Harem Apocalypse: My Seed is the Cure?! - Chapter 162

Chapter 162: Farewell Jackson Township [3]
“Then what about the coast?”

The suggestion came from an unexpected source—Daisy, who’d spoken up timidly but with growing confidence as she realized people were actually listening. Everyone turned to look at her, and I watched her straighten slightly under the attention, raising her gaze to meet the assembled eyes with surprising seriousness.

“The Atlantic coast… near the sea?” She clarified, her voice strengthening as she articulated the idea more fully.

“Atlantic coast? You mean we should settle in a city near the New Jersey coastline?” Rachel asked, processing the suggestion with visible interest.

“Yeah…” Daisy nodded, warming to her own idea as she spoke. “I mean, we’d have the sea on one side, which means we only need to defend from three directions instead of being surrounded. It’s much safer than being in the middle of a town where threats could come from anywhere. And maybe we could even find boats—establish fishing areas if there are any viable spots. Having access to the ocean could provide a renewable food source that doesn’t depend on scavenging increasingly picked-over supplies.”

Her suggestion was actually quite good—strategically sound in ways that my exhausted brain hadn’t immediately considered. Having a natural barrier on one flank would significantly reduce our defensive requirements and create a potential escape route if things went catastrophic again. The ocean also represented resources we hadn’t seriously explored yet: fish, shellfish, potentially trade routes if other coastal communities had survived. Well; maybe I was too optimist for the last one…

However I could see from people’s expressions that they were already seriously considering the proposal.

“Does someone have a map?” Margaret asked immediately. “We need to identify viable coastal locations and assess travel distances.”

“Yeah, got one!” A voice called out from the survivor group—I recognized the speaker as one of the younger men from the Municipal Office. He immediately rushed to one of the parked cars, yanking open the passenger door and rummaging through the glove compartment.

Moments later he emerged holding a folded road map—the old-fashioned paper kind that had become invaluable since GPS networks had failed and digital navigation had become worthless. The map looked well-used, its edges frayed and its creases softened by repeated folding and unfolding.

Margaret took the map with a nod of thanks and immediately moved to the nearest vehicle—a pickup truck with a relatively flat hood that would serve as an impromptu planning table. She spread the map across the hood with , smoothing out the creases and orienting it properly.

People gathered around immediately, forming a semicircle around the truck as everyone craned to see the map. I moved closer as well.

We focused our attention on New Jersey’s territory, the familiar shape of the state rendered in colorful detail on the weathered paper. Red and blue lines marked highways and major routes, green patches indicated parks and protected areas, and countless labeled dots represented cities and towns of varying sizes.

From Jackson Township—I traced our approximate current location with my finger, finding the small dot that represented where we’d been living—the closest coastal cities were immediately apparent once you knew what you were looking for.

“Long Branch is probably our closest option,” Margaret said, her finger tapping a location on the coast that appeared to be maybe thirty to forty miles from our current position. “It’s a decent-sized city with good access to the ocean and the Shrewsbury River. Population was maybe thirty-something thousand before the outbreak, which means substantial infrastructure but hopefully not overwhelming infected numbers if we’re lucky.”

“Atlantic City is further south,” someone else pointed out, their finger tracing down the coastline. “Bigger city, which could mean more resources but also potentially more infected. The casinos and boardwalk areas might provide interesting defensive positions though—lots of high ground and limited access points.”

“What about Asbury Park?” Cindy suggested, pointing to another coastal location. “Smaller than Atlantic City but still substantial. And the beach towns along the Jersey Shore generally have good elevation near the water—cliffs and dunes that could serve as natural barriers.”

I studied the map carefully. Distance was a major factor—we had limited fuel, injured people who needed rest, and no guarantee any route would be clear of infected or other hazards. Closer was generally better, but we also needed to balance accessibility against strategic value.

“Long Branch seems most practical,” I said finally, my voice rough but carrying clearly in the night air. “Close enough to reach within a day of careful travel, large enough to provide resources and shelter options, but not so massive that we’d spend months clearing infected just to establish a safe zone.”

Margaret nodded agreement. “The coastal highway route should still be relatively navigable—less traffic congestion than inland routes since most evacuation patterns would have flowed away from the coast rather than toward it.”

“Then it’s decided?” Rachel asked, looking around at the assembled group for confirmation. “We head for Long Branch and establish a new settlement there?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the survivors—not enthusiastic exactly though as expected after the tragedy that had happened. However having a destination, a concrete goal to work toward, seemed to restore some measure of hope to people who’d been running on nothing but desperate survival instinct.

“We shouldn’t waste time then,” Margaret said. “Fuel might be scarce along the route, but we have the necessary tools to drain it from abandoned cars we’ll encounter. We’ve done it before—we can do it again.”

She was right about the fuel concerns. Concerning the camping van, I’d completely filled the tank to maximum capacity during my preparations, and I knew Margaret’s community had also filled their emergency evacuation vehicles as much as possible during the chaos of fleeing Jackson Township. But yes, fuel remained critically important—without it, we were just sitting targets waiting for infected to find us.

I turned toward Rachel and the others. “Anyway, we should—”

The words died in my throat as I felt something shift in the air around us. A change so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed it, but my enhanced senses picked up the disturbance immediately—a vibration at the edge of perception, a pressure change that made my ears want to pop.

I frowned, tilting my head slightly as I tried to identify the source of my unease.

“Do you hear it?” I asked.

“Hear what?” Daisy asked curiously, looking around as if expecting to see some visible threat emerging.

But Rachel, Elena, and Cindy—who were all standing outside near the vehicles—had also picked up on the anomaly thanks to their enhanced Dullahan senses. I watched them stiffen simultaneously, heads turning upward in perfect synchronization as they tracked something I was only beginning to consciously process.

We all turned our gazes toward the night sky.

The sound became clearer with each passing second, growing from a distant thrum into a distinctive rhythmic chopping that was unmistakable once you recognized it. And then, cutting through the darkness above us, we saw them.

My eyes widened in genuine shock, disbelief washing over me in a cold wave.

Helicopters.

Three of them, their silhouettes visible against the star-filled sky as they approached our position with deliberate purpose. Running lights blinked in patterns—red, white, green—painting the darkness with points of color that seemed almost absurdly civilized in this nightmare world.

We all stood there completely dumbfounded, frozen in shock at seeing something we hadn’t witnessed since the outbreak began two months ago. Functional aircraft—military-grade helicopters we never thought of seeing again.

“Did they come to save us?!” Someone from the Municipal Office community shouted, their voice cracking with desperate hope.

“The army! It has to be the army! They finally came to save us!” Another voice joined in, excitement spreading through the assembled survivors like wildfire.

“Here! We’re here!” More voices joined the chorus, people waving their arms frantically and shouting despite the helicopters being far too high to hear individual voices over engine noise.

The community erupted into enthusiastic chaos—people laughing and crying simultaneously, embracing each other, shouting with relief and joy at what they interpreted as salvation finally arriving. Two of the helicopters were large transport models, each easily capable of carrying twenty or more people based on their size and configuration.

But my gaze remained fixed on the third helicopter—the silver one.

Something about it seemed wrong, out of place in ways I couldn’t immediately articulate. The design didn’t match standard military specifications, the sleek silver finish looking more like executive transport than army issue. This didn’t look like something the US military would deploy for rescue operations in a disaster zone.

And something else felt strange about this whole situation—an instinctive warning bell ringing in the back of my mind that I couldn’t ignore despite having no concrete evidence to support my unease.

They were definitely here for us, at least it seemed that way based on their descent trajectory. The helicopters were slowly lowering their altitude, approaching our position with clear intention rather than just passing overhead.

The sound grew exponentially louder as they descended, the distinctive whup-whup-whup of rotor blades cutting through air becoming almost deafening. Wind swept down from above with increasing force as the helicopters’ downdraft hit ground level, kicking up dust and loose debris in swirling patterns that made everyone instinctively cover their faces.

I raised my arm to shield my eyes from flying grit, squinting through the artificial windstorm to keep the helicopters in view. But my attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere when my gaze happened to fall on Elena and Alisha standing nearby.

What?

Elena had her gaze lowered. Her entire body was trembling—not from cold or exhaustion, but with what looked like fear or dread or some combination of emotions I couldn’t fully identify from this distance. Her fists were clenched so tightly that even in the poor lighting I could see her knuckles had gone white.

Alisha, by contrast, looked up at the silver helicopter with a stern, rigid expression that made her face seem carved from stone.

The sight sent ice racing through my veins. They knew something. They recognized these helicopters, or at least suspected who might be aboard them.

Don’t tell me…

Eventually the three helicopters settled onto the ground, their landing gear making contact with the cracked asphalt in a triangular formation that surrounded our group. Engines continued running but at reduced power, rotors slowing to idle speed rather than shutting down completely—the pilots anticipated a quick turnaround rather than extended stay it seems…

The two large transport helicopters’ side doors slid open, revealing dark interiors that spilled armed figures into the night.

Soldiers descended rapidly—except no, something was wrong. These couldn’t be soldiers. Not military, at least not US military.

They all wore matching uniforms of silver and black that looked like high-end tactical gear—probably Kevlar-reinforced jackets and pants that would cost more than most people earned in a year. Full body protection, professional grade, with none of the wear and tear you’d expect from military equipment that had been in active use during an apocalyptic scenario.

And every single one of them carried assault rifles—expensive models that looked pristine, well-maintained, loaded with what I’d bet were full magazines. They deployed with military precision, creating a perimeter around our group with overlapping fields of fire that suggested professional training.

I counted quickly. Around twenty, maybe twenty-five armed personnel spreading out to cover all angles. Their movements were coordinated, efficient, speaking to extensive training and probably recent drills. This wasn’t a ragtag group of survivors who’d cobbled together equipment—this was a private security force, possibly mercenary, operating with the kind of resources that simply shouldn’t exist in this collapsed world.

“Help—” Someone behind Margaret started to call out, probably intending to request assistance or ask questions.

But one of the armed men immediately swung his assault rifle toward the speaker, the weapon’s barrel centering on the unfortunate survivor with lethal precision. The implicit threat was crystal clear: shut up or die.

The speaker’s mouth snapped closed mid-word, hands flying up in the universal gesture of surrender.

Everyone’s enthusiasm immediately evaporated like water thrown on hot coals, replaced by cold fear as the armed men pointed their weapons toward us with clear intent. The joyful shouts of salvation died in throats, replaced by shocked silence broken only by the idling helicopter engines.

All around me, people were raising their hands in surrender—slowly, carefully, making no sudden movements that might be interpreted as threatening. Nobody dared to move beyond that, barely even breathing as assault rifles tracked across the crowd.

But I didn’t look at the armed men surrounding us. My gaze remained locked on Elena and Alisha, watching their reactions to confirm the terrible suspicion forming in my mind.

No… it can’t be…

Then the door of the main silver helicopter opened with a pneumatic hiss, and a man stepped out onto the ground.

He had platinum blond hair brushed back neatly. A light beard covered his jaw—perfectly trimmed, professionally maintained.

His eyes were as blue as Elena’s and Alisha’s—the exact same distinctive shade, leaving no doubt about biological relationship.

He wore a classy white suit that looked like it had just come from an expensive tailor—crisp, clean, without a single stain or wrinkle despite the apocalyptic environment.

His expression was cold and stern. He surveyed the assembled survivors with the detached interest of someone examining livestock or property—calculating value, assessing usefulness, determining worth.

I saw Elena’s body stiffen immediately when he appeared, her trembling intensifying until I thought she might collapse. Alisha’s expression, if possible, became even more rigid.

When the man’s eyes swept across the crowd and fell on Alisha and Elena, his lips curled upward into something that might technically be classified as a smile but held something similar yet different than warmth.

“My daughters.”