Winter (1)
"If it doesn't work, make it work." That's the classic phrase that pops into your head when you think of the military. But it doesn't mean turning the blatantly impossible into reality. If something can be done but demands a price along the way, pay it without bitching—no matter how steep or inefficient. In peacetime, that price might just mean burning rubber. In wartime, it's your life on the line.
In the scorched ruins of the Republic of Korea, that "make it work" spirit was roaring back to life.
Vroooom! With a deafening roar, a single speedboat sliced through the seawater.
"This thing's really safe, right?" the guide at the helm asked.
"Safe or not, command's orders are to scout the inland areas. Stick to the coastline, and even the massive monsters won't come near."
"The Yellow Sea's pretty shallow, so hugging the shore tight should keep 'em from climbing up..."
The guide had made his living before the war ferrying tourists on his private boat. Thanks to that, everyone in the survivor camp called him "Guide." Back in the day, he'd have politely insisted on "CEO," but now he introduced himself that way first. In a world gone to hell, a useful nickname like that got you treated like you mattered. While elite lawyers and accountants starved, folks with practical tags like his scored an extra ration ticket or two.
This time, he'd landed a sweet deal: seven ration coupons for the drive.
"If you don't like it, hand back the rations and turn the boat around. Oh, and compensate us for wasting our time and fuel."
"N-no, sir!"
Under the officer's deadpan stare, the guide gripped the throttle harder.
To the west lurked invisible threats. Monsters that might emerge from beyond that horizon. To the east squirmed visible ones.
Kieeeek!
Walkers in every kind of ragged clothing—or naked—shambled along the beach.
Threading the boat between these twin perils like a tightrope walker sent chills down the guide's spine.
Click.
But the soldiers in the back checking their rifles? That was real scary.
'Find any leads on inland factions. Bonus: scout spots for future supply runs.'
That was their mission. Boat loaded with drones, hugging the coast, launching them now and then to recon nearby.
Simple. Efficient. The hard part was even reaching the Yellow Sea from Gohung—that took serious "make it work" grit.
"That rumor true?"
"Which one?"
"The Green Zone."
"Eyes front."
"Yes, sir!"
The guide snapped his gaze forward. No room for excuses like 'Didn't wanna seem rude ignoring you...'
"Nothing confirmed. We're the first real recon. Curious? Cooperate fully, and maybe you'll learn something." The officer cracked a faint smile—his attempt at humor, but with that serpentine face, it just creeped everyone out.
Green Zone. The hottest rumor exploding around Gohung and Yeosu lately. Different names from different folks, but military types called it that.
Somewhere inland, beyond ruined cities, flooded streets, charred farmlands, writhing forests, endless Infected hordes, radiation pits—a paradise slept.
Paradise took many shapes in believers' minds. Secret government bunker cities popped up first... and fizzled fast. If true, why'd damn near every politician flee to Jeju?
Conspiracy nuts pivoted: U.S. forces built one on the sly. Chaebol underground utopias? More plausible—pre-war, apocalypse bunkers were hot commodities, some even recruiting residents. Plenty of scams too.
The dreamers dreamed bigger: a mystical land Infected couldn't touch.
Wild tales swirled, but camp leaders dismissed them as bullshit to keep order.
Then Yeosu's airdrop happened. Proof of some inland mystery group. Unknown location, goals, strength—but you couldn't ignore it.
Gohung, the most zealous survivor camp, jumped on recon hard.
Endless courtship signals like that—total radio silence from the mystery group.
Gohung's garrison, obsessed with legitimacy, authority, and grand visions for the masses, latched onto the Green Zone.
Most camps? Screw unreachable unknowns—winter was their chance to hoard supplies. Exploration fever gripped them.
"External activity index up 480%?"
The southern survivors' spike was insane. No doubting the report's numbers—having Artemis as secretary meant weird stats were gospel. Just analyze why.
It's still climbing. They're scampering like it's Black Friday—but way more hardcore.
"Yeah, figures."
The screen showed a trashed mart: burly guys swinging baseball bats, nail bats, fire axes. Walker heads splitting, limbs flying. Humans clashing too. Mad Max-style chop-shop Buzzards roaring by. Spicy, bloody Black Friday chaos.
Southern survivors' grit exceeded expectations. Winter chill hit, and boom—potential unleashed. Like Wild West pioneers, racing to claim loot. Every vehicle imaginable, pushing north, north, snatching supplies.
Deaths mounted. Injuries. Suspected infections—caged like animals. But they didn't stop.
Central control screen zoomed on a lone Walker shambling a deserted road.
Splat! Bike momentum turned the golf club into a monster-smasher. Blood-soaked, the rider whooped, trailed by a rainbow of bikers.
In rough times, bikes' fuel efficiency, off-road prowess, and ease ruled. Delivery guys—thirty strong—formed a gang, tearing up roads. Luxury imports to logoed workhorses to sidecar rigs.
They screeched to a halt at a remote strip mall.
The raid leader planted his club head in roadside dirt, wiping blood, tapping off soil on weeds—pro moves.
He inspected the club head close-up.
A newbie bellowed it, thumbs-and-fingers OK sign.
Clang! Baseball bat to the helmeted head. Still, that stung.
"Standing?"
Standing means halting while mounted on a two-wheeler.
"Ah, got it."
Moving? Noise unavoidable. Stopped? Stay stealthy.
Two sentries posted, the rest stormed in.
"Decent gear."
Full helmets. Leads in rider suits, knee pads, scrap-metal shields. Scrubs got long spears. Post-apoc chic, but slicker than most retro revival squads. Bike gangs were natural; bicycle troops? Every camp ran 'em, WW2-style.
Screen switched: three guys on bicycles fleeing Walkers. Crossbow, two bats.
Off-road slowed them, but not Walker-slow.
One wiped out on rocks—chain popped. Tumbled, sprang up, ran. Leader waited; he hopped rear rack. Two bikes slid down.
Wind stung faces, but spared screaming legs.
Retro pinnacle? Cavalry, obviously. Fuel-free transport = strategic gold. Fleeing south mid-Infection War, folks babied livestock—cows, horses especially.
One camp's open pens: horses, cows, pigs, chickens jammed together.
Feed trough: weeds, beans, mystery pellets, carrot chunks.
Skinny guy shoveled manure into buckets.
Chubby glared—fell flat.
Horse finished eating, dropped a massive pile.
Pig ass launched a fat black sausage.
"Hm."
Touchpad flick—scene shrunk to a screen split.
"Livelier than I thought. Month ago, they were zombies themselves."
Plenty known about Infected now. They breathe. They're alive.
Artemis popped a Walker on screen: snow-buried, glacial pace in remote hills.
Maybe hunkering down, conserving for winter.
Camps ranged tiny to massive. All sorts: idealists preaching greater good.
Responses? Two weaklings. Powerhouses did their own thing. Not full Hobbesian war of all against all—yet.