Human Non-Protected Zone (2)
These zombies have hearing on par with normal humans, a sense of smell 1.5 times better than ordinary humans, and eyesight around the average level.
But they don’t react to every single sound they hear. They’re completely indifferent to the everyday noises other zombies make. Instead, they go into a frenzy the moment they pick up anything strange—like gunshots, screams, or the roar of a helicopter overhead.
The one thing you must absolutely avoid is the scent of fresh blood. Those zombies go absolutely feral when the smell of blood hits them. After all, they’re always starving demons.
So when the air in a house reeks of blood because the front door has been smashed off its hinges and every window is shattered, you might as well be handing out free meals.
Right now, all the zombies from the neighboring houses are flooding in together.
I have to move fast. My shoes will be ruined if they get soaked in blood. And because I’m still conscious, the sound of my footsteps creaking on the hardwood floor echoes far too loudly.
A dead zombie lifts its head with a split face and looks up at me. Its eyes are rolled back white, and its mouth hangs open like a grumpy fish’s face. I force my gaze away and open the drawer of the wooden display cabinet.
At the very least, there should be some drinks here. One drink. One food item. One weapon. That’s the rule. So I have to get out of here. Right now…
“Hah.”
I just manage to force strength into my arms and grip the edge of the cabinet. My legs are so weak I nearly toppled over backward.
One automatic pistol. One pistol magazine. A brand-new portable phone and charger set. One document bag. One lighter and a pack of half-used cigarettes. One untouched pack.
I pull the pistol out and examine it. The model is an Alter 22—the one I’ve seen a thousand times in the game—so it feels completely familiar. Of course I’ve never touched one before, but I still know the motions: eject the magazine, check the spent casings, then chamber a round.
Zero rounds left. It’s an empty gun. But the magazine is 9mm. The ammo for an Alter 22 is .22 caliber. They don’t match. This thing’s useless.
The phone is dead. I still don’t feel like turning it on, but at least the lighter works. It’s Zippo-style and the fuel is so full it doesn’t even slosh. I strike it and a decent flame shoots up.
For now I just pocket the lighter. Everything else goes into the document bag. It’s huge—too big for my hands to carry comfortably, with six dials and heavy as hell. I have no idea what’s inside.
I’ve never seen anything like this.
“What now?”
The problem is bad enough that I got even these useless items, but there’s something worse waiting for me.
The fact that even the starting tutorial has changed means this world is no longer the familiar place I knew. Something has been twisted and broken, but I don’t know exactly what.
One drink. One food. One weapon. The rules are broken. The items I was supposed to get—all the useful ones—are gone. The ones that hurt me are still here.
That’s unfair.
My heart feels like it’s boiling over. I can’t let this happen. I wake up in a strange place, and now it’s even worse than the world I remember.
My legs are starting to ache.
I drop heavily onto a wooden kitchen chair.
Thud.
The zombies finally pour out onto the street. It looks like they can barely keep their heads up.
“Grooo…”
They’re coming. The only thing I can hear clearly is the hiss of escaping gas.
‘Again? Just like that.’
Someone in my head whispers.
This has always been how things were. Not every house made noise every single day. No one got drunk and started trouble. They didn’t chase stability after earning money.
Why is it only me? Why? My head turns completely white again.
Empty space. Just like that frozen moment in front of the empty space.
“Teacher, I wish all the people in the world were fools.”
The fools around me on the floor are bleeding and thinking only of eating their neighbors.
“When you’re a fool, you only think about what’s right in front of you. You don’t complicate things, and you don’t worry about whether someone is lying to you or not.”
“Those who only know how to eat when hungry, cry when sad, and get angry when irritated. Then when it’s over, they forget everything.”
I know the world is ending. I know I might die before the total apocalypse comes. The dozens of times I’ve played this game are proof of it.
The ending of this game is either the world dies or the player dies. Nothing else.
If I just throw everything away now, I can avoid the pain I’ll suffer later.
The zombies’ footsteps speed up. The heavy tread is unmistakable. And they’ve seen me. Right now they’re still hungry, so they’ll eat the corpses first, but then it’s definitely going to be me.
I close my eyes and ask someone who might listen—me. “What should I do?”
“I wish all the people in the world were fools.”
No answer. The stench grows thicker. The dragging footsteps get louder.
Time slows down.
Something warm touches me.
I jerk my head up in surprise. Everything is still the same. The zombies are still stumbling forward, the curtains are fluttering, and the smell is even worse. The rotting odor and gas are giving me a pounding headache.
But my heart feels calm.
Sunlight. Beyond the rear window, the clouds have parted and warm rays pour down onto me.
“Since when has my life been flowing according to my will?”
Looking at the sunlight makes my blood boil. My house, this place—sunlight hits both of them the same. I’m in the same unfair situation either way.
But the key difference is this: here, I can blow everything up.
“Teacher.”
I mutter it on purpose as I push myself up from the chair. I already know how the world works, so it’s time to check my zombie status.
“I have become an adequate adult instead of the excellent one you expected. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to your hopes.”
“Uuuuuu!”
The zombies drool and wail. It’s strangely mocking, and it only makes me angrier.
“When I was little, I thought I was smart enough to understand people. But I was wrong. I never understood others, and I don’t even understand myself. Still, I don’t want to become one of those fools like them.”
Six zombies step over the threshold one after another. The door frame creaks as if counting them. I grip the back of the chair tightly.
The zombies clearly know I’m aware of them. They’re leaning forward and showing their teeth, so the hatred is obvious.
But they keep glancing at the dead zombie on the floor. The drool can’t be wiped away.
Finally they surround the dead zombie. They kneel around the dining table like they’re praying, arms spread shoulder-width apart.
And then they bow their heads.
Crunch. Chew. Snap. Crack. They grind and crush with broken teeth, tearing off flesh. When they can’t swallow the thick bones whole, they lick them carefully like playing a harmonica.
But there’s always one who’s slacking.
“Kihiyak, krak.”
The smaller one who didn’t get much to eat is blinking his eyes rapidly. He’s even hungrier than the one who got nothing. He looks starved.
“More, teacher?”
I mock him as I yank the chair. Creak. The attention of the other zombie snaps toward me. I fling open every knob on the gas stove and twist it hard. Sharp hiss.
“Krrruung!”
Four are still eating. Two are approaching me. They press against the kitchen wall, set the chair under the broken window, and hurl the document bag and backpack out through the glass. They grab the flapping curtain.
The hissing gets louder. The two zombies freeze at the same time. I step one foot onto the chair. The other four keep eating.
I stomp on the chair. I jump out the window. The zombies charge. I set the burning curtains on fire and toss them away. The flames race with the wind, spreading sparks everywhere. The startled zombies stagger backward.
I reach out and grab the back of the chair, jamming it into the broken window frame. My arm gets stuck, but when the gas stove erupts in a burst of flame, I pull back in panic.
Because LPG gas is heavier than air, it pools on the floor when leaked. The entrance and windows are all smashed, so ventilation is easy. But if the sparks fly everywhere…
“Aaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaa!”
It ignites. It spreads. The fire jumps to the zombies’ backs. They scramble desperately to get out of the house, but they can’t.
They have to eat.
Four are still eating. The two on fire wave their arms like birds even as the floor catches fire. The flames climb the walls and melt the gas pipes with a loud sssiiiick—gas hisses out—yet they keep biting and chewing like they’re tasting the last of their lives.
I shoulder the backpack and pick up the bag. I walk slowly toward the road. The road is wide enough for three cars to race side by side, with no center line.
The wind blows from my back, pushing the burning house away. I walk slowly, without hurry. On the opposite side of the road I drop to one knee and plug my ears.
Vibration shakes my body. A shockwave tears through the space between my ears. The house has exploded. Black smoke billows up. One zombie covered in flames somehow gets out the front door but immediately collapses.
Yet it keeps scratching at the ground, chewing one last piece of flesh even after the flames wrap around it like a blanket.
“Teacher, they are not human. But I am still human. If I have to choose between being a fool or a smart person, or being human or not, I will stay human.”
Suddenly I remember the cigarettes in the backpack.
I’ve never smoked. The smell was revolting from the start. Even when they told me to quit, I knew it was bad for me, but I still didn’t want to quit. I hated cigarettes themselves, and the endless fuss they caused was even worse.
Even knowing all that, I ended up taking out one from the torn pack and lighting it. White background with red edges. It said Arlboro. I don’t know where the M went.
I lit the end. I took one deep drag. My mouth felt disgusting, so I spit. No water, and I still did it well. In the end I threw the cigarette away.
But it had an effect. The disgusting burnt-hair smell was a little less now.
“I’m hungry.”
I mutter while staring at the burning house.