The Machete Master
“Look at 'em swarming like a pack of wild dogs. All those are zombies, right? So this is really...”
Beom-sik muttered, staring blankly.
The moment they heard the helicopter, the infected had bolted in unison toward the same direction.
A few stragglers broke off from the main group here and there, but the vast majority kept charging straight ahead.
They'd been gawking like that for a while when a stranger's scream pierced the air.
With the infected horde gone, hidden survivors had emerged onto the streets—only to meet a gruesome end.
In the midst of it all, one man in particular caught the eyes of both men.
Beom-sik quickly zoomed in the camera.
The figure who held their gaze was a middle-aged man wearing a red cap.
He burst out of a building with a Gun Shop sign, a long machete gripped in his hand.
The second he hit the street, the lingering infected milling about started rushing him one by one.
Jaejeong wanted to look away.
He could already see how this scene would end.
But moments later, both men's jaws dropped wide open.
The middle-aged guy—with graying whiskers no less—had dispatched three infected in the blink of an eye.
The lead infected charging at him slammed straight into the wall as the man twisted his body aside.
Using the rebound from his spin, he slashed mercilessly at the next one's throat.
Shwick!
And that wasn't the end.
As he turned back, the one that had hit the wall staggered to its feet.
The instant it kicked off the ground to leap, the machete sliced cleanly through its neck.
The last one, racing in from afar, collided with its headless buddy, lost its balance, and dropped dead right there.
That was it.
No wasted motion—like a scripted scene from a movie.
Both men stared with brains frozen in shock.
Who the hell is that guy?
How could anyone show combat skills like that?
At middle age, with a graying beard to boot.
The man crossed the street and approached the building where the two were perched.
After that, the railing blocked their view.
“That reminds me—did you serve in the military?”
Beom-sik asked, gazing down at a headless infected tumbling on the ground.
“Yeah. Why?”
“If we just wait here, won't the army come rescue us? We're not the only survivors. They could spot everything from a military satellite, right? Then they'd roll in with massive forces and clean this shit up. We've got more than a couple bases in this country.”
“Oh, you're a draft dodger, huh?”
Jaejeong's mocking jab twisted Beom-sik's face into a perfect scowl.
“I'm not in the mood to play games with you, so just answer the damn question.”
“Hmm... it's been so long, hard to say. But normally, they'd go for maximum troops and firepower to wrap things up fast. Probably.”
“Then why the hell haven't they shown up yet?”
“Beats me. Top brass are probably busy thinking and deciding. Military's all about chain of command—orders from above, absolute obedience below. Kinda like you gangsters. Wait, we're not so different. Anyway, no orders, no movement. Zero flexibility. It's... complicated. Too much to explain to a dodger like you.”
Surprisingly, Beom-sik nodded calmly.
“Yeah. Even a dodger like me can tell something's off—that's gotta be bad news. Monsters massacring civilians in the capital, and nobody comes to stop 'em. If they're not coming, maybe there's nobody left to come. Everyone else is dead. Or something like that. Unless the top brass are just wasting time overthinking, like you said.”
“What gangster punk talks like some highbrow prick?”
Jaejeong asked, snapping out of his daze.
Beom-sik's speech and gestures carried none of the thug stereotype.
He even gave off a professional vibe.
A few small scars dotted his otherwise flawless, pale skin, and his long, lean build only amplified it.
“What? Gangsters can't be elegant?”
“Didn't say elegant. Just act like one of your kind. Elegant my ass... doesn't suit you.”
“You look more the gangster. Wanna hear the types I hate most?”
“Nah, not interested.”
Jaejeong shook his head fast.
“The ones who plaster 'gangster' on their faces. Rookies who ink up before they grow a brain— all flash, no substance. And...”
“Spit it out already. Or don't start.”
Beom-sik ignored Jaejeong's interruptions and pressed on doggedly.
“Guys built like you—fierce-looking bastards. Sure, plenty are good deep down despite the mug. But not you. No elegance. Zero. You fight like a bull—pure brute force.”
“What's your point?”
“Nothing specific. Just remembered you telling me not to act all righteous, that you hate that type. Felt like sharing mine.”
“Done? Anything else?”
Beom-sik nodded.
For some reason, it felt oddly refreshing.
Not like a cop and a gangster would ever get this chummy ripping into each other again.
When else could they shoot the shit so casually?
While Beom-sik pondered, Jaejeong's mind fixated solely on the middle-aged man.
Jaejeong's first impression: the guy moved like he'd prepped for this.
Calculated every step.
As if he'd known this was coming—or lived through shit like it a thousand times.
The infected might mutate, but they still looked human.
Even ripping guts or biting throats—they retained human shape.
So no matter how monstrous, decapitating them wasn't easy.
This wasn't some wuxia flick.
And with zero wasted moves? Unreal.
Mind-boggling.
To escape this rooftop and head down, Jaejeong would have to move like that too.
He glanced at Beom-sik scanning the streets.
That gangster punk could pull it off, no doubt.
In Jaejeong's eyes, anyway.
So he just needed to steel himself.
Just a human shape.
Looks human, but isn't.
Kill or be killed.
Jaejeong repeated it in his head over and over.
This wasn't a dream, right?
Too damn vivid for one.
If it was, he could quit the force and direct movies— it'd feel that real.
“What're you thinking?”
Beom-sik asked.
“Nothing. Just funny.”
“What is?”
“You gonna listen if I tell you?”
“Why ask, then? Why you gotta be so twisted? Being a cop and all...”
“Go ahead, curse me out. Soon as this blows over, you're first in cuffs.”
“On what charge?”
Beom-sik snorted.
“Defamation, obstructing official duties—plenty if I list 'em.”
“Defamation's clear. What's the other?”
“Your existence bugs me, that's obstruction. Interferes with my duties.”
“Fine, lock me up good. Long as I get out alive, I'll turn myself in.”
“For real?”
Jaejeong's eyes widened.
“Whatever. Answer the question. What were you thinking? Stop dodging.”
“You even know words like 'dodging'? Unreal.”
“Cops or gangsters, six of one, half dozen of the other.”
“Idioms too? You got it all.”
Jaejeong let out a chuckle.
Then he stared off into the night sky.
About to say something.
“If we get rescued here or make it out alive, let's live like humans. You and me both.”
“Save that for deathbeds, no?”
“You think you could pull off what that old-timer did? Like a damn robot.”
Beom-sik crossed his arms, pondering.
“Dunno... not that confident. But I won't just take it lying down. Get close, they're dead. Why? You scared?”
“Scared? Fuck that. Just smash 'em.”
Conversation died there.
Jaejeong sank into his thoughts; Beom-sik kept eyes glued to the ground below.
How much time passed?
Felt like an hour or two, at least.
Hunkered on the rooftop so long, thirst was creeping in.
Jaejeong licked his dry lips and followed Beom-sik's gaze around the building.
Unlike the front overlooking the main road, the side faced other buildings plainly visible.
Some on fire; one rooftop crammed with a dozen people.
Jaejeong spotted a woman on the adjacent building, same height.
Suit-clad, pressed to the full-glass window, scanning around—until her eyes met his.
Less than twenty meters away.
They read each other's gazes.
Terror and fear, mingled in uneasy stares.
Beom-sik, following Jaejeong's look, had spotted her too and watched silently.
The woman flicked anxious glances between inside and out—then jolted, whipping around.
Both men tracked her gaze fast.
A maze of cubicles in the office beyond; a door barricaded with desks and furniture splintering apart.
People desperately tried to hold it, but the flimsy plywood door shattered in seconds.
Black arms punched through the gaps repeatedly until one infected crammed its head in and breached the office.
That sparked it—the horde poured in.
People fled between cubicles, dodging infected.
Behind them, erratic infected wrecked everything in sight.
Red blood sprayed across the white office.
No retreat left, the woman backed against the glass.
As dying colleagues mutated, she leaned out the window.
Jaejeong sucked in a sharp breath.
She looked ready to plummet any second.
He wanted to help, but empty air separated them.
She climbed onto a chair, swung her legs out first, clinging precariously to the frame against the outer wall.
Infected went berserk, gaping mouths smashed against the glass.
Like blood-mad leeches.
Even her surviving coworkers mutated, neckties flapping as they charged.
Cracks spiderwebbed the glass; she crab-walked to the next window.
Crash!
The moment she reached it, the cracked pane exploded.
Infected that body-slammed it through plummeted howling into the dark.
The woman sobbed.
Sobs so wrenching, her scream-laced cries carried clearly to Jaejeong and Beom-sik on the next roof.
Jaejeong was about to shout something when glass shattered again—and her body flew into the air.
In that split second, her eyes met Jaejeong's.
Despair, regret, injustice—all tangled in her gaze.
Then she vanished into the darkness amid shattering glass.
Infected