The Pastor's Fall
Day 40 of the zombie outbreak at Hope. Hope itself begins to waver.
***
Trial comes to the church. Whether because the world has grown harsher or for some other reason, strange incidents begin to pile up one after another.
“Who the hell is pulling these stunts?”
Crosses hung along the church corridors fall or are found upside down. Then came the reports.
“Some kids showed up claiming they were from the church. We opened the door and they attacked us!”
“They cleaned the place out!”
Believers who had been beaten until their faces swelled came forward, victims of a juvenile crime ring. It felt as though the visitor registry had been leaked. Sometimes the apocalypse’s madmen would burst into the middle of a service, shoving bound zombies into the sanctuary and spraying water guns filled with what looked like zombie blood.
“I heard there are miracles here! Prove it! Show me you’re the savior! Quickly! Defeat this zombie and the virus!”
The madman searching for antibodies and hope was subdued—rather, made to “repent”—but the problems never stopped.
“Police. We’ve received reports of illegal activity here…”
Several officers showed up in a group. The Pastor responded calmly, but it made no difference.
“We’re following every quarantine protocol. There’s been no criminal activity. Please, look around.”
With society collapsing and government institutions rotting, corruption among public officials had become the norm. The officers didn’t move an inch. One smirked and spoke with oily politeness.
“In times like these, crime is whatever we decide to call it. Listen, Pastor. Let’s keep things reasonable, yeah? You understand.”
The officer rubbed his hands together. The Pastor’s lips moved as if to speak, then pressed shut. One of the elders flushed red with anger.
“Who do you think you are? Which station are you from?”
“And what exactly would you do if you knew? Complaints, investigations, discipline—none of that means anything anymore, does it?”
The officers fingered their pistols and tasers. Conflicting expressions crossed several faces: naked greed, guilt mixed with resignation, grim survival instinct or vengeful resolve. There was no stopping officers who had clearly lost their minds. The elders, belatedly grasping the reality, fell silent. Finally the Pastor sighed.
“How much do you want? We don’t have much money ourselves. Even sharing masks and disinfectant is stretching us thin…”
“That’s exactly it. Some of your quarantine supplies and a bit of your food stockpile.”
Even the city police had reached the final stage of looting. With money losing all meaning, they had turned to taking what others had worked to gather. In the end the church handed over masks, disinfectant, and several boxes of ramen nearing its expiration date.
“Here. Take it.”
“Good. We’ll be on our way, then. Pastor, feel free to handle most incidents yourself. We’ll cover for you.”
The officers, at least, had enough sense to trade tangible resources for intangible protection before leaving. The Pastor’s face darkened. He rubbed his face several times, then turned to the elders. The emotion in his eyes—suspicion, exhaustion, or faith—I couldn’t tell. He seemed to study the furious elder and the worried one alike. Slowly, he spoke.
“The world has been steeped in corruption. Only those who hold to faith will be given the chance to survive. Naturally, we must prepare to protect that faith from those tainted by sin.”
“Of course. The greater the trial, the more we must prove our faith.”
The elders hurried to agree. I was among them, of course. I looked only at the Pastor and nodded with perfect sincerity.
“I will follow only your guidance, Pastor.”
The world had become truly terrifying. Shameless criminals, madmen spraying zombie blood, police turned into gangs. Worst of all was distrust and betrayal. It was an age when simply staying alive was brutally difficult.
***
The meeting began. The Pastor, six elders, and me—the safety manager. Eight people, two of them traitors. The Pastor had roughly grasped the situation. From the platform he spoke.
“It seems someone is deliberately targeting the church. It’s possible there’s a traitor among us.”
After everything that had happened, he had concluded that only deliberate malice could explain the sudden flood of trials. It was a reasonable judgment, and a subtle warning.
“That can’t be.”
“Are you saying there’s an unbeliever among us?”
The elders’ eyes widened as they glanced at one another—unable to believe it, yet already searching for suspects. A faint cracking sound seemed to echo through their once-solid unity. Suspicion. Distrust. Wariness. Once rooted, those emotions split people apart like stone. First came logical suspicion.
“The victims said the attackers mentioned the church by name… The visitor registry! Someone leaked it!”
“Quite a few people have access to that.”
“Who called the police or that lunatic?”
With too few clues, suspicion turned emotional.
“Elder Park. Didn’t you used to steal things back in the day?”
“That was before I repented. And even if I stole, why would I do something like this? I’m more suspicious of you, actually.”
The thief elder narrowed his eyes and fired arrows of suspicion in every direction.
“You badmouthed the Pastor before.”
“That was a long time ago—”
“I clearly heard you complaining that the evangelist didn’t get along with the senior pastor. And you, Elder Lee—you’ve often shown a lack of faith toward the Pastor.”
“How dare a thieving bastard like you—”
Old grudges and hidden conflicts I had never known about began to surface. A chill ran down my spine. There were only two of us—me and the thief elder—yet the church was already shaking. ‘Incendiary sabotage,’ the dictionary called it: the act of destroying a household’s wealth, stirring up noisy chaos, or plundering others’ property. Just two people causing such havoc…
Eventually the suspicious gazes turned on me as well.
“Deacon Kwon. Could it be you?”
“We don’t even know what he used to do. Is he really that professor’s student? We never verified his academic record.”
It was inevitable. In situations like this, the newcomer was always the first to be doubted. Naturally, I had no diploma to prove my credentials. I quickly recalled the basics of psychological manipulation I had learned from the professor’s broadcasts—how he had made apocalyptic theories sound convincing through logic, emotion, and authority.
“Elders, I understand why you’d suspect me. I’m the newest member. But why would I do something like this? What would I gain?”
I laced my voice with the right amount of logic and shared indignation.
“I only saw hope in the Pastor and tried to save more people. Farming, church defense, disaster planning—I was only…”
I closed my eyes and bowed my head toward the Pastor. Lacking authority of my own, I left the judgment to him.
“If the Pastor finds me suspicious or uncomfortable, I’ll leave immediately. But please continue the methods I’ve left behind.”
He wouldn’t suddenly tell me to get out. Not without some kind of mind-reading ability. The elders spoke awkwardly.
“No, Deacon Kwon, it’s not that we suspect you specifically… Everyone just seems suspicious right now.”
But the Pastor remained silent. I felt sweat gather in my palms. Had he been suspecting me all along? Fortunately, he postponed the hunt for the culprit.
“Deacon Kwon Dain. Please raise your head. Everyone, calm yourselves. We’ll resolve this matter slowly.”
It was done. I lifted my head, eyes shining with hope. The elders stopped arguing. They would wait for the Pastor’s judgment. Of course, his real intention had been to seal the conflict, warn the unknown culprit into inaction, and buy time to gather more clues—but he had miscalculated.
‘I’m killing him today. How exactly were you planning to find me?’
The rest was simple. Kill the Pastor, eliminate a few elders caught in the storm of suspicion and conflict, and take control of the diminished church. Then night fell.
***
Click— I checked the pistol. A police-issue handgun the church had somehow acquired, and another borrowed from the thief elder. Live rounds instead of blanks. I reviewed the safety and firing stance, then slowly stood. The day of reckoning had come. Whether the Pastor was true hope or just another future zombie, he would die tonight. My heart thudded slowly. I had killed before, but the tension remained because the target was no easy mark.
‘If he’s asleep, I won’t even need the gun.’
Step by step, I approached the office where the Pastor slept. Unfortunately, light still showed through the crack beneath the door. He was awake. I raised the pistol toward the door for a moment. If I knew exactly where he was standing, I could shoot him through it. Then I heard his voice.
“Come in.”
He had sensed me. Or perhaps some kind of omen. After a brief hesitation, I hid the pistol in my hoodie pocket, openly carried the hammer, and slowly opened the door.
Beyond it, the Pastor sat behind his desk, watching me carefully. A pistol rested in his hand. He wore a police ballistic vest.
“I wondered who the traitor was. So it was you.”
I swallowed and quickly shook my head. He had already prepared for an attack.
“No, it’s not that. With everything happening lately—”
“At this hour?”
The Pastor gave a short laugh. It was deep night. Not the time for a consultation. I should have turned away the moment I saw the light. His finger rested on the trigger, the barrel aimed squarely at me.
“I expected the traitor to come find me. Whatever the motive, killing me ends the game.”
“…”
A sigh rose in my chest. The Pastor understood the basics of a looter group. Betrayal and distrust were fundamental. He had gone further. He had anticipated the traitor’s actions and prepared accordingly. Was the church being attacked? Killing the Pastor would make it collapse easily. Were they after the church’s resources? Killing the Pastor would make that easier too. Trusting that logic, he had used himself as bait to draw the enemy’s strike. He spoke again.
“I won’t ask your reasons. There are people who dislike even Jesus, so an ordinary human like me can certainly be attacked. Still, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Because if an elder betrayed you, they would have come with a gun?”
When I voiced the reason he found my betrayal fortunate, the Pastor smiled. It seemed part relief that communication was possible, part regret that someone like me was the culprit. At least the thief elder’s betrayal meant the Pastor didn’t know I also carried a gun.
‘I need an opening to draw and fire. Or disarm him. Make him lower his guard?’
My mind raced. Time was short. The Pastor could pull the trigger at any moment. Watching his hand, I spoke.
“Pastor. Given the situation, I won’t hide it anymore.”
“No. Hide it. The thoughts of an unbeliever—”
The instant those words reached me, the moment his arm twitched, I moved without thinking. I slammed the light switch beside the door with my elbow and threw myself out into the hallway, half-falling. A single soft gunshot followed, along with his voice.
“There’s no need for me to know.”
Darkness swallowed the church. I clenched my teeth.
‘Did it hit? Was it a blank? Did I get shot and just can’t feel it because of adrenaline?’
No—my injury wasn’t the priority right now. The Pastor was muttering, trying to locate me. I had to deal with him now. Fortunately, I had a gun too.
‘The torso’s protected by the vest. The head. One shot to the head.’
Holding my breath, I moved as silently as possible and pressed against the wall beside the door. The Pastor’s voice drifted through the darkness.
“Running away? ‘I will make your arrows drunk with blood, and your sword shall devour flesh, with the blood of the slain and the captives, from the long-haired heads of the enemy.’ You can’t escape.”
Bang! A heavy gunshot rang out. Non-lethal rounds, perhaps. The bullet struck the floor near the doorway, sending up a spark of red. Footsteps approached. I stopped breathing and raised my sweat-slicked hand to roughly head height. My finger found the trigger. The footsteps stopped just outside the door. The moment the Pastor stepped into the hallway, a voice called from the far end of the corridor on the opposite side.
“Pastor! Is everything all right?”
Jeondo. He must have heard the shot and come running. I felt the Pastor turn. A muzzle flash bloomed from his hand and a bullet flew.
“Agh! What the— Who’s there? Pastor, are you okay? Don’t tell me it’s that lunatic again—”
“…So he wasn’t the traitor?”
Because I had brought Jeondo, the Pastor had assumed he was part of the betrayal. A reasonable conclusion. I grinned and pulled the trigger. Flame flashed from the muzzle. The back of the Pastor’s head, now turned toward me, burst open in the brief flare of light. My right arm—the original member of the looter group, the vicious electricity thief—had done its job perfectly. The executor, the weapon provider, the distraction. A flawless collaboration.