Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Anonymous 337
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"First, you need to roll the wool by hand into a nice round ball. It might be tricky to get the proportions right as a beginner, but you'll get the hang of it with practice."
The dark bunker was filled only with the glow of the monitor and the warm voice of one man emanating from it.
This video wasn't from before the war.
It had been filmed a full year after the war broke out.
The source was none other than our community, Viva! Apocalypse!.
This miraculous site had kept running even after the nukes fell.
Seeing $100 drain from my account every month—on top of satellite comms fees—always made me feel half-scammed, but our founder, Melon Mask, turned out to have real integrity and tech skills despite his reputation.
The city he lived in got pulverized by a barrage of nukes, and he probably burned up in there too. But his legacy lived on as a star, forever with humanity, housed in the server mounted on a satellite beyond the skies.
Viva! Apocalypse! was one of the few internet communities still standing in the present day.
Even though my mentor John_nenon had vanished, the community was still active enough for us Koreans to keep the threads buzzing.
Of course, it wasn't all normal folks.
I'd blocked four fellow users.
The cultist spouting nonsense about the Rapture, the attention-seeker posting their diary every minute, the schizophrenic picking fights with everyone, and the psychopath who hunted humans for fun and bragged about it online.
On the flip side, there were some good ones.
Anonymous 337, who made the video I was watching right now—"Making a Wool Felt Doll for My Daughter (3)"—was one of them.
Anonymous 337 was a kind, warm father figure with all the paternal qualities I lacked.
Instead of drowning his bunker boredom in booze or drugs, he made toys for his son and daughter, then uploaded the process to the boards with soothing music and clever edits.
He had incredible handiwork skills; the wooden robot model he built for his son was pro-level quality, good enough to sell on the market.
I wanted to see his kid's joyful reaction to the gift, but he just quietly posted the build logs.
Probably didn't want to expose his family for security reasons.
No other voices ever appeared in his videos either, which showed just how meticulous Anonymous 337 was.
I tried mimicking his robot build log once, but with my cat-like paws for hands, I couldn't even manage a robot—just ended up with some grotesque phallic idol that could've come from a fertility village.
Lately, he'd been serializing a wool felt sheep doll for his seven-year-old daughter.
The quality was as high as the robot he'd made for his son, so I was secretly looking forward to the finale.
"This is how you make the ears. It looks tricky, but it's easy once you get the knack."
His doll wasn't fully done yet, but it was so cute and charming that I wanted to scrounge up some wool felt and tools next time I hit Seoul.
A year had passed since the war began.
The world had grown harsher than at the outset.
No more nukes or airstrikes, but monster claws were reaching not just near the front lines but even into the southern regions, trade had collapsed, the government had lost control long ago, and any recovery seemed hopeless.
A grim wind was sweeping through the community too.
Posts about refugees had surged lately.
Partly because there really were more of them, but also because several board users had gone missing recently.
One of them was that psycho I had blocked who posted daily diary entries.
The community was pinning the user disappearances on the refugees.
Some users had already declared refugees the enemy.
Hmm.
I was skeptical.
Refugees were just refugees.
Sure, a few might have pro search-and-seizure training, but how many like that could there be in Korea?
Talk about rotten luck.
Someone else shared my view.
Ironically, one I'd blocked.
I discovered it while watching a keyboard war; he'd ended up on my block list but thought like me.
His handle: Defender.
The human-hunting scum the community called out.
Since the war started, human hunters posted periodic kill certs.
He reported his deeds irregularly with two photos: one of the victim's corpse from afar, the other with a black plastic bag over the face and the victim's inked fingerprints boldly placed beside it.
He killed different people each time.
Varied methods too.
Gun sometimes, bludgeon other times.
For women and kids, just the black bag.
Not for fun.
One reason: trespassing his turf.
In my eyes, he was fifty-fifty with the thrill-kill psychos.
I unblocked and searched his posts.
The human hunter capped it with his usual kill cert.
But this time, no black bag on the corpse.
The pale, wide-eyed face lay beside the usual fingerprints, plus a construction contract and ID.
No doubt.
Employees from the firm he'd hired.
The community ignored him.
Didn't want to hear from a human hunter?
Or couldn't face the reality he exposed?
Up to imagination.
Because a bigger problem hit.
Anonymous 337—my favorite community user, the family man, the gentle dad with killer crafting skills—had vanished.
His disappearance hit me hard.
Time marched on, from fall into winter.
Temps plunged below freezing, and winds carrying toxic fallout blew west to east.
The community's mood chilled too.
Buddy disappearances weren't rare anymore.
Countless users had vanished.
Prepped for apocalypse, but couldn't hack the harsh world and bailed from the community.
No one posted condolences.
No one knew who was next.
Never dreamed it'd be me.
They showed when dandruff-like snow laced with faint radiation blanketed the golf course and my turf.
A group in a truck rolled up to the course, heading straight through my area.
Through binoculars, I spotted a familiar face among them.
"...This bastard."
Probably Section Chief Hong.
Worked on my first bunker build. Kim Wangsu's boss—a quiet loner with a bad rep.
Sloppy work, skipped drinks.
The boss ragged on him constantly when he wasn't around.
"Section Chief Hong. Known the bastard over ten years, and he hasn't changed. After that long in construction, you'd think he'd be a foreman at least, but with that kid-like temper, he's stuck as a perpetual peon."
He always ditched drinks citing family. Him returning to my turf—with four armed men in tow—could only mean trouble.
I recalled the human hunter's post.
The culprits were usually close by.
Folks from bunker construction firms remembered and came back for old clients.
Death's after-service, you could say.
Their voices came through my earbuds via the bugging devices I'd planted everywhere.
"This the spot?"
"Yeah. Golf course over there, airbase there. Bunker in between, under that low hill."
"Bunker for sure?"
"Guy said it was an underground concert hall, but who builds that in the sticks with no road access? Bid on a few more later—definitely a bunker. Has to be."
"How many inside?"
"Just the one I know. Family unit at most."
The short chat summed it up.
Section Chief Hong.
He'd come to kill me.
Kill me and take everything.
"..."
I killed the lights, flung open the bunker entrance, and waited in the dark.
No gun.
Just two axes.
Thud.
Two men appeared at the wide-open entrance.
Lead guy armed with riot shield and baton, followed by one with an M16.
"Entrance! It's open!"
The gunman flicked on a lantern, scanning inside.
Cheers erupted from both.
"Jackpot! Cigarettes! Packs of 'em!"
Cigs I'd planted.
To lure them in.
But these raiders weren't amateurs.
They didn't budge at the loot.
Moved with tight teamwork.
Especially Section Chief Hong—not a pushover.
"Smell any corpses inside?"
Lead guys shook heads.
"Nah."
"No stench."
Hong's voice followed.
"Check for people. Every corner."
No doubt.
Veteran looters.
"Don't rush. Shields up, slow and steady. Could be hiding."
But.
Whirr.
Wrong opponents.
I spun the axes like a dance, waiting for their light.
Moment it hit me, I lunged like a hawk, slamming my full weight into the shield guy's kick.
"Gah!"
Shield guy tumbled back, bowling into the gunman.
Bang!
The deafening shot and muzzle flash echoed as I clocked two foes.
As the falling shield dipped slow-mo, I counted inside.
Three, two, one.
Throw.
Whirr.
Axe arced toward the gunman.
He recovered, swinging his rifle—but the axe split his forehead, piercing his brainstem first.
"Aaaagh!"
Scream from shield guy.
Watched his buddy die point-blank, staggering up—but my foot crushed him shield-and-all faster.
Yanked the axe from the falling gunner, swung both into shield guy's skull.
Crack!
"Cheol-ho! Hyung-sik!"
Raiders' panicked yells.
I slipped quietly into the dark, waiting for the next.
Section Chief Hong was no amateur.
"Young-sik! Calm down! Rush in and you're dead."
Soothing his hyped buddy.
"Cheol-ho's dead!"
"Got tear gas? Lob it in. Smoke out the raccoon without going in."
Spot-on counter.
A faint smile tugged my lips.
Section Chief Hong, no amateur.
I answered by slamming the heavy bunker door.
"Door's shut!"
"Ignore. Vents somewhere."
Hong countered quick.
"One entrance. I built it, know from blueprints. Rest concrete-sealed. Find vents. Gas 'em, see how they crawl out."
General vs. fool.
Never thought I'd scrap with small-time raiders like this.
But he didn't know one thing.
After his crew finished and left, I'd used their know-how to expand my bunker.
Including an emergency passage I'd dug through a wall.
Hong would never dream it.
Because he was a crap carpenter.
Couldn't imagine I'd outdone him.
Slipped out to Bunker 2 with my rifle, eyed the main one.
Raiders prowling for vents.
Bang!
One down.
Bang!
Second dropped, no gap.
Last: Hong.
No gun, hands up in surrender.
I approached, barrel trained.
"How many you hit?"
Hong gave a wry shrug.
"First time."
I jammed the muzzle to his forehead.
He grimaced.
"...Four."
"Quite a haul."
Ordered him to load the bodies on their truck.
As corpses stacked, spotted something familiar.
"..."
A wool felt sheep doll.
Sight snapped something inside me.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Another bunker."
Panting, Hong answered.
"People inside?"
"One guy."
"Family?"
"..."
"Killed 'em all?"
Thwack!
Rifle butt smashed his temple.
He screamed in agony, but I quieted it with gut kicks.
He dropped to knees, spilling.
"For real! Solo! Fuck! Alone! I didn't kill him—he was dead when we got there!"
"Where?"
Surprisingly close.
30 minutes by truck.
Led by Hong, entered the raided bunker.
Spot on.
This place.
From the videos.
Stripped bare, but workbench in center.
A man slumped over the familiar warm-textured desk, half-rotted.
Blood splatter screamed suicide.
Looked around.
Tiny bunker.
Barely for one.
"Th-that's it, right? Kept my word?"
Added one more corpse, headed home, checked his videos.
Come to think, no kid voices ever.
True.
An old comment caught my eye.
Why notice now?
Oh, right. Blocked him.