The Village Chief's Grudge
The President's address to the nation had ended, and now the working-level officials from each ministry were announcing the actual countermeasures. With no chance to lift a finger, the people of Seoul and Incheon would almost certainly have been swept away by the zombie hordes. Most of them infected by now. Still, surely not every single one of them had turned.
Right on cue, comments from survivors who hadn't managed to escape began pouring in in real time.
A link was attached to the comments. I tapped it, and a video opened — soldiers with rifles sealing off a road behind armored vehicles and barricades. The comments beneath the video had split into two camps.
Hm. I let out a short sigh and turned my attention back to the government announcement.
It was a measure to prevent secondary disasters — fires caused by electrical shorts and gas leaks. But the moment the words cutting power and gas dropped, the ugly comments started rolling in.
The profanity-laced comments were being scrubbed in real time.
I kept listening to the announcements. Once power demand in Seoul and Incheon dropped after the shutoff, the generators would be shut down accordingly — nuclear plants first, following standard safety procedures. And they would do their utmost to restore the financial system as quickly as possible. Absorbed in the government's various plans, I realized the morning had slipped away from me.
Then, just past noon, the message before my eyes changed.
Survive for 29 days.
Upon success, a special reward will be granted.
Exactly at this hour yesterday, the Chinese passenger ship had run aground on Songdo Beach. Twenty-four hours had passed since then, to the second — and that was when "30 days" had become "29."
Could there be anyone else out there who can see this thing besides me?
I searched the internet. And this was what I found.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I read through the free preview. In the novel, the protagonist, just like me, had seen a message appear before his eyes right before the zombie outbreak. And the sender of that message was a transcendent being called the "System." It was the story of how the protagonist grew stronger and stronger by completing the missions the System gave him.
No way. Me too?
I tried imitating the protagonist.
"Status window."
Hm. Nothing happened.
Eating canned food for lunch, I set myself a long-term, concrete goal.
Hold out here until next summer!
Going by the government's announcements, once spring came and temperatures rose, the world would start finding its footing again. So until then, I would stay at the country house. For weathering out a winter, there was nowhere better suited to me than this place.
One problem, though: I had plenty of water, but not nearly enough food. And I couldn't just head into town right now to buy more. A massive hoarding frenzy was already sweeping the country — and Inje County in Gangwon Province was no exception.
I had no idea whether the person filming was a supermarket employee or a customer. Middle-aged women were literally brawling over boxes of instant ramen, their raised voices coming through crystal clear.
— You got your box, now give the rest of us a break!
— There are four mouths to feed in my house! One box is nowhere near enough!
— That's YOUR problem, not mine!
A man in a Nonghyup uniform stepped in and shouted at the crowd.
— Each customer may purchase ONE box of ramen only! Please maintain order!
At which a graying middle-aged man yelled back at him.
— And who the hell are you to decide that?
— Me? I'm the manager here.
— What's your rank?
— Section chief.
— HA! Some two-bit section chief throwing his weight around! The co-op president here is my little brother's drinking buddy! Load ten boxes of ramen onto my truck right now!
A total free-for-all. If anything, places like the Nonghyup supermarket were at least open — the convenience stores and small markets had simply shut their doors altogether. Going into the county seat to fight with a crowd of people over one extra pack of ramen in a situation like this was a waste of time.
Fish it, and dry it.
Catching mountain trout and drying them was an old food tradition of the mountain villages of Gangwon Province. Every winter, Grandmother used to dry mountain trout to simmer into soup or make side dishes through the spring and summer. And the fishing was always my job.
There was a fishing spot near the house that only I knew about. If I caught enough fish and dried them, I'd have a steady supply of quality protein and fat all the way to next summer.
And right now was the perfect season for digging arrowroot in the mountains. Everything a single man needed to fill his belly, this mountain valley provided. So there was no need to throw myself into the hoarding wars just to secure food.
Arrowroot first.
The temperature was dropping by the day. I had to dig the arrowroot before the ground froze rock solid — that was the easy way. The trout could wait; I could catch those even in the depths of winter.
You could peel the arrowroot and eat the flesh raw, but you could also use a grater and water to extract the starch. Wash the roots clean, grate them, soak the mash in lukewarm water and knead it until the starch leaches out — then dry the sediment that settles at the bottom in the sun, and you have arrowroot starch. It works just like potato or sweet potato starch. Extracting it is grueling work, but in return you get a dense, high-carb staple.
I pulled a shovel and hoe from the storage shed, hoisted an A-frame carrier pack onto my back, and climbed the hill behind the house. Naturally, I didn't forget my bow and knife.
I passed Grandmother's grave and climbed higher. Arrowroot had always grown thick up here. Looking down from the height, Deoksu-ri village lay spread out below me in plain view. Over five kilometers of mountain trail separated the country house from the village, but from this high up it looked practically next door. On paper, this land belonged to Deoksu-ri too — which meant that until I registered my residence in Seoul, my address had been Deoksu-ri as well.
But I had my reasons for rarely going down to the village.
I can't stand the sight of that man.
Crunch—
Crunch—
The sound of someone treading on fallen leaves. A zombie? I lowered my stance and scanned the direction of the noise. Someone was climbing up the trail on the far side — carrying an A-frame pack, and wearing a face I knew.
Well, that's just great.
The village chief of Deoksu-ri. And trailing behind him was a man — his youngest son, Choi Jin-beom. Jin-beom and I had gone to the same elementary, middle, and high schools. I lowered my bow.
Spotting me, Jin-beom broke into a wide grin and shouted.
"Yo, Kim Hyungwoo! You survived!"
I felt a genuine warmth toward the guy, all right. But I didn't quite manage a full smile. Because of his father. The reason I avoided the village was precisely that I couldn't stand the Deoksu-ri village chief.
People like him exist everywhere: endlessly kind to those with less than themselves, yet openly envious and jealous of anyone with even the slightest edge over them. The village chief was exactly that kind of man.
When I lost my parents young and was left alone with Grandmother, he was the village youth association president at the time, and he doted on me fiercely. Some days he'd come by twice in a single afternoon, bringing me food, bringing me toys — not the worn-out toys his own kids had outgrown, but brand-new ones from the stationery store in town, wrapped up in shiny paper before he handed them over. To a child like me, he seemed a far better man than Santa Claus.
But that kindness ended not long after I started elementary school. Jin-beom and I attended the small school in the township seat, and back then — unlike now — elementary schools still published class rankings. The chief began to hate me, the boy who kept taking first place ahead of his own son.
"Well, well. What brings a Seoul gentleman up here?"
I didn't answer. Ever since I'd started university in Seoul, that was what he'd taken to calling me — and I knew exactly how the nickname had been born, having heard it straight from the villagers themselves. At some neighborhood feast back then, someone had remarked to the chief that the best university in all of Deoksu-ri was being attended by Kim Hyungwoo of Chestnut Valley. Whereupon the chief, cheeks flushed with rice wine, had fired back:
'Since when is that kid a Deoksu-ri man? Born in Seoul, squatted here a while, and off back to Seoul the moment he could — that makes him a Seoul brat. Which means the best university in Deoksu-ri is MY Jin-beom's!'
Thunk—
The chief stabbed his shovel into the ground and looked at me.
"Plenty of arrowroot up here. You don't mind if I dig some, do you?"
The country house, the fields near the stream, and the wooded hillside I was standing on now — all of it had been Grandmother's property, transferred into my name after she passed. The official assessed value was under ten thousand won per square meter, and even offered at half that, no one would buy it. But it was, unmistakably, my land.
"No."
The chief fell silent for a moment at my refusal, then said, eyes gone cold, "You know exactly what you just said, don't you?"
I nodded, expressionless.
Sniff—
The chief pinched one nostril shut with a finger and blew a lungful of snot onto the ground. Then he started back down the hill. Jin-beom, wearing an awkward grimace at the cold front blowing between his father and me, followed the old man down while shooting me a gesture — a fist curling like a raised glass.
The boy couldn't make a sound, just working his mouth in silence. Drinks later — my treat! I shot him a wry little smile.
Before long, the two of them vanished from view entirely, and I set about digging arrowroot in earnest.
Digging arrowroot easily takes technique — and in that department, I was a complete expert. In no time at all, my A-frame pack was brimming with roots.
That was when it happened.
Rustle—
Something else was stepping on the fallen leaves.