Divided Zones
“A corporal, huh. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one, sir. But why are you talking down to me like that?”
The corporal, squatting and smoking, blew smoke off into the distance and asked in bewilderment.
He had some real grit to him.
Most guys would've been cowed after taking a punch, but here he was, chewing me out like he owned the place.
“Kid's got balls... Look, I gave you a smoke, didn't I? And I'm your senior—way senior. Back when I enlisted, you were probably sniveling snot in the neighborhood, slurping ice cream. Can't I talk casual?”
“...No, sir. Go ahead.”
Surprisingly innocent under that tough exterior.
Maybe it was the fistfight, but I felt a strange fondness for him.
“World's gone to shit and you're stuck soldiering... Tough break. What's your pay grade?”
“Upper corporal, sir.”
“Must suck. Discharge can't be far off.”
“No complaints, sir. Surviving's more than enough.”
“Fair enough...”
As I smoked halfway down my cig, the corporal spoke up.
“But is it true?”
“What?”
“Overheard the others' statements—how you got here. Driving, shaking zombie hordes, luring 'em with firework arrows, dodging a crashing chopper... For real?”
“What, you think it's bullshit?”
The corporal eyed me up and down.
“Not that exactly, but it sounds insane, right? Everyone's telling the same story, so I can't call it lies... Dunno. I've been holed up here since day one, so I don't know the outside. But zombies? I know how fast and strong those fuckers are. Outer wall's nearly collapsed a few times. We barely hold 'em off from behind these barriers. Surviving out there? Honestly...”
“Yeah, it's nuts. Hell if I know how we made it. But so what? Real or not, like you said, we're alive. That's what counts.”
“True enough, sir.”
The corporal nodded.
“You've been here from the start, so you must know the lay of the land. Was the safe zone already set up when you arrived?”
“They were building it then, sir. Used to be bigger, but we fell back, threw up concrete walls, set defenses—shrunk it down.”
“I see...”
Just then, soldiers rotated in from afar.
No choice—I stubbed out my cig and stood.
Slipped the rest of my pack into his pocket.
“Thanks, sir. I'll smoke 'em good.”
“Yeah. Name's... Kim Chan-yeol?”
“Just call me Corporal Kim, sir.”
“Right, Corporal Kim. Rough start, but let's get along from here. Next time, big bro'll hook you up with another pack. C'mon, to the med check.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Kim walked me to the exam entrance, bowed, and vanished.
Point was, I needed info sources—anyone would do.
If soldiers handled real security, cozying up to a few couldn't hurt.
Besides, with my military know-how, making friends was easy.
Flutter!
After the naked once-over, I dressed and stepped out.
A scrawny short guy latched on like a cicada on an old tree trunk.
Introduced himself as the Production Manager—insisted on the title.
I trailed him like a tourist, touring the safe zone.
He yapped nonstop, explaining everything.
Kept glancing at my face, eyes darting, steps hesitant—total lack of confidence.
“I'll show you from the innermost core out to the edge.”
I glanced up at the towering building.
63 Square, standing alone by the Yeouido riverside.
Manager said Korea's government pulse beat from here.
Good news, at least.
In this mess, a functioning government would rally survivors.
Even if it was all show, a living state institution beat a collapsed one.
No contest.
One slip, and it'd turn lawless—survival of the strongest.
Government's mere existence held massive sway.
Flashy building aside.
Manager called it the Tower.
Beyond it, rows of barracks stood in perfect formation—army barracks, no doubt.
Chain-link fences stretched endlessly between Tower and barracks, sentries at every gate.
Tight security.
Followed him past the base to the apartment complex.
Another fence between.
Sentries again.
Manager pointed to a wooden sign staked in the ground: A Zone.
“This is the production zone. All these rooftop gardens blanket the apartments—freshly planted with army-dropped seeds. Only days old, but summer's ending soon. Positive outlook. Every plot and seed passes through me—future crops too.”
Sure enough, endless gardens crammed playgrounds, parking lots—spectacular.
True eco-city.
“Who lives in those apartments?”
“Oh, the producers reside there. No time to build houses, so we set production here. Heard you're army-bound—close to production zone, so we'll see you often. Looking forward to it.”
Bowed deeply.
Aha, got it.
His survival schtick.
Wonder about the others?
“Where'd the rest of my group go?”
“Your companions?”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme check...”
Pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket—our names, all listed.
“Minyoung's in the Tower, for now.”
“Tower? Why?”
“Short on medics, and we're pushing our own vaccine research. Sent her there.”
“Vaccine?”
My eyes went wide.
Vaccine, suddenly?
“Yes. Director's leading—plenty of experts. Fingers crossed for success. Every survivor in the zone's banking on it, giving their all.”
“Possible?”
“They say so. I don't know details.”
Manager grinned sheepishly.
Vaccine.
Game-changer.
Then why the VIP evac plans?
If a vaccine pops here, governments worldwide would rush to save Korea.
Hedging bets?
Yeah, vaccine dev's no joke.
Recalled recent global plagues—billions poured in, top minds racing.
But delays taught everyone: vaccines take 3-10+ years, even with full resources.
Now, with shortages everywhere?
Plausible?
Doubtful.
Gut said no—fatality rates aside, this fucker only ramps up post-death.
Impossible vaccine.
No curing the changed—God's turf.
Needed prevention: bite-proof serum.
Still, effort was a good sign.
Better than nothing.
Even false hope could unite folks awhile.
Like Manager said—all survivors grinding for it.
Workers waved at Manager from the fields.
Some eyed me curiously, others scowled to check if I belonged.
Vast fields, endless laborers.
Questions burned: How'd they prep all this?
Bit my tongue.
One word to his ear, rumors'd spread like wildfire.
Not trustworthy.
Besides, not crucial now.
Like Corporal Kim said—alive's what matters.
The safe zone I'd craved.
More organized than expected.
Digging up past wouldn't change shit—no one'd listen.
Adapt fast.
“Rest of the group—all to B Zone, the boundary zone.”
“Boundary zone?”
“Yeah. Just past here... Oh, great work, sirs.”
Manager bowed to the gate soldiers.
Crossed the fence—whole new scene.
10m+ concrete outer walls; gaps filled with endless log palisades.
“Boundary zone starts here. This road's Yeouido Hangang-ro. Walls run right to Yeouido Han River Park, left to the community center. Hey! Careful, like I said!”
Snapped at a stumbling dirt-hauler.
One-legged guy.
My face darkened.
Tents lined the sidewalks endlessly.
No homes anywhere—just road and tents.
“What's with that guy's leg?”
“He's disabled.”
Manager said casually.
I stopped.
“One question.”
“Sure, what?”
“What's the criteria for zoning people?”
“Arrival order. Ag workers go production regardless. I get it—I'm human too. Feels unfair. But no space for all. These wall-repair guys? Shouldn't even be here. Government risked it anyway. Soldiers died letting 'em in.”
“Still...”
His take: retreat shrank zone to under quarter of Yeouido.
Housing shortage led here.
Soldiers forage daily—best they can do.
Made sense. No wrongs.
Army and gov doing their max— for more lives.
Accept it.
Everyone's trying.
“Where exactly are my companions?”
“Not here—community center side. Wanna go?”
“Nah.”
“Army handles internal security too—you'll roam plenty. Greet 'em then. Not family anyway. Bonded on the road, sure.”
I nodded.
Forgot one thing en route.
Safe zone meant splitting paths.
No proper goodbyes, but we'd cross again.
Someday.
A hollow laugh escaped me.
Infected People