The Fenced Warehouses
Han Jaejeong and Kang Youngman stepped out of the barracks and headed toward the Production Zone.
The soldiers who recognized Jaejeong's face cleared a path for them without being asked.
From the direction of the outer wall came the deafening roar of construction machinery.
Every now and then, the rumble of truck engines mixed in, giving an almost nostalgic illusion of returning to the ordinary life before everything went to hell.
If only for the sprawling vegetable patches crammed into every apartment complex courtyard.
The Production Zone was much the same, buzzing with laborers hard at work.
They came in all ages.
From kids who looked barely old enough for high school to middle-aged folks streaked with gray hair.
After silently surveying the zone for a while, Youngman finally spoke.
"By the way, lad, no other worries weighing on you besides this?"
"Why do you ask?"
"From what I see, you're not the delicate type. Folks like you wear their worries plain as day when something's gnawing at 'em. Out with it. No problem in this world gets solved by bottling it up."
"It's not like I'm hiding anything…"
Jaejeong trailed off.
He did have concerns.
The soldiers had gone to the mart before the outer wall construction wrapped up.
And Kim Chan-yeol had been among them.
The issue was… the Squad Leader that Chan-yeol had mentioned.
His obsessive possessiveness and entitlement growing like a goddamn paranoia.
That was what stuck in Jaejeong's craw.
He'd gotten tangled up with Chan-yeol by chance, and even though Jaejeong had approached first for his own gain, the kid had grown on him.
Am I getting soft in my old age?
"At first…"
Jaejeong spilled it all—his dealings with Chan-yeol, his thoughts on the Squad Leader—like unloading a burden.
Youngman crossed his arms and nodded as he listened.
"More sentimental than I figured."
"It's not sentimentality… he just keeps nagging at me."
"What trouble could there be? Whether he's grabbing spoils or bullying underlings, the key is he'll cling to his own skin like anyone else. Zombies don't spare the division commander's son, but when push comes to shove, he'll dodge the worst of it."
The real problem with guys like that was their cowardice.
They'd sacrifice anyone else's life without a second thought to save their own hides.
Jaejeong kept that thought to himself.
It felt awkward voicing it—this version of himself.
Since the virus hit, he'd weathered crises that stirred some vague sense of justice he hadn't even known was there.
One minute he's charging off to the barracks with Jeong I-jin to tweak a plan and prevent needless deaths.
Jeong I-jin must've thought it was weird too, even if he hadn't said it.
Going out of his way for some stranger, not even a battle comrade.
Hell, he'd buried any notion of justice long ago.
Not that he'd lived without morals, but he'd crossed lines when the situation demanded it.
No one turns down visible gains, after all.
That's how he'd rolled.
Never one for deep reflection.
Talk failed? Beat sense into 'em.
Upper brass leaning too hard? He'd buck the chain, ally or enemy be damned.
Suspension, reprimand—didn't matter.
Only one man ever got his full compliance: the Team Leader.
The sole person he could truly trust and follow.
Wonder what the Team Leader's up to now…
He stared into the hazy fog.
Maybe wandering somewhere beyond it, or hunkered down scribbling survival notes.
"If you can't be just, at least fake it. You've got a natural cruel streak. Hiding it won't make it vanish. So use it to smash bastards worse than you."
The Team Leader's words echoed in his mind.
Come to think of it, it'd ramped up since reuniting with Jeong I-jin.
That suppressed inner face was rearing its head.
Maybe that's why he'd bonded with I-jin, seen him like a brother.
Not despite the similarities, but because of them.
An innate violence they both tried to bury but couldn't.
They'd shared that brutal training, roamed battlefields, lost comrades, washed up in the Violent Crimes Unit.
It all felt inevitable.
"Starts here?"
Youngman's voice snapped Jaejeong around.
They'd reached the back of the apartment complex, where the fog-shrouded shapes of warehouses emerged.
A cluster of single-story buildings.
But there was a problem.
A fence ringed an area far from the warehouses, guarded by soldiers.
Strange.
With expansion work desperate for every hand, why post guards inside?
Jaejeong thought of the Production Manager.
The man who'd bent over backward to stay on his good side.
Now that he recalled, the manager had never led him this way.
Jaejeong fixed the soldiers with a sharp glare.
They looked bored out of their skulls, yawning and chatting idly, zero tension.
Closing the distance, their words carried over.
"Fuck, this is boring as shit. Got a lighter?"
"Smoking on duty, sir?"
"Who the hell's coming out here…"
"Lit up, sir. But what's in there anyway?"
"Where? The warehouse?"
"Yes, sir."
"No clue. Me neither."
"Never seen anyone go in or out the whole time."
"Same here. But don't overthink it. We just do what we're told. Better than the guys out scavenging, right?"
"True enough, sir. Just wish time would move faster."
They snickered over their smokes.
"Makes me even more curious. That fence is airtight—no gaps. Kinda worrying."
Youngman muttered, taking it all in.
Scanning the area, Jaejeong started moving.
"Follow me."
He ducked into a low spot in the terrain for cover.
Using fog and trees for concealment, he crept forward in a crouch.
"What're you planning?"
"We're here—might as well check it out. You dragged me along, old man."
Jaejeong hadn't come this far on Youngman's stubborn whim just to leave empty-handed.
"Look, I suggested it, sure, but this is more tangled than I thought. Let's pause and—"
Youngman eyed the tight fence and vigilant guards, clearly thrown off his fog plan.
But Jaejeong was already ahead.
"Damn it… why's he so bullheaded?"
Youngman grumbled under his breath and trailed after.
They'd circled halfway around the apartment's garden path when a gap appeared—between the boundary zone fence and the warehouse enclosure.
"Well now… you been here before?"
Youngman sounded impressed at Jaejeong spotting the seam so easily.
"World where log walls get breached? A gap like this is nothing after your endless army days."
"We didn't have that crap back then. Closest was sneaking submarine rides."
With that, they closed in on the warehouse.
Dead silence around them, not a rat stirring.
Tap-tap.
Jaejeong rapped the wall.
Thick as hell.
Didn't feel like a spot to stash monsters or Infected.
No reason to, anyway.
If it were, screams would've leaked out by now.
They looped another half-turn to the door.
Sure enough, a numbered padlock hung there.
"See? Let's head back."
"Hold on."
Jaejeong moved to another warehouse.
All padlocked tight.
He memorized the first one's combo, then eyed the sequences on the next two and three.
"What're you up to?"
Youngman caught up quick.
"Three identical digits in a row, all but one spot. The odd one's a single digit… this one's set to '2', that to '4', rest match. So probably…"
"'3' it is."
Jaejeong nodded and reached for the lock.
If wrong, he'd brute the rest, skipping 2-3-4.
Unless every guess bombed.
Then they'd bail for real…
"Huh? What're you doing here?"
The voice dropped from nowhere; cold sweat beaded on Jaejeong and Youngman instantly.
They turned slowly. A man stood against the fog.
The Production Manager.
Smack!
He rushed right up and slapped Jaejeong's arm off the lock, kicking up a fuss.
"Oh no, sir! You're gonna get us in deep shit! You can't come in here. This puts me in a real bind! They said they'd passed the word—why're you here? Get out, please!"
The gaunt manager, cheekbones jutting like thorns, acted like the apocalypse had hit again.
The guards came running at the commotion, staring like they'd seen ghosts.
"H-how'd you get in?"
"That what matters right now? How the hell do you stand watch? I got your names—I'll report you both!"
"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."
The senior yanked off his helmet, bowing deep.
But the manager's volume cranked higher.
"Damn right! Expect punishment for today! How do you even train people? Fog or no fog, missing people passing through in this world?"
The scrawny guy herded the hulking Jaejeong and Youngman out past the fence like it was nothing.
All while ripping into the soldiers nonstop.
"Sir, please, I beg you. Not in my zone—you're making my life hell. Why come here?"
"Eh… just wandering around… fog's thick, got turned around."
Jaejeong scratched his head, playing dumb.
It worked; the manager dropped it.
"The director sees this, it'll be headaches for nothing. Stay away from here, I implore you. You must wonder what's inside, but I don't know either. Just told not to peek, so I don't."
"Yeah, yeah. Keep up the good work."
"You two, with me! Slacking off but eating fine, huh? Maybe I'll shove it down your throats."
The manager whirled on the soldiers, eyes bulging.
Chilling two-faced bastard.
"Aged me ten years."
Youngman let out a short sigh.
Jaejeong glanced at his wrist as the manager stalked off.
Red handprint stamped there.
It'd happened so fast, memory blurry, but that wasn't normal strength.
Startled reflex?
Uneasy feeling gnawed at him.
"Something wrong?"
"Nah. Let's go."
The manager's gaze lingered on Jaejeong's retreating back.
The riverside construction was in full swing.
Lee Beom-sik, Anna, Lee Hyun-soo, and the other laborers sweated through their clothes in grueling work.
The Work Leader prowled among them, barking orders.
"No time! Move faster!"
"Ugh, that prick just flaps his gums—no actual work."
Hyun-soo vented his frustration.
"Least he leaves our crew alone."
Second (Goblin Tattoo), knee-deep in mud, soothed him.
True—the Work Leader skipped their group for his nagging.
"Still… think we'll finish by tonight?"
"Gotta. Can't drag this shit into tomorrow. Soon as we're done, I'm hitting the riverside sinks for a shower."
Yong Tattoo wiped forehead sweat on his shoulder.
Hyun-soo's eyes went wide.
"Sinks have water?"
"They will."
Nearby workers' heads snapped around.
"Water?"
"Sinks—right, there were some!"
Faces lit up suddenly.
Sink water? Probably drinkable, they figured.
Like dashing to school field faucets mid-soccer game, parched.
Then—
"Whoa! Move—everyone scatter!"
Workers up front yelled urgently, diving aside.
Looking up, dump trucks barreled in with thunderous roars.
At breakneck speed.
In that instant, a wail pierced from somewhere, hitting Beom-sik's ears.
Familiar voice—he turned to see the daughter of a man who'd volunteered with him.
And the fog-piercing lead dump truck hurtled straight at the girl.
Infected