Chapter 24 - November 22: The Smiley Shopping Mall

A particularly large facility standing at the center of Shimoi.

The sign out front featured a smiling child beaming cheerfully—just looking at it made you smile in return.

It was the only shopping mall in the area, serving as a beloved gathering place for the local community.

Cafés, bookstores, toy stores, grocery stores, clothing shops—everything was here.

Its slogan: “Let the sun shine a smile on our town!”

There weren’t many malls this deeply integrated into the lives of the locals.

But now, in the parking lot, there wasn’t a single smile to be found—only emotionless zombies shuffling along, their faces blank and empty.

One zombie staggered toward the entrance, arms outstretched as if trying to grab something in the air.

A moment later, a bullet pierced its skull.

The zombie flipped over and collapsed on the concrete, limbs splayed, unmoving.

“Caaaptaaaain, I’m seriously worn out over here!”

A young girl’s voice rang out from the roof of the shopping mall—the one who had just sniped the zombie.

To call her a "woman" felt a bit premature—she still held the strong traces of childhood in her face.

Her personality fit her appearance: talented, but spoiled.

Dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, she whined and shook her head like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Seriously, when’s backup supposed to show up? We haven’t heard a single rotor since they dropped that box!”

She pointed at a crate—something the helicopter had dropped yesterday during the chaos as it passed over the mall.

Inside was a single sniper rifle, one submachine gun, and their ammunition.

No additional personnel. Just one order: “Hold this location.”

Since then, there had been no communication. No updates. Not even a signal.

And so, the rooftop was left to just two members of the special forces unit.

In terms of rank, I was the superior.

“Quit whining. Focus on the mission.”

“Ugh, you always say that!”

I pulled a book from my pocket, sat down on a portable chair, and began to read.

Both the book and the chair had been stolen from the mall.

When they arrived under orders, there hadn’t been a single survivor left.

It might have been a weekend, but when the infection first broke out, the place must’ve been packed with bored housewives killing time.

Now, the inside of the mall had been like a can of zombie sardines.

If they’d been lined up in the supermarket, you might’ve reflexively reached for one based on how many there were—but they were wiped out.

They’d closed the security shutters for protection.

Except for the main entrance—it remained open as the expected access point for incoming units.

That’s why she was necessary.

This girl had earned quite the reputation within the unit.

Her exceptional sniping ability was said to be a natural-born gift, and I remembered my peers complaining that no veteran could hold a candle to her.

They weren’t wrong—she carried out her missions flawlessly.

But she had zero motivation.

“Give me a reward! A re-waaaarrrd~!”

This was the result.

I sighed and tossed a bag of gummies from beneath the chair.

“Ooh! These are ‘Gumi Gumi: Gloomy Gummy!’ These are super rare!”

I didn’t care what kind they were. I just nodded along without much thought.

But the girl, misunderstanding my reaction as genuine enthusiasm, launched into an in-depth analysis of the gummy’s flavor and texture—everything from the basics to the nuanced balance of sweetness and acidity—with painstaking detail.

Beep-beep.

The soft sound rang out.

The sensor they had set up in the parking lot had detected movement.

Probably a zombie.

The girl moved smoothly into sniping position.

I returned my eyes to the book I was reading.

“Why is it wrong to kill people?!”

A desperate cry from the criminal, cornered by the detective, the protagonist.

Why, indeed, is killing wrong?

The detective had answered:

“Because every person has the right to live!”

How utterly meaningless. It wasn’t even an answer.

The so-called “right to live” was nothing more than a delusion invented by those who pathetically clung to life.

Having spent years killing, even if only criminals, I knew exactly what I would say if asked the same question:

“Hell if I care.”

There’s no such thing as a conscience.

What exists is bloated pride, a pinch of self-satisfaction, and ugly desire. That’s all.

If people want to call that "conscience," then the world must be overflowing with saints.

A suppressed gunshot cracked through the silence.

I walked to the railing and looked down—another zombie had fallen.

If that thing had been human, surrounded by self-proclaimed do-gooders, someone would’ve shouted:

“Why did you shoot it?!”

The answer was simple.

I hurled the book off the rooftop.

As the pages flared open, it almost looked like a bird taking flight—but the cracked leather cover caught the sunlight just right, and for a second, I smirked, thinking:

No, more like a stink bug.

“Like I give a damn, idiot,” I muttered.

And just as I said it, the book landed squarely on the zombie’s face.