I Have Returned, but I Cannot Lay down My Gun

Chapter 667

"<Current temperature in Brooklyn... minus 21 degrees. This is the worst. Judging by the state of things, there's no way we'll be able to reach Manhattan by boat.>"

"<According to the drone, the whole of New York Harbor has frozen over. We'd need an icebreaker to cross it. The wind speed is around 28 knots. We almost lost the drone.>"

"<We'll have to wait until the weather clears up, won't we?>"

"<That's the plan. The problem is our diesel supply...>"

End of January, Brooklyn, New York.

The sky visible from the window was chillingly clear, and outside the building, there was a constant mechanical sound, as though machinery was running. It was the sound of winter's icy wind sweeping across Brooklyn.

The whiteboard was being updated daily with the quantities of supplies and fuel. Naturally, the numbers—i.e., the stock—were decreasing day by day. The thing Captain Parkinson was most concerned about was fuel.

The 191kw generator installed in the basement of the hospital consumed about 24 liters of diesel per hour, and with the weather never rising above -15°C lately, the fuel consumption for heating had skyrocketed.

No one knew when the weather would clear up. The only certainty was that the fuel would run out before the winter passed.

"<The situation at the Langon hospital is probably similar... any news from Central Park?>"

"<They plan to launch transport planes once the weather clears, but they don't know exactly when... At least we've given them our deadline. We'll have to leave Brooklyn within a week, no matter what.>"

"<...I wonder what’s in Central Park.>"

As time passed, the Dark Zones of Brooklyn and Queens—the lawless areas—continued to expand. The only thing holding off the mobs and escaped prisoners was a defensive line that barely held together.

It was like an island slowly sinking beneath the rising tide of the sea. Central Park HQ had also ordered a retreat and regroup after many of the local National Guard were killed, not wanting to lose any more lives.

But could Central Park... No, could Central Park withstand this adversity? That was something no one could be sure of. But one thing was clear—if they stayed trapped here, they'd all die.

The weight on his shoulders was immense.

So, he decided to find some solace.

"<I heard the distribution of supplies and food, along with the relocation, has been done swiftly. What happened?>"

"<Ah... do you remember that kid with the snake tail who recently joined? Apparently, he moved 8 ammo cans at once. You should really see how he works—he practically flies.>"

"<...What?>"

Captain Parkinson's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

A canister filled with live ammunition weighs at least 20kg, and the large ones filled with grenades can go up to 28kg. So, how was this kid lifting and moving 8 at once?

But when he checked the CCTV footage, the result was clear. Eugene carefully pulled the ammo cans out of the duffel bag. There were 6 cans, and he was holding one in each hand.

And this wasn’t a one-time thing—he did it repeatedly, finishing in just a few hours what would normally take at least two days. And that wasn’t all.

"<...So, this kid did most of the miscellaneous tasks in just a few hours?>"

"<The supply team begged to take him along for their expeditions. His strength is unbelievable. Though, I think he eats a lot...>"

"<How much?>"

"<When we measured with some equipment in the hospital, his muscle fiber density was off the charts compared to a normal person. They say he's almost like a lion... He probably eats as much as you'd expect. His basal metabolic rate is likely at least three times higher than others.>"

"<At least we have plenty of food. We'll give him as much as we can.>"

Despite the large stock of food, much of it was MRE (Meals Ready-to-Eat), notorious for causing constipation—but no one was complaining about food now. From commanders to low-ranking soldiers, everyone was eating the same.

Still, they weren’t without some conscience. Fresh produce from nearby grocery stores or refrigerators and advanced combat rations like CCAR would also be distributed as needed.

The conversation naturally shifted back to the subject of Eugene.

"<So, what’s the kid up to now?>"

"<Mitchell is with him. I heard he's studying English right now.>"

"<He should be staying in his room. He hasn’t approached the ER or the children’s hospital, has he?>"

"<Sergeant Mitchell must have told him about the restricted zones. But just in case, I’ll check if they meet.>"

The emergency room and children's hospital.

These areas were completely sealed off, with firewalls and thick walls blocking anyone from entering. They were where many of the early infected patients had been quarantined during the Omega Virus outbreak.

At this point, all other areas had been fully decontaminated, but the emergency room and the adjacent wards were still too contaminated to approach.

Even the 222nd Chemical Company, which had been part of the 104th Military Police Battalion, had declared that decontamination was impossible in these zones, so there was no point in discussing it further.

Meanwhile, the two lieutenants seemed to want to say more, but Captain Parkinson shook his head and sent them out.

He could already guess what they wanted to say. They’d probably be asking about making that kid a combatant. But that was, of course, impossible.

With communication still an issue, the shortage of combat personnel didn’t mean they could just throw anyone into a squad. They knew this, but as always, they were just voicing their frustration.

Anyway, aside from that, Captain Parkinson was planning to call Eugene. He wasn’t a combatant, but as non-combat personnel, he was an excellent asset.

A few days later, he didn’t know exactly when, but when the time came to leave, Eugene would be a huge help in transporting heavy objects.

For example, right now, Eugene could move the Mk.47 Striker ALGL—an advanced lightweight grenade launcher, the most powerful weapon the 107th Military Police Battalion had—faster than anyone else.

‘Normally, it would have been classified as a destruction item to prevent it from falling into someone else’s hands...’

The weight of the launcher itself, along with the fire control system, coordinates drone, and the separate transport of grenades, made it impossible to carry earlier.

Despite the 107th’s duties in patrols, order maintenance, reconnaissance, anti-terrorism, and escort missions, they weren’t expected to use such new grenade launchers. Many hadn’t even finished reading the manual on it yet.

But if the opportunity arose, it would be better to take it along than leave it behind.

He thought about this while contacting Sergeant Mitchell and gathering the necessary materials before the two arrived. There wasn’t much to prepare—just the location of the launcher and the truck’s license plate number.

How much time passed, he didn’t know.

"Ah, hello..."

"<It’s been a day. You can sit comfortably. Want a chocolate bar?>"

"Uh, thank you. Thank you..."

"<...All you can say is 'thank you,' huh?>"

"<Isn't this kid pretty cute? He’s learning English quite fast.>"

"<....>"

Eugene and Sergeant Mitchell entered together.

Captain Parkinson took a chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to Eugene, who bowed repeatedly to express his thanks. Smiling without realizing it, he opened the Oxford English-Korean dictionary Eugene had and started noting down several words.

The first question—was she infected, or not? At that moment, Eugene shook her head, and Mitchell showed the printed test results: negative. She was not infected.

Only then did Captain Parkinson get to the point.

"There’s something you need to do."

"What... is it?"

"It’s simple. Move some stuff."

Using as simple words as possible, he explained the task. A simple task of moving an object from point A to point B at a specific time. However, the real challenge began after that. But he had prepared for this situation and spent considerable time preparing.

He explained each concept as though talking to a kindergartner—soon, everyone would leave the base and head to Manhattan, and Eugene would be tasked with moving the grenade launcher, fire control system, and grenade boxes.

However, what Captain Parkinson overlooked was that Eugene had already done something like this before.

"Oh, this is like a combat readiness training... Yes, yes! I know! I understand!"

"...Can we trust him, Mitchell?"

"I’ll make sure he reviews it later. But, shouldn't we tell him what he has to carry?"

"That’s what I was planning to do."

Screech!

As Eugene chewed on the chocolate bar, Mitchell patted her hair and added:

"Well, let’s go see what you need to carry."

When they saw Eugene carrying over 120kg of equipment without breaking a sweat, Captain Parkinson and Mitchell were left speechless.

"Work on clearing 49th Street is progressing. The snowstorm is a bit of a problem, but we expect to clear a road passable for vehicles within two days."

"At this point, I’m not even surprised. Probably thanks to Eugene, huh? I feel like we're asking too much of him."

"He seems to be doing fine without complaints. But we should check on him later. He should rest when he can."

"Alright. I’ll mark progress on the map. Let’s review later. Seems like luck is on our side..."

At 11 PM, in the Brooklyn Meimoniz Medical Center Command Center.

Normally, the screens showing CCTV footage would display images of the outside world, but now they were showing nothing but the dark, snowstorm-covered outside. It was a direct feed from the drones outside.

The city, where the lights never went out, was now pitch-black, with the nearest part of Brooklyn, closest to Manhattan, shrouded in darkness. This was because the power had been cut off long ago.

But tonight. Under the night sky of Brooklyn, hidden behind clouds and without moonlight, dozens of people were working together to literally 'clear' the road.

And at the center of it all was Eugene.

They were lifting the cars blocking the road.

The method was simple. Smash the side window of the car with a spiked hammer, disengage the brakes, and then manually tow the car.

The reason they had to do this was simple. The vehicles left abandoned on the streets during the escalating virus outbreak were blocking the roads.

To ensure the safe and swift evacuation of about 70 civilians, along with the same number of 107th Military Police Battalion personnel, military vehicles were essential, and clearing the roads was inevitable.

Additionally, there was another reason why people were manually clearing the road.

"Stalker team, is there any movement nearby?"

"This is Stalker 1-1, no sign of anything yet."

"Understood. Keep up the vigilance."

To be precise, it wasn’t really about clearing the road manually—it was about not being able to use heavy equipment.

Fuel and noise issues with the heavy machinery were part of the reason, but the biggest reason was the potential presence of enemies who could ambush the work site. Just days ago, the base had almost been attacked, so they had to remain extra cautious.

Because of this, Captain Parkinson and the rest of the command team kept checking for any signs of movement nearby, but their focus was easily distracted by the fascinating sight on the screens.

One person grabs the back of a car, and four or five others push it to the side of the road or onto another vehicle. Normally, it would have taken ages to move one car, but here it was done in less than 15 seconds.

All that was needed was for Eugene to recover her strength and stamina.

"How many vehicles are left?"

"About 38. Around 22 will be handled by the Langon team."

"At this rate, it should be done by today, or at the latest, tomorrow... It might be an easier evacuation than we feared, assuming the raiders don't attack again."

"The Langon team has priority for evacuation. Let's hope nothing happens before then."

"...Yeah, there probably will."

If anything, it would be more surprising if nothing happened. At least these people were skilled at distinguishing between hopes and reality.

On the other hand, those who couldn’t make that distinction were all lying dead on the ground.

But despite this, the operations officer noticed that Captain Parkinson’s expression wasn’t as grim as expected and added a comment.

"For all that, your expression doesn’t seem too bad."

"...Does it look that way?"

"Considering that you thought we might not even make it out, I expected you to be much more down. At least the situation in Manhattan must be better than here, right?"

"Can’t argue with that. But they won’t be able to cut us off. Mark my words."

"Is that so?"

Half of them still looked skeptical.

Captain Parkinson then brought up one of the most recent messages from Manhattan Central Park HQ. After reading it, the operations officer couldn’t help but smile.

"Seems like those guys at HQ will go to any lengths to help with the evacuation. If they don’t arrive in time, they’ll throw out a decoy. Good timing."

"Yeah... looks like Baker's trying to help us out until the end."

• [A message sent to all military units capable of receiving it, from Manhattan Central Park HQ.]

• [Units holding or protecting individuals with animal traits, so-called 'mutants,' are required to report to HQ by any means possible.]

• [Precise evidence is required.]

"...Mutants. You don’t think they’re going to extract blood to make vaccines or something, do you?"

"Don’t even joke about that, kid."

"Understood."

But what if? In this chaotic world, sometimes crazy ideas could be accepted.

Looking at Eugene on the screen, they just hoped their ominous imagination was nothing more than that.

He spoke up.

"Alright, make sure to prepare some hot cocoa. When you come back, just give it to that kid in private. We can’t give it to everyone out there."

"Understood. Won’t you have some, sir?"

"I’m not fond of sweets. I’ll go smoke a cigarette. If anything comes up, call me."

"Understood, sir."

With that, Captain Parkinson slowly left the command center, and the operations officer, after checking the surroundings, took out some cocoa powder and sugar from the hidden stash in the break room and started heating up the remaining milk.

Outside, the snow continued to fall gently.

Brooklyn, with no power and no people, was consumed by complete darkness.