Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Injection
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Who in this world likes zombies?
Some people do.
Scientists.
Unlike monsters, which can't be captured alive by any means and don't even leave corpses behind, zombies leave bodies, allowing humans to conduct their boasted analyses and research.
Even now, with the world half-collapsed, no one bats an eye at sawing into zombies or shooting them up. But surprisingly, in the early days of the apocalypse, there were people who worried about zombie rights.
Looking back, they probably weren't concerned about the zombies themselves so much as fretting over their own potential future as zombies.
Among the most cited papers on how mutation factors affect the brains of dead humans was Professor J. Caterer's, and his test subjects were former zombie rights activists.
For someone like me, zombies are...
Chop!
...nothing but a tiresome nuisance.
Especially when I'm exhausted like this—they make me want to close my eyes forever, just like my comrades who went first.
"Grrrrowl!!"
Chop!
But the reason I'm swinging my axe furiously to fend them off isn't fear of death. It's because I have too much to lose.
My bunker. My sanctuary, built with my own blood and sweat—I'd rather watch the world end than see some other bastard squat there.
With that mindset, I desperately beat back the zombies and finally reached the safe zone.
"...Hoo."
I caught my breath and checked my wounds.
They say you turn into a zombie if bitten, but that's nonsense.
The mutation factor that causes zombification only affects the brains of dead humans.
The prevailing theory in academia is that even if it infiltrates a human brain capable of higher cognition, it dies off like monsters invading Earth.
A minority opinion points to zombies appearing even without necromancer types as counterevidence, but that's not infection—it's just that they carried mutation factors somewhere on their body, died, and the factors mutated their dead brain into a zombie.
Still, better safe than sorry.
I patted myself down from head to toe and moved around—no scratches.
My trusty cargo bike was intact too.
The Defender siblings' gift was safe as well.
I popped a chocolate in my mouth to replenish calories and energy.
"...Hah."
They say stepping out means hardship.
I'd thought that maybe it was better for mental health than holing up at home.
But that was before I checked the community.
Before I learned about the atrocity the Defender siblings had committed on the forums—back when I was still naive.
Unaware of the grim future ahead, I savored the chocolate's sweetness spreading through my weary body and mind, dimly taking in the mountains and terrain rising in the twilight to gauge the surroundings.
I had a rough idea of my position.
A place I'd confirmed and memorized with my eyes countless times.
But something unexpected happened.
A light flicked on in the abandoned apartment.
The place where the woman who fed the cats had lived alone.
After she blew herself up, no one should be living there.
New tenants?
The apartment was about 6 km away in a straight line—not too far from my territory.
But with low mountains and streams in between, and winding back roads instead of main highways, without a vehicle to cross the rough terrain, the actual distance was quite far.
It held no strategic value, but the fact that people had moved into my area piqued my interest.
*
When asked what moves people, most say food, but for me, it's curiosity.
I'm not lazy by nature, but the difference in my energy when curious versus not is like night and day—even to me.
The stark contrast is in my initiative.
Instead of heading home, I went straight to the abandoned apartment, thanks in large part to my incurable personality.
<22nd Pioneer Corps, 218th Pioneer Team>
A flag announcing their affiliation fluttered at the apartment entrance.
Pioneers, as expected.
I checked my ammo.
Plenty of pistol rounds, but not many rifle ones.
My condition wasn't peak either.
The fatigue from long travel and combat hadn't fully recovered.
Meaning, in a critical moment, my body might not obey me.
I usually avoid fights, but mentioning combat here stems from my antipathy toward pioneer groups.
Partly because those red-pants gangs are so vicious, but mostly from my experience with Colonel Choi's crew—they showed the true nature of these people.
Government-sanctioned legal looters.
Maybe that legitimacy lets them get away with excessive bullying and brutality.
Not directly in my territory, but pioneers nearby was nagging at me.
I approached the apartment for a light recon.
"!"
Something was there.
In the darkness.
Was my fatigue dulling my senses?
I hadn't even heard breathing.
Chiding myself, I glared into the shadows.
A human-like shape sat motionless.
Looking closer, it was an old woman.
Not just seventy, but pushing eighty, perched on a cold rock like some outdated industrial product, glaring at me.
"Granny?"
The old woman said nothing and showed no intention to.
Even when I called out, she just smacked her lips, revealing a mouth with few teeth, and kept staring blankly.
Sudden shouting erupted from above.
"Hey, you fucking bastard! Hey! Hey! You fucker!"
"What? What? What? You son of a bitch!"
From the apartment.
Voices arguing from the open corridor of the hallway-style building.
Under pale lantern light, two old men grappled by the collars.
A disgraceful scene you'd expect at a subway or elderly gathering spot was unfolding in apocalyptic ruins.
No answers from the old woman, so I entered the apartment.
The fight was on the third floor.
Two old men collaring each other between two open-door units, while others watched arms crossed, clucking their tongues.
About ten people, but sounds from other floors on the way up suggested many more.
And all old folks.
Not a single young person among them.
No guns, no fighters in sight, so I boldly revealed myself.
All eyes turned to me.
Even the brawlers dropped hands and stared.
Sudden silence fell over the corridor.
As I pondered what to ask first, one old man approached.
"Sorry about the noise."
One of the fighters.
I don't read faces, but he looked like he'd been sly in his youth.
"Pioneer, right?"
I neither confirmed nor denied.
He tried to grab my hand; I waved it off firmly.
The old man awkwardly wiggled his fingers and continued.
"No, hear me out. The pioneer who brought us assigned these units, but this guy complains his room's cold, no heat, steals someone else's unit, and acts like the owner."
An old man behind bellowed.
"What bullshit? 302 is my unit! I won it fair in lots! Look, young man! This fucker's full of shit! Pure lies!"
They seemed to think I was with the ones who brought them here.
Not in military uniform, but similar pants, armed, and above all, young.
Youth as privilege? Here it rang true—practically a form of power.
"I'm from elsewhere. Not my business."
I brushed it off and addressed the group.
"What are you doing here?"
I had a hunch.
Obvious enough without deep thought.
"What else? Fuck. The government sent us. That's why we're here—from shitty Korea. Bunch of retarded voters picked the wrong politicians, that's why the country's fucked."
A foul-mouthed old man behind spat curses.
He stared at me, ordering like.
"When's the next ration? My stomach's stuck to my back. They promised rice, but gave us garbage nutrition bars. Can't eat that crap anymore."
This guy seemed the type to start fights.
Even in our brief exchange, his personality shone through.
Our Old Man Kim would've handled it differently.
Seeing the grumbling old man's face overlap with a hanged corpse, I turned away quickly.
"Not my department."
"Fuck. Then why're you here? Sightseeing?"
"Pardon?"
"No food? Then fuck off, kid!"
"Hey."
I turned to him.
Staring him down, I said clearly.
"Watch your mouth."
Our eyes met; he shuddered like electrocuted, averted gaze, and fled into an open room.
The other old man smirked smugly and chased after.
"That's my apartment!"
Scuffling resumed, but it only added to my fatigue.
"...Hoo."
No reason to stay; I headed for the stairs.
One old man followed.
Wearing a grubby shirt under a cheap hiking vest with a shiny badge.
Leader? I eyed the badge.
<Playground Sheriff>
"?"
He tried grabbing my hand again.
Why so hand-shake happy here?
Irritated, I shook him off and looked down.
"What?"
"Look, young man."
"Yeah."
"When I was young."
I considered cutting him off.
Too predictable.
"I worked my whole life for this country. Day and night, I gave my youth for Korea's growth. Never dodged taxes once, followed orders without protest, lived quietly. What is this? Why send me here?"
"Dunno."
"I paid into national pension for ages—haven't gotten a dime."
"Same here."
"Tell the captain: We're old, sure, but we don't deserve this treatment."
"If I meet him, I will."
The old man bowed repeatedly in thanks.
Meanwhile, an old woman sidled up, staring.
I preempted.
"Sorry, I'm busy."
"No. Take this."
She offered something.
Dog food and mystery meat mash—inedible for me.
"Just the thought."
"Take it."
She turned insistent.
"Take it!"
Forced to accept: Sure enough, dog food bar wrapper had a phone number and plea to call.
Why are they all like this?
Arrogant maybe, but judging as a young guy: These elders are off.
Like people starved for affection.
Exiting with fatigue worse than fighting zombies, I spotted the lone old woman.
Suddenly, the old lady who guarded International Residence flashed in mind—gone forever.
Unneeded anyway, I approached and offered a nutrition bar.
"Here, eat this."
Only then did she move like a living person.
Her pocketed hand clutched prayer beads.
"Thank you. Thank you. Namu Amida Butsu. Namu Amida Butsu."
"Why alone out here?"
"No shot."
"Pardon?"
"No shot, so they won't let me in."
She chewed the roach-colored food.
"What shot?"
"Zombie shot."
"Zombie shot?"
"They say if you take it, you don't turn zombie."
No such thing exists.
To avoid turning post-death, wash up. Launder clothes to remove mutation factors.
"How'd you get here? Walk?"
"Bus. Driver and captain passed by, saw this place—said it's good, dropped us suddenly."
"I see."
As expected.
No time for sentiments; I turned to leave.
"...That shot kills you."
The old woman muttered behind.
"Poison. Hair falls out. Leaks from every hole. Everyone else there died but me..."
Nutrients or emotion? She rocked, chanting unlike before.
"Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu."
*
I revisited a week later.
The apartment echoing curses from afar was now silent.
New tire tracks on dust-covered road.
Flag gone, guarding old woman naturally absent.
Behind: Massive pit, acrid smell.
This pit birthed the black smoke drawing me back.
Closer: Charred wood, white ash mixed chaotically; scattered bones within.
Human skulls.
Presence behind.
One zombie shambling.
Hand: Prayer beads. The old woman chanting outside.
Bullet hole in forehead, crusted blood.
So wretched, and thinking I'd have to put her down again, I muttered mindlessly.
"...Why not just take the shot?"
A straggler old man joined others.
Lit the contact note another elder gave me, tossed on her corpse.
Flames spread to her clutched old beads.
"Namu Amida Butsu."
Wishing her rest, I ascended stairs.
Checking for survivors or clues—nothing.
Finally, rooftop: Autumn plain under fading fresh sun.
Movements visible.
People.
In untouched fields, groups with flags marched east, south.
Numbers impressive at a glance.
Defender's words resurfaced.
Can't hide forever.
I'd been confident, but seeing the horde, my assurance felt paper-thin.
Still, they say nothing's meaningless.
Don't fully agree, but the chanting old woman inspired me.
Thud!
I shoved debris from collapsed bunker outward.
Beyond: Underground passage to my main bunker, shrouded dark.
Can't hide forever? Then hide well.
They chose that apartment as a high-turnover nursing home because it looked worthless even to them.
I'll build a camouflage house over my ruined bunker.
A hovel even zombies would shun.