A single three-minute round was enough for the fight with the kid.
DING!
The gong cut through the heat of the frantic brawl, where we had been pummeling each other’s faces and ribs. Silence followed, broken only by heavy, ragged breathing—the sound of athletes who had just crossed a finish line.
I stepped into the corner, hung my sweat-soaked headgear on the post, and climbed down from the ring. I stripped off my gloves and spat out my mouthguard. My face was burning; I’d taken quite a few hits. My sides and stomach were already blooming with purple welts.
The kid had taken his share of punishment too; he was breathing hard, grimacing in pain. His face was flushed, and the hand clutching his water bottle shook noticeably. When our eyes met, I smirked and gave him a thumbs up.
— ...Good. Fast feet, the bob-and-weave, the timing—it’s all there.
The university student I fought yesterday got lost in the pocket, but this kid was an infighter, just like me. He hadn't backed down an inch. Judging strictly by boxing technique, the kid was a head above me. At least thirty clean shots had landed on my face and body. I’d only managed to catch him maybe ten times—the rest hit his guard.
If we were in the same weight class, I definitely would have hit the canvas a couple of times. But the weight difference made my punches heavy and his light, which leveled the playing field.
— ...You’re tough too, mister. Pure Golovkin—I’m tagging you in the jaw, and you just keep coming like a tank. It gave me chills.
Even though I’d bruised him up pretty well, the boy's eyes sparkled with excitement. He looked like a manga protagonist right before a major power-up. I felt a surge of curiosity.
— What’s your name?
— Jang Minhan.
— I’m Yoon Gangjun.
I extended my hand. The kid froze for a second, blinking, but quickly realized it was an acknowledgment of his skill. He grinned widely and gave my palm a firm shake. His hand, still wrapped in tape, was hot and damp.
What kind of future awaited him? With skills like that, few would dare touch him in school. You could tell by the way he spoke—he wasn't one of those rotten bastards who bullied the weak the moment they felt power.
Where would he be in forty-five days when the apocalypse began? Would he be able to protect himself and his family? Even if he broke through the bloodbath and survived, we’d likely never see that sincere smile again. The apocalypse changes people as irrevocably as big money does.
He might become a hero, or a marauder, or an anonymous corpse. Whoever he became, I only hoped fate wouldn't pit us against each other in a way that forced me to stain my hands with his blood.
The future was hazy, but now, after a fair fight, we both stood there smiling. For the moment, that was enough.
*****
Back at the shelter, I showered and lay down. I slept for about two hours, and when I woke up, my face and body were significantly swollen. I applied ice and popped an anti-inflammatory pill. My stomach growled. It seemed that due to the exertion, all that beef Junsok and I had eaten had burned away completely.
I decided not to overthink it and ordered Bburinkle chicken. Despite the exact address, the courier got lost. When I suddenly stepped out to meet him from the wooded driveway, the guy nearly dropped the box—he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Smirking at his reaction, I took the order and returned to the house. I chewed the chicken while watching the news and somehow remembered that couple from the studio in Noryangjin. They were always either screaming at each other or making up through "bedroom negotiations." How would they meet the wave of destruction in forty-five days? Most likely, they’d become easy prey for the first shambling corpse and turn into flesh-hungry monsters, completely forgetting the taste of free chicken.
The TV droned on as usual about corruption, celebrity scandals, and football. No signs of zombies. The news about the "Mumbai Fever" exactly mirrored what I had seen online: low lethality, nothing serious. No one had recorded the living dead yet.
The Ganges is a place where sewage and half-burnt corpses float; there are more viruses there than stars in the sky. An ideal environment for infection. But if everything followed the script of my past life, the first outbreak wouldn't ignite in India, but in Shanghai. The Chinese suppressed everything until the last moment, so the true causes remained a mystery. The last reports before the world plunged into darkness hinted that the virus was a mutation of that very Indian disease.
After eating every last piece, I turned off the TV and brought the camera feed onto the screen. All nine sections were operating normally. It had grown dark outside, and the system had switched to IR mode. The black-and-white image clearly rendered the surroundings.
A quiet residential sector. Stray cats. A woman with a stroller. The sound of a delivery moped's engine faded, and a cart appeared in the frame. A man in a parka and a baseball cap was hauling a mountain of cardboard. A familiar silhouette. The same old man who had been loitering near the building last time. It seemed he really was only interested in boxes, not my supplies.
— I should take the scrap paper out for him.
I checked the stash in the kitchen cabinet. Under packs of paper towels lay thick stacks of fifty-thousand-won bills. I took one stack—five million won—and shoved it into my jacket pocket. I went downstairs, carried the flattened cardboard out to the road, and got into the car.
*****
The eight-lane highway glowed like a river of red taillights. The city looked like a shining tower from a dream—a forest of skyscrapers and myriads of lights, resembling festive lanterns along a mountain trail.
An hour later, I was in Hadan. I parked and dove into the district of bars and karaoke. Signs promising dubious pleasures flashed past until I stopped in front of the right building.
RARE HOLDEM PUB
I remembered why I was here and stepped inside. On the tenth floor, I was met by jazz and dry, warm air. A pleasant atmosphere for a drink, except that at the five round tables, it wasn't a banquet taking place, but a game.
— Welcome. First time with us?
A sturdy, middle-aged manager approached me. His eyes scanned me with clear suspicion. I recognized him and nodded.
— First time in this establishment, but I’ve been to other pubs.
— Then you know the rules. Will you be playing?
— Yes.
— Exchange first. This way.
I was led into a small room divided by a plastic partition. Behind it sat a young guy with the face of a diligent student.
— Take care of the guest. For an exchange.
— How much?
— 300,000 to start.
I slid the money through the slot. A funny sign hung on the wall: "Cash settlements are prohibited. We are a cultural establishment. Space rental is 10k per hour. Beer is 5k. Chips are exchanged for stuffed animals."
Sure. A dealer, cards, chips—but it's "not gambling." A standard scheme for such places. Bureaucratic loopholes and kickbacks create these zones of "illegal law" everywhere.
— Your chips.
Thirty chips were placed before me. If I were an undercover cop, I’d have pulled out my phone already. The guards understood this, so their eyes never left me for a second. However, I didn't care.
I waited ten minutes and sat at the table with the lowest stakes. I took the seat of some loser who had left behind only a cloud of tobacco smoke. The bloodshot eyes of the regulars stared at me. Exhausted, angry faces—typical gambling addicts. In the apocalypse, every shelter had similar interest groups. With the same faces.
They lost everything but didn't leave. Not just because of the hope of winning it back—they simply had nowhere else to go. This world is full of opportunities, but luck and brains are needed everywhere. For the common man, life is as complex as advanced mathematics, so their only chance at success is to "roll the dice" or buy a lottery ticket. Or sit at this table.
— Are you in?
I nodded. Two cards slid across the felt and landed in front of me. The men clutched their hands as if the oxygen supply on a sinking ship depended on it. Despair hung in the air. This table was also a ring.
Eat or be eaten. The essence was the same as in boxing. I hadn't come here for victory, but since I’d stepped into the ring—I had to go to the end.
I reached for the cards. With the very same hands that had been in gloves a couple of hours ago, I revealed my hand.