Resuming Communications (4): Kim Sil-jang Cherishes His Men
Kim Sil-jang really did care for his subordinates. Sure, you could call bullshit given how mercilessly he'd thrown them into the breadbasket, but it was the truth. They'd started from the absolute bottom before the war, endured the hellish infected war, and stuck with him through thick and thin to build this rest stop. They'd borne every menial task and hardship without complaint. One guy had taken a knife meant for him—not fatal, but serious. Another had done half a year in the slammer in his place. There'd even been that time their business got snatched away, and he couldn't pay wages for three months; everyone scraped by on cup ramen. Not one of them bailed. That kind of bond wasn't nothing.
They've slaved away like dogs all this time. Time to cut 'em some slack. That's why he'd kept the discipline session short and sharp. His men might be slow on the uptake, but their loyalty and ability to snap into gear were top-notch. They rearmed with that hungry wolf mentality in seconds.
"Should we load the gear into the truck bed?"
As I gestured to the stalker robots, his guys beat me to it by half a beat.
"We'll handle it, Chairman!"
The problem was, along with the hungry wolf spirit came the gangster vibe. Instead of the "Manager" title we'd drilled into them, out popped the far more familiar "Chairman." It rolled off their tongues so naturally that even Kim Sil-jang himself didn't clock it at first.
"It's Manager, not Chairman!"
Kim Sil-jang suddenly snapped to, shooting them a fierce glare.
"Sorry, sir!"
One of the subordinates apologized with a literal gulp.
"It's fine. Call me whatever's comfortable."
Manager, Chairman—who gives a shit? I couldn't care less.
Hoo~ Hoo~
Chairman... Chairman... Heh.
Artemis, on the other hand, was having a different reaction. Did the ring of it tickle her fancy?
"Easy does it—nice and gentle!"
"Hey, one more guy over here."
Sil-jang's crew hustled the cargo with practiced efficiency. They'd synced up a thousand times before.
"Hey, some of these booze bottles don't have labels?"
One of the guys hauling boxes piped up.
"Ah, those are homemade from our camp. Only a few months old, but we used a fermentation accelerator—tastes just like 10-year or even 20-year aged stuff. I guarantee it's better than those looted labeled bottles."
I glanced at Kim Sil-jang beside me.
"Don't sell the unlabeled ones. Share 'em with your brothers."
"Oh, come on, Chairman—no, Manager, speak easy!"
He waved his hands frantically, looking overwhelmed with gratitude. And yeah, his face screamed maximum awkwardness.
I grinned.
"Alright, I'll keep it casual."
Everyone hustled, so the cargo was loaded in no time.
"Shall we head to the rest stop now?"
I nodded at Sil-jang's question.
"Yeah, need to set up the comms gear anyway, and I've got questions."
Bang!
A stalker robot on watch fired from a distance. At 200 meters, a walker sprayed blood and dropped.
"Not ideal here anyway."
"Right this way then. We'll escort you? Or..."
He eyed the Shelter APC (Armored Personnel Carrier) behind me. Similar design to the Hureon APC, it packed armored vehicle protection and power but looked like a big four-wheel van to avoid drawing eyes.
"I'd just cramp your style riding along. We'll go separately. Let's roll out now."
"Got it. Everyone, load up!"
His crew and my soldiers piled into vehicles. Sil-jang signaled a few.
"You guys cover the rear."
They nodded. His truck led, my APC in the middle, and a second truck of his guys brought up the rear.
Decent human. Knows his place.
Artemis seemed pretty taken with him overall. By the time we hit the rest stop, night had fallen.
"Place really is loaded, huh."
Lighthouse-like lights broadcast its presence from afar.
Lights on at night are a flex these days.
I'd seen pre-war satellite pics that looked like North Korean propaganda. South Korea blazed bright; North was pitch black, with only faint glows around Pyongyang. Even squid boats off the south coast outshone the whole country. But now? Shelter low-orbit sats showed the entire peninsula blacked out. The rest stop was one of the few fireflies.
The access road was dead quiet. Besides us, just one incoming and one outgoing car.
Not many folks outside. This area's safe from infected, though.
"Safe from infected doesn't mean safe from other humans."
The roadside, though, had a decent line. Folks with assorted packs—some headed here on purpose, others caught out at night seeking shelter. Loners and groups alike.
"Armament's pretty pathetic overall."
Kim Sil-jang had bragged on the broadcast about tight checks from the entrance, but it didn't look that sketchy. Guns are still hard to come by in this country, apocalypse or not.
Artemis listed the queue's armament. Per field protocol, formal terms like "rifle" or "polearm" were ditched—everything just "each."
"No reserve K2s even? Eh, not surprising."
Armies pulled back clean, even on gear. Scavenging dead soldiers' drops is the play, but if locals didn't recover it, the area's overrun.
Lousy gear screamed scavengers or peddlers.
"Cleared!"
The car ahead of us finished inspection and rolled into the lot. A kid waiting nearby dashed up.
"This way!"
Maybe just over 10? He wore a hi-vis vest bigger than him, chin half-buried, guiding us in. Pre-war, child labor; now, child protection.
"Welcome, Boss!"
A guy in bike helmet, jeans, denim jacket, and old K2 saluted the lead truck smartly.
"Dad! What's that car?"
A 7- or 8-year-old from the right queue pointed at us, face lit with wonder and glee. Dad yanked the hand down fast, eyes darting nervously our way.
What? Why's he freaking?
"Lawless times. Kid pointing could get you jumped—especially from scary-ass rides like this. Gotta figure we're heavy-armed."
That barbaric? It's just kids.
"Civil wars I saw had kids tied to technicals as shields. 'Shoot if you dare.' This world's worse now."
Playing cautious might ding his dad cred, but it kept family safe. Lead truck rolled; we followed.
Voices drifted from the line as we passed.
"No! That's mine!"
A whiny kid.
"Quiet! What'd Mom say? Just till here."
Mom snatched a toy robot from the kid like contraband, peeled batteries off her back, handed to hubby. Trade fodder, probably.
"Seju, remember what sis said?"
"Yeah. Sis is 20, I'm 12."
"Good."
Sis kissed little sis's forehead. Sis looked high-school age at most, generous estimate.
Sil-jang's truck entered first, us behind.
"Welcome!"
Gate guards bowed deep, staying bent till we passed.
Looking for something?
Artemis eyed me rummaging supplies in the corner.
"Chocolate."
I pulled a plain-wrapped bar—tactical ration size, phone-sized, tough, melt-proof. Artemis's touch made it taste premium.
"For that parking kid earlier."
So thoughtful.
But the kid didn't guide us in. A slicked-back young guy in a sharp suit jogged up instead. Ninety-degree bow, then polite escort to the lot. Total mob movie brainiac No. 2 vibe—sharp eyes that'd seen bodies dumped, tattoo peeking at the collar. Perfect.
Spot was gold: out of sightlines but quick getaway. A mid-teens girl hustled cones to block others.
Door hissed open. Kim Sil-jang beamed, arms wide, breathing heavy from the run.
"Why's everyone so squared away? Even a division commander surprise inspection wouldn't get this crisp."
I didn't mind the enthusiasm, but it was overkill. Artemis disagreed.
Why? Looks good. Inferiors should be this way. Never heard, Jin-su? 'A servant out of breath is a lazy servant.'
Her tone dripped satisfaction.
"We sincerely welcome you to our rest stop."
I glanced at the waiting robots.
"Two of you with me. Rest, prep the comms gear."
The stalker robots chorused. No need to drag the whole squad into crowds—two escorts sufficed. They'd disguised: black jeans, black duster coats, balaclavas, shades, tactical gloves. No robot tells. Rifles swapped to M27 IAR A5s.
Still uneasy with the disguise?
"Nah, solid."
Outside teemed with people—expectation, joy, disappointment, fear, anger on faces, hustling. Some eyed us curiously.
Post-collapse human society. First step in.
The lot was huge, but only about 30% parked cars.
"Not the high-traffic days anymore," our guide Kim Sil-jang explained.
Still, more vehicles than a mid-sized garrison. One caught my eye.
"Military ride?"
"AWOLs. Garrisons don't come this far. Too comfy in their zones."
"No trouble?"
"None! They know their place, don't wanna piss everyone off. Survival's tough if hated everywhere. Army's the real bandits. That's why we came here. Business aside, didn't wanna tangle with those bastards—sorry."
"Fair."
Most armies still did basic policing and rations. Bare minimum, enforced harshly. Shortages plus officer embezzlement meant less for civilians. Mokpo or Yeosu's community-service types were outliers.
The other 70% of the lot: tents big and small. Half night market, half flop-houses.
"Outdoor tents cost too?"
"Of course. Nothing's free. Paying for safe space is the era. Comfy bed's bonus."
The main building was fully reopened.
"Our direct ops stores. Quality guaranteed."
Goods galore, sorted by category. One of his guys from the meet—magnifier out, inspecting a peddler's sack.
"My bros check everything. Dumbasses, but picky—trustworthy. This way."
He led to a second-floor lounge. Two dolled-up young women on guest couches.
"Something to drink coming up."
Sil-jang hammed up the VIP treatment, heading to the kitchenette. Winked at the girls en route. Obvious play.
"Hello there."
One smiled sweetly as I approached, but I wasn't biting.
"Sit."
I pressed her shoulder down gently, headed to the balcony opposite.
"Ah!"
Paused, fished chocolate from my pocket, handed it over. She took it puzzled, sniffed the sweet aroma, peeled carefully. Dark brown block inside. Eyes went saucer-wide.
"Th-thank you!"
I waved without turning, stepped onto the balcony.
Cool night breeze felt great. Rest stop panorama unfolded. Central floodlight pierced dark; tents hawked wares. Mystery porridge pots bubbled; skewer stalls grilled mystery meats.
"Four servings, please."
A couple traded batteries for bowls. Kid clutching mom's hand had cried eyes red, but one skewer turned wails to grins.
Canned goods piles, dried rations merchants. Sizzle, meat smoke, haggling buzz. Yells, laughs. This rest stop was apocalypse stew—'aliveness' boiled down. Raw scent, unlike my plush Shelter refinement.
"Kyahaha!"
"Oppa! Oppa! Come on!"
Kids' voices. Treasure my city lacked.
One camping corner: families overnighting before moving on. Fence-leaners sight-seeing. Lovers stargazing, arms linked. Armed guards patrolled gaps.
Not rich, but hustling to live. Couldn't help smiling.
Comms equipment, antenna, and speakers deployed.
Meanwhile, robed robots (coats for camo) finished hauling gear: rooftop antenna, pre-agreed room's comms setup.
"Ah, here you are!"
Sil-jang approached, drinks in each hand.
"Sorry for vanishing. View hooked me."
"Honor for me."
No offense taken; he grinned, handed a drink.
"Comms are up. Mind if we test reception?"
"No need to ask. Treat it like home."
"Can't do that. Clear you busted ass to build this."
Slurp.
Downed the drink, signaled a robot.
"Activate."
Seconds of static, then...
Melody slipped into the night like a whisper, escorting a lady—sultry sax.
Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone...
Timeless baritone captivated across generations.
Our spot's little radio. Lot's temp big speakers. Song poured from both.
"..."
"..."
"..."
Rest stop chatter hushed.
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own.
One by one, folks froze, staring at speakers.
Only Sinatra's velvet voice echoed. Crossed oceans, centuries, ruins—to gift peace to hearts.