When I saw Junsok again at the seafood restaurant in Haeundae, he looked much better. Apparently, some real rest had helped him shake off the nightmares of the detention center. His complexion and expressions had regained their life.
— So, when’s the trial?
— Didn’t the lawyer tell you? They said in about six months. There’s a shortage of judges.
I nodded, feeling a sense of internal relief.
In 44 days, when the zombie apocalypse begins, the entire country will collapse. That trial will never happen.
— Why are modern dramas such utter shit?
We were eating halibut when Junsok’s tone suddenly turned sharp.
I followed his gaze. A massive TV hung on the restaurant wall.
On the muted screen, an unpleasant middle-aged man—a typical villain—was tormenting those around him until a young heroine began to serve him justice.
— They set up one antisocial bastard as a scapegoat, drag him through the mud—and what, is that supposed to bring relief? People consume this kindergarten level stuff like a "refreshing drink" until they get diabetes. The old folks who barge into our social welfare center act exactly the same way. To them, I’m the villain, and they’re the embodiment of justice. All they do is whine about how unfair everything is. They probably watch serials like this and cheer. All while not paying a cent in taxes...
— Hmm.
He had been released from the detention center, but the stress of his impending return to the municipal center, where those very "villains" awaited him, was taking its toll. Junsok’s speech and face were as jagged as pebbles sharpened and broken by the harsh waves of life.
As we talked, the number of empty bottles on the table grew, and the massive platter of assorted seafood became bare.
— Hey! Give us an order of boiled squid!
When I raised my hand and placed the order, Junsok chuckled.
— The zombies haven't even arrived yet, and you're already committing fratricide?
— Ah, right. You're not supposed to eat your own kind.
I traded a joke for a joke. Junsok’s gaze softened, and his smile widened.
— Funny.
— What is?
— That you get jokes. Do you... know about "thrownness"?
I popped a piece of sea pineapple—served as an appetizer—into my mouth and tilted my head in confusion.
— Thrownness? Are you hurt? Did they beat you in the center? Tell the lawyer...
— No. Philosophy. Heidegger. A person is simply thrown into life without a purpose. Once you're born, you just have to live.
— Well... I wouldn't know.
— It’s nothing complicated. It’s like when they force you to drag yourself to reservist training for three days and two nights just because you served in the army. "Thrownness"... I first heard it in a lecture during my freshman year, and it suddenly came back to me in the cell. Fuck, what have I actually done in this life? Barely managed to become a Grade 9 official? Some would say I’m spoiled, but Grade 9 is total shit. There’s a reason they call us "government slaves." I didn't even want this...
Junsok didn't finish. With a face bubbling with the remnants of suppressed emotions, he downed his glass in one gulp.
I silently refilled it. My friend let out a heavy sigh.
— ...Maybe life is just a bunch of beads that God scattered for fun. They roll around without meaning by someone else's will, and when the energy runs out—they just die in the dirt. There was a scene like that at the end of Men in Black, remember? Our galaxy is just a glass marble that gods who look like squids play with.
While Junsok’s rambling reflections drifted into cosmic distances, the boiled squid was served—as if a pagan deity had manifested.
I’m no beauty, but I’ve never felt any kinship with cephalopods, so I picked up my chopsticks without hesitation.
I dipped the body into the spicy sauce. The firm texture and rich flavor—an excellent delicacy, no worse than elite beef.
Since I hadn't come by car, I allowed myself a cold beer.
Tonight, I wanted to get drunk and think about nothing.
Junsok didn't touch the squid. He just stared at it.
— The gods from Men in Black looked exactly like that.
— Cephalopod gods? Cthulhu, the Outer Gods? Cosmic horror?
At the mention of Lovecraft, Junsok’s lips curled into a sardonic smile.
— Oh, please. It’s only in the West they’re afraid of octopuses. To us, it’s just a snack with sauce. If that "horror" stepped onto our land, a local kitchen ajumma would grab it by the tentacles instantly. She’d chop it into fine mince, season it with oil and salt, and serve it in a big bowl with ice-cold broth. Five minutes on a cooking show—and there’s no god.
— Yeah, now that is true cosmic horror.
Maybe that’s why aliens don't mess with Earth?
Or maybe a couple have already been served to a table.
I looked at the plate with renewed interest. Junsok pensively twirled an empty glass in his hands.
— I quit today.
— No wonder you’re so talkative.
When unbearable pain piles up, some fall into hibernation and silence, while others—try to talk it out to survive.
Junsok was one of the latter.
He always loved to joke and snark, so if you didn't know him well, you might take him for just a cynic. It was hard to guess what kind of stress he was digesting inside.
— I was walking to the center this morning, thinking I’d take sick leave and lie down... But as soon as I stepped inside, my breath hitched. My desk in the social welfare department felt like a medieval rack. You sit there, teeth clenched, until the next rotation, only to end up sitting at another desk just like it. And because of that fucking old lady, everything went to hell this time...
— The pay is below minimum, the pension is destroyed. Even if I make it to retirement, I'll be collecting cardboard in my old age. Everyone talks about "preparing for old age," but there’s no way out. We’re all just thrown beads, living by inertia.
— I had a "rosy-cheeked youth" once, too. I went through the "part-time job years," fought my way into that center... But if I stay, those old bastards will burn my soul to ashes.
— I transfer to another department—I become a "red-faced middle-aged man," and then a "whining old man." Zero prospects. There’s no answer in this field. The center director, that bitch, started muttering about disciplinary action, so I just threw my resignation on the desk. I felt lighter than the day I passed the civil service exam.
The smile vanished from Junsok’s face. He looked bleak and hollowed out.
That parched emptiness in his soul reminded me of the people I had met in the apocalypse.
— I hope you aren't planning to "resign" from life itself? The water in the Nakdong River is filthy. You jump into that "green latte"—you won't die, you'll come back as the Hulk.
I probed the ground with a joking tone. The tension in Junsok’s face eased.
— Why would I die? Not a chance. Next year, Chul-yong is opening his "bone-crushing arithmetic" course, I have to see that.
I blinked, not immediately catching the Tazza reference, but my memory supplied the answer.
— ...The World Cup?
Realizing the joke had landed, Junsok relaxed.
— We can break any laws in this world, but when the World Cup is on, we are obligated to calculate the chances of making it out of the group stage, aren't we? That’s the whole essence of Korean football.
— Right. We’ll calculate.
There won't be a World Cup, but the main thing is an "unbending heart."
We refilled our glasses and clinked them.
Wiping his mouth with his hand, Junsok leaned forward.
— About your apocalypse. You said—zombies?
— Yeah, a zombie incident.
Unknown creatures will suddenly flood the streets, bearing the gospel of death and resurrection. The world will collapse.
In the chaos and violence, everything built under the name of civilization will be reset. The "war of all against all" will begin.
A global catastrophe leading to the extinction of humanity. But Junsok’s reaction was lackluster.
— This story has been chewed over a million times already.
— ...Apocalypses are all like that.
— The dead come to life and walk the streets, but there are no status windows or gates?
— Where would they come from in a zombie horror?
It seemed he still didn't grasp the reality if he was looking for a "status window."
Then again, it would be strange if he believed such a thing immediately. Doubting is natural.
— And how are you—preparing?
— Building a shelter.
— Oh.
The eyes of the tipsy Junsok gleamed strangely.
— Like a prepper bunker?
— Similar, but above ground. This isn't nuclear war; being underground is too difficult. Ventilation, survival, defense—it’s all harder.
— Can I have a look?
— Sure. We’ll finish the second round of alcohol there.
— Okay, let’s drink up and head out.
Burning with curiosity, Junsok quickly refilled the glasses.
We finished the drinks and snacks, then stood up.
— That was a good session.
— It’s nothing... This cost less than the water they use to wash elite beef.
While Junsok was paying, I watched the news on the TV by the entrance.
Officials were doing something, politicians were smiling.
There were many capable elites among them; it was just that the idiots often drew all the attention.
The problem was that none of them would become a breakwater capable of stopping the zombie tide.
And not because they were incompetent.
It was just that political intrigue, the constraints of reality, and the infighting with opponents trying to turn the crisis into an opportunity for themselves would produce the natural result.
It probably looked the same when the country was collapsing during the currency crisis.
We left the restaurant, caught a taxi, and drove to the outskirts of Jangjeon-dong, at the foot of the mountain.
— Is it in the forest?
When I turned off the residential block toward the slope, Junsok followed me with doubt on his face.
Lighting the way with a smartphone flashlight, we climbed a hidden path. I unlocked the latch and opened the heavy iron door.
— Oh, cool.
In the moonlight, my shelter looked like a creepy abandoned house—thieves would be too afraid to even approach. Junsok was ecstatic.
— Is this greenhouse for vegetables?
— One half will be for chickens, the other for crops.
— Ah, chickens? Logical. They eat little, eggs every day. We can have a "chimaek" day once a month.
Junsok quickly assessed the birds' utility. His gaze moved to the four water tanks, which looked like massive statues in the moonlight.
— Rainwater collection tanks?
— Yeah. It’s high up here; there’s no well. It’s cold. Let’s go inside.
We climbed to the third floor. When we entered the living area, Junsok gave a low whistle.
— Whoa, you’re serious. You must have sunk a fortune into this. How many inches is that TV? It’s huge.
— 75 inches. The internet works.
— Gaming on that would be pure bliss. And you already set up cameras?
The monitors ran twenty-four-seven. Nine sectors of the screen in night-vision mode provided a pale black-and-white image.
The picture was sharp, and because of the moon, everything around was as visible as if it were day.
I tore open a bag of chips and took out cans of beer.
— It’s good here. Is the whole house yours?
— Aside from the generator room and the gym, everything else is storage for supplies. The living area is only here.
— There’s plenty of room then. How many rooms?
— Three.
This apartment was twice the size of a typical two-bedroom.
Spacious rooms and a living area, and outside the window—a thick pine forest and not a soul. You can open the windows any time.
Admittedly, the wallpaper and floors were in the same deplorable state as in the other rooms.
I’d have to pick a day and fix this place up.
When zombies are roaming outside, the ruin inside the house won't help the mood.
Only full rest in comfort would allow one to maintain sanity and survive for long.
— Is there a spot for me?
Junsok clearly liked the shelter. Before finishing his first can, he expressed a desire to join the team.
I smiled contentedly and nodded.
— Plenty of rooms. Pick any one. Except the master bedroom.
— Deal?
Junsok looked around the living room with excitement.
At that moment, a strange scream erupted outside.
— AAAAA!
— Phew!
Startled, Junsok spilled his beer and rushed to the window, but then pointed at the TV.
— Hey, look over there!
The source of the sound was found on one of the screen sectors. The motion sensor had triggered and was sending a signal.
It was the camera aimed at the rear slope of the mountain.