Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Visitors
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My bunker was in a quiet, secluded spot, but it wasn't some uninhabited island. Every now and then, things wandered into the area.
The first type was scavengers.
Unlike raiders, these folks only targeted unclaimed goods. They roamed the ruins, scraping together anything they could get their hands on.
The ones who showed up in my territory were a group of about twenty riding in a green bus.
They focused their search around the airbase, but a few straggled toward my hideout.
The scavengers poked around the industrial waste piled up in my area for a bit, then yelled at each other and headed back to the airbase.
The second type was nomads.
People who'd left Seoul in search of a new home. Unlike scavengers, they were more interested in real estate than loot.
Nomad groups rarely came near my bunker.
No one in their right mind would want to settle in this barren, tomb-like wasteland.
Sometimes, non-human visitors showed up too.
Mutations.
Animals infected with mutation factors kept their pre-infection habits and behaviors. The ones that came to my area were mutated dogs.
True to their origins, they came in a pack.
Each one was the size of a lion.
No pushovers.
They had jaws that could crush concrete walls, stamina to chase down a speeding car, and toughness that shrugged off multiple rifle rounds.
Dog packs always had a leader, and the ones that visited my place were no exception.
It was called Gold—a mutated dog with gleaming golden fur.
A cunning and brutal beast that even Seoul had put a bounty on, but no one could take it down.
Of course, I had zero intention of hunting it myself.
It was risky, sure, but it was basically an honorary guardian of my home. Why bother?
While they prowled around my bunker, I hunkered down inside and waited for them to pass.
Mutation doesn't just bring advantages.
Mutated dogs had a much weaker sense of smell than before.
They'd followed the faint whiffs of human and living scents, but they never pinpointed me.
I dodged the immediate threat, but they left piles of shit and piss all over my bunker. And while they were overhead, I endured three straight days of nothing but water from the purifier and biscuits. Pure hell.
Zombie hordes stopped by occasionally too.
Zombies were mutated human corpses, acting just like you'd imagine.
No brains, shambling in packs, infecting anything in their path.
Unlike mutated dogs, whose smell dulled post-mutation, humans gained a sharper nose as zombies.
They definitely came chasing the amazing cooking smells I whipped up.
But what could they do?
My bunker's entrance was hidden and reinforced with alloy plating.
They just milled around the vents where the aromas wafted out, then wandered off to nearby cities in search of easier prey.
The gunfire echoing all night suggested they'd stumbled into the village controlled by that Mad Sniper down the road.
These incidents were rare. Most days were peaceful and leisurely.
I kept the radio and walkie-talkie on, sunbathed, grilled up some barbecue, or—on bolder days—rolled up my pant legs by the nearby stream to catch bullfrogs and minnows.
News from the north told of endless battles against monsters and mutations pouring in from the fallen North Korea. Down south, dams with no government support were fighting desperate rearguard actions with scant funds and resources. But it all felt like stories from another world to me.
How could it not, when life here was so peaceful and beautiful?
I hung laundry out in the blazing sun for some solar sanitizing, then lay on the ground, arms behind my head, staring up at the sky.
Cloud-watching like that from the dirt made me feel like some kind of immortal sage.
I'd enjoyed about a year and a half of this peace after the war broke out.
But nothing lasts forever.
Around late spring, when heat haze shimmered in the air, drones started appearing in the sky, one by one.
Quadcopters, they called them—four rotors buzzing around. That's why I avoided solar panels, even though they were common and convenient.
No matter how well you hid, slapping visible panels everywhere was like advertising: "I'm here! Come kill me and loot the place!"
Sure enough, a community user I knew was a solar zealot.
He probably learned the answer when raiders stormed his bunker.
People launching drones over rear-line wastelands fell into two categories.
Government agencies hunting mutations, monsters, and outlaws.
Or raiders scouting for prey.
Watching the cheerful folks from Viva! Apocalypse! drop off one by one really drove home our self-awareness.
We'd prepped better than most, sure. But to outsiders, we were just treasure goblins—nothing more, nothing less.
Naturally, the community started buzzing with large-group survivalists.
I didn't buy into their thinking.
You might fend off a raid or two.
But the enemy was human.
Starving, envious humans.
Nine times out of ten, they'd come back with a bigger, stronger force.
Why leave alone a spot loaded with food, clothes, and every convenience?
Most importantly, you had to stay invisible.
Even that human hunter I'd unblocked recently killed with cold rationality.
Dead men tell no tales, after all.
Anyway, threats were definitely lurking in my territory.
I sealed off my favorite sunbathing, solar drying, and outdoor cooking, holing up in the bunker to monitor the situation.
Drones were definitely circling my area.
Recon ran for a full week, mostly noon to 1 PM, but sometimes at dusk with staggered timing.
They came from the northwest and vanished due north—suggesting the operator was mobile in a vehicle, covering a wide sweep.
No night flights, though.
The drones' cams weren't great in the dark, and losing one was risky. Minimizing exposure.
I loved nighttime gymnastics too, so I banned daytime outings, only venturing out at night for fresh air, keeping my days serene.
Then one day.
A hot post popped up on the community.
I clicked it.
Saw something in the sky—turns out it was a drone.
Spotted it once, and wouldn't you know, raiders'.
No time for a long post—they're cutting into my door with a welder.
Thanks for all the great posts, everyone. You made it enjoyable.
P.S. If you hear a massive boom from Dongtan, that's me. TNT, 10-ton yield.
Not long after reading it, a dull rumble and faint tremor hit from afar.
That was Dongtanmom's last post.
Tons of users fretted and asked after him, but no reply.
Except one self-proclaimed psychopath human hunter, who dropped a cynical comment.
Two days later, I spotted a wrecked truck.
About ten riders crammed in; half were gravely wounded, moaning in the cargo bed. The rest trailed behind on foot, faces pale as ghosts.
Recognizing them was easy.
Raiders.
Kill to live, steal to survive.
I recalled Dongtanmom's last post from yesterday.
Were these the ones who'd hit him?
A subtle killing intent stirred within me.
They looked like easy pickings.
Plenty of reason to kill them.
But I stayed put.
This was my territory.
To claim an area as your own, you had to know everything about it.
And I did.
I knew that road they hobbled along was prime hunting ground for the Gold Pack mutated dogs.
Injured, slow humans were perfect prey for mutated dogs.
Soon, the Gold Pack patrolling south caught the blood scent and emerged, one by one, in terrifying form.
Gold itself—majestic yet grotesque with its golden fur, like a wolf-bear hybrid—announced their arrival with a savage roar.
"Aaaahhh!"
"M-monster!"
Raiders who couldn't even distinguish mutation from monster met a predictable end.
Tat-tat-tang!
They fired, but the bull-sized hounds dodged bullets or tanked them with muscled bodies, charging in. Humans became mere chow.
Screams of agony and bones crunching echoed, then faded.
The raider group wiped out.
Was Dongtanmom's ghost watching?
If so, probably grinning ear to ear.
But the human world.
It's not that forgiving.
Dongtanmom was alive!
The guy who'd dramatically announced his doom just days ago was back, fit as a fiddle, coo-coo-ing like nothing happened.
Worried users piled on the replies.
Under the flood of outrage, Dongtanmom posted an apology.
He kept up the habitual trolling afterward, like the boy who cried wolf. Turns out he'd gotten away with it so far because he didn't know how to set up a satellite antenna.
But all things end.
This time, he even attached pics.
First: blurry CCTV of five shadowy figures.
Second: trashed bunker interior, thick smoke billowing from a duct leading to the vent.
Third: mountains of boxes labeled TNT.
Dongtanmom's final post.
But was it really? Or another lie?
Most users, me included, figured it was his usual BS flare-up.
Ramen boxes labeled TNT with marker? Too obvious.
Truth would tell.
Because our wise human hunter chimed in.
Oh, and turns out the human hunter lived near Gwangeo.
Better steer clear.