Serpent's Grin
It was then, amid the zombies' footsteps and roars piercing through the downpour.
Flash!Boom!
Thunder and lightning struck the western sky with such ferocity that Lee Beom-sik's face reflected in the car window flashed white.
Kraaaah!
The zombies charging toward the bus halted in unison, throwing their heads back in a collective howl.
All their senses were locked westward, but they didn't rush toward the sound.
Another earth-shaking rumble followed.
Boom! Boom-boom!
Yellow flashes erupted repeatedly through the thick rain clouds.
Was it the repeated stimuli?
The frozen horde began inching westward along the road.
Beom-sik, watching from beneath the limp zombie corpse outside the bus window, felt a dizzying wave of relief.
Gaon, sensing his emotions as if they were her own, started breathing faster.
There was no other way to see it: heaven itself had intervened.
Beom-sik bolted across the road the moment the zombies turned away, plunging into the forest beside the sloping ramp that hugged the wall.
Avoiding zombies was far safer in deserted spots devoid of human traffic.
How far had he climbed?
One arm cradling Gaon, the other using his inverted pipe like a staff, Beom-sik pushed his rain-soaked body onward until he halted amid the dense trees.
His breath came in ragged gasps, saliva drooling from the corners of his mouth—his physical limits crashing down.
A narrow road and sidewalk stretched before him, beyond which apartment storefronts lined up in a row.
The road and sidewalk ran straight behind the apartments—a path residents might have strolled for exercise in the old world.
But something felt off about the complete absence of zombies around the storefronts.
Beom-sik froze, scanning the surroundings without moving.
No zombies meant there had to be a reason.
In an apartment complex teeming with potential victims, empty storefronts were downright suspicious.
Still, he couldn't linger here forever.
Gaon's forehead felt scorching hot against his skin—or maybe it was his own rising fever—but prolonged exposure to the rain was dangerous either way.
Beom-sik dashed across the empty street to the storefront entrance.
He peeked into the main door leading to the stairs, ears straining.
No zombie-like noises echoed from inside, just like outside.
The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
But he had no other options.
Gripping the pipe short, Beom-sik crept up the stairs cautiously.
By the time he reached the second floor, he'd spotted unmistakable signs of human presence.
The stairs from the entrance to the second floor were devoid of the expected debris and bloodstains.
Could there be survivors?
An unplanned encounter with other survivors brought Beom-sik both relief and dread.
Normal people might offer aid, but the wrong kind could spell new trouble.
Step, step.
As Beom-sik stepped into the second-floor hallway and glanced warily left and right—
Crackle! Crackle!
A discordant sound clashed with the surroundings, whipping his head around.
That was definitely firewood burning.
Zombies wouldn't light fires, so humans were here.
Oddly, though, no other signs of life accompanied the crackling.
Beom-sik pressed against the wall and peered toward the source.
In the dim interior, darkened by the weather, a stove blazed in the center.
The difference from its original state? Someone had stuffed it with wood instead of oil or electricity.
The reason for the fire was likely the flue connected above, venting smoke straight out the window.
It hadn't been built that way originally—clearly the work of skilled hands.
If the outbreak had hit in winter, heaters would be everywhere, but summer had frozen in time.
To escape the cold, this was the only way.
Beom-sik scanned further.
Scattered blankets and pillows around the stove screamed recent occupancy.
The firelight's warmth eased his tension, granting a fleeting psychological comfort that nearly buckled his legs.
But as he moved to enter and thaw out, he hesitated.
This was someone's territory. His intrusion would be seen as just that.
Yet Gaon's condition left no room for debate.
He had to get inside.
Once in, Beom-sik unbuckled the strap and sat the shivering Gaon by the stove.
He stripped off her wet clothes, wrung them out, and dried her with a towel from the wall.
He hated touching others' things, but necessity ruled.
He even dragged over a blanket to lay her down, then stepped into the hallway to check outside.
Now that he'd committed, the owners' return weighed on him.
"Uncle?"
Gaon's voice cut through his pounding headache and swirling thoughts.
Beom-sik rushed back, hand on her forehead.
"Yeah. Uncle's right here."
"Stay beside me? Don't go anywhere."
"Sure. I'll stay right here. Don't worry—just lie down."
"But where are we? It's warm and nice."
Her instant smile was pure childlike innocence.
Beom-sik's lips curved into a pained grin as he gazed at her.
This ache that gripped him every time he looked at Gaon etched deeper into his heart, refusing to fade.
Seeing her at peace eased his mind naturally.
Gazing at the dwindling firewood, he clasped her frozen little hand—the one that had borne the full brunt of the rain.
"Sleep a bit. Uncle will dry your clothes while you rest."
"Okay. But you say 'let's sleep,' not that. Gaon-ah, let's sleep. Like this."
"Right. Gaon-ah, let's sleep."
Beom-sik smiled again.
Hearing what she wanted?
With the rain and crackling wood as lullaby, Gaon closed her eyes and sank into deep slumber.
Beom-sik, sitting beside her, hand in hand, dozed off himself as tension melted away.
How much time passed?
Beom-sik jolted awake at the faint stir of presences.
The rain had stopped; outside was pitch black.
Multiple voices mingled from the stairs.
He snatched the pipe and stood, shielding Gaon as he faced the door.
One by one, the voices' owners appeared.
Five men filed in, none sporting faces you'd see every day.
The moment their eyes met, heavy silence blanketed the room.
But what drew stares more than the quiet was the shock dawning in Beom-sik's eyes.
Who said it?
Enemies meet on a single-log bridge.
"What're you waiting for? Get in."
A man shoved past the four frozen figures, entering like ice incarnate.
A snake tattoo coiled up his neck, its jaws gaping grotesquely.
"What the..."
The Snake Tattoo Boss trailed off at the sight of Beom-sik standing pipe in hand.
But only for a moment—his expression twisted, eyes gleaming with chilling ferocity.
"Well, if it isn't President Lee. Right?"
His lifted lip revealed gold-capped teeth glinting in the firelight.
No answer from Beom-sik. A subordinate blurted in disbelief,
"You mean that Lee Beom-sik from Gangnam, boss?"
The Snake licked his lips like a man eyeing a feast and nodded.
His men raised weapons in unison: butcher knives, baseball bats, crowbars—lethal tools for instant kills.
Beom-sik gripped his pipe tight.
No chance of winning, of course.
But showing weakness here invited unknown horrors.
At least matching their menace might make them hesitate.
Resolved, Beom-sik shouldered the pipe, ready to swing.
The Snake flinched, his gaze shifting to Gaon lying behind.
Her wide eyes trembled anxiously as she watched.
The hostility and tension crushed the child like a vise.
"Who's the kid? Daughter? Never heard President Lee had one."
"You won't touch her unless you kill me first."
"Come on, President Lee, why so crude? You think I'm some child molester? Haah, but..."
The Snake's face warped slyly.
"If she's connected to you, that changes everything. Doesn't it?"
"What do you want?"
"Spot on. Yeah. Never thought you'd talk this much. She must be important. What I want? You gonna grant it?"
"Step aside now. We'll leave quietly."
Beom-sik proposed retreat, deeming talk futile.
No gain in clashing, right?
But the Snake thought otherwise.
A few injuries? No big deal.
To catch a tiger, sacrifices were inevitable.
To the Snake, Beom-sik wasn't just a rival—he loathed sharing the same air.
Beaten down by Beom-sik's power, he'd fled deeper into the shadows.
Beom-sik hadn't stopped there, severing the Snake's last drug lifeline.
Now, the Snake clung to one Gangnam gambling den like a ventilator.
The toil of sourcing drugs from China, Russia, Japan—unforgivable.
Beyond money, his shattered pride and honor, crushed by a mere kid, festered.
Back then, he'd have averted his eyes from Beom-sik.
But now? Apocalypse era.
No brothers or organization to shield Beom-sik.
Heaven had granted vengeance.
"Stress was killing me—needed an outlet. Perfect. Don't kill him. Rough him up and drag him here."
The Snake sat in the chair behind him. His men advanced eagerly.
Beom-sik's eyes turned cold steel.
No escaping the fight now.
Gaon right behind—no retreat.
Two with knives, but it ended here.
Kill or be killed.
One or the other.
That was the outcome.
As the Snake's men spread left and right, closing in—
Thwack!
Beom-sik's long leg lashed out like lightning, smashing the chin of the bat-wielder.
The man flipped backward, eyes rolling white as he crumpled.
As a knife sliced toward his side, Beom-sik spun away and drove his foot into the attacker's groin.
The man's eyes bulged; he clutched himself, doubling over.
Clang!
A pipe swung from the opposite side toward Beom-sik's nape.
Staggering, he countered with a lateral swing, sending the attacker tumbling into the wall.
Three down in seconds.
Realizing he'd strayed from Gaon, Beom-sik whipped around.
Too late.
The last of the Snake's men crouched by Gaon, butcher knife gleaming in hand.
That instant—
Clap clap clap!
"As expected of President Lee. Man, still got it. I'd never fight like that, even reborn. Hey, move that fucker."
The applauding Snake pointed at his chin-struck subordinate. The groin-clutcher waddled over.
Disgust twisted the Snake's eyes.
As Beom-sik opened his mouth to retort—
Clang!
A heavy pipe cracked the back of his skull.
Infected People