Demon Lord's Reincarnation

Obviously, our little scuffle and Oscar throwing a flashbang between me and Second Lieutenant George C. Bartow garnered everyone’s attention though it was a weird look from their perspective once they rushed in. It was because Mitch was wearing a hand imprint on his neck due to me choking his ass out while George was still bleeding through his nose due to my right straight.

Granted he now had feeling back in his arms, but they had these two circular bruises that were made more apparent due to his large forearms.

But yeah, to avoid another situation like this happening, we waved everyone who didn’t know off—except for Jared and Kaley who already looked different from the information they were withholding—and I took it upon myself to tell all of them later in a much, much better way to how I was informed.

I just can’t believe that the old man and everyone else who came with him were holding such a piece of information, but at this point, who knows what and how much now?

Even I was doubtful of Rod, our current president, because if this shit happened three fucking months ago, he should’ve at least informed me or like everyone else in this country, no one was fucking informed, including their foreign soldiers and diplomats.

I thought I already had a lot on my collection of plates but I was a frog in a well as to what was happening beyond my realm. It fucking hurts to feel so fucking small despite the things I thought were great achievements and it just reminded me of how big the world was despite the small coincidences between people that made it seem small figuratively.

And as Mitch divulged more and more information regarding the situation outside this country, I never felt so helpless until we went back to where we left of earlier:

“Before that… What cities were bombed in Japan?”

Mitch looked at me with a forced smile, “Are you sure we could discuss that now?”

“Depends, actually—”

Oscar cut in, “Kid! Enough!”

“I’m just being honest, really. Who gave them the right to—”

Bartow cut in after a short exhale from his mouth, “The UN, punk.”

“I’m not talking to you, literal mouth-breather—”

“I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S A MOUTH-BREATHER—”

Mitch spoke out loud for the first time, “AGAIN! ENOUGH!

The UN decided on that after the CDC discovered that one critical problem of leaving the dead by themselves—especially in countries that went down—is once they were in a large enough number and started to feed on themselves, it just accelerates the mutation by multiple times and God knows what abilities would it have depending on the country of origin…”

Bartow followed while being slightly dismissive, “That’s why you fucks are so lucky… There’s no fucking chance a mega-horde would’ve formed here due to this place’s population including how fast you responded and listened to the government when it started…”

Oscar rolled his eyes, “Some of that statement’s true but we just did ourselves and basically sheltered some of the government’s men. The guy up there still had the power but he would’ve lost this island group if it weren’t for us and few others… Not to brag but it’s mostly due to us. And the role I specifically played, of course. Definitely.”

Bartow looked at Oscar a certain “funny” way, “Sure, great~ job, Colonel.

But yeah, it’s one thing to stand up for yourselves and be able to do just that but it’s totally different to be one fucking stubborn, piece of fucking shit that didn’t even know how to use guns and decide to live by themselves and/or form several groups against the government… Don’t even get me started on those illegal fucks that made things way~ fucking harder… I swear if I see the fucker who made those Jumpers, I would’ve—”

I cut in, “Wait, Jumpers? As in— They jump like really high? What specials do you guys have?”

Mitch answered, “You call them specials, huh? We just call them mutations but other than the ones who could easily jump—with a running start, of course—fifteen to thirty feet in the air, a good number of our regular walkers are believed to be nocturnal. I believe it was already shared with the world last year but it was a split between that and their fear of the sun.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was actually weird because the sun does no damage to them whatsoever—yet they still tend to avoid it at all costs—but my particular mutation I tend to hate were the Screamers.”

“Ah, because they attract everyone in the immediate vicinity?”

“That too, of course, but some of them mutated once again to be able to mimic certain voices like a cry for help or a commander giving orders.

Sometimes, they’d even echo out what they hear outright or they’d just find the most obscure hole and shout the most horrendous things and if we can’t find it, it’ll just be an all-nighter… My kids couldn’t sleep when they hear their shrieks so I really hate when one appears out of nowhere and scream their lungs out…”

Bartow then turned to me, “I heard you have Tanks here, you know, the big sturdy ones that could take a hit.”

“You talking about the vehicle or—”

“What are we even talking about in the first place?! Of course, I’m talking about the— You have them right?! The Colonel already told us!”

“Then why are you asking—”

“You— We met a couple that could take a .50. What’s the difference here?”

I had to lean back after hearing that “We… We met a fully-formed one that was able to take 5.56s and 7.62s but the partial Hulkers we met were taken down by our Injectors. We have faced them but not as much as you think you guys did.”

“Lucky. You said Injectors? What’s that? We just use more .50s, napalm, or acid. Don’t tell me you fucks go toe-to-toe with them?”

“We just had to. We met our first one several dozen floors up and we didn’t even have our Injectors there—it’s just an enhancement to expel gas in the wound channel, making it bigger—and it took several rounds of ammo while a couple of us kept it busy.”

“Hmm… You’re crazier than I thought. The first one I met flipped a tank and wiped my platoon and from then on I swore I’ll try and fight it with all I got from afar—”

“Wait. How did you survive?”

“I was in the tank.”

“Ah… Lucky.”

“You did not just call me that, you lucky punk.”

“Well, what do you want me to call you, Popeye, the bloody-nosed bitch?!”

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S IT! THIS IS ROUND TWO—”

“THEN COME AT ME AND I’LL FUCK YOU UP AGAIN!”

“YOU WERE SO LUCKY THEY STOPPED US OR ELSE—”

“OR ELSE WHAT?! YOU WERE THE ONE THAT HAD A NOSE JOB ON THE SPOT!”

“LUCKY SHOT!”

“STOP CALLING ME A LUCKY FUCK OR I’LL FUCKING DO WHAT I SHOULD’VE BEFORE THEY STOPPED US—”

“HEY! HEY! HEEEEEEY! I’LL FUCKING THROW SOMETHING LETHAL THIS TIME BEFORE I STICK A CLAYMORE UP YOUR ASSES, SO SIT THE FUCK DOWN WHILE YOU STILL HAVE ‘EM! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHAT’S UP WITH YOU TWO?!”