worked. The smell grew worse. Sweat mixed with bleach, clinging to their skin until it stung. One of the younger men cut his hand on broken glass, cursing, but Riku was there in a heartbeat, disinfecting it with alcohol wipes and taping it shut with scavenged medical tape.

The storage room filled quickly. Corpses stacked in uneven mounds, the sight grotesque. When the room could hold no more, they dragged the tarps out through the loading dock at the back of the building.

The dock doors opened to an open-air yard, surprisingly clear of infected. For now, it was safe.

There they built the pyre. Wooden pallets, broken furniture, cardboard boxes—all dragged and stacked. The tarped corpses were laid across the pile, layer after layer, until the mound was as tall as a man.

Some of the volunteers refused to look directly at it. Others stood in silence, faces pale, as if staring at the end of the world itself.

Riku, wiping sweat from his brow, glanced at Mamoru. "We’ll burn them tonight. The fire will draw attention, but leaving them is worse. Disease spreads faster than the dead."

Mamoru nodded grimly. "We’ll do it."

Riku’s gaze swept over the volunteers. Their shoulders sagged with exhaustion, hands raw from dragging bodies. They weren’t fighters. They weren’t killers. But today, they had done what needed to be done.

"Good work," he said simply. No more, no less.

The men straightened a little at that. For them, praise from someone like Riku—who fought like a soldier and carried himself like one—meant more than they’d admit.

By the time the last body was dragged out and the bleach washed most of the bloodstains from the floor, the supermarket almost looked livable again. The shelves still leaned, broken glass still littered corners, but the overwhelming stench of rot had lessened.

Riku leaned against the counter, sipping the last of his water bottle. Mamoru approached, his hatchet hanging limp at his side. His face was pale, but there was determination there.

"With this we can survive for months, there is a lot of food here. Thank you once again, you can take as many as you like."

Riku shook his head. "No, there is something I need to say."

"What is it?"

"We plan on staying here."