4DAS Chapter 2 (Part 1)

Interlude.

Though it was summer and the days were supposed to be long, the inside of the house sank into darkness in an instant. It was largely because the windows had been blocked with barricades, but even taking that into account, night seemed to fall cruelly fast.

At least the heat had subsided. As soon as some of the stifling air drained out of the house, Young-il reinforced the barricade in the bedroom. It wasn’t much compared to the sturdier ones in the other rooms—just a makeshift cover that looked solid but would come loose at the first hard blow. Still, it was better than nothing.

[This is the Disaster Management Headquarters. Relief supplies will begin distribution tomorrow at approximately 11 a.m. This round of supplies will include drinking water, food, hygiene products, batteries, small fans, and portable butane gas cans.]

The two of them sat side by side in the living room, listening closely to the portable radio. In the evenings there wasn’t much else to do, so listening to the broadcast was their only pastime. It was also a fairly important one, since the radio carried updates on supply distribution and other schedules.

Before the zombie outbreak, Rowon had never even bothered with a radio, let alone a podcast. While Rowon listened with faint fascination, the man used a small flashlight as a lamp, jotting things down in a notebook. It seemed he was recording details from the broadcast, along with plans for tomorrow and possible routes.

Watching him absentmindedly, Rowon felt as though they were out camping. Of course, this was only the living room of his own house, a far cry from camping, but it still gave the faintest illusion of being removed from reality.

‘That’s what he said earlier. That listening to this would make me feel better…’

He remembered the man’s words when he switched the radio on. Something like, “You won’t get romantic music, but focusing on someone else’s voice, even for a little while, calms the mind.”

And it was true. Listening to the announcer’s steady, unadorned voice let Rowon forget, if only for a little while, about those who had barged into the apartment to accuse him. He could direct his focus solely onto the immediate task of survival.

[Batteries will be distributed eight per person, small fans one per person, and butane cans in boxes of twenty-four. Please note that leaving butane cans in direct sunlight or hot environments for extended periods carries the risk of ignition or explosion….]

Batteries and fans, huh. Rowon tilted his head, wondering if they would really help with this sweltering heat. Still, in times like these, anything was better than nothing. Better than fanning yourself until your arm ached. And besides…

“Batteries, now that’s a valuable drop this time.”

“Not the fans?”

“Fans are whatever. Nice to have, but they won’t do much against this heat. But batteries—those can be used for all kinds of things. This radio we’re listening to runs on batteries. People will scramble for them, you’ll see.”

He was right. In a world where electricity no longer flowed, nothing was as vital as batteries. Tomorrow, there might be fierce bargaining and deals just to secure a few extra.

“Batteries can be traded too. You could get more food, or hygiene products with them. Some lunatics even trade them for booze or cigarettes.”

“Booze and cigarettes? In times like this?”

“You’d be surprised how hard it is to suppress human cravings. And butane gas… well, it’s necessary. These days you have to boil water and sterilize dishes, otherwise you’ll catch all sorts of nasty diseases. Still, once that stuff circulates, the biker gangs will go crazy over it. Sure, you can trade with it, but it still feels unsettling….”

Biker gangs. The sudden topic doused Rowon’s thoughts in cold water. The man too seemed to realize it was a poor choice of words, falling silent with an awkward look.

But the radio, oblivious to the mood, poured even more cold water over them. Having run out of useful updates, the announcer shifted to reciting government advisories, the kind that sounded meaningless.

[This is our final announcement. Attacks on Morpheus-32 infected individuals are continuing nationwide. However, the infected can be fully cured with treatment, and direct confrontation carries a risk of transmission and severe injury.]

Don’t attack the infected? Rowon found himself thinking, shouldn’t it be the opposite? Even though he himself had once been infected, prejudice had crept into his thoughts.

Was it the biker gangs that were doing the attacking? And was the demand for butane because they wanted to make explosives to kill zombies with?

[The infected are human. Before infection, and even after. We ask for your cooperation so that the infected may be safely exposed to the treatment gas without unnecessary conflict.]

How many listening to this radio would actually believe such words? How many could still see the ones who had killed their family and friends as “human”? And even for those who hadn’t lost anyone, how many had already killed “zombies” under the justification of survival?

“…Hey.”

Rowon flinched. The man had stopped writing in his notebook and was staring straight at him. The radio too had gone quiet, no longer spilling grim news. Contrary to the man’s words about romantic music never playing, a piece of gentle classical music now filled the air.

“Don’t think too hard right now.”

“……”

“It’s your specialty. Thinking about it won’t help anyway, so don’t get stuck on strange thoughts and make yourself anxious.”

Rowon forced himself to nod. The man seemed to think for a moment, then, as if his thoughts had finally fallen into place, he spoke to Rowon.

“Anyway, while I’m out, you need to hide well.”

“Why bring that up all of a sudden?”

“What do you mean, all of a sudden? It’s important. You heard the radio earlier, didn’t you? Supplies will be distributed tomorrow at eleven. I have to go out to get them. Of course, if you go out, those biker bastards might spot you, so I have to go alone. Sure, if we both go, we can get more supplies, but we can’t take that risk.”

Right, that was the situation. Rowon nodded with a reluctant expression. The bikers would need supplies too, so they might run into them at the distribution point. Even if they were lucky enough not to meet them there, it would still be dangerous. Someone waiting in line might remember Rowon’s face and later tell the bikers, which would be disastrous.

“I don’t necessarily have to hide on the first floor, right? When I went around fetching water earlier, I saw that the doors on the second floor and higher were open too.”

“I was going to say that. If I leave the house, they might take the chance to break in. If the food gets looted, that can’t be helped. But you can’t be found. So pick any place upstairs, slip inside, and stay as invisible as you can. When I get back, then you come out.”

The part about the food being looted and that being unavoidable left Rowon feeling bitter, but he still nodded. That was indeed the safest plan for now. After all, those people would focus their search on the first floor, which was Rowon’s home, so the upper floors would likely be checked less carefully. It was half wishful thinking, but still.

“…Alright.”

Rowon nodded, meeting the man’s eyes. Still, something nagged at him. Would hiding really be enough? Was it right to keep living while turning away from everything, without paying for his sins?

But.

He still wanted to live. Even if it meant forgetting and shutting away something precious as the price. Whenever he looked into the man’s jet-black eyes, a strange certainty would take root in his mind.

“But Seonghyeon, are you really sure it’s that house? I heard before too. They said the only one living there was some limping old guy.”

“The address itself is certain. These days, people tend to squat wherever they want, so it can’t be helped. Houses on the first floor are especially easy to break into.”

“Well, that’s true. The place we’re living in wasn’t originally ours either. If you’re sure of the address, then fine….”

It was close to midnight when Baek Seonghyeon finally returned to their base with his companions. Unlike the surrounding shops, shrouded in darkness with the power out, the base was relatively bright. “Bright,” though, only meant one or two LED lamps flickering weakly—but even that was better than nothing.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a resident registration card. Under the lamp light, the front of the card showed the name “Lee Jeongwon.”

“It’s definitely that house. The younger brother wasn’t old enough to live on his own yet, so he was still living at the family home—I heard that much when the older brother was still alive.”

Lee Rowon’s older brother, Lee Jeongwon, twelve years his senior, had become a company worker and moved out a few years ago. Even so, the old family address could still be traced. The back of the resident card contained the record of address changes, so if you checked carefully, it was easy to find out where the family home was.

“The extra mouth to feed in that house is a bit of an annoyance… but it’s not a serious issue right now. If we keep searching around that neighborhood, we’ll eventually find Lee Rowon. Once he’s hit by the treatment gas and regains his senses, he’ll probably try to return home.”

His companions nodded silently. Not one of them had decided to finish Rowon off while he was still a zombie. These unreliable bikers had failed to kill even a single zombie named Lee Rowon, instead losing six of their own.

What they were after was Rowon after the treatment gas—when he would have lost the superhuman strength of a zombie and become nothing more than an ordinary human. The notion that killing a healthy human being was morally wrong had no place in any of their minds.

Still, one of the group spoke up, looking uneasy. Despite his burly, rough appearance, his voice was oddly timid.

“But will he really try to go home?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. That brat killed his own brother. And not even after he turned into a zombie, but while he was still human.”

“……”

“If it were me, I’d be too terrified to ever go back. What would you even say to your parents?”

For a moment, Baek Seonghyeon hesitated. His companions jeered, scoffing that he was acting like some mama’s boy, but there was a strange melancholy shadowing Seonghyeon’s face instead of laughter. He forced himself to smile, just enough to avoid arousing suspicion, and answered.

“Do you really think he wouldn’t return home just because he’s scared of being scolded by his parents? Whatever the case, this area is the most likely place. So I’d like us to keep searching here for now.”

The others nodded in agreement and dispersed. Some would go to sleep, while others would mount their motorcycles again to hunt zombies. Seonghyeon did neither. He swallowed a deep sigh and stared at the photo on the front of the registration card.

His beloved, whose life had been cut short so meaninglessly, murdered by his own younger brother. The last photo of that precious person. Seonghyeon tucked the resident card carefully back into his pocket and let out a long, weary sigh.

The third day, dawn.

I don’t know how time passed after that. The darkness only grew heavier, while time itself felt so light and thin that it was almost impossible to sense its existence. Even though I had just been sitting there, catching my breath, midnight had passed in the blink of an eye, and the next day arrived. From the portable radio, music signaling the hour played, and Young-il sat listening absentmindedly.

The young man had fallen asleep early. It would be more accurate to say he was hiding rather than sleeping, his body curled up tightly. It looked terribly uncomfortable, yet he didn’t so much as twitch. As if he believed that if he even moved a fingertip, someone watching from the heavens above would spot him, seize him by the back of the neck, and demand he atone for forgotten sins.

Though not such a small-framed man, the sight of his hunched back, sleeping like a shrimp, looked fragile somehow. A closer glance revealed that his sleeping face, too, carried heavy traces of fatigue. He usually wore a blank, dull expression, pretending to know nothing at all, but in the unguarded state of slumber, his true feelings seemed to seep through.

Young-il envied him. If only he, too, could sink into sleep and let go of all thought—how wonderful would that be. He couldn’t hope for rest of the heart, but even a brief escape would do.

His mind was tangled in a thousand knots. Not that he was thinking of anything particularly constructive. Today’s plan was simple. Just like always, Young-il would go collect the supplies, and Rowon would hide well somewhere upstairs, waiting for the bikers to leave. If they were discovered, they’d somehow run for it and try to reach the food distribution center. With luck, the officials there would at least pretend to prevent violence.

‘A mess, that’s what this is.’

A crude excuse for a plan, but still the best they had. Plans like this never worked out no matter how carefully they were made. If things turned out well, that was fortunate, but one must never count on it. That was the mindset necessary in this world after the zombie outbreak.

When something went wrong or unexpected, making a new plan from scratch was always best—for lowering stress, for preserving what remained of one’s mental health. Even a mind already worn down and scratched raw had to be protected with repeated, desperate effort. And yet…

‘Maybe it’d be better to make a ridiculous plan than none at all.’

At least then, his heart wouldn’t be so restless. [What is it I even want?] That question, at once obvious and bewildering, refused to leave Young-il’s mind.

‘This is absurd. I put on airs telling that kid not to think too deeply, and yet here I am.’

He would hide Lee Rowon. Of course, he couldn’t say their relationship was good, not in a million years. But handing the youth over to satisfy the revenge of that thug who had come earlier—that he could not do. He had no intention of denying that truth, but still, his heart was unsettled.

‘There’s no reason for it to be unsettled.’

It wasn’t sudden fear. He had already weathered countless battlefields of chaos. There was no way he could be frightened of mere bikers. Sure, in a fight he would obviously lose, but Young-il’s nerves had long dulled past the point of trembling in terror at the thought of being caught and killed.

Besides, he had thought it over many times: giving the boy up now would mean affirming revenge. Retribution for something that had been beyond Rowon’s will, something inevitable.

And the moment you affirm that, there isn’t a single soul in this world who could claim to live cleanly. Infected or not, anyone who had survived the zombie crisis must have committed sins in their own way, done things they wished they could deny. If not, they were either absurdly lucky, or else they had shoved the sins they should have borne onto someone else.

So there was no regret. No hesitation. It would be a lie to say he had completely shaken off the unfair anger and bitterness he felt toward the young man, but at the very least, Young-il’s reason had concluded that hiding him was the right choice. But still…

Why, then, did he keep faltering? Why did his steps feel heavy, as though he had taken the wrong path? He couldn’t understand it, and with that thought, Young-il forced his eyes shut. To collect supplies in the morning, he had no choice but to sleep early.

The rope had been untied, so he could now stretch out his arms and legs to lie down, yet Young-il could not sleep properly, drifting between shallow sleep and nightmares.

• Hayun, while Mom and Dad are out, you stay hidden here. All right?

It had been that January. A winter day when snow blanketed the city and everything was frozen solid. That was the day he left the child with their group and went out to find oil.

Now the air was stifling with heat, but back then the bitter cold had pressed down on the world. For years, whenever strange weather patterns came, people muttered, The world is ending. Maybe it really will end. Words once dismissed as delusions had become undeniable truth.

Each breath seared his throat raw. By any means necessary, they had to secure a way to heat the room. If they didn’t, the adults might somehow endure, but a small child’s breath could stop at any moment.

• Even if it’s cold, hold on a little. If you stay right here and don’t go out, and stay close, you’ll be okay. Understand?
• I’ll hide well. Please come back.

Sixteen may not be so young, but with a face turned pale from the cold, the way the child nodded looked properly grown-up. If she just stayed well hidden with the others, relying on each other’s body heat until Young-il and the rest returned with fuel, everything would be fine. That’s what Young-il believed, his wife believed, and the child believed.

But huddled tightly together, they were bitten by an infected who had slipped in from God knows where, and turned into zombies all together. At first, had it looked like maggots clinging to a piece of rotting food?

The child who had shivered in the cold was now ferocious, as if neither heat nor cold mattered anymore. She wasn’t supposed to end up like that. He was supposed to protect her. Even if he couldn’t stop her from becoming a zombie, at least a parent should never have killed their own child with their own hands.

The child screamed, in rage or in blame, and lunged. Maybe the scream carried no meaning, but that was only in reality. In dreams, his child raised her voice to shreds, blaming her parents.

• Why are you still alive, Dad? You should have died too.
• Why did you believe their words and kill me? I could have lived. They said one blast of the gas could cure zombie sickness.
• They said everyone else got better—so why not me? I could have been cured, couldn’t I? If only you and Mom hadn’t killed me!

In the dream, his child’s words came from a grotesquely twisted zombie face. Sometimes, Young-il grovelled before her, sobbing out apologies. Other times, as he had done to other zombies, he buried his axe in her skull. What could I have known? Raising children is useless. Shouting nonsense like that, he would rage until he woke, then climb onto a chair with a rope around his neck the next morning.

The rope or the support gave way twice, unable to bear his weight, leaving him sprawled on the floor. Lucky for him his legs were crippled. If he’d been able to climb all the way to the rooftop, he wouldn’t have survived this long.

The dream came so often he had grown somewhat dull to it. He still woke drenched in cold sweat or sobbing, but his suicide attempts had lessened. Maybe it was resignation. Death wouldn’t free him from guilt. A life was far too cheap and worthless to pay for the sin of failing to save one.

‘This dream. This accursed dream….’

He never believed a day would come when he could cast it off completely. So I’m dreaming it again today. Young-il thought blankly, nothing more. But today’s dream had something peculiar.

• Dad should have died too.
• That man should have killed you.

That man. Even though she hadn’t said who, somehow Young-il knew who his daughter meant.

• You should have asked him to avenge me. Then, even trembling in fear, you could have died.
• You should have made sure he couldn’t hide. Then he would have paid for his sins when someone came for revenge.

What is this supposed to mean? For the first time, he hesitated at those words, then soon realized what they meant. Revenge, atonement. He understood now the reason for that hesitation he’d felt before sleep.

Whenever he looked at that young man, he kept thinking of his only child. It wasn’t that he felt like the youth was his child. The boy was far too dangerous and unreadable to be thought of that way.

But one thing was certain. Young-il almost wished that youth would kill him. Then he thought he could forget everything.

He almost wished he could pay for his sins.

Then maybe he wouldn’t be suffering this much.

---

Young-il woke after a long while, having wept in silence.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should have been the one to die.

His thoughts, still trapped in the dream, circled endlessly like a broken phonograph. Once his mind cleared, he would force himself to keep living somehow, but until reason returned, he was at the mercy of instinct. Instinct kept demanding the end, driving him mercilessly toward it.

Yes, it was instinct. That was what had kept obstructing his resolve to hide Rowon. Reason whispered, People must not die for such reasons. But instinct urged, If there is such a reason, then a person may die for it, pressing on without end.

According to that urging, both Lee Rowon and Park Young-il were people who deserved to die. Park Young-il was fit to be killed by Lee Rowon, and Lee Rowon was fit to be killed by that man, Baek Seonghyeon. That “fitness” wasn’t a matter of reason or principle, but simply the idea that only then could everyone be happy.

If his reason never returned, his instinct might unknowingly strangle Rowon’s neck. He thought that if he did, then at last the other would have a rightful reason to kill him.

‘From the beginning, you should have killed me, not raped me.’

If one had already committed a deed that must never be done, one had no right to seek human warmth. Instinct was contradictory, selfish to the extreme, but stubborn beyond measure. Vague thoughts ruled his head: better that they both die, that each should have someone to kill them.

But why? At some point, those thoughts melted away like thin ice under the breath of spring. Searching blankly for the reason his heart had suddenly softened, Young-il realized it.

Just as it had happened earlier that day—something warm and firm was holding him tightly in its embrace.

---

Better to just kill me. Half-asleep, Rowon thought he heard such words.

Rowon himself slept without dreams. At least, that’s what he believed. Once he fell asleep, he was not easily woken. It was something innate, a nature he was born with. Even when a delivery motorbike with a vicious engine revved its exhaust outside the window on the main road, even when people screamed in horror at the zombie outbreak and fled, he tended to sleep deeply.

• Kill me. I was wrong. It should have been me who died…
• Mister? What’s wrong? Why are you suddenly crying?
• Better to just kill me. I can’t endure this anymore. I can’t go on. Just living is hell.
• What do you mean, asking to be killed? Why are you saying that all of a sudden?
• Even like this, you don’t know. Carefree bastard. Forgetting everything, remembering nothing—if you just erase it all, that’s enough for you.
• Did you have a bad dream? It’s all right. Everything is all right. There’s nothing there. And even if there is, you can just forget it. Then it’ll be as if it never existed…
• I can’t. I’ll never be able to forget. Not until the day I’m senile and drooling on myself. Even if I lived for eternity, I could never pay for the sins I committed. You don’t know. You’re not like me. So just end it for me, will you? You have that right, but I don’t. So you do it…

He was often told he had terrible sleep habits, but it had little to do with the quality of his rest. Even if he kicked off the blanket, sprawled on the bed in a position where he looked about to fall off, or unconsciously pulled the large, trembling body into his arms, holding him tight while he whimpered, Rowon would not wake.

• I’m sorry.

Instead, Rowon found peace of mind. As the muscular body, tense with strain, drifted back into slumber, Rowon too was able to fall into a deeper sleep. Though he could not grant the man the one thing he so desperately wanted.

• I’m sorry. I…

Muttering in a half-dreamed voice, he felt little guilt. The man seemed to wish Rowon would end everything, but of course that wasn’t what Rowon wanted. He had no duty to do so. Perhaps he did have the right, as the man said, but that was all.

Still, he would not kill the man. Perhaps the man, in his sober mind, could kill another human being, but Rowon could not. If he killed someone while this clear-headed, he would never be able to forget it.

And besides, Rowon had another reason for not wanting to kill the man.

• I can’t end it. You might see it as selfish, Mister, but that’s how it is.
• Hh, ahh…?

It was a reason he could not admit, one too difficult to face, but that was fine. Sometimes, it was better not to know. If by not facing anything, he could sink into deep sleep and turn his back on his emotions, that was enough.

As the man groaned, leaning close in search of warmth, even if their lower bodies pressed together and rubbed slightly, Rowon must not take joy in it. Even if his cheek brushed against the man’s bristly beard, damp with tears, he must not attach meaning to the act.

He had to think of it as nothing more than sleep-talking if he was to endure it. Even if he stroked the man’s back, slid his hand down his waist and side, even if he rejoiced at the warmth seeping through the thin fabric, as long as it was while still asleep, it wasn’t a serious problem. Luckily, the man too seemed half-drunk with sleep, not in his right mind. When he mumbled, Warm, and leaned his weight against him, that much was clear. Of course, things would be different if he woke.

No one could be blamed for what they did unknowingly. So he had to stay asleep. Everything that happened in sleep would be forgotten. No matter how happy it made his heart race, as long as he didn’t drag this moment into reality, both their minds would be at ease. All he had to do was bury it under the surface of sleep.

But, even so.

When the one in his arms screamed and jabbed an elbow hard into his side, he had no choice but to wake.

“You crazy bastard, at it again…!”

“Hhh, ahh!”

The fierce blow landed squarely, and stars burst before his eyes. He had no idea what had just happened, but he dimly realized he was holding someone tight. Rowon’s arms were locked firmly around the man’s neck, and their legs were tangled together like those of lovers.

Startled, Rowon’s body went rigid. But perhaps that tension was taken a different way by the other—because when his limbs stiffened and the force of his hold tightened, the man screamed and drove his knee into Rowon’s groin. It wasn’t all that strong, but the target was what made the impact devastating.

By the time his body rolled across the living room floor, Rowon finally managed a thought of sorts. At it again? What again? Did the zombie disease relapse in his sleep? Was he about to bite that man? When he coughed and forced his eyes open, he saw the man’s face, flushed red and streaked with tears. It was a look of shock and fear.

“I… I mean… what did I do?”

“You… you crazy bastard. You said you wouldn’t. You swore you’d never force yourself on me again.”

“Force myself…?”

Their confused and dazed gazes crossed crookedly. It didn’t take long to grasp the situation. No, he hadn’t forced himself. He didn’t understand anything at all. Of course, if the same person who had attacked him once before was now clinging to him again, then it was only natural for the man to misunderstand…

But was it really a misunderstanding?

Now even Rowon himself was confused. When he had fallen asleep, he was curled up facing the wall, so why had he woken to find himself holding the man? He couldn’t comprehend it.

Nothing came to mind, so he had no explanation to give. Rowon tried hard to recall something, anything, but all he could remember was how satisfying the warmth of the body in his arms had felt as it stirred against him. That wasn’t an excuse, but more like a confession.

Maybe he really had been about to force himself again. Just as he couldn’t explain why he had pinned the man down and done such things that first night, it wasn’t strange that he couldn’t explain why he had suddenly embraced him in his sleep.

What bothered Rowon more, though, was that the man’s face was still wet with tears.

“Are you all right…?”

Before he knew it, his hand reached out to brush the man’s cheek. The man clenched his fist as if to strike again, but stopped short. For an instant, something other than fear flickered in his eyes.

“…Did I cry?”

“Uh, yes, you did.”

“……”

“Why were you crying?”

The man didn’t answer. He only narrowed his eyes and fixed them on Rowon, as though recalling something. Could it be that Rowon really had tried to force himself, and the man had cried because he hated it? Just as Rowon was about to apologize for a fault he couldn’t even remember, the man let out a sigh.

“Sorry.”

“…What?”

“I just remembered. Sorry for lashing out. I was being foolish, in more ways than one….”

Foolish? About what? Rowon stared at him in puzzlement, but the man gave no explanation. He only scrubbed his face roughly with the back of his hand to wipe away the dampness, his awkwardness disguised as bluster.

Rowon felt relieved. Whatever it was, the man seemed calmer now. Watching him tremble with nerves was never a pleasant sight. He didn’t want to see him tormented by some unknown past, or crushed by things he couldn’t forget.

Maybe that was why he had embraced him? He still had no memory of it, but perhaps he had wanted to stop the man from looking so pitiful, even if it meant forcing himself on him.

“So, um… I was the one at fault, right?”

“……”

“Then why did I hug you? Was it to force myself on you?”

“You really do forget everything, don’t you. Are you thickheaded, or are you doing it on purpose…? Never mind.”

It was only a question, but he got scolded. Still, the man didn’t look truly angry, even though his lips jutted in annoyance. As if he wanted the conversation to end, he rubbed his face again, then slowly got up.

“What, did you actually want to force yourself on me?”

“That’s not it….”

“Then that’s fine. Come on, get up. We need to eat and get moving. If we leave early, we can get our supplies a little sooner.”

With a nonchalant look, the man rose to his feet. From the sunlight spilling into the master bedroom, it seemed to still be dawn, but judging by how he hurried, moving quickly was probably best.

But in the end, the man never answered Rowon’s question. So why had he cried? Why had Rowon embraced him? He hadn’t blamed him, even apologized to him, so maybe it hadn’t been Rowon’s fault after all…

Rowon grew curious. From the corner of his unconscious mind, something faint and contradictory had risen.

“You’re diligent.”

“What are you talking about. In this mess, you have to be diligent just to scrape together enough to eat. Otherwise, you’ll starve to death in no time.”

Rowon couldn’t figure out how to describe that contradiction. If he tried to put it into words, it was that he simply couldn’t tell whether the man was strong or weak.

At times, he was as seasoned and quick-thinking as a survivor who had lived through the zombie outbreak for years. But at other times, he would lose his composure at a single careless word, or stare blankly with tear-streaked eyes, as if he didn’t know where he was.

‘I really don’t know what he’s thinking.’

Unaware that Young-il was watching him with almost the same impression, Rowon thought vaguely. As Rowon’s gaze lingered on him, the man looked back with a strangely sour expression.

Then, he muttered something rather peculiar.

“I want to live. At least when I’m sober, I do.”

“……!”

“So don’t go getting ideas. Not that you’d even remember, anyway….”

Speaking curtly, he staggered toward the kitchen. A box of unsweetened biscuits and a water container were tossed into the living room, and Rowon, without a word, accepted them and began to eat. He had no clue what the man’s words were supposed to mean.

The third day, morning.

The distribution time was at eleven, and the truck really did come then, but there were few survivors naïve enough to wander out so late in the morning.

“It’s not even six yet and you’re already going? Is the competition really that fierce? How far is it to the distribution point?”

“The distribution point is right nearby, not far at all. But supplies are first come, first served, so the earlier you go, the better. And people like me, who don’t have a group, have to go even earlier to keep their place in line.”

The outside was gradually brightening, a perfect time to head out. After finishing his meal, Young-il slung on an empty bag and readied himself to leave. If he went now, he could probably secure a place around the middle of the line. He couldn’t beat the biker gang, who parked their motorcycles there from dawn and camped out, but at least he wouldn’t come back empty-handed.

Of course, he had to hide Lee Rowon somewhere first. The clueless youth who, after comforting a middle-aged man writhing in nightmares and tears, had no idea why he had been kneed in the groin the next morning.

‘Did he really forget everything?’

Faintly, he recalled hugging the boy while half-asleep and crying into him. It was almost like sleep-talking, so he couldn’t remember clearly what he said, but a few words floated back. Kill me. Just end it for me.

Even to himself, it was honestly a shameful sight. The young man would never know how relieved Young-il had been when Rowon calmly asked if he was the one at fault. He wasn’t. If anything, this time it was thanks to him that Young-il came to his senses. When reason had grown cloudier than ever and shabby instinct threatened to take control for a moment—if someone was there then.

‘That kid might have rubbed a bit too much against me, but, well… I’m hardly in a position to complain this time.’

If it had been only one-sided from him, that would be another matter, but last night Young-il had also lost himself, hugging the boy and sobbing into him like a child clutching a teddy bear. Then come morning, he had panicked and kicked him away—honestly, a rather embarrassing thing to have done.

Perhaps, even if not consciously, subconsciously he had grown rather close to that boy. To think of pleading to be killed as a form of closeness—by his own judgment, it was a little twisted, but still…

No, forget it. Let’s just say nothing really happened last night.

Young-il dragged his uncooperative legs and climbed the stairs diligently. The apartment’s door locks had already been damaged in places before he arrived. They were so broken that the doors could be opened freely, but locking them was impossible. He couldn’t guess how it had happened, but he assumed it must have been the work of thieves.

“You saw for yourself when you went to fetch water yesterday. Up to the fifth floor, all the doors are broken open. Above that, the damage is scattered here and there, but with my legs the way they are, it’s hard for me to check.”

“So I just need to go into any apartment, shut the door, and stay put? Even if the lock’s broken, I can at least put on the chain.”

“If the lock’s broken but only the chain is fastened, that’ll draw suspicion. Better not to lock it at all. Anyway, those bastards all carry basic gear, so even if the door’s locked they can get it open.”

“But if we’re careless, we’ll end up trapped without defense. On a high floor, we wouldn’t even be able to escape through the window.”

“The moment you’re discovered, it’s over anyway. If the bikers bring friends to wait outside, even jumping out the window won’t help…. Actually, I think there’s a good unit on the fourth floor. The layout’s a bit different, like it was remodeled—the built-in closet is in another spot.”

“Is it a good hiding place?”

“Better than most. If we just shift the furniture a little, it’ll be less noticeable. You’re young, so put that strength to use.”

They headed straight for that unit. Room 404. An ominous number, but perfect for hiding. Just as Young-il said, the built-in closet wasn’t in the kitchen-side room like in other apartments, but in the small room near the entrance. With the bed and clothes rack already cluttered, it could be concealed well enough.

“What if we bring over a small wardrobe to block it completely? Hey, try using your strength.”

“But then if there’s an emergency, I won’t be able to get out.”

That was true; they might trap themselves. For now, Young-il shoved a bag filled with supplies and a light into Rowon’s arms and pushed him into the built-in closet. He dragged a portable hanger from another room in front of it and piled clothes high on top. It looked convincing enough. Since no other units had a closet in this spot, a casual glance would probably overlook it.

“Stay hidden.”

“You too, come back safe.”

A small reply came from inside the closet. Feeling oddly as if he had a companion now, Young-il turned his back and hurried out of the building. He had wasted some time hiding Rowon, so he had to move quickly.

Crossing the apartment complex, he glanced up at the sky. The world was brightening. The dawn air was cooler than the day, but with his bad leg and the climb to the fourth floor, not to mention his hurried pace, his whole body was already drenched in sweat.

Am I rushing too much? I can’t let my limp show too clearly.

As he left the complex and walked along the broken sidewalks, people began to appear. They were all in rags, carrying bags for supplies, exhaustion written plain on their faces. They were the very image of survivors.

But among them were a few who looked different, somehow unlike the others. They wore serious expressions, but compared to true survivors, they seemed awkward, overly cautious.

Could they be…?

Perhaps they were like Rowon, Young-il guessed. Of course, it was only a guess—he hadn’t asked, after all.

But he had a feeling. These were people who had gathered scraps of survival knowledge here and there, but lacked the hardened experience of those who had fought through it with their own bodies.

Just ignore them.

Like the other survivors, Young-il acted as though they didn’t exist. The distribution site wasn’t far. Even with his bad leg, it took less than twenty minutes.

Thankfully, he wasn’t too late. Hundreds were already gathered, but at least he wouldn’t leave empty-handed. From experience, he’d probably be around the middle of the line.

“Haa…”

Once he secured a place, fatigue hit him. With a long yawn, he sat down. Maybe it was from the nightmare—his body still felt heavy. Or maybe it was just lack of sleep. He had only fallen asleep around midnight and woken at five.

Still, my body doesn’t ache or feel stiff.

Normally, after a nightmare, his muscles were sore and tense. It must have been from all the strain. But even after such a terrible dream, he felt unexpectedly fine today.

Maybe it was the warmth of another person. The warmth of that young man—now hidden alone in the closet—who had let him lean in, soothed him, patted his back while he cried like a fool….

What a ridiculous thought.

His neck grew hot, and he exaggerated another yawn on purpose. Others in line yawned too, clearly tired.

Their faces showed no real tension. The distribution was routine now. At first, people fought and struggled, but some order had emerged. Sometimes voices rose during trades, but big fights were rare.

Maybe that’s why he let his guard down. He had been staring blankly at the brightening sky when suddenly someone plopped down beside him, startling him enough to turn his head.

“Hello. We meet again here, of all places.”

“…Uh.”

“I told you my name yesterday, didn’t I? I still haven’t heard yours, though.”

The impression was quite different from what he had seen through the chained door. In the dim light of dawn, the man appeared far slimmer and more delicate than he had yesterday. He was also slender, like Lee Rowon, but unlike the twisted danger that seemed to lurk within Rowon, this man had a presence that evoked trust.