My first life ended five months after I fled Seoul for the south.
I was hiding behind a refrigerator when a zombie lunged at me with the clear intent to "snack."
That was it.
Before that, things had been going fairly well.
I wandered through the cities of Gyeonggi Province until I joined a group of survivors.
The leader was a hard, sharp man.
He always went first.
To those who hesitated before the dead or simply wagged their tongues in the safe shelter, he gave neither water nor food.
The dissatisfied were sent to gather resources in the vanguard, and if they refused, he threw them out.
A tyrant and a dictator, but he divided the rations fairly, taking no extra for himself.
If someone was bitten during a raid and no chance remained, he didn't cowardly abandon his own; he put an end to it himself.
That same leader crushed the skull of the zombie latched onto my arm.
When my adrenaline was replaced by icy despair, he gave me time to smoke one last cigarette and drove a crowbar through my head.
I woke up, for some reason, in my studio.
My head was spinning, but this was definitely not a dream—too many details, everything remembered too vividly.
I didn't know what it was: a prophetic dream, déjà vu, or a real return to the past, but I understood one thing—the end was coming soon.
I decided there was nothing to be gained in Seoul, sold everything, and left for Masan.
Because of a certain scammer, I had once quarreled with all my relatives, but Masan was the city where I grew up.
It was far from Seoul, which would turn into a branch of hell, and it wasn't a remote village; plus, the sea was right there.
I took out loans, went into debt with loan sharks, and packed an old villa with supplies.
I bought knives and made a spear by welding a blade to a steel pipe.
While I rushed around like I’d been scalded, the world remained eerily calm.
If the apocalypse turned out to be a figment of my imagination, my life would be over—the debts would swallow me.
But the memory of the past was too bright, like a goddamn revelation.
Burning with fear and anxiety, I funneled every last cent into resources and locked myself in my refuge.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the zombies appeared on the exact day they had last time.
The world began to crumble according to the familiar scenario.
The first few months, I held my ground with confidence: the room was packed with canned goods and water.
I rationed the food, calculating every day, and when it rained, I put out umbrellas so as not to waste my bottled water supplies.
I sat on the tenth floor, safe from the dead, until the raiders came.
Those bastards combed floor after floor.
Every time another door was taken down with a crash, the arguing, screaming, and pleading would start, and then everything would go quiet.
I pressed against the door, held my breath, and then quietly moved back into the room.
Against those who took not just things but lives, I had prepared a gift—I’d ordered a clever construction from a workshop.
Several steel pipes with sharp spikes on the ends were fixed into a semi-circular frame to block the entrance.
I stood behind them, gripping my spear.
Judging by the voices, there were at least three of them.
No guns, it seemed.
If they burst in, I have to strike immediately; otherwise, I have zero chance.
Until that day, I had never killed anyone, but I couldn't hesitate—the neighbors upstairs had already gone silent forever.
They came down.
They chatted about something and started hammering at the digital lock.
When the lock shattered, they shoved a crowbar into the gap.
They’d cracked the other apartments in no time, but I had turned my door into a vault.
Five thumb-thick bolts on one side, five on the other, plus reinforced hinges.
The raiders huffed for a long time, cursing me for all they were worth, but in the end, they spat and left to rob the neighbors.
For two months, there was silence.
Outside the window, something was always happening: survivors fleeing from the dead, someone sobbing, someone begging for help, stray cats screeching in the hands of hungry people...
As long as it didn't touch my territory, I didn't care.
But sometimes my conscience gnawed at me so badly I couldn't walk away from the window.
To keep from going insane, I put in earplugs and lay on the floor.
I buried myself in mountains of manhwa and novels I’d bought cheap when a bookstore closed, and cowardly but surely, I chose life.
And then the wave came.
I thought it was zombies, but it was people.
A massive crowd of refugees from Busan and eastern Gyeongnam.
They were fleeing west because of rumors: there had been a leak at the Kori Nuclear Power Plant.
They said the staff had fled, the reactor had melted down and blown.
The situation changed when the military appeared.
They persuaded everyone to leave: supposedly, in Changwon and Masan, there were government shelters with food and security.
People, even those who didn't trust the authorities, opened their doors—the prospect of dying from radiation or hunger in an empty city appealed to no one.
Hundreds of thousands of people streamed west.
There were more zombies, but the people moved faster and managed to cross the Nakdong River.
As soon as the last refugee crossed the river, the military—who were supposedly covering the rear—simply dispersed, letting the dead through.
They blocked the bridges with barbed wire, put up signs with skulls and radiation symbols, and drove away.
In two days, Busan turned into an exclusion zone.
And Changwon and Masan turned into a bloodbath.
There were no government shelters.
Refugees and zombies mixed; chaos began.
The strong robbed the weak.
This time, my "impregnable" door was taken down in a couple of minutes by a duo of an axe and a shotgun.
I charged with my spear and managed to get the first one, but in return, I took a blast of buckshot to the chest.
The raiders stepped over me, joyfully cracking open my supplies while I died in a pool of my own blood.
That was how my second life ended.
*****
Over the course of several lives, I had found out: there was no accident at the Kori Nuclear Power Plant.
I don’t know for what purpose government officials and the military spread false rumors, driving people and zombies out of Busan.
I had met many who hadn't fallen for the propaganda and stayed in the city, or later crossed back over the Nakdong, but not a single person knew the true state of affairs.
Compared to the real threats—the dead, hunger, and raiders—radiation was nothing more than a distant and empty boogeyman.
No one cared, and no one wanted to talk about it.
In my last life, I lost my shelter in Gimhae, moved to Busan, and held out there for two years.
I had covered many places in search of resources, but nowhere did I see those officials or the large armed detachments that had driven survivors to the slaughter with their rumors.
Just like in abandoned Seoul, there was no authority in Busan capable of confirming the state's presence.
I had been tempted to drive to Gijang and find out for myself, but the roads were in ruins, driving a car was impossible, and if I actually ran into armed soldiers, I likely wouldn't have survived.
But now, I could come here easily and in comfort, if I only wanted to.
I parked in the lot at Wollae Station, stepped outside, and pulled a Geiger counter from my backpack.
I knew everything was fine, but the hand switching on the power froze with tension—exactly the way I used to check my exam results.
The radiation concentration in the air, recorded by the expensive sensor, appeared in red numbers on the black digital panel.
As expected—normal, infinitely far from the border of death.
Holding the dosimeter in my hand, I walked out onto the road.
By the time I reached the nearest real estate agency, the numbers had barely changed.
"You’ve come to the right place. If you want an ocean view, you won't find a better spot. The scenery in Gijang is magnificent, the energy of the Dragon King flows here, so life is grand. All the cool 'X-Men' are from here, aren't they?"
When I said I was looking for an apartment to rent with a sea view, the realtor cracked a stupid joke and turned his computer monitor toward me.
I chose the highest apartment closest to the sea, without looking at the price.
We took the realtor’s car toward the shore.
The building we arrived at was only 15 stories high, but because the surrounding buildings were low, it loomed over them like a tower.
I stepped onto the balcony of the empty apartment on the twelfth floor.
Beyond the sparkling morning sea, the structures of the Kori Nuclear Power Plant were visible in the distance.
I pulled out my phone and cranked the zoom—the word "KORI" was clearly visible.
If you drove a bit further east, you could find plenty of high-rises even closer to the plant, but all the vacant rental apartments there were either on the lower or middle floors.
To keep an eye on the plant unnoticed, this place was the best for now.
"It’s a deal."
After setting the date for the contract and handing over the deposit, I didn't head back to the station immediately but walked down the road.
I passed low private houses and rows of shops.
The view opened up, the sea appeared, and rows of fish restaurants lined the shore.
Lunchtime hadn't arrived yet; the dining rooms were empty, but lights were on everywhere, and preparations for guests were underway—everything looked quite lively.
Behind the salty sea breeze, the nuclear plant stood apart, like an object from an apocalyptic world.
The sight was quite grim.
What was it like to eat raw fish in a restaurant with a view of a nuclear plant?
I had no appetite, but since so many establishments were open, it meant there were people who came here.
Then again, is radiation the only thing that threatens life?
There, past the demilitarized zone, the "Northern King" fires rockets almost every day, but not once during my commute did an air raid siren wail.
Toxic humidifier disinfectants killed over 20,000 people, yet every winter in the stores, they calmly release white steam again.
Even in the apocalypse, where death becomes mundane, people still cling to life, accepting the risks and anxieties.
On the Gijang waterfront, from where the plant is visible, the numbers on the Geiger counter were as safe as the balance in my bank account.
It was a fragile world that no one could guarantee, but the sky was clear and the sea was rich enough to fill the tanks of every restaurant.
It was a cool December, and there wasn't even a hint yet of the severe cold capable of freezing all life.
I walked along the coastal road, aimlessly staring at the plant, and reached the breakwater where fishermen sat.
While I blankly watched what they were catching, my smartphone rang.
It was Attorney Hwang Chaun.
"I’ve studied all the details of the case. Your friend really had bad luck; it turned out quite unfair."
"Is that so?"
When a professional lawyer replaced the unpleasant label of "beating an old man" with the word "unfairness," my heart felt lighter.
Just as I thought. The Junsok I knew would never have done such a thing.
"I’ve filed a motion for a review of the detention. He’ll be released in no more than three days, and if we're lucky, as early as tomorrow."
"Are you sure?"
The lawyer paused and answered cautiously.
"Actually, the chance of getting out through this procedure is small, as it’s effectively an admission of an error in the arrest warrant. But your case is an exception. Not a single condition for custody has been met here. The victim in this fight wasn't the old man, but Lee Junsok. It's almost a textbook example of self-defense, not a mutual brawl. The case should have ended with a refusal to file charges at the investigation stage without any arrests. I don't understand how it got blown out of proportion like this..."
"Did you sign the contract with him?"
"Yes. He was a bit surprised to hear that Yoon Gangjun sent me, but he signed willingly. Apparently, he was waiting for a public defender and hadn't hired anyone himself."
"Then I’ll transfer the retainer."
"Yes, agreed."
Finishing the conversation, I stopped at the nearest bank and sent the agreed-upon amount to the lawyer’s account.
I took a breather in a cafe over a glass of iced americano and walked back to Wollae Station.
I drove the car out of the lot and headed back to Jangjeon-dong.
The Kori Nuclear Power Plant, harboring the unsolved mysteries of the time after the zombie outbreak, gradually vanished in the rearview mirror.
And the apocalypse had drawn half a day closer.
46 days remained.