— Forty-five days left.
— Hmm.
When I gave the specific date, Junsok crossed his arms and rubbed his chin.
— Virus spreads, people start eating each other, that whole deal?
Junsok was serious. No snickering. Mentioning the typical zombie horror setup didn't phase him.
— ...You believe me?
— Why not. Give us another Terra!
After ordering the beer, Junsok stared at the beef sizzling on the grill.
— Other doomsday scenarios are trendy now: low birth rates, aging population, social polarization, global warming. After COVID, everyone thought they’d kick the bucket, but since we made it through, pandemics aren't "in" anymore. Against that boring backdrop, a zombie apocalypse looks alright. Everyone loves zombies, right? Look at all the movies, books, and comics.
— You see a walking corpse in person—you’ll take those words back. People shrink away from a stinking homeless man on the street; a zombie is a whole different level.
— Reality is always different from fantasy. Do you know why people like the genre?
— Why?
— Not because the world is ending. It’s because the people who were smarter and more successful than you turn into complete degenerates, and you become the toughest guy on earth. There’s a strange sense of superiority in that. Plus, you get to kill the assholes who annoyed you with total impunity. From that perspective, zombie movies are pretty grim. Reality will be the same.
The waiter brought the beer. Junsok quickly filled a glass. Drinking alone felt off to him; he paused and looked at me.
— You're not having any?
— I’m driving. And I still have things to do.
I poured a Coke instead of alcohol. We clinked glasses. The ice-cold soda pleasantly burned my throat.
— So what are you doing in Busan? You didn't come just for me, did you?
— Wrapped up all my business in Seoul.
Junsok froze, a piece of meat gripped in his chopsticks. He squinted, studying me, and asked incredulously:
— ...Because of the zombies?
— Yes.
— Hmm, so you’re not joking...
He popped the meat into his mouth. Junsok savored the premium beef and my words simultaneously.
— Guess something happened in Seoul?
— A lot. And more will happen.
The conversation flowed into university memories. Small, funny stories surfaced while the beef continued to hiss on the grill.
*****
— Phew, that was a hell of a meal.
We stood up from the table, having demolished an amount equal to a regular clerk's monthly salary in one sitting. After paying the bill on a six-month installment plan, I popped a mint into my mouth. It was still light outside.
I wanted to walk to settle the food, but Junsok suddenly threw his head back toward the sky and roared:
— Status!
I stared at him, bewildered. Ignoring me, he shouted louder:
— Inventory! System! Gate!
— What the hell are you doing?
— It’s not popping up.
— Was it supposed to?
I looked at him like he was an idiot. Junsok gave a sheepish grin.
— Since the zombie apocalypse is coming, I figured I’d check just in case. How did you find out?
— About what?
— The zombies.
— I lived through it. More than once.
If he believes me—fine. If not—I don't care. In forty-five days, he’ll believe it whether he wants to or not. As an avid web-novel reader who knew about "status windows," Junsok understood immediately. His eyes went wide.
— Are you... a regressor?
I wanted to nod, but I was suddenly hit with a fundamental question. Did I really return to the past? Or was it a prophetic dream? Or maybe I’m dying right now in the middle of the apocalypse, seeing this impossible dream? Or am I like Doctor Strange, cycling through endings until I reach the finish?
I don’t know. Whatever it is, in forty-five days, what must happen will happen. To survive, I need to prepare.
— Think of it that way.
The beer was starting to hit Junsok; he began to sway slightly, his face flushing red. The walk was off. I stepped into the road and hailed a taxi.
— Get in.
— Huh? Okay.
I shoved him into the back seat and pulled all the cash from my wallet. I gave the driver fifty thousand won for the fare and stuffed the rest into the pocket of Junsok’s puffer jacket, zipping it up.
— Don't think about anything today, just rest. You'll meet the lawyer tomorrow. Don't sweat the money; I’ve already paid the retainer.
— Right... thanks. See you tomorrow.
With eyes drooping from booze and exhaustion, Junsok looked at me, squeezed my hand tight, and let go.
I closed the door and stepped back onto the sidewalk. Watching the taxi vanish into the stream of cars, I remembered my recent dream. Junsok and I had tracked a drone, found the enemy's lair, and wiped them out in a surprise attack. Taking them out one by one alone, under the cover of night, would have been much harder and more tedious.
In the apocalypse, a group increases the chances of survival. But the larger the crowd, the harder it is to react to changes. If the leader is a tyrant or you're at the bottom of the hierarchy, you’ll be driven to the most dangerous places and starved. Even in decent groups, everyone has different abilities—working equally and sharing equally doesn't work. Resentment is inevitable. Resources dwindle, discord grows, and eventually, everything goes to hell. Most of the shelters and safe zones I knew collapsed exactly like that.
Being a loner isn't sweet either. Guarding a shelter from a mob of enemies, breaking through zombies, hauling supplies... Even when you're just eating or sleeping, you can't relax for a second. Living in isolation, without exchanging a word with anyone all day—it burns out the brain and breaks the psyche, even in peacetime.
That’s why, when the world collapses, you need a window for communication. In the silent void, even a will of steel rusts. You lose your habits and crumble like sand. You get lazy about washing, food loses its taste, and even getting out of bed or just breathing feels pointless. Eventually, like a junkie, you spend all day staring at the clothesline on the balcony. As if it’s the only exit from a boring hell.
The best option is a small team of reliable, like-minded people. It’s good if they’re jacks-of-all-trades and quick thinkers, but the main thing is—the person must not betray you under any circumstances.
I used to look for old comrades I’d gone through hell with, whose characters I thought were proven. I thought they could be trusted. But I got a knife in the back. A brutal lesson: they didn't betray me before because they were honest and loyal. They just didn't have the opportunity. The weak stay weak as long as they have no weapon. No one knows what a person will turn into once they get power.
Even those lunatics who terrorize social workers—ask their neighbors, and they’ll say in unison: "He’s a quiet, polite old man, he couldn't have done that." If you want to know a person's true nature—give them power. That wasn't said for nothing. I saw people who considered themselves virtuous change in the apocalypse, but I never thought I’d get caught myself.
One comrade, to whom I owed so much that even betrayal didn't seem insulting, and a woman I had feelings for... The memories of their end were too bitter. I didn't dare look for them.
I was sure about Junsok. And it wasn't just about old friendship. Meeting him again, I saw that he’d become darker, more cynical, and more talkative, but his humor and inner core remained the same. While we drove from the detention center to the restaurant, I finally became convinced: I’d go to the end with him. Judging by his jokes about "status," he doesn't quite believe me yet. But when zombies start roaming the streets, he’ll change his mind.
I hope he doesn't get locked up again before the chaos starts. Remembering the lawyer's assurances that he wouldn't face real prison time, I headed back to the parking lot. An employee smoking by the entrance immediately ran over:
— Shall I call a designated driver?
— No need. I didn't drink.
Getting into the car, which smelled of charcoal smoke and meat, I pulled out of the lot and headed toward Jangjeon-dong.
*****
Returning to the shelter, I began tidying up the area around the greenhouses. The appliances arrived: TV, fridge, washing machine, dryer, and AC. Seeing there was no elevator, the delivery guys sighed resignedly but silently hauled everything to the third floor.
The TV, fridge, and air conditioner were placed in the living room; the washer went on the balcony. When I handed them tips, they were initially stunned by the amount and tried to refuse, but then, beaming, they took the money. Hard labor instantly stopped being a burden. Financial therapy works flawlessly.
I connected the camera control unit to a 75-inch smart TV. The screen was huge, the cameras sharp—the image on the nine sections was better than in real life. After checking the perimeter, I plugged in the fridge and stocked it with drinks and beer.
At the scheduled time, the generator specialists arrived. They installed a small-scale generator and batteries in one of the rooms on the third floor, wiring them into the living block.
— Listen, this isn't some wilderness without electricity. Why do you need a generator here? This will cost many times more to run.
— I don't know. I don't live here.
I brushed him off and opened the fuel tank. A familiar model; I’d used the same one in my past life. I poured in the fuel and checked it. It started smoothly, but the noise and smoke—that’s a beacon for zombies and marauders. I’ll soundproof the room and install ventilation; I’ll only run it at night—then it’ll do. If the city grid goes down, I can last a couple of years on generators. I stacked three spare units and thirty packaged batteries in another room. Fuel will be stored in a separate extension on the first floor.
Later, solar panel installers climbed down from the roof and connected the controller to the batteries. Their power is mediocre—on a sunny day, it’s enough for a couple of hours of fridge operation. Но when the fuel runs out, solar energy will provide at least some light and a minimum of heat. It’s worth the investment.
That’s enough for today. I checked a box in my notebook, grabbed a now-chilled Coke from the fridge, and after catching my breath, drove to the gym.
*****
WHACK-WHACK-WHACK!
I was working on yesterday’s sparring, trying to strike light and relaxed. I focused not on flurries, but on the timing of the jabs and footwork. Breaking through and dropping an opponent is good, but in reality, the enemy will have a weapon, so I can't get fixated on pure boxing.
DING!
The bell rang. I was wiping sweat with a towel when a guy approached me. He looked like a middle-schooler, shorter than me but broad-shouldered.
— Excuse me...
— What?
— Have you been boxing long?
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. The kid spoke excitedly:
— I saw yesterday’s sparring. That guy from the university, he has long arms and fast feet—they call him Mayweather. I’ve never seen anyone just burst in and cold-clock him like that. Do you want to spar with me?
— What grade are you in?
— Eighth.
I looked him over. He was about ten kilos lighter than me, with a shorter reach.
— Been training long?
— Ten months.
— You sure? I hit hard.
— Mine isn't a gift either.
The kid raised his hands in yellow wraps and dropped into a stance. In his eyes burned defiance and a desire to test himself against the one who laid out the "local champion." I liked his drive. He didn't flinch; he looked straight at me.
— Fine. One round.
— Thanks!
He beamed and rushed to get ready. I popped in my mouthguard, pulled on my headgear, tightened the velcro on my gloves, and stepped into the corner of the ring.
DING!
We met in the center. Touched gloves. I began to circle slowly to the right, working my feet. The kid flicked his lead hand, feeling out the distance, and began technically bobbing and weaving. The movements were natural; behind them were hours of sweat and obvious talent. Just like the beginning of some sports manga.
We exchanged jabs. A few seconds of reconnaissance, and the schoolboy, closing the gap, lunged into an attack.