When the world collapses and turns into a den of zombies, money will lose its value and become nothing more than toilet paper. Alcohol, cigarettes, canned food, and water will take its place. Booze and smokes will become the keys to the gates of large shelters, the tickets into safe zones, and the currency for information.
There are doors that even a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of expensive whiskey cannot open. But there are almost no mouths that won’t start talking after receiving them. The situation in Seoul, news from Jeju Island, the presence and movement of armed groups, new or fallen shelters, locations of zombie swarms... Among the pieces of information vital for survival, not a single one was free.
Even for a piece of trashy gossip about who slept with whom, you had to pay at least a cigarette. Only then would the tongue start to loosen. Cigarettes can be bought by the carton during any market run; cheap soju or beer isn't hard to get either. But premium alcohol—the best tool for bribery, which also happens to store well—was harder to find.
I chose the "Golden Company" shop across from Book Alley at the end of Jagalchi Market. Unlike other shops in Gukje Market, every bottle here had a price tag, which inspired confidence in the customers. Though, I didn’t even look at the prices.
After scanning the displayed whiskeys and cognacs, I placed an order. Ballantine’s 30 years, Johnnie Walker Blue Label and King George V, Hennessy XO, Beluga vodka... Buying up the expensive swill with cash, I packed the trunk and back seat of the Sorento with it, then crossed the road and headed toward Book Alley.
After hitting several stalls, I gathered enough manhwa, novels, and magazines to fill a truck and arranged for delivery. I stopped by a cafe for an iced americano, and as I was returning to the car, the greenhouse installation firm called. They arrived an hour early.
I immediately sped to Jangjeon-dong. Driving up the slope in the residential quarter, I saw the truck in front of the woods surrounding my shelter.
"Is there even room for a greenhouse here?"
The employee, who had already expressed doubts about the address over the phone, was staring at the mountain in bewilderment. I drove onto the hidden driveway, passed the iron gates, and parked in the yard. Only then did he realize what was happening, his face turning to admiration.
The excavator operator arrived on time. Unloading the compact machine from the platform, he deftly began to crush the parking lot pavement. The concrete layer was thin, so the demolition went quickly.
As soon as the damp earth appeared, the workers got to business: installing pipes and stretching thick polyethylene. They worked in sync. Two hours later, half of the open parking lot was occupied by two long, wide greenhouses.
The one adjacent to the wall I divided in half: in the back, I would store feed and fertilizer; in the rest, I would raise chickens. The second greenhouse was intended for vegetables.
After eating lunch at a nearby joint, I returned to organize the supplies just as the tanks were delivered. Four blue reservoirs in factory film lined up against the interior wall. Next came a truck with fertile soil. The workers dumped the earth from the bed, covered the greenhouse floor in a thick layer, and packed it down with their feet. The work for today was finished.
I surveyed the yard. The parking lot that was empty just yesterday now possessed the majestic look of a self-sufficient base. After that, I lugged the crates of alcohol to the third floor. I washed my hands, drank some water, grabbed my smartphone and wallet, and drove out of the shelter.
*****
In the boxing gym, I was warming up on the jump rope and pounding the heavy bag when the coach beckoned me with the mitts.
"Gangjun, let’s test you out."
I had been waiting for this. I moved in quickly and took my stance.
"Start with a one-two."
POW-POW! POW-POW!
Taking my jabs and straights, the coach monitored my form. He nodded like a catcher evaluating the pitch of a promising pitcher.
"Stance isn't bad. How long did you train?"
"About six months in total."
"Hmm, six months... Now relax your shoulders and work in combinations."
One-two-hook, double jab-hook-cross, entry with a one-two, break, entry again, slip-counter... I fired off combinations at the coach’s command, slipped the incoming mitt swipes, and attacked relentlessly on the lead.
Active work, where attack transitioned into defense, was far more exhilarating and brutal than just beating a bag. To the crisp sounds of impacts and the coach’s masterful mitt work, three minutes flew by unnoticed.
DING!
The gong rang. Only then did the coach sigh and take off the mitts.
"That's enough for today."
The adrenaline was still surging, so I stood before the mirror and began shadowboxing to cement the movements. While I mashed the air in front of an imaginary opponent, the gym began to fill up. Young guys, a girl, a middle-aged man, and that silver-haired old lady I had seen before.
You could tell a novice from a pro just by the jump rope. The sound of the hits on the bag differed too. With novices, the fist just slapped the surface; with pros, it drove deep, like an awl hitting a point.
"Gangjun, how about a spar?"
"Sparring?"
I wiped my face with a towel and turned around. The coach was pointing at a guy by the far bag.
"That guy wants to warm up, and his regular partner is running late. If you don’t mind, let’s do a light conditional spar. I’ve seen your work; you can handle it."
I looked closer. It was that same pro whose punches were screwing into the bag.
In the gym in Masan, they constantly paired me with those who were a head stronger—they said that’s how character is forged and how you learn to take a punch. Naturally, I got beaten in a one-sided massacre. Out of resentment, I would turn savage and charge forward, swinging my fists like a madman. On a normal ring, I would have been technically picked apart from a distance, but on a "mini-ring," two steps were enough to trap an opponent in the corner. I would lose my mind, hammering at their guard, the opponent would get fired up too, and it would turn into a dirty brawl full of rage.
Back then, I hated boxing, but in the conditions of the apocalypse, that experience proved invaluable. How often in ordinary life do you have to get hit in the face or hit someone yourself? And when the world collapses, there will be a weapon in that fist as well.
In a world where violence and death are commonplace, a second’s hesitation decides everything. The more accustomed you are to pain and aggression, the higher your chances of survival.
Judging by the coach’s tone, he didn't intend to throw me to the wolves as a "walking heavy bag." Apparently, having evaluated my work on the mitts, he decided we were a good match.
"Fine."
I agreed without a second thought. I didn’t care if I got beaten or if it turned into a fight. Any sparring is a way to sharpen instincts to a shine. That’s why I came to the gym. It wasn't to skip rope.
"Do you have a mouthguard?"
"Yes."
I dropped the guard into a cup and poured boiling water from the cooler. When it softened, I dipped it in cold water and pressed it firmly to my teeth, molding it to myself. It fit perfectly.
"You’ve got grit, Gangjun. This will be interesting to watch."
The coach smirked and, crossing his arms over his chest, stood by the ring. I picked one of the old, faded headgears hanging on the post and climbed through the ropes. I tightened the Velcro on my gloves, tapped them together, and looked at my opponent.
He looked like a student. A bit taller than me, but lean and wiry. Judging by his work on the bag, he had plenty of experience. The gaze from under the black headgear was sharp and provocative. He bounced lightly from foot to foot—the kid was clearly itching to use his fists.
DING!
The timer signaled the start of the three-minute round.
Barely touching gloves, the opponent began probing me with jabs, using his reach advantage. He kept his distance and targeted my lead hand. Toying with a novice using nothing but a lead jab is a classic move every mediocre fighter tries. Some show off shamelessly, putting their right hand behind their back, but even decent fighters aren't above teaching a novice a lesson that way.
At the beginning of my path, I often fell for that bait. My own left hand would fly back into my jaw after his hit, like a billiard ball. It wasn't so much painful as it was humiliating—getting hit in the face by your own fist. For those who fear being hit and don't know how to close the distance, an experienced fighter's lead hand is an impenetrable fortress.
But ring experience teaches the main thing: don't stand like a post, move, dictate your pace. I tucked into a tight guard. Actively working my torso, I made his jabs miss and began slowly shifting to the right. By cutting off his angle for a right-hand attack, I made him nervous—he unloaded a combination of hooks and straights.
I ducked, took part of the blows on the block, and fired a wide hook. He managed to cover up, but due to the weight difference, he was visibly staggered. Not giving him time to regain his balance, I pushed off my back leg, burst into the inside, and buried a hook in his liver.
The pleasant sensation of a solid body shot sent shivers down my skin, and in that same instant, a counter-blow lashed across my cheek. The distance was too short for it to be a knockout, but my head snapped back hard. A flash of pain disoriented me for a second, but I didn’t stop. Flinch or retreat, and it’s over.
He understood this too. We locked onto each other, raining down blows. We were seeing each other for the first time. No names, no grudges, no enmity. Но now we were battering each other as if we wanted to kill. Only in the ring is this possible.
The outside world forces us to suppress our internal aggression, to drown our grudges in alcohol or shove them deep inside. But here, in a territory free from laws and responsibility, everything is different. The ring is the only place where you can vent stress and remember that a human is just a wild animal.
But in 46 days, when civilization collapses, the ropes will snap, and this ring will stretch across the entire world. The kind and the weak, those who never harmed others, will vanish first. Only those ready for anything will survive.
DING!
The first round ended, but our scrap hadn't revealed a winner. The entire gym had stopped training and was watching us. The sparring was brutal, almost like a real fight, but the coach didn't even think of stopping us—he only called out technical advice.
Thirty seconds of rest, then back into the fray. I realized his weakness: his punches were sharp and his feet were fast, but he lacked "dog" tenacity. Apparently, I had worn him out significantly in the exchanges, and now he was trying to work as an out-boxer, firing off jabs.
But on such a small ring, out-boxing doesn’t work. I instantly closed the distance, trapped him in the corner, and, taking a hail of punches, began crushing his body. I switched from the liver to the spleen, driving uppercuts between his gloves. He winced, tried to slip out, but after a few clean hits, his arms grew heavy and his guard began to sag.
I bobbed my head, slipping an entry, and fired at the ribs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his elbow drop, opening a breach. Instinctively, I torqued my torso and threw the right. A heavy overhand hook flew over his glove and slammed perfectly into the jaw hidden by the headgear.
THWACK!
The guy’s head snapped, and he slumped into the ropes. For a second, he tried to hold on, clutching the cables with his hands, but his legs buckled, and he sank to the canvas like a sack. He spat out his mouthguard and gasped heavily. I looked at him, stepped over the ropes, and climbed down from the ring.
Taking off my gloves and headgear, I exhaled. Sweat was pouring down my face in torrents, but my soul felt unusually light.
Back at the shelter, I took a shower and was now drinking iced Coke while scrolling through the news. A call came in from Attorney Hwang Chaun.
"Lee Junsok is being released tomorrow morning."
"That fast?"
The lawyer could have boasted about his connections among judges and demanded a bonus for the success, but he answered matter-of-factly:
"The arrest was groundless to begin with. Any decent lawyer would have achieved the same."
I didn’t really delve into the legal nuances. I’ll meet Junsok tomorrow—he’ll tell me everything himself. Thanking the lawyer, I confirmed the hearing schedule and hung up.
I sat back down at the laptop and refreshed the page. A breaking news alert popped up:
"An outbreak of an unknown disease has been recorded in Mumbai, India."
It had begun... The first brick in the foundation of the coming chaos was laid. Images of the nightmare that would soon become reality flashed in my memory. The secret hope that everything might be different in this life evaporated like smoke. All that remained was the reality that would soon be saturated with the scent of death.
I leaned back in the chair, scanning my shelter. I felt calmer. Finishing the Coke in one gulp, I took a heavy sigh and clicked on the headline of the emergency news.