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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: High Risk, High Return
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#Intermission, Charm
Human beauty isn't as natural as you might think. Skip even a single day without washing, and that person's attractiveness drops significantly. When the crisis of world destruction hits and most infrastructure grinds to a halt, how much of our own beauty can we really hold onto?
That's why the Charm stat in *Day after Apocalypse* is influenced by the community's hygiene facilities and the availability of hygiene and cosmetic products. Even someone with a Charm of 100 would barely muster 10 or less without proper hygiene setups. You can overcome these limits with consumable hygiene items, but even with solid facilities and supplies, low community stability renders it pointless. In dangerous times, most folks want to hide their looks. Beauty tends to make you a target for looters. Talents that weaponize beauty are few and far between.
If that's too inconvenient, grab the *Fatal Charm* DLC. You'll get system buffs that ignore real-world constraints—no drawbacks attached. Maxed-out Charm from the start means boosted interpersonal interactions and leadership, letting you tackle *Day after Apocalypse*'s realistic VR environment with ease.
Ah, but balance concerns, right? Can't be helped. Our company's long gone. This is all about the cash. So load up on our shitty DLCs. Thanks.
#Journal, Page 39, Camp Roberts
I've made one trip already, but San Miguel should still have plenty of supplies and food left. I could probably harvest it twice more—at about the same level as last time. Just my rough guess.
After that, it'd be time to push further south to Paso Robles. A city of thirty thousand before the Morgellons outbreak—so decent size, bound to be packed with variants.
Deciding the departure order was a big deal. Four companies, and the first out gets the easier gig.
Captain Markert snagged first slot. As senior company commander, he's tight with the battalion CO and ops staff. Lieutenant Capston drew last. Word is he volunteered for the toughest slot himself. Bad news for me in his group. Still, I'd braced for it.
Sergeant Elliot, laid up in bed, dropped one surprising tidbit. There's more to accepting refugee volunteers than meets the eye. Plenty of soldiers lost family when the San Francisco area and Sacramento fell. They're too shaky mentally for ops. Taking on refugees was inevitable.
Makes sense. National Guard's mostly locals—not like the feds. No shortage of grieving troops. Camp HQ's gotta be scrambling inside and out. With the refugees' mood turning ugly, they can't fully trust the soldiers either.
Elliot asked if I was okay. Parents' contact cut off, but he said they were never close anyway—not even as much as with strangers—so no sweat. Couldn't have guessed from his usual sunny face. Tough to process. When I laid it out straight, he cracked up hard. Told me not to sweat it, clapped my shoulder. Eased my mind a ton.
#High Risk High Return (1), Paso Robles
From a broadcaster's view, volunteer training was a drag. Thought about fast-forwarding through it, then noped out. When the community leader joins training, members level up faster—and you don't get that from accelerated journals. Not a game-changer, but too good to waste early on.
Scales with ability, too. Winter could shoot for above-average buffs. Shooting or close-quarters combat, say.
Lieutenant Capston looked plenty worried. Half the folks Winter brought? Forget combat power. Even before age or gender, their nutrition and hygiene were crap. Pitiful. They picked up on it, too—took ages to talk the lieutenant into it.
Vehicle count at camp's limited, so only one supply platoon heads out at a time. More rigs stayed back than went out, but contingencies first.
Capston and Charlie Company's turn came four days after the extra missions kicked off.
Camp Roberts to Paso Robles past San Miguel? Seventeen kilometers by road. But obstacles everywhere—stopped cars, abandoned barricades to clear. Just the transit chewed up three hours forty.
Lucky the roads had few variants. Aerial recon showed it surprisingly clean.
"There it is. Paso Robles."
Sweaty Private First Class Guilherme pointed south. Cleared the tipped-over trailer, and the city's outline loomed right there. Mount up! Mount up! Refugees clambered onto the trucks at the shouts. Headcount done, column rolled out again.
Highway 101 south, veer right onto the side road—destination. Couldn't sweep a whole thirty-thousand-pop city in one go. Charlie's zone: north of 24th Street, barely one-twentieth the area.
Column halted at the 24th Street entrance. Four gas station signs lined the road—Shell, Chevron, BP, Arco from south to north. Chevron and BP had the prime spots. Like San Miguel, restaurants and motels right next door.
Two overseers per ten refugees—same setup. Sergeant Latchman filled in for the injured Sergeant Elliot. Black guy. Slim chance of being a racist. Sergeant in the U.S. Army means NCO—loads of experience, probably.
Everything but the nonstop "fucks" seemed fine. So far, Capston's company had few real assholes. Clean water flows from a clean source, huh.
McDonald's squatted right above the nearest gas station. Closest decent eatery, and the refugees were hollering to hit it. Just fill the quota and done. Lieutenant Capston shut it down cold.
"First objective: processed meats store, one klick north up this road. They stocked sausages and canned hams in bulk—one secure fills our quota. We set this ahead of time, ran map drills. Can't switch it up now."
Complaints didn't stop, though. Overseen soldiers looked pained. Winter's crew stayed quiet. Leader still, no one piped up. Credit to the wait during recruitment and the reminders at muster—they were watching the boy's cues.
Shoving stalled cars aside was brutal work. Plenty wrecked with wheels that wouldn't roll. Gas masks on top. Tight breathing turns any effort into hell. Gas masks apply a slight debuff, for real.
Still, area stayed quiet. Only three infected variants to the store. Nothing like Korea's packed buildings—spotted 'em early, wiped 'em easy. No threat; our firepower just pulped them.
Couldn't slack on even minor risks, so cautious clearing ate time.
Target site itself light on variants. Trucks loaded with canned boxes—U.S. troops and volunteers all cheered big.
Could wrap smooth like this. Everyone figured that—till the curveball. Lead Humvee slammed brakes, whole column froze. No breakdown. Worse.
"Company commander. Distress signal on commercial channel 9."
Soldier riding shotgun hailed Capston. Civilian radios crap out past a few hundred meters, but the Humvee's (RT-1523F) could hit Camp Roberts from Paso Robles—no terrain blocks or jamming.
Channel 9's emergency freq—91.5 MHz band. The one the hero uses to call firefighters in *Die Hard*.
Work halted, full four-way watch. Lieutenant grabbed the radio himself. Refugees snuck peeks—anxious, pissed looks. Fretting we'd detour for rescue.
Comms choppy. Lieutenant punched the windshield. Face flushed. Deep breath, stepped out, called the group: refugee leaders, company brass, senior troops. Map unrolled on the hood as he briefed. Rigid lieutenant in full urgent mode.
"Here—this spot, Daniel Lewis Middle School. Radio says teachers and students trapped. Exact numbers and sitrep unknown, but we can't ignore a rescue call. Before we decide, any questions or input?"
Sergeant Latchman raised a hand. Got the nod.
"No contact possible?"
"Unfortunately, yeah. Our output should've reached easy... but no dice. They're silent now. Probably rationing battery—on-off cycles."
Vehicle radios have long antennas for wide receive, up to 50 watts out. Civvie handhelds? Short antennas, narrow range, 0.5 to 3 watts tops. Low battery hits sensitivity hard.
Next, a sergeant named Dave Sirius raised his.
"Frankly, location sucks. Deep east into downtown—we can't even clear roads there with what we've got, way too risky. Unknown rescue count to boot... Rush in, we wipe, mission fails. Finish current task, RTB, call reinforcements. That's the play."
"Fuck off, Sirius."
Sergeant Pierce spat it sudden.
"Think about it. Bald little kids shivering in there. And we RTB without checking? Bullshit! Guarantee they last the night? Send recon for sitrep at least, right? If too many to evac—fuck it, recon holds till backup rolls in!"
"Sergeant, hate to say it, but... half the company's here, I'd be game. But drivers included, barely a platoon of troops—the rest unmotivated refugee volunteers? Can't count on 'em. Who steps up for this? Aerial shots show downtown crawling with variants. Sunset soon, too. You know they ramp up post-dusk."
Pierce muttered more "fuck yous," but not aimed.
Winter hesitated. If not for the promise to the group—get everyone back safe—he'd volunteer. Pop-up missions paid big.
No real input forthcoming, so Lieutenant tried HQ. Road cleared to city edge. Reinforcements could hit in thirty. Pull from standby companies or helos—even better.
Camp Roberts came back negative. Camp vibe off—no troop surge possible. Quarantine rules nix rotary-wing into infected zones. Can't risk casualties on top—all return, orders. Lieutenant argued. Pointless. Battalion ops staff ironclad. Bickering dragged, but sunset loomed—no time. Capston cut it furious.
*Figured as much.*
Winter expected it. Controller AI-spawned special ops don't self-resolve.
Pierce griped.
"Hey, CO. You seriously thinking RTB?"
"Sergeant, I get it, but orders..."
"Nazis said 'just following orders' too."
Pissed sergeant got a calm gesture toward the refugees from Lieutenant Capston.
"Orders matter, but these folks volunteered for supply runs only. Civilians besides. Extra risks? That's breach of terms, kinda."
"Since when's that a—"
"Emergency now. Humanity on the brink—no room for individual morals from troops or officers. Chain of command's intact. Sergeant, push it and it's disobeyal."
Sergeant looked floored, but the lieutenant held firm. Respect the service record, sure—but command's the CO's. Refugees are civilians under Army protection, by the book. Can't force 'em into danger—that's his stance.
To the boy, this went beyond stiff rules. Camp couldn't function without refugee help for externals. Arbitrary casualties? Next run gets zero volunteers. Mutual doom. Fewer vols, less haul—refugees worsen, turn radical, threaten the troops. Armed to teeth or not, a determined mob tens times bigger's dire.
Camp mood already blocked reinforcements. Let it sour more? Nah. Lieutenant's call was solid.
"Goddamn! HQ says no risking losses? Fine—if volunteers step up from refugees, that's kosher?"
Surrendered hands, raging sergeant was imposing. Muscled black guy straining his big uniform. Small-statured Asians shrunk plenty. No need to poll—eyes averted was the answer. Madder sergeant barked.
"Shit! That's how it is? Asians got small bodies, small spines too? Can't risk for justice?"
"Racist. Don't paint us villains. Sirius nailed it—unavoidable."
Grumble cracked the dam—one sparked a flood. Sirius regretted it but couldn't reel back.
"Five-year-old son waiting. Get it, but no risks."
"Day-two trainees aren't your equals."
"You lot see us as meat shields anyway. Soldier doesn't RTB? No payout—punishment maybe. Straight-up says your lives matter more. Die in our place if dicey. Fine to here. We're in to survive. Beyond that? No."
Last bit landed heavy. Pure truth. And that wrapped Winter's debate.
"I'll go."
"Huh?"
Sergeant Pierce scowled back—not mad, just "for real?" Winter pressed on.
"But the others I brought? If they don't want, let 'em RTB. Promised 'em safe."
"No takers, you solo it?"
"Yeah."
"Ha, rumors of a real man weren't hype."
Sergeant Pierce laughed. Half-masked, eyes sold it. Quiet fell sudden. Refugees soured—kid soloing while they bail? What about face? Org pride too. Glares flew.
Favor down warnings popped random. Scattered ups amid—mostly U.S. troops.
CO Robert Capston: sorry, but worried.
"Courage's top-tier, but no. Too damn risky."
"Can't abandon kids younger than me."
"Hmm... Poll the other refugees first."
Pointless for other groups. Plenty outright hostile to the boy—or defying their rep. Backlash guaranteed.
Boy's followers looked spooked. None jumped. Solo for real? Better that way, Winter figured—then a struggler raised a shaky hand.
"No sure I help, but can't send the boss solo."
"...Boss?"
Head tilt; the woman nodded.
"Yeah. Our boss. Lil' one."
Honorifics clunky. Combat from her? Nah. Reedy limbs. Dirty, but pre-starve? Probably "slender" compliments. Beauty debatable.
Hands two, three next—guys, thank God. One scrawny reverse-crew uncle, one solid-build youth.
"Gotta earn my keep."
"Right. Prepaid, even."
Prepaids: ration chits Winter tossed as courtesy after stalling for time. More than that, though. They were the quiet few amid the boy's cheer squad. Opportunity? They'd subbed in confident. Easy read—boy grew dodging eyes, Dad's fault.
Lieutenant Capston mixed joy and dread. Happy such folks existed. Dread sending 'em—token gesture at best. Duty versus conscience warred; dry face rub, slow words.
"Feels like shit. No orders and..."
"No self-blame."
Soft words netted favor bumps; boy requested: ample ammo, chow, medkit, radio.
"Anything can happen—ammo's given. Food and meds for starved kids or wounded. No comms? Screwed."
"That goes without saying."
Didn't, really. Handing refugees out-of-pocket, small numbers or not. HQ could bitch. Lieutenant's burden now.
Packed two duffles: ammo, cans, antibiotics, bandages. Borrowed a backpackable (AN/PRC-119) radio. Tricky gear, but preset freq simplified. Power-on, dial-in tutorial from the RTO—one-on-one.
Radio briefed, Winter saluted. No rank, volunteer—salute fit.
"Tomorrow. Pre-sunset tight."
"Sorry for the danger. Good hunting. Godspeed."
CO led; boy-fans gave short nods. Private First Class Guilherme straight-up hugged.
"Stay safe. We'll yank 'em quick."
"You too—no ouchies. No Elliot-rush."
"This punk's mouth?"
Mid-sentence, PFC popped one over the boy's head. Suppressed, but skull-close ain't quiet. No jump. High *Survival Instinct* pinged rear approach. Strictly? Hologrammed rough bearing and range with margin—spine-tingle bonus.
Glance back: faded road, sprawled corpses. Rejection-ravaged skin popped clear afar. Infected variants.
"Let's move."
Boy's cool word. The three trailed, impressed vibes. Minor favor ups.
Under the slanting afternoon sun, four shadows stretched long across the asphalt.