The next morning, I rose early, packed my gym clothes, and took the second-floor walkway to the hotel’s bathhouse complex.
I hammered through today’s plan in the gym: squats, deadlifts, lunges, and hip abductions. I finished off my legs, then climbed onto the treadmill and pushed until my clothes were soaked through.
Only a week had passed. My body still ached, but I could feel my stamina slowly returning. My head was clearing.
Forty-nine days left.
I had found the building for the shelter. Now, I had to turn it into a fortress and pack it with supplies.
I returned to the hotel, showered, ate a simple lunch, and took a taxi to the shelter. I pulled out my notebook and began checking off the list.
First priority: the iron entrance gates.
I provided the width and height. The firm sent several photos of options. I scrutinized the designs and specifications before ordering a three-meter-high gate with a latch over a meter long.
Delivery and installation: two days.
I’ll have to reinforce this area, too.
The first floor was an open piloti structure with no walls. Standing before it, the vulnerability was obvious. In a sudden raid, this would be a death trap.
No matter how strong the fence or gates were, they wouldn’t stop looters entirely. Even if motion-sensor cameras spotted intruders quickly, defending a ground floor like this while maintaining an escape route would be difficult.
If looters breached the main door on the first floor and set the place on fire, I’d be forced to descend by rope and jump.
There are no negotiations with those running at you with weapons. Only a fight.
And no matter how much experience you have, if you’re overwhelmed by numbers, you can’t predict the outcome. Even if you survive, a fracture or a deep wound is a death sentence. There will be nowhere to get treatment. You either die in agony or end up a cripple, suffering for the rest of your life.
Therefore, conflict must be avoided at all costs.
The best solution was to enclose the first floor with exterior walls and create an emergency exit toward the mountain to allow for an uphill escape.
I hadn't climbed up there yet, but satellite maps showed the slope merging into a mountain range. The trails were difficult and the forest thick. If I retreated into the mountains, neither zombies nor humans would catch me easily.
Beyond the ridge, villages were clustered together. Heading west would lead to urban developments and then a wide river. Even if electricity and the internet vanished after the zombie chaos, a printed map and a compass should be enough to find a way out.
I found a firm online and inquired about exterior walls for the first floor. The employee arrived quickly—clearly, business was slow.
"Using the first floor for storage?"
"Yes."
He suggested neither brick nor concrete, but prefabricated plastic panels.
"We can put up panel walls in half a day. Easy," he said.
"Plastic is weak. It’s useless against fire," I countered.
He shook his head.
"You're thinking of sandwich panels. These are different. They're thick. You could hit them with a sledgehammer and barely leave a mark. They’re fire-resistant. They even use these for noise barriers near residential complexes now."
"How strong are they?"
"How strong do you need them to be?"
I paused, then spoke.
"I want them to withstand a shotgun blast, stop a carbine round, and hold up against a Molotov cocktail."
He laughed, thinking I was joking.
"Ha-ha. This isn't a building slated for a forced demolition. What, are you planning to hold out against a siege? Don't tell me you're one of those 'holdouts' waiting for a bigger compensation check."
I gave a thin smile, as if it were a joke.
Explaining the truth was pointless. If he was lucky, in forty-nine days, he’d see what a siege actually looked like. If he wasn't, he’d be on the other side of it.
I watched a test video: the panel was struck with a heavy hammer and doused in gasoline then lit—it held. I selected a color to match the facade and signed the contract immediately.
*****
I decided to turn one of the two-bedroom units on the third floor into a training room.
One wall would be a full-length mirror; in front of it, a power rack. I had already ordered an Olympic barbell and plates totaling three hundred kilograms, rubber floor mats, and a non-motorized treadmill. On another wall, I’d drive in bolts to hang a long pull-up bar and a heavy bag.
The early zombies moved slowly, staggering like drunks. If you had even a modicum of running ability, you could lose them easily.
Later, mutants appeared. They lasted longer and moved almost like a human at a steady run. To be precise, the zombies that could move like that were the ones that survived.
In the apocalypse, natural selection doesn't just apply to humans.
Zombies that failed to infect others and spread the virus died out. The majority soon consisted of those with speed mutations.
It was the same for humans.
If you neglected your fitness, even early-stage zombies would grab you by the limbs—after that, it was only a matter of when they’d start eating you alive. And looters who wouldn't hesitate to kill for a single cigarette or a tin of food would be impossible to handle if you were gasping for air.
Training was also a potent medicine for depression.
If you sit in a shelter all day without moving, despair and lethargy begin to rot your brain like mold. If you lie down and dissolve into a lazy silence where time feels frozen, it becomes too calm, too safe—so much so that you won't want to get up.
Sure, there’s no job and no alarm clock, but a ruined world is no resort.
The moment you relax, you pay the price.
You might be safe from the outside, but if you begin to crumble from within—like that man who hanged himself over a broken computer—there is no way out. When survival loses its meaning and the days fill with emptiness, the thought of a rope over a drying rack starts to seem more and more rational.
To reach the end, you cannot lose your will or your balance. You must sweat, train, and grow stronger every day.
This was the basic principle of survival I learned after living through ten years of the apocalypse.
*****
I planned to convert the large second-floor apartment and one of the two-bedroom units into a warehouse.
I would stock them with clothes, equipment, canned goods, water, rice, flour, sugar, jam, salt, pickles, coffee, alcohol, and cigarettes—everything that could be hoarded.
In another two-bedroom unit, I would pack as many coal briquettes as possible.
When the generators ran out of fuel, only solar panels and briquettes would remain. For heating and cooking, briquettes were best. They didn't spoil at room temperature. If they got wet, you just dried them and used them again. Even under a scorching summer sun, they wouldn't spontaneously combust; in fact, they were difficult to light, making the fire risk minimal.
There was almost no smoke and no smell.
The downside was that they took a long time to ignite, and they could silently kill you with carbon monoxide poisoning. Therefore, a carbon monoxide detector was mandatory when using them.
One of the third-floor units would be the generator room.
Given that machinery breaks, I ordered three generators and thirty batteries.
The large third-floor apartment facing the mountain would be the living quarters: a bed, a sofa, a table, and internet.
Last night at the hotel, I sat at my laptop and cleared tasks one by one. My notebook was filled with crossed-out lines.
Now, I just had to wait for the deliveries.
The drone and canned bread were ordered from overseas sites; that would take time. The rest would arrive this week, gradually filling the building.
Antibiotics and weapons, which couldn't be obtained through normal channels, would have to be sourced separately.
In the open parking area, I’d install four water tanks and build a large greenhouse—for chickens and plants. If I could maintain a steady supply of eggs and chicken, and harvest potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, and beans, I could remain self-sufficient even when the stockpiles ran out.
In the remaining space, I’d place a container for storage and stack more briquettes beside it.
"The problem is water..."
No matter how much I looked, there were no signs of a well nearby. The district office couldn't give me a straight answer either. If hot water was bubbling out of the ground a few kilometers away, there was definitely groundwater here.
Even if I found it, I was uneasy.
When zombies rot to the bone, the groundwater is bound to get contaminated. If you're unlucky enough to drink that, you might become a zombie yourself. I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, so I couldn't be sure, but the possibility was real.
Still, taking water closer to the mountains offered some relief. Water flows downward, and there are no people or zombies in the mountains. Even zombies chasing fleeing humans won't climb steep slopes.
In my past life, I drank from mountain springs and nothing bad happened.
If only there was a well nearby...
For now, the only option was to stockpile as much bottled water as possible and fill the tanks. If I collected rainwater under a tarp, it should suffice. They said there was a small spring in the mountains; if things got desperate, I could go there.
Parasites and bacteria could be killed with water purification tablets and then passed through a filter. That would be enough for drinking.
I was standing on the roof, looking at the pine-covered slope behind the house, when the sound of an engine drifted from the entrance.
An electricians' truck had arrived.
I went down to meet them.
While I listened to explanations and signed papers, the other workers deftly climbed the pole. They connected the line and set up the equipment. In a building waiting for demolition, the lights flickered on.
The wallpaper and floors were still in tatters; the apartments remained empty and bare. But when the lights came on, the building suddenly looked alive—like a critically ill patient finally regaining consciousness.
The building might have outlived its time, but in the coming years, while expensive new homes in Busan were abandoned and turned to ruins, this place would not lose its warmth.
I didn't plan to live here forever, even if I poured a fortune into reinforcements. Eventually, I’d have to abandon it and leave.
The fact that I had lived this life more than once didn't mean I knew everything or controlled everything. Even now, after five deaths and regressions, that remained true. I didn't know where or what factor would jump out and bite me.
Losing everything and fleeing wasn't scary.
I only hoped that when the moment came to abandon a burning shelter and dive back into the maw of the world, I wouldn't be alone.
I saw the truck off and crossed another item out of my notebook.
Electric boiler, plumbing, water tanks, solar panels, and cameras—tomorrow.
"That's enough for today."
I walked down between the private houses and hailed a taxi. It was too early to return to the hotel.
"Take me to the used car market in Sasang."
The used car market was a notorious place—as infamous as those for phones and computers. I didn't care about the money, and since repairs would be a nightmare in the apocalypse, I’d prefer a new car.
But if I placed an order now, the wait would be at least six months.
I only had forty-nine days.
There was no choice.
There are many ways to pick a good used car, but the seller’s reputation comes first. I didn't even bother walking the entire massive lot. I went straight to one office because it had at least somewhat decent reviews online.
The lights were still on.
I didn't enter immediately, choosing to inspect the cars first. Dusk was settling in, so I could mostly see the bodies, but the overall condition looked fine.
There were thirty-three cars in total. Eleven mid-sized SUVs.
To move unnoticed, a small electric car would be better. But if I needed to haul supplies or if people joined me later, I needed at least an SUV. Even when the time came to abandon the shelter and leave, the size of the car, cargo capacity, and fuel efficiency would mean the difference between life and death.
If you’re surrounded by a horde of zombies on the road, you’re a canned snack either way. But there's a big difference between a tin of tuna with a pull-tab and a massive can of tomatoes that needs a knife to open.
Ding-ding.
I pushed open the glass door of the office, and the small bell above it rang loudly.
The noise wasn't that strong, but it grated on my ears so much that I involuntarily frowned. Right now, it was just a signal that a customer had arrived. In forty-nine days, that sound would be a foul trigger that drew zombies.
In the apocalypse, such a trifle could cost a life—sometimes yours, sometimes those beside you.
I clicked my tongue soundlessly and stepped inside.
A young man sitting on a sofa next to a woman jumped up.
"Welcome. Looking for a car? Ah..." He froze as he got closer, his smile faltering.
He stared at me intently and said:
"...Yoon Gangjun. Right?"
"It’s been a while."
I recognized him instantly, too.
I just hadn't expected to run into him here.