We Were the Poison
The sushi restaurant owner, who insisted he couldn’t sell pufferfish poison, let out a heavy sigh and irritably slammed a fish onto the board. The flopping creature went limp at once.
“Even the guys with bows keep showing up, asking for the poison we’d just throw away anyway. But I use farmed pufferfish from the start. There’s no toxin in them.”
“Ah…”
I had been lost in thought. Now I lifted my head, considering how to obtain pufferfish poison from this stubborn man. My original plan had been to swipe the trash bag with the guts—typical scavenger behavior, since they’d be discarded as regular waste—but if there was no poison to begin with, that was pointless. I changed tactics.
“Then do you happen to know any sashimi places that use wild pufferfish?”
“Hard to say. Even if they do, supplies have dried up lately.”
Shick, shick, shick. The blade moved with artistic precision, cleaning the fish and slicing the flesh into perfect bites. These were the gestures of a master who had poured years of passion into his craft. Yet even a master couldn’t hide his stress; his voice came out dark.
“It’s the zombies. Supply chains collapsed from the beginning. We can barely manage enough for delivery even though hall service is dead. Who knows how long we can keep going.”
Even in the apocalypse, a chef clinging to his business poured out his livelihood troubles. For a moment, the aspiring scenario writer inside me surfaced—the part that had never given up on dreams despite constant failure. That experience let me empathize with the cook.
What if this guy starts slicing zombies for sashimi when he runs out of fish?
A bizarre image flashed through my mind: a city with paralyzed logistics, streets stripped of food. The only lit shop is a sashimi restaurant where the owner smiles strangely while filleting a zombie the way he would a pufferfish.
The respiratory organs contain poison, so they require detoxification, but this part is edible. Instead of a fish tattoo, the owner has human organs tattooed on his arm as he works on the zombie…
I shivered involuntarily, then snapped back to reality. My voice came out regretful.
“I was going to use it as poison for the zombies. Too bad.”
“If you’re looking for poison, wouldn’t it be better to search for mushrooms? Fish supplies are already drying up.”
The owner glanced at me while neatly arranging sashimi in a lunchbox-style container. Mushrooms. True, there was no sea in this city, and mushrooms could be gathered steadily from the mountains. As I fell into thought, the bell on the door jingled and several people barged in.
They looked like the local vigilante group. Fluorescent vests gleaming, they removed their helmets.
“Hey, boss. Bring out some good liquor and sashimi.”
“…You still haven’t paid for the last tab.”
The atmosphere grew heavy. The owner narrowed his eyes at them. These uninvited guests, who seemed more like thugs than vigilantes, brandished weapons and laughed.
“Pay? What for? We’re the ones letting you run your business in peace. We kill the zombies so you can even operate. Getting upset over a few meals is pretty ungrateful.”
So they weren’t true vigilantes—they were more like a gang that had sprung up in the area. I assessed their gear. Pathetic. Leather jackets and crowbars, that was it.
The Delivery Vigilantes look stronger than these guys.
They showed no signs of growing into a major force like the Pastor’s Hope Church. No need to plan any weeding-out operation. I spoke comfortably to the owner.
“Owner, please pack three portions of fresh sashimi. Ocean fish, if possible.”
Since I was already here, I might as well take some back for the looters’ families. Once logistics completely collapsed, they wouldn’t be able to eat it even if they wanted to.
“Yes, order confirmed. I’ll serve these gentlemen first, then finish the delivery order before packing yours. Is that all right?”
“Take your time.”
Time wasn’t an issue. I needed to think about long-term sources of poison, or the kinds already flooding the city. Antifreeze wasn’t bad, but the lethal dose was 250 milliliters—basically an entire bottle of water.
Are there drugs in hospitals or pharmacies that can kill in small amounts? Or mushrooms?
While I tapped at my phone, one of the uninvited guests approached. He appeared to be the patrol leader of this so-called vigilante group. He looked me over, then offered a business card.
“Young friend, you look reliable. Any interest in working with us?”
“…Work?”
I took the card and read it. Some grandiose title like “Safety Measures Committee” for this street, along with the equally pretentious “Committee Member.” Classic scam technique—plausible-sounding names.
“We’re the ones doing good work around here, yeah? Safe streets from zombies! We help the shopkeeper families continue their livelihoods!”
The thug sat right next to me and waved his hands enthusiastically as he tried to persuade me.
“Thing is, we need a lot of manpower. What do you say, young friend? Can’t pay much, but you won’t go hungry.”
“I’m good. Not interested.”
I chuckled and set the card on the table. I had memorized what mattered: the address of their vigilante headquarters. If necessary, I’d add them to the looting list. That was all the value they held. They weren’t real professionals or true survivors.
But the card I placed on the table fluttered and fell to the floor. The thug glared at it, then burst out in angry tones.
“Young friend, where are your manners? I’m speaking to you nicely!”
He shot to his feet and looked down at me. The weapon in his hand rose threateningly. The other vigilantes seated nearby and even the owner, who was adding something to the porridge, glanced sideways at me. This was annoying.
Why did the card fall?
Truly bad luck. I had wanted to let it slide peacefully. I pondered for a moment. I carried many weapons—which one was appropriate right now?
Better take out the water gun.
I pulled out the small water pistol and aimed it at the man’s head. He had lowered his mask to eat. The thugs who saw the water gun stumbled backward. In a normal world without lunatics it might look like a toy, but not in this city.
“…Virus?”
“Yes. Remember the guy who sprayed mist claiming he was looking for antibodies? Good idea, right?”
It was a water gun mixed with zombie saliva after the wave. Perfect for a restaurant setting.
“Y-you crazy bastard! Terrorist!”
“Put your helmets on!”
The vigilantes frantically pulled up their masks and donned helmets. They approached threateningly, waving their weapons, but I drew my pistol with my other hand. A gun loaded with only three lethal rounds.
“Let’s just drop it. In times like these, getting worked up means someone has to die.”
“You looted the police?”
His voice suggested he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The vigilantes backed away.
“Committee member, maybe you should stop engaging with that lunatic? You shouldn’t mess with people like him.”
As if waiting for those words, the thug turned away. The tension dissolved. He moved to the far end of the opposite table, and the sound of the owner’s masterful cooking resumed.
I tapped at my phone searching for mushroom information and sighed.
I really don’t know anything about mushrooms.
I couldn’t distinguish edible mushrooms from truly poisonous ones. I might end up just feeding the zombies. By the time the food came out, the owner brought a large bowl of steaming porridge.
“It’s porridge made with seaweed and rich innards. Since it’s cold from the rain, I prepared it to warm you up.”
“As expected from the boss. Never seen anyone in this area who cooks as well as you.”
The vigilantes, helmets and masks removed, hurriedly scooped up the food. They kept glancing at me warily. But it seemed they had the wrong target for their caution.
The thugs ate the porridge almost like they were drinking it, downed sake, laughed and chatted while stuffing sushi into their mouths. One wiped his lips and asked.
“By the way, what kind of fish innards are in this porridge? It’s really delicious.”
“Of course it is. It’s a precious ingredient. A taste you’ll never experience again in your lifetime.”
“No wonder the sushi tasted bland.”
The owner observed the thug with unreadable eyes. He studied the customer’s reaction to his cooking with great care—or perhaps like a cold-hearted mad scientist analyzing a test subject. He said,
“They’re wild pufferfish innards. Don’t you feel your lips stiffening and nausea rising?”
“What?”
The vigilantes’ movements froze. They stared at the chef with wide, horrified eyes and shot to their feet. But the poison had already spread to their extremities. Two of them collapsed with a crash.
The owner watched them with fascination.
“I put in far more than the lethal dose. The symptoms appeared quickly.”
“W-why…”
The thug tried to speak, but his pronunciation was off. His tongue felt rigid.
“Payment for the meal. My real customers’ food went into the mouths of trash, so of course they must pay the price. More importantly, how did it taste? I’ve never eaten wild pufferfish innards myself.”
“Ugh… ugh…”
The thugs and vigilantes moved with creaking motions like broken machines. Paralysis. The owner let out a regretful sigh.
“Truly a shame. I wanted to hear your description of the flavor.”
A madman. Was it the apocalypse? Lunatics were popping up everywhere. The owner, who had hidden the pufferfish poison for his own use, drew a chilling knife, stepped over the table, and smoothly slit the thug’s throat. The blade, moving as naturally as when he prepared sashimi, precisely severed the carotid artery.
When that same blade turned toward the paralyzed remaining vigilante, I stepped in.
“Owner. That’s not quite right.”
“…You wanted pufferfish poison, didn’t you? I’ll give it to you, so don’t interfere—”
“That’s not what I mean. If they all die from knife wounds, won’t it look suspicious?”
In exchange for receiving the poison, I should help a little. I took out my hammer and, with my other hand, snatched the crowbar from the thug’s grip. An astonished voice burst from my mouth.
“Oh my god! The vigilantes turned into zombies! They killed each other! What a tragic incident!”
The crowbar I raised high smashed into the face of the paralyzed, twitching vigilante. The hooked end pierced his face. Then the porridge bowl, hammer, and the other vigilante’s weapon were brutally driven into the victims. In an instant, the elegant sashimi restaurant turned into a slaughterhouse. Corpses lay everywhere.
I was impressed.
Poison really is effective.
It was much safer than fighting a larger group directly. The owner let out a hollow laugh behind me. I couldn’t tell if it was admiration or horror.
“Customer, just what exactly do you do?”
“I’m just a customer. Please hand over the poison. And don’t lie saying you don’t have any.”
The owner returned to the kitchen and gathered the pufferfish innards he had hidden in a side-dish container. I watched the back of this master who had devoted his life to cooking.
Recruitment is impossible.
He was disqualified as a looter. It wasn’t that cooks had no value, or that his personality didn’t fit the looter lifestyle. The problem was simpler: the owner had a dream. He was a chef who found joy in cooking and in feeding customers the dishes he created. Even in a zombie-filled apocalypse, he would probably keep operating. Because that was his dream.
It doesn’t match with us looters.
We looters had no dreams. We were beast-like humans surviving day to day. Castaways drifting on waves of virus and zombies. Survivors without self-actualization or hopes for the future, simply facing immediate dangers and gathering necessary resources.
Still, there were things to learn from the owner. A sudden insight struck me.
Poison, disguised.
The owner’s madness had blended with his dream as a chef. He had disguised pufferfish poison as delicious food. The same could be done with mushrooms or any toxic creature. Simple poison had limited meaning. Poison and madness properly disguised as something plausible—that was the light this era needed. In other words, vision and leadership.
I tilted my head slightly, sinking into thought.
What should the looter group aim for?
In the waves of disaster, what direction should we advance? Or were we doomed to simply crash against the daily waves and wander? It was a difficult question.
Around that time, the owner extended his hand. The pufferfish innards were packed in a disposable container that had held miso soup or dongchimi.
“It won’t kill many. The lethal dose of tetrodotoxin is 16 milligrams, but this is mixed with blood and organs. Also, if the amount is small, symptoms can take three to six hours to appear.”
“Yes, I’ll use it well. …And when will the packed order be ready?”
“I’ll clean up the shop later. I’ll make it first.”
The owner neatly disinfected his hands and knife, then began slicing sashimi again. A peaceful atmosphere flowed through the midday restaurant.
Every group has toxic people. Humans who only destroy the group, offer no help, and slowly drag it toward death. So what happens to a group once those toxic people leave?
I received the answer from Rider Zero.
“Hello, owner! I’m here for a delivery, hehe. Wait, aren’t these the local vigilantes?”
Rider Zero, who had come to pick up the delivery order, stood at the entrance and showed open surprise. The owner spoke calmly.
“Suddenly they turned into zombies and killed each other. The packing will take a little longer. Is that okay?”
“Of course! These guys always looked like they had bad tempers anyway. Good riddance. …Huh? Isn’t that Deacon Kwon?”
Having confirmed it was me, Rider Zero sat down beside me. She removed her helmet with a frustrated expression and stared at me with wide eyes.
“The church—no, the community people miss Deacon Kwon terribly. What have you been doing lately?”
“Just surviving. How is the church?”
I hid my resentment and spoke as if I were worried about the community I had left. In truth, I was curious. Had harvest season arrived?
She laughed cheerfully.
“It’s doing incredibly well. I travel all over, so I know—their place is the most properly prepared.”
“…Is that so?”
Why? Why was it doing well? This made it seem like we looters had been the cancer cells of the group. Me, the thief elder, the electricity thief. Just the three of us leaving made things better? That didn’t make sense.
“Are they holding up against the zombie waves?”
“They say the waves don’t come anymore.”
…They don’t come? Why? Why? Why?
Rider Zero explained matter-of-factly.
“After fighting once, they must have decided it wasn’t worth it. That muscular zombie is leading his horde to attack other places. The church building has almost become a fortress. Someone who used to work at the metalworkers’ union joined and helped with armaments, I heard.”
She described only the exact features of the building: Molotov cocktails, slingshots, bolts for the slingshots, shields hastily made from car doors and hoods that were no longer in use. Above all, the people’s faces were full of the light of hope, united by a sense of belonging.
I sat with my mouth open, stunned.
The Hope Community we had left was doing very well. Truly.