Chapter 38
Chapter 38
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 38
Chapter Title: Cold Snap
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The collapse of the system means we lose access to all those services we take so utterly for granted.
Weather forecasts are one of them.
Sure, people always curse them for getting it wrong, but who else is out there analyzing and predicting the weather?
The last three days had been warm.
By the solar term or the calendar, it was perfect spring weather.
Then, in a single day, the world changed.
Overnight, without any warning, a ferocious north wind swept in, freezing everything in its path.
The outdoor thermometer read minus 32 degrees.
The bunker had turned into a massive freezer.
The water in the toilet bowl smack in the center of the first-floor bunker was frozen solid.
If Duchamp, famous for his urinal exhibit, saw this, wouldn't he call it Frozen Fountain?
I waited for the sun to rise before venturing outside.
In this bitter cold, not a single snowflake fell.
The sky was absurdly clear, and the air was heartbreakingly crisp.
"......Hoo."
What to do.
The battery reserves were running critically low.
We'd passed the Start of Spring solar term, and with temperatures steadily rising lately, I'd had plenty of chances to run the generator but held off.
The diesel fuel was down below half, so it was time for conservation mode anyway, and spring seemed to have arrived, so I skipped running it.
Then this brutal cold snap hit.
Even in broad daylight, I'd need to fire it up.
Running the generator prevents frozen pipes, lowers my risk of frostbite, and cuts the chance of freezing to death by 99%.
But cranking it full throttle in daylight will inevitably produce exhaust smoke.
With the full smoke suppression setup, it won't be visible from too far.
At night, unless the moon is blazing, it's virtually undetectable.
But this was daytime. And with visibility this perfect.
In this barren wasteland, even a faint plume of smoke rising to the sky would look far more conspicuous than I imagined.
The choices were simple.
Stay hidden and tough out the cold, or risk detection by some unknown hostile and run the generator.
I didn't even consider lighting a fire inside the bunker. That was just suicide by another name.
"......"
My initial choice was to face the cold.
Without power, like a caveman, relying on winter gear and my own body heat to endure.
But even cavemen didn't survive winter naked.
They had fire.
I had hot packs—tiny fires, sure—but while a bonfire hits 1300 degrees, a hot pack maxes at 40...
Beep-beep-beep.
The batteries died.
The hot water mat under the warming tent cooled with vicious speed, and every second felt like a whip of cold cracking at my resolve.
Maybe down some booze to tough it out? But alcohol just speeds circulation—it doesn't light an internal furnace against the cold.
Plenty froze to death drunk even before the war.
"......Fuck."
I wiped my runny nose and cursed without thinking.
This way, I'd freeze.
Monsters, raiders—who cares? I'd die of hypothermia first.
Around 11 a.m.
I decided to run the generator.
It was the only survival conclusion I could reach.
But not ordinarily.
I flung open the bunker door, braving the knife-edge cold, and headed to the rice paddies across my territory.
Last year's rampant weeds had grown wild, now withered like dried seaweed across the field.
I tossed rags soaked in synthetic fuel from Ji Younghee and lit them with a match.
The wind was fierce; the flames kept snuffing out.
When does a person curse?
Everyone has their triggers, but for me, it's when my body's pushed to the limit.
"Fuck! Shit! They call this fuel?!"
I spat curses involuntarily, repeating the task.
Just as sensation faded from my hands and feet, the field caught.
The blaze roared on the wind, fierce enough to consume even me, but I stood there awhile, basking in its violent dance.
By the time I returned to the bunker, the flames had grown, devouring the field.
Black smoke billowed endlessly skyward as I started the generator.
Vreeeeee—
My greatest asset pulsed like a heartbeat. I climbed the ladder to the first floor.
The bunker was still an ice cave, but it already felt warmer.
My main heating setup—heating tent and hot water mat—maxed efficiency at minimal cost.
But there was one more.
Hiss—
Radiators scattered throughout drank power from the generator-fed boiler, circulating hot water and venting faint steam to warm the entire room.
This was Park Gyu's true hidden heating system.
Not just floor warming, but luxurious whole-air heating.
A secret weapon for special days like Christmas or Lunar New Year.
These radiators humming meant not just warm air—the pipes had survived the onslaught.
I shed my bundled parka, watching the thermometer climb.
Temperature rising.
Time to prep a meal.
Suddenly craving curry.
My kitchen's next to the toilet.
People always freak out about the central toilet, but no choice.
Optimal plumbing layout demanded it.
If I splurged, I could partition like an apartment—three rooms, two baths.
But for solo use, location's irrelevant.
Crucially, the vent duct's right over the toilet.
Fastest odor purge, no extra vents needed.
Chop-chop-chop.
Sliced half-frozen carrots, onions, potatoes to measure.
Across, water boiled in the induction pot; next to it, unpackaged Japanese roux block awaited kamikaze deployment.
Naturally, bunker temp soared.
Even outside at minus 28, it neared 15 above.
Spring-like.
Could shut down, but batteries weren't full.
Risked it; time to reap full benefits.
Plenty of hot water secured; I filled the wheeled tub under the shower by the toilet.
Scrubbed, shaved, slipped in.
"......Whoa."
Reviving.
Already alive, but like new life entering my body.
The tub's heat thawed not just flesh, but soul.
Steam billowed to the vent overhead as I luxuriated, relaxed.
Who else enjoys this in the apocalypse?
A warm smile crept unbidden as satisfying time drifted by.
In the kitchen, curry simmered thick, aromas building.
Yeah, days like this make it worthwhile.
Checked surroundings before sunset.
Western field charred black, white smoke wisping.
No people nearby; air still frigid.
Outside: minus 28.
Zombie-killing weather.
The next day, same as yesterday, I checked on the sniper.
"Ugh, cold. Freezing. Fucking Korea!"
Sniper mom-daughter duo seemed fine.
Posting steadily in this cold proved they were alive.
Indeed, community posts were scarce yesterday and today.
A few "freezing my ass off" rants—that was it.
Few apocalypse fans would freeze to death.
But typing in a freezer-bunker wasn't easy.
No one wants frostbitten fingers amputated mid-post.
Fueled up on yesterday's curry, then morning recon.
Air still biting, but minus 18.
Better than yesterday.
Still clear skies, no snow.
White breath puffing, eyed the golf course.
Tiny change detected.
A new black dot under the slope facing my way on the golf course mound.
Person-shaped, but motionless.
Gear up, exited bunker, approached cautiously.
As expected: frozen corpse.
Kneeling, slumped, head bowed—facing my bunker, ironically.
Retrieved his rifle.
K2. Domestic assault rifle, mag full.
Pockets: condoms, cold meds, mosquito patches—why?—all looted.
Size similar to mine; pricey imported parka tempting, but left the clothes.
What to do with the body.
Burn? Bury?
Neither appealed.
Fire's visible; burial means shoveling frozen ground.
Best: dump out of sight.
Warmer days, then decide cremation or grave.
Grabbed ankles, dragged up the mound.
Never golfed, no interest, but this was a country club.
Not public—memberships for elites only.
Old Man Kim said memberships traded at 1.8 billion won.
Fancy cars always buzzing.
During bunker construction exhaustion, I'd spot cute carts puttering over mounds.
Wondered then: what's beyond?
What wonders in a 1.8 billion club?
Post-war, crossed empty course.
Nothing.
Burnt stubble grass, mystery trash, collapsed bungalows—faint echoes of elite haunt.
Crossing back now.
Dragging a stranger's corpse.
Plan: dump beyond mound—out of bunker sight.
Not just aesthetics—keeps scavenging beasts from my view.
"Hoo."
Summit feeling atop ridge.
I shut my mouth.
Had to.
More bodies.
Dozens.
All frozen.
Some armed, some civilians.
The one I dragged: no uniform.
Refugees?
Pioneers?
Raiders? But too many elders, kids, women for that.
Scattered frozen forms aligned in a straight line—chillingly pointing to my bunker territory.
"......"
Paused, pondering.
My dragged guy stared at my bunker too.
Did my smoke draw them here?
In sub-minus 30?
Field smoke too—why this way?
Did my generator smoke look prettier than the field's demonic black-red plume?
Irritation rose at unknowns as I scanned bodies.
"Why'd you come here......"
Wished I could talk to the dead.
Grab their ghosts: why trudge here in this cold?
Why ruin my good mood?
Rage didn't ignite.
Left the uninvited; departed golf course.
Unfamiliar footprints in my territory.
Recalled armed corpses there.
Miserably frozen, but well-armed.
Seven autos—couldn't take all, left bolts open, took ammo.
Not all?
Another group reached my undiscovered bunker?
"......"
Blood chilling, set looted gun aside, approached bunker slowly.
Footprints vanished midway; replaced by dragging crawl marks.
Discarded gun by fourth decoy bunker.
Crawl grew messy, shallower.
Led to my main bunker.
Well-camouflaged entrance: man kneeled, collapsed.
No vital signs.
Goblin needles tumor-like on clothes—crossed mountains.
Paths diverged then.
Ditched gun, crawled blindly on instinct—no specific hunch it was here.
Stared at young face—early 20s—muttered coldly.
"Hole in one."
This cold froze more than sky, earth, nameless folk.
I was about to type "YES!"
"......"
My joy plummeted coldly.
Midway, realized it was a dream.
Ten days since Defender's last message.
Rumors said even he couldn't survive the apocalypse.
"......"
Eyes open: familiar darkness greeted me.
Pure pitch black, sightless.
Mindless, like a blind man by memory, groped for computer, powered on.
No reason.
Just craved human contact.
Something to vent.
Even if no replies, see them alive, moving.
A message waited.
From Defender: SKELTON, miss me? You didn't freeze, right?
A few simple lines stirred emotions.
"......Fuck."
Hot trails down cheeks.
Happy, yet miffed.
Park Gyu, red-eyed over this guy.
But the heat on my cheeks was real, not dream.
Tap-tap.
Warmed frozen fingers, typed.
"Ha."
Why's this guy so cheeky.
Something.
Cool way to show reunion joy without bruising pride?
Ah, a line from somewhere flashed like from the dream.
Tap-tap.
"Ho."
Blew on fingers, replied.