Harem God- Dimensional Motel System-Chapter 45: Interactions With The Night Part 4

Luck kept his mouth shut for a few seconds, figuring out the easiest way to sell them a lie.

"Most did. Our unit was black-bagged. We only got sent in after the cities fell. Not much left to save." Luck shrugged, like he was describing weather.

"So, you were hiding?" Her eyes narrowed.

"You know how politics works. Some generals want to bomb, some want to negotiate, some want to eat their own hands. Nobody listens to the guys with the actual bullets."

He let it hang for dramatic effect, then spat over the concrete. "So yeah. We cleared out a few places. Lost most of my team in a laboratory east from here. After that we just headed west and built this."

The bearded man exhaled, a low whistle. "You fought zombies in a laboratory?"

"Yeah, but that’s a story for another time. And don’t even think about stepping into the motel without my say-so. We’ve got sensitive stuff in there—mess with the wrong thing, and you’ll end up turning into zombies yourselves."

"Your team’s checking another lab, right? Is it true someone found a cure?" she asked.

"We picked up a radio signal, that’s it. Nothing’s confirmed until they get back. And quit with the questions."

Fernando, seeing the drift of conversation, cleared his throat. "If we’re going to be here a night, maybe you want to know who we are. Just so there’s no... surprises."

Luck shrugged, but inside he couldn’t help his curiosity. This was his favorite part of any RPG: the party screen, the stat sheets, the hidden perks.

Real life was never as interesting, but maybe the apocalypse leveled the playing field.

The first to speak was the bearded guy.

"Name’s Dima. Before all this, I ran heavy machinery. Diggers, graders, anything with a diesel engine. Can fix stuff. Not people, though." He gave a short, apologetic nod.

A schoolgirl with brown hair and alert eyes spoke next. "I’m Yuna. I’m a college student. My dad taught me how to shoot—just air rifles, though. The rest, I had to figure out after the outbreak."

"Gregor," said the man in camo pants. He got a build that came from years of training—broad shoulders, thick legs. Probably an athlete.

"I taught PE. Wrestling, mostly. Can run, carry, or throw. Not a talker."

The next in line wore identical bone structure to Gregor—same close-set eyes, same busted nose, probably broken by the same punch or shared genetics.

"Roger," his voice rang higher than his twin. "Physics. High school, but I can solder if you need it." He flashed a lopsided smile that died out immediately.

"If you’ve got a generator, I can fix up battery arrays. Or, uh, I can build traps. Traps are good."

Luck nodded, pretending to weigh this like it mattered. Roger might be useless in combat, but he would be good in a siege.

"Last is me," the leader stepped up. "I used to be with the police. Beat cop, mostly, but I moved up to traffic duty when things got out of hand. Retired after the bite, but not the kind you’re thinking."

He lifted the hem of his jacket to show a scar on his side, dull and waxy, no rot or festering. "Dog, not zombie. Neighbor’s mastiff. Funny what sticks around after the world goes to hell."

He let the jacket fall. "I know basic first aid, and I can shoot. If you’ve got rules, I can enforce them. If you’ve got people, I’ll watch their backs. If not, I’ll keep out of your way."

"That’s enough introductions. Codename’s Luck—Special Forces. I see you’ve got camping gear, so set up your tent."

They nodded and got to work. No one said it out loud, but they were all thinking the same thing—what would show up at dusk.

As for Luck, he kept his distance—somewhere he could watch all of them without being noticed too easily.

Then dusk came. It wasn’t even night yet, but some zombies were already walking the streets.

Everything was fine—until Luck jumped down from the wall without a word. The five scrambled up the watchtower in a hurry.

"You’re actually going out there?" Fernando asked.

"Yeah. Figured I’d stretch my legs before bed." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

The group stared at him like they were watching a madman.

A pack of ten—barefoot, faces flensed to the wet bone—came barreling out of a pharmacy’s broken glass teeth straight for him.

These were— faster, faces peeled to the bone variant. They moved as a single organism, a group with intention.

From the tower, Yuna squeaked, "Oh my god."

Everyone turned away. They had seen this kind of scene too many times—and it always ended the same way.

The zombies piling on, tearing someone apart before the screaming stopped.

"Relax." Luck didn’t even bother with a battle cry.

He just stepped sideways, knees loose, like he was bored with physics, and ducked under the first set of arms.

His sword came up and stayed up, catching the neck of a sprinter that still wore a deliveryman’s badge.

slash!

The head pinwheeled, spattering black blood.

Second one he baited, backing up fast. Then, he spun, slicing through the kneecap of one, the clavicle of another, each blow so efficient it almost looked like he was mapping the geometry of pain.

A smaller zombie in a postman’s cap managed to get a grip on his sleeve, but he yanked hard and angled his heel, using its own momentum to send it crashing into the legs of the ones behind.

Three, four, five—they came in a wave.

Luck’s sword flashed and the rest was history.

Heads came off like he was shelling hard-boiled eggs; two rolled into the gutter, another bounced off a fire hydrant.

The sixth zombie got close enough to bite his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and stabbed behind him without even looking.

Last four hesitated, just enough for him to step in and work them over. The bodies twitched for a second, then slumped into a tangle of dead limbs.

"No way."

He heard the awe before he saw it—five sets of lungs holding their breath, five pairs of eyes tracking his every move like they were watching a movie where the rest of the cast promptly died in the cold open.

Luck wiped the blade on a corpse’s clothing, and looked up to his audience.

They had the decency to flinch when he made eye contact. Even Dima, clung to the tower rail like he just saw a ghost.

"Well, that’s a good work out," Luck said, toeing a headless corpse.

The group staggered down from the tower, silent—except for a muttered curse from the twin who apparently pissed himself during the carnage.

"You didn’t even get scratched," Fernando said. "How... what the hell are you?"

Luck considered his options. He could lie, but after a show like that, the only lie worth telling was the biggest one.

He raised an eyebrow and spelled it out, slowly and sharp. "S. P. E. C. I. A. L. Forces. Which part’s giving you trouble?"

Everyone knew he was mocking them, but no one called him out. They were just relieved to be near someone powerful.