4. Finding the Girl of the Apocalypse 4

From the moment I first laid hands on a real firearm, I knew it was only a matter of time before I crossed paths with the authorities, and in truth, I had secretly anticipated such a development.

What I did not expect was how quickly the police would come knocking, nor how chillingly similar reality would prove to be to the nightmares I had experienced.

That girl is a serial killer—is that for real?

Fear and exhilaration thrummed violently in my chest. Perhaps my control over my facial muscles had slipped, for the officer before me raised an eyebrow and asked, "What is it? Do you recognize this face?"

"It’s nothing, just… I was thinking…"

"Thinking?"

"Such a young girl… to be a serial killer?" I poured my genuine disbelief into my tone.

"Oh, that," he nodded, looking convinced. "Others have asked the same. The truth is, she happened upon a handgun somewhere. Rebellious teenage girls often have extreme ways of thinking and don't place much value on their own lives or the lives of others. She likely held grudges against adults and society, and once she got her hands on a real gun, it was only a matter of time before things spiraled out of control, both mentally and physically."

"Can she really be classified as a serial killer?" I asked, probing.

"If the circumstances are sufficiently grave, yes… you can look it up online later if you want." He seemed uninterested in dwelling on the topic and asked again, "So, have you seen her? Does this face look familiar? She has been spotted in this vicinity, and she poses a serious threat to the residents here. Finding her even a minute sooner would be for the best. There is even a cash reward for helpful information."

I was well aware that reporting her meant a reward, while shielding her meant facing serious criminal charges. It might not be the life sentence from my nightmares, but it would certainly cast my future into total darkness.

During the first half of my journey moving the girl last night, I had consciously avoided pedestrians and street surveillance. For the second half, I had tucked her into a large suitcase, so it shouldn't have been easy to spot me. The problem, however, was that I wasn't a hardened criminal practiced in the art of evasion; I couldn't say with absolute certainty that I had dodged every security camera. What if there was one in a blind spot I hadn't noticed? The possibility of being unearthed by the authorities was an objective reality.

Perhaps the officer before me had already grasped the evidence against me and was offering one final chance to confess. I should admit to a momentary lapse in judgment and hand over the hot potato that was the girl before there was no turning back.

But after finally stumbling upon such an extraordinary, off-the-rails event, was I really going to end this mysterious encounter with a whimper, playing the part of a helpful citizen? I hadn't even heard her story yet!

There were still too many unfathomable mysteries surrounding that girl. The explanation of a "rebellious girl who somehow found a gun" was nowhere near enough to satisfy my appetite. If I let her go now, I feared I would lose my only chance to be a part of this bizarre affair.

I could not give her up. Not until I was satisfied.

Facing the officer's inquiry, I pretended to rack my brain before answering: "I don't think I've seen her."

"I see… sorry to have taken your time." The officer showed no sign of surprise or disappointment; he simply closed the door for me with practiced ease. "If you happen to spot her, remember to report it immediately."

"I understand."

I replied with a normal tone, closed the door, and began to eavesdrop on the movements outside.

The officer’s footsteps moved to my neighbor’s door, and the knocking began again. It seemed he intended to go door-to-door. I recalled hearing somewhere that in the modern age, over ninety percent of solved cases are cracked through this kind of plain, unglamorous footwork and the review of surveillance footage.

Just to be safe, I didn't return to the bedroom to speak with the girl immediately. Instead, I grabbed my phone from beside the sofa and retreated to the entryway, listening to the police movements outside while searching for news on the serial killer currently plaguing my home, Saltwater City.

A quick search confirmed it.

Over the past two or three months, five bodies in gruesome condition had been discovered within the city limits. The victims were all high-status officials and wealthy individuals.

Media reports seemed to be under some level of control; the articles I found lacked details on the cause of death and contained no photos or specific descriptions of the "gruesome" state of the bodies. All I learned was that the authorities had recovered fiber and skin tissue from beneath the victims' fingernails—not belonging to the victims themselves—suggesting they had scratched at the killer’s clothing or body during their final struggle. It had been confirmed that the same individual was responsible for all five murders.

The killer’s true identity remained unknown, and the upper class was in a state of panic, terrified of becoming the next corpse.

I had a faint memory of the news. When I saw it last month, I had considered looking into it myself, but I had been preoccupied with other urban legends and supernatural tales, so I hadn't paid much attention to this local grizzly murder case.

I had assumed it was just another anti-wealth, deranged serial killer who would soon be caught by the omnipotent authorities. But here we were, so much time had passed, and the case hadn't moved an inch.

Was this mysterious girl the killer?

It didn't feel right. If the victims had been shot with a handgun, it wouldn't be described as "gruesome."

Of course, if their heads had been blown apart, that would be a different story. But would there really be room for a victim to struggle and scratch at their killer in such a scenario? And multiple times, at that? Ultimately, with the range of a handgun, it didn't seem realistic for a victim to get close enough to the killer.

However… I shouldn't rule it out entirely. Maybe the girl was a terrible shot and had to be at point-blank range to hit her target. Or maybe she used hand-to-hand combat, just as she had used that joint lock on me earlier.

Plus, the officer had explicitly accused her of being the killer, and despite her clothes, the girl herself hadn't sustained a single injury.

If she really was the murderer, then what I was doing right now…

No, stop. There were too few clues. Drawing a conclusion now would be premature.

Better to ask her directly and see how she reacts.

***

After the police finished their sweep of the floor, I grabbed the gun I had hidden behind the sofa, re-engaged the safety, and pushed into the bedroom.

The girl was sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms folded in a meditative pose, seemingly unbothered by her tattered state. She appeared to have stayed in place, but I noticed subtle signs that things in the room had been moved. It seemed she had snooped around while I was talking to the police, trying to learn more about the person who lived here.

Hearing the door open, her head snapped up. She gave a quick glance behind me before locking eyes with me, her expression one of utter bewilderment.

"Why hide me?" she frowned deeply, her tone laced with intense suspicion. "You heard him, didn't you? I am a heinous serial killer. Since you are just an ordinary citizen, wouldn't it make more sense to turn me in?"

"Are you a killer?" I asked in return.

"I am not." She denied it firmly, then paused, her expression faltering as if she were suddenly unsure. "…Am I not?"

"Yes or no. I would like a definitive answer."

"Yes and no." This time, her wording was vague, but her tone was certain. "At the very least, I have not killed anyone in this era."

"Nonsense," I said. "Are you trying to tell me you're a time traveler?"

"Answer my question first," she said, her voice turning sharp as she tried to seize the initiative. "Why hide me?"

I had no intention of fighting her for control, and I had my answer prepared. "Because you aren't the killer."

"What makes you say that?" she asked suspiciously.

"None of the victims died of gunshot wounds." I tossed my phone, which showed the news page, toward her and continued, "Besides, I don't believe the person who committed these crimes would end up like you did—covered in blood and collapsed in the ruins in the middle of the night."

It was a lie. While I lacked hard evidence to prove she was the killer, I had already steeled myself for the possibility, even going so far as to prepare for the eventuality of dealing with her myself.

She pressed on, relentless. "Even if you don't believe I'm the killer, you have no reason to hide me. Regardless of whether I am a murderer, the fact that I am in possession of firearms and ammunition in violation of this era's laws is undeniable. Telling the police is what you should be doing."

"Like I said before, you're the one who told me not to call them." I walked slowly toward the desk, set the gun down, and turned to face her. "I don't know what your circumstances are, but since you're involved with guns and ammo, it means your situation is a matter of life and death."

"In my eyes, you are just a young girl who collapsed in the night, ragged and alone. Is it really so strange that I would want to step up and protect you?"

Perhaps my carefully prepared "lines" were a bit too heavy-handed; she scrambled back to the corner of the bed as if burned, swallowed hard, and stared at me in stunned silence. "J-just… just for that reason?"

Having come this far, I had to see the performance through to the end.

"Is that not enough?"

"How can this be? Does someone in this era actually…?" She looked genuinely shaken.

I had expected to spend more time arguing, but she seemed to have bought it.

But what exactly did she mean by "this era" or "that era"? Was she delusional? Or did she truly have a secret beyond my imagination?

Just as I was about to voice my confusion, she composed herself. After staring at me for a long moment, she relaxed her guard slightly and introduced herself. "My name is Mazo. 'Ma' as in sesame, 'zo' as in breakfast. What is your name?"

"I am Zhuang Cheng. 'Zhuang' as in solemn, 'Cheng' as in success," I replied.

Mazo seemed to have made an important decision. She straightened her posture, sitting up formally on the bed, her hands resting on her knees.

"Very well, Zhuang Cheng… I am going to tell you my true identity and where I come from. I know you likely won't believe me, but I hope you will at least listen."

Was she finally going to confess?

Was it too soon? Was she going to tell me the truth, or spin a web of lies to deceive me?

I waited with bated breath and nodded. "Go ahead."

"Just as you suspected, I do not belong to this era. I am someone who has traveled here from the future," she began, dropping a bombshell. "And in the future, human civilization has been destroyed. The world has entered the age of the apocalypse."