Black Market (4)
"What item are you looking for?"
"I need a wood-burning stove and some rechargeable lanterns."
"This way, please."
The woman spoke with polite deference and led the way ahead. Her swaying black hair and brown eyes gave her a youthful appearance that clashed a bit with her colonel's insignia, but seeing every soldier she passed snap to attention with unwavering loyalty convinced me she was the real deal.
"Whoa..."
Following behind the colonel, I took in the black market, and it exceeded my wildest imaginings. Right off the bat, there was a used car trading center. Vehicles modified by gearhead mechanics lined up in rows—proof of this dystopian world. From trucks and SUVs reinforced with scrap metal plating to sedans mounted with machine guns. In one corner, even some well-heeled folks were eyeing an armored military vehicle.
Streetlamps dotted the area, supplemented by drums brimming with blazing firewood everywhere. The merchant association kept the streets as brightly lit as possible to maintain control over everything happening here.
A little farther on, a building aglow with bright lights and pulsing music came into view.
"I heard there's a place that puts on plays—is that it?"
I asked the colonel through the drone, and she smiled as she replied.
"No, that's a brothel. Interested? Shall we take a look inside?"
"No, thanks..."
To be honest, if I'd come alone, I might've peeked out of curiosity. Not that I had any intention of partaking—just pure interest in how the operation worked. The level of prosperity here far surpassed my expectations.
Street vendors hawked food like at a night market, too.
"What's that over there? Looks crowded."
"The butcher district."
"Do merchants raise livestock here?"
"Some do, but most of it's wild game like boar or deer."
If I had time after shopping, I'd swing by the butcher area. Monsters preferred nesting in urban ruins over wilderness, so mountains and such were teeming with wildlife now. The Han sisters had mentioned warlords fighting over mountain territories, too.
"The stove shop is right here. We've got everything from wood-burners to fuel-oil stoves and electric ones. For wood-burners, there are cheap handmade ones too—which would you like?"
"Something quality, even if it's pricier."
"Then let me guide you to a shop I know."
I followed the colonel into a massive tent packed with stoves of every kind. There were pristine, silver-shining ones from pre-gate camping companies that looked brand new, alongside cast-iron models handmade from scrap. Even to my untrained eye, the craftsmanship was impressive.
"Oh? Colonel!"
A man welding with a mask on noticed us, stood up, and removed it. He looked about my age—burly and built. Had this young guy crafted all these intricate, high-quality handmade stoves? It was hard to believe. The ones bundled with custom manuals practically radiated decades of expertise.
The young man turned and yelled,
"Dad! Colonel and a customer's here. Get up!"
I hadn't noticed before, but in the tent's corner, a man slept under a blanket on a mattress, back turned to us.
"Ugh... drank too much last night... feels like death."
He sat up and chugged water from a pitcher on the floor. The presumed father had wild white hair and a beard, and his every move screamed "I'm a master craftsman." It was obvious these stoves were his work.
"Hm? Oh, Colonel—long time no see."
"It's been a while, Mr. Cheol-ho."
The two knew each other and bowed in greeting. The colonel explained,
"This guest is here for a wood-burning stove. He can't speak, so he communicates via drone—a Special Awakener."
"I see. Anything catch your eye? Everything on this side is wood-burning."
The man eyed Im Jui with a frown. The colonel smiled faintly and murmured,
"He's top-tier in skill but third-rate in personality—drives off customers left and right. Good luck negotiating."
"I don't waste words on fools who can't appreciate my work. Always haggling like cheapskates... tch."
His grumbling and refusal to sell to just anyone convinced me: this was a true artisan. I had to buy from him. I was hooked.
"You two talk freely. I'll wait out front—come find me if you have questions."
"Thank you."
Once the colonel left, Im Jui and the artisan sized each other up. He was so burly that even seated, he matched her height. His son, munching dried sweet potato, stared at the drone in fascination.
"I want that black-painted stove in the back."
It had caught my eye the moment we entered—big, spotless, perfect.
"Good eye. Newbies always fixate on that one."
The artisan grabbed a black glass bottle and took a swig.
"Drinking again? Gross... all your hard-earned cash down the drain. One day your hands'll shake too much to work, and maybe then you'll wise up."
His son grumbled. The artisan glared at him and said,
"I didn't make that stove. It's from a foreign camping company, pre-collapse. Embarrassing, but it's far superior in performance to mine... and big enough to heat about 20 pyeong."
"Got it. How much?"
"What's your offer?"
He countered with a question—as expected. Han Byeol's manual said black markets had no price tags; everything was negotiation. And for "must-have items," there was a scripted line. Im Jui recited it verbatim via drone:
"Park-eo."
She'd memorized the manual. I'd protested the vulgarity, but Han Byeol insisted rough talk prevented being undervalued. Im Jui placed seven cartons of cigarettes and four bottles of soju on the table.
The son spat out his dried sweet potato at the sight of the unopened, gleaming packs and bottles.
The artisan stared, then said,
"Mind if I light one up? Plastic wrap suggests fresh, but these days bastards mix in dried weeds with holy smokes... can't be too careful."
"Go ahead."
He tore open a carton, pulled out a pack, and examined it closely.
"Problem?"
"No, no... just."
He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Can I massage it first?"
"Massage? Uh, sure..."
First time hearing that. Massaging cigarettes?
"People and their rituals."
His son shook his head. The artisan held the pack upside down and smacked it against his palm repeatedly. I'd seen smokers do this pre-apocalypse—apparently called a "massage." After ten smacks, he tore it open, lit one, and inhaled deeply.
"Hoo..."
Savoring pure tobacco after so long, his eyes moistened as he puffed away. He even blew smoke rings, darkening his son's expression each time. He nursed it to the filter like a sacred relic, sucking hard—then yelped, dropping it as the heat singed him.
"Hot!"
"Can't watch anymore."
His son stood, muttering, and stormed out.
"..."
Silence hung for seconds. Then the artisan lifted his head, eyes sparkling like a fawn's after the nicotine hit.
"This... is the real deal."
"Yes."
"Perfect. Finally, someone who gets value. Take the stove. You'll need spare flues for install—I'll throw in extras. I'll disassemble it; just follow the manual to reassemble."
"Thank you."
He smiled as he dismantled it—seemed he liked me too.
"Uh... I want more."
"Call me Kim Cheol-ho. What else?"
"Five of your small handmade wood-burners."
Im Jui's place had three rooms now. One small stove per room, two spares, and the big one for the living room—ideal.
"21-year-old and a bottle of vodka."
Im Jui nodded, producing an unopened 21-year whiskey and cheap vodka.
Clang—Cheol-ho dropped his tools, staring at the shimmering whiskey in silence.
"Five handmade? I got conscience—make it seven. Plenty of flues, don't worry."
"Appreciate it."
Deal done, Kim Cheol-ho laughed heartily and offered a handshake. Im Jui, shyly trembling, shook it.
He eyed the drone and said,
"This lady and the guy in the drone—you're different people, right? Come yourself next time. I'll treat you to a proper booze spread."
Caught at "park-eo," huh. Pulling the cart loaded with disassembled stoves out of the tent, Cheol-ho's son greeted me before heading inside.
"Deal went well, I take it."
"Yeah, thanks for the great recommendation. Mind if we check out the butcher district?"
"Of course."
As I moved to follow the colonel, an anguished yell erupted from the tent:
"You crazy old bastard! You opened the 21-year whiskey right after the trade? Sell it, obviously!"
"Hey! No respect for your father! Sit and have a drink! Never dreamed I'd taste this again before dying."
"Go die! Insane alcoholic!"
What a lovable father-son duo.