Chapter 119
Under my guidance and Artemis's direction, the Shelter was transforming on multiple fronts. We'd dispatched scouting parties beyond Busan to search for survivors, and thanks to the Seed Vault's seeds, we'd completed the cycle of self-sufficiency. And there was one more monumental event: the residents were finally getting homes of their own.
Of course, these weren't residences they'd earned through fair payment. The value of their sweat barely covered the costs of water, food, and safety. But we couldn't keep cramming them into temporary shelters, living in groups of dozens forever. The housing assigned to the residents was in the Lower District's apartment complex—a budget model originally. Dorm-style rooms for two, but far more comfortable than any Korean army barracks.
When the day came and they arrived at their assigned apartments, the women were thrilled. The rooms exceeded their expectations. Plenty of space, individual beds. Private bathrooms, washers, even screens replacing TVs. Ceiling-mounted devices doubled as fire detectors and roll-call machines, with checks only at night during curfew. The balconies were big enough for laundry and personal potted plants. Gazing down from the balcony revealed a sea of green—lawns, trees, and benches artfully placed. It didn't compare to the Lower Park in scale or beauty, but it was a fine view for leaning on the railing after work. And beyond that, the artificial lake shimmered. Perfect for watching the sunset in the evening twilight.
"Hey!"
"Yoohoo!"
Someone waved from the balcony across the way, and the women here waved back.
"This is what living like a human feels like!"
"You have no idea how much I've missed a bed."
No spring mattress, but thick cotton padding made them soft enough. The women's faces lit up with smiles as they explored every corner. The only downside? No kitchen.
Open flames are restricted to communal areas. Please use those spaces for all cooking.
The women listened intently from their beds, lounging comfortably—cross-legged, propped up, one knee raised—savoring their new mattresses. Beside each bed stood a large, spacious personal locker. It resembled army barracks, but here you could walk barefoot on the floors.
Open flames require facial recognition in communal areas. Leaving a mess or skipping cleanup will result in penalties. Abandoning a flame will auto-extinguish it—and incur massive demerits.
This was emphasized three times.
Strict fire rules were unavoidable in a closed-loop city. Even a successfully extinguished fire meant huge losses: extinguisher consumables, oxygen depletion, air pollution, filter wear, exposure from escaping smoke. Getting caught with unauthorized flames meant immediate arrest and maximum penalties.
All guidelines are available anytime in the screen's Living Rules tab. Wishing you happy, diligent lives ahead.
As Kids's broadcast ended, silence fell. The residents eyed each other from their beds. Their faces twitched, then erupted in massive cheers. The suffocating camp life was over. Even with food, clothing, and shelter guaranteed, that pent-up frustration had lingered—now released. Compared to pre-war society, it was spartan, but no one complained.
"No remote?"
"Just use your hand."
All eyes turned to the wall-mounted screen. Basic info screens in camps and the Shelter were for queries and Shelter programs—no variety shows or dramas like pre-war TV. But these room screens had one big difference. Touching the panel brought up music channels, a soothing voice filling the room.
"Whoa, so many."
K-pop, pop, hip-hop, rock 'n' roll, jazz, ballads, classical—switching channels revealed national and genre-sorted playlists.
"Does this ever end?"
Over 20 channels in, and more kept coming. ASMR like crackling fireplaces, rain, ocean waves came with visuals.
"But it's so quiet. Right?"
Dozens of rooms blasting music, yet dead silent. Extreme soundproofing. 'Interfloor noise must be eliminated!' I'd insisted during construction. Higher-ups balked at costs, but I persisted.
'In closed-loop living, one cranky person can cause chaos. Soundproofing costs more upfront but saves on long-term maintenance.'
They approved—shared caution about uncertain threats. Individual freedoms would rise, but so would human errors. Strict punishments were announced.
The residents nodded, recalling the woman exiled for a week. The tracking collar around her neck had captured footage of the horrors outside. No one wanted that.
After the first roll call, one woman flopped face-first onto her bed.
"Huuuuh!"
She buried her face in the sheets, inhaling deeply. Clean scent from natural detergent filled her lungs.
"Ahahaha!"
Legs shot straight up at right angles, kicking wildly. Her own home. Her own bed. Finally hers. She never, ever wanted to lose this happiness.
Zombie apocalypses or pandemic stories in media always feature 'looting.' Scavenging, farming—whatever you call it. Tense raids on supermarkets or convenience stores are a staple: rejoicing over a can of beans, chocolate bar, or antibiotics worth killing for. Throw in zombies? Classic cliché soup.
But my reality was different.
"Empty here too."
Through the VR machine, the supermarket looked wrecked via robot eyes. Floors littered with trash, shelves bare. I could picture arms sweeping cans into carts.
"Dropped one."
A dented bean can on the floor, contents rotted to traces. Fight traces too—skeletons with bashed skulls.
> They took rationally, even in haste. Not grabbing blindly.
Power long gone, fridges overflowed with melted, gooey ice cream—survivors ignored it. They prioritized shelf-stable cans, high-calories, essentials.
"Ramen left behind."
Canned goods, jerky, nuts, chocolate, formula—gone. But some ramen packs remained. Five-packs, some missing just one—wanted a taste but too bulky.
> Needs only water to cook. High salt causes thirst after. Poor emergency food.
Absorbing Artemis's clipped analysis, I scanned around. The ramen thief hit the snack aisle too—torn bags, one bite each, dumped. Panic left useful scraps. Gathering them, I exited past toppled carts.
"......"
One cart held a curled-up child skeleton—maybe 8 years old? Adult skeleton sprawled beside it.
> Jinsu. C-Team found supplies.
"Send it over."
Consciousness blurred, new scene unfolding: from a rural mart to open fields. Abandoned farmlands, distant mountains. Empty two-lane road nearby, half-sized supply depot beside it. This was my real target.
Unlike typical survivors, I didn't need food—we were self-sufficient. I craved raw materials: for robots, drones, vehicles, helicopters. Especially gunpowder and metals for ammo.
Military bases—top priority—were emptied during the infection war prep. Scattered ones yielded nothing. With 12.7mm standard and 30mm autocannons for support, ammo production was essential. Hardware stores, chem shops, factories first. Secured nitric acid, sulfuric acid, acetone, ethyl acetate, stabilizers, solvents. Cellulose from hydroponic stems. Rural locations kept them safe from infected—refugees ignored inedible stuff.
The Shelter's main gate, once seemingly sealed forever, now swung open and shut daily for expedition teams. Started with APCs, now trucks too. To catch evolved infected, my forces needed to evolve. Seed Vault had power issues, basement flooding. Unguarded buildings would worsen. Expeditions couldn't wait another day.