My Job? Weaving Armour For Undead In Apocalypse-Chapter 36: Modification Completed

He focused on the first bus.

With mechanical precision, his Vultures tore off the front bumpers. Merek guided several ingots into the structure, weaving them into a new form—a sleek, aerodynamic battering ram, sharp like an arrowhead. It sloped downward in a continuous sheet of metal, designed so even crushed zombies couldn’t get stuck beneath and jam the wheels.

Once that was done, he had Yuki shatter the windshield. In its place, he molded flat, reinforced steel plates—angled just enough to deflect projectiles but with a slit wide enough to allow both visibility and light for the driver.

The new additions, particularly the front-mounted steel ram, added considerable weight to the front of the vehicle. Mindful not to overload the tires, Merek restrained himself.

Instead of sealing the windows outright, he crafted six narrow steel strips—two fingers wide, each running the full length of the windows. Three for each side.

Minimal obstruction. Maximum defense.

With the first bus complete, Merek sat down and let the chill of fatigue wash over him, forcing his heart to steady as he regained his strength.

Twenty minutes later, he moved on.

The second bus had a simpler role. He removed its windshield as well, replacing it with a grid of angled steel spikes, then lined the windows with the same ruler-like slats. Fast. Efficient. Brutal.

The third was identical.

Three hours passed. Merek, drenched in sweat, wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and finally stepped back to observe his work.

Four buses stood before him—no longer school transports, but steel behemoths, crude but effective, ready to charge through chaos.

Especially the first bus. That one was the spearhead.

His plan was simple: keep it in front. Let it tear through the worst—abandoned cars, ruined barricades, herds of the dead.

It would clear the path for the others, like a juggernaut cutting a trail toward salvation.

If all went well, reaching White Shop Camp would be far smoother.

"Here." Felicity’s voice, cool and slightly indifferent, slipped into his ears, prompting Merek to turn his head.

She stood beside him, arm extended, holding out a small carton of milk. Her gaze lingered on his sweat-drenched face without flinching, calm and unreadable.

"Thanks," Merek muttered, accepting the carton. He twisted off the cap and drank in deep gulps, the cool liquid sliding down his parched throat. As he drank, his eyes followed Felicity’s graceful stride toward the first modified bus. She raised her hand and knocked firmly against the heavy steel battering ram at its front.

A dull metallic clang echoed softly through the air.

"Your skill is quite efficient," she said, her tone still level—neither praise nor dismissal.

Merek wasn’t sure whether she was complimenting him or simply stating a fact, so he said nothing.

Felicity turned to face him, her posture relaxed yet poised, fingers clasped behind her back. "Let’s say we get to White Shop Camp. What will you do after that?"

"I’ll go get my brother."

"Oh?" She tilted her head slightly, one brow arching. "You have a brother?"

"I do." Merek’s eyes flickered.

The words felt odd in his mouth—even to himself. He hadn’t known the boy before waking in this world. Yet the moment the memories of the former Merek fused with his own, they brought with them more than facts. They carried emotion. A stubborn sense of duty. That boy had been everything to the old Merek, the last living tether to his shattered world. And somehow, now, that same bond gripped Merek’s heart with unwavering force.

He didn’t try to explain it.

"I’m hungry," he said instead, heading toward the gym.

She followed in silence.

As they stepped inside, the sound of raised voices drew their attention immediately. A tense confrontation had taken root. A university student stood squared off against three high school boys. He clutched a milk carton, clearly wrested from one of them, and it seemed he intended to hand it to a female student standing behind him.

Despite the standoff, no one had thrown a punch. The scene had already begun to settle thanks to the presence of Professor David and Nero, both of whom now stood between the arguing parties, keeping things from boiling over. Still, angry words flew back and forth.

"Just one day," Felicity murmured, eyes narrowing. "And the scarcity of food has already gotten to them."

Merek frowned, his attention shifting toward the professor.

David had spent nearly all his time attending to the group—talking, listening, organizing. But now, even Tevin was nearing level 10, and Nero had likely surpassed that already. Fred’s level was still unclear, but David? At best, he was stuck around level six or seven.

He was falling behind. Losing importance.

That couldn’t continue.

Just then, the heavy thud of armored boots echoed through the gym like a war drum. All heads turned.

Yuki and the Vultures entered the hall, undead and silent, their presence grim and overpowering. The metal plating of their armor gleamed under the dim lights, their lifeless orbs behind the helm slits staring straight ahead.

A hush fell like a blanket across the gym.

Conversations died in mid-sentence. Even the very air seemed to still.

Among the hundred survivors, some stopped breathing altogether, paralyzed by fear. Most of them have never faced a zombie and those who did, knew of Merek’s record with the Stage-1 giant. The sheer presence of his iconic undead was enough to root them to the ground.

"Who has the milk carton?" Merek asked quietly.

One of the high schoolers slowly raised his hand.

"Take it," Merek said.

The boy reached for it, but the university student’s grip tightened. He wasn’t ready to let go.

Merek’s eyes flicked toward one of the Vultures, then back to the student. His voice was calm. Almost cold.

"Just one cut from one of them," he said, tilting his head slightly, "and your entire arm will rot."

A shiver ran down the student’s spine. Even the most foolish impulse—to impress a girl—wasn’t worth a rotting limb.

He let go.

Merek offered him a faint smile and turned away.

"Was my portion saved?"

"It was," Professor David answered, stepping beside him and patting his shoulder. Carla arrived with two portions in her hands—twice what the others received.

Fighters ate better.

As far as Merek was concerned, that was how it should be. Those who put their lives on the line deserved more. Period.

"Tsk."

The university student clicked his tongue and stormed toward the exit, his teeth clenched, frustration crackling off him like static.

Felicity caught his wrist before he could leave.

Their eyes met.

"You don’t want to go out there alone," she said quietly. "I know you also have a Job Class, but—"

"Let go!" he snapped, yanking his wrist from her grasp.

She hadn’t held him tightly. There had been no force. But he didn’t understand any of it.

Bam!

The steel door slammed shut behind him.

"I’ll go get him," Professor David sighed after making sure the high school students were completely settled. He turned and headed toward the exit.

As he stepped outside, his eyes were momentarily drawn to the buses. They gleamed in the night—modified, armored, formidable. A spark of admiration flickered in his gaze.

Then a sound hit him. Wet. Muffled. Grotesque.

The crunch of flesh.

The stink of blood.

He froze.

Eyes narrowing, he scanned the shadows.

Behind a distant pole, two figures stood. One of them hunched over the other, gnawing like a starving animal.

The professor stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

The hunched figure suddenly straightened, then tossed the other aside with terrifying ease.

The limp body sailed through the air and landed hard in the open, crumpling like a broken doll.

Professor David’s breath caught.

It was the university student.

His eyes flicked back to the pole.

Something moved in the dark.

From the blackness behind it, two gleaming red eyes locked on him.