Resuming Communications (3)
There's a saying in business that the most important thing isn't service or quality—it's connections. You can't deny it when you think of the shops in military districts or the eateries in front of army training camps. Kim Sil-jang had turned the rest stop into a perfect midway hub in this ruined world, leading his men. It had convenient access roads branching in every direction, sat on high ground for easy surveillance of the surroundings, plenty of parking for scouting teams, and a nearby water source for fresh drinking water.
In the early days, it was just a pit stop for passersby to rest and fix their vehicles. But now, as winter waned, it had built up enough reputation to function as a full-fledged trading post for all sorts of goods. And they had way more surplus to sell here anyway. The range of merchandise had expanded to include pre-war luxuries that were rare even then, fine liquors, medical services, and even women who came voluntarily to sell themselves. But the real high-value commodity was the information gleaned from travelers coming and going.
The owner, Kim Sil-jang, had stepped back from the small stuff and now handled only information trades, leaving physical goods to his subordinates. It was only natural that flattery and bribes flowed to give them better treatment and cuts. Unlike Kim Sil-jang, armed to the teeth with business savvy, his once-eager underlings had grown arrogant. It wasn't surprising they'd gripe when dragged out from their comfy rest stop for secret errands. And right now, stepping out of the car for a quick piss, it all boiled over.
"Boss, do we really have to go this far?"
"You punk, it's Manager, not boss!"
Kim Sil-jang glared, but his men just snickered.
"Come on, just us here—why fuss over titles? You never cared before."
"Yeah. If they want something, they can come to us. Why treat us like VIP escorts, making us come all the way out here?"
They were quite a ways from the rest stop. As one lit a cigarette, Kim Sil-jang snatched it and flung it far away.
"No smoking. It'll stink. Hold it till this job's done."
"Aw, boss! Isn't that overkill? We meeting the president or what?"
"Even the president wouldn't get this treatment. Pope maybe?"
Was it the darkening sky? Or had their cushy life dulled their senses? They missed Kim Sil-jang's face hardening fast.
"Frankly, aren't we a big corp now? Any outfit in the south out-trading us?"
Not metaphorically—they really saw themselves as corporate execs, yapping endlessly.
"Ugh, let's wrap this quick and head back. Sujin’s waiting!"
"That lucky bastard Youngchul. Right on his shift, Sujin shows up."
Sujin was a newbie working girl at the rest stop, once a pretty famous SNS influencer. Girls like her had to suck up to the operators for better spots and terms. The thrill of power from women who'd been untouchable pre-war groveling to them now, combined with the clout from their established base, was eroding their discipline more than expected.
Crack! Kim Sil-jang's fist smashed Youngchul's nose flat.
"Gah!"
He didn't stop. Grabbing the doubled-over, blood-spraying Youngchul by the nape.
"Hey."
Kim Sil-jang's cold gaze slithered like a snake's. The laughter died instantly. It had been ages since they'd seen that look—from the pre-war days scraping bottom, doing every filthy job without flinching. Once things stabilized, it rarely surfaced.
"B-boss!"
Youngchul finally got it, begging mercy.
"Still not wised up."
Two punches hammered his gut. Drumbeats of impact, then delayed screams. As he wound up for the third—
"Manager! Sorry!"
Youngchul's desperate wail halted the fist.
"Urk—bleeech!"
Released, he face-planted and hurled spectacularly.
"Damn, you ate a ton."
Kim Sil-jang eyed his callused knuckles curiously.
"And what's with this gut? Why so squishy?"
He kneaded Youngchul's belly hard—another scream.
"Fuck, you lot—lift your shirts."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Discipline restored, they obeyed. All but one sported flabby bellies. Gone were the hard bodies from their rough early days.
Kim Sil-jang pinched his nose bridge, head down.
"I eased up 'cause you stuck with me—now you're all useless? Clean that shit up, idiots!"
They yanked shirts down fast.
"You thick-skulled morons. Think this is a picnic? Why would I be this picky if I were nuts? Use your damn heads if shit feels off!"
From their side, it felt unfair. He'd just said, 'Big meeting—shape up and follow. This could decide our future.' Nothing more. But no time to argue now. Heads down was safest.
Thinking back, it was weird. The guy who'd gone full businessman, avoiding manual labor, personally trekking out here. Locking the girls in the basement despite their whines—'Clear 'em out for today!'—when he was usually a gentleman to them. Ignoring scouts' complaints to reserve prime parking: 'Why block that spot?'
Orders clashing with his sacred "business spirit." They followed 'cause he always led well, but doubts grew. Every query got, 'Later. Not now.' Their griping was half-protest.
But his reaction showed this deal was bigger than they thought.
"Gonna be late. Move."
Kim Sil-jang checked his watch, climbed in. Even early, no one pointed it out.
Silence held briefly, then murmurs resumed.
Who the hell we meeting?
Not Gohung military, right? Bad luck, we get seized.
Just tell us straight. What're they hiding?
They arrived at the meet—empty, as expected. Over an hour early.
"Out."
"Yes, sir."
Quiet compliance. He even sniffed them in line. The stinkiest smoker got booted back to the car.
Paranoid as ever, Kim Sil-jang briefed: An enigmatic inland force—hell on earth—its leader coming personally.
"Impressive, sure—but this secretive?"
"Just keep shut, we're good. Spill it."
"That's business spirit."
"You did before."
"That was gangster days."
They gawked, baffled. At meet time, they finally got it—how huge this score was.
Heavy flyers approached from the sky. Center: massive transport chopper, big enough for a van. Escorts: drone-like, way beyond normal size, bristling with ugly weapons underneath. Twilight's red glow just accented the fleet's menace.
Throats gulped in unison. Old discipline flickered back.
"Beyond military."
No southern unit had airpower like that.
Kim Sil-jang's final words:
"Call him Manager. Got it?"
Nods all around. No gripes like 'Told us ten times.'
Whirr. Drones scouted escort-style as the giant chopper descended slow. Rotor wash whipped grass wildly. Tail opened.
Dim red interior light spilled a squad of troops. Twilight hid details, but all towered ~190cm, hulking.
Kim Sil-jang's lined men bulged eyes, holding formation against intimidation. It crumbled fast.
"What the hell are those..."
Soldiers opposite: wielding insanely bulky, lethal guns. Not human. Demonic faces unfit for protection. Exposed black muscle fibers twisted like cables. Too mechanical for beasts, too feral for machines. Unsettling hybrids.
Holding guns almost reassured—born of civilization, not monsters.
Artemis spoke from inside the new transport chopper.
"Best I've ridden yet. Smoother than a plane."
Her voice brimmed with amusement.
"Time left?"
"Figured. Their trading setup shows real savvy."
Stalker Robots flanked me in full gear.
"Hope they don't freak at the faces and aim guns."
"In the dark, they'd pass for variant Infected no problem."
Artemis had no comeback there.
Grass waves rolled beyond the small window.
"Alright, everyone up. Deployment time."
The robots rose in perfect sync, forming ranks.
This wasn't like past tech-hunting expeditions.
"Reminds me of old times."
"Deployment overseas."
In hostile, alien turf, first priority was solid local connections. Having someone to trade intel was a lifeline.
"Easier this time, though."
Same language, no cult crazies, and decent rep.
Whine! Post-landing, tail door opened—fresh air and grass scent rushed in. Enhanced vision caught tense faces. Advance four secured the LZ, then me, trailed by robots.
"Hello, folks. Nice to meet you."
I waved first, approaching.
"Welcome! Kim Sil-jang here!"
The lean-faced frontman bowed sharply, voice laced with grit. Mid-40s? Looked like a harried salesman with a family to feed. Harmless vibe. Face only.
"Before we talk business, let's hand over the promised goods."
At my gesture, Stalker Robots hauled cargo from the chopper.
"What strength..."
Men deflated seeing one robot tote loads for four men.
Cargo set between us and rest stop crew.
"Check it out."
Kim Sil-jang hesitated till I urged, then pulled the tarp.
"Whoa..."
Awe spread.
First crate: combat suits. Sealed ballistic helmets evoking pilot gear. Goggles taking front third—bulletproof glass for vision and defense. 9mm pistols no chance; skull area stopped 5.56 rifle rounds. Full-body uppers/lowers covered knees, elbows, even groin. Tactical gloves padded every knuckle joint.
"Machine or hand-wash, no rust, no fraying. Designed for easy maintenance from the start."
Some rears looked shocked—knew their stuff.
"Try it on."
Kim Sil-jang seemed hesitant, but nodded a sub to suit up.
"Damn."
Admiration everywhere. Clothes make the man? More true in apocalypse than peacetime. The geared guy shed all thug vibe—instant elite trooper aura. Armed guards in this kit would elevate the rest stop's prestige. No garrison, not even Jeju's military, matched it.
Kim Sil-jang's gleaming eyes said he knew best.
Second crate: weapons. M27 IAR A5 rifles—Terracorp reverse-engineered US issue. Obsolete for us now.
"First time seeing these attachments."
One handled a full-option: thermal scope, suppressor, grenade launcher. All guns same.
Third: ammo and grenades. Fourth: pedal-gen chargers, laptops, shoulder cams, Gen 2 night vision—scout robot surplus we didn't need.
Fifth: medicals. Sixth: premium ales. Seventh: top-shelf spirits. Eighth to tenth: packed smokes.
I extended my right hand to the manager.
"Consider this a down payment and gift. More to come with future trades—volume, variety, whatever."
His face quivered. Eyes flicked from crates to robots behind me, to my hand.
"An honor! We'll serve with utmost loyalty!"
Handshake intent, but he clasped with both, bowing deep—face hidden.
"We'll serve!"
Men behind bowed in sync. Over comms, his "businessman!" rants had flipped fully gangster.