The Fox's Revenge
I seriously pondered whether I could achieve food self-sufficiency. I'm not some deep-sea whiner, after all. Whoa, here it is—canned bread! But I couldn't survive solely on canned goods while screaming obscenities like that. For the sake of my mental health, I needed fresh food now and then.
As the human population dwindles, other animals and plants should naturally proliferate. Fresh food required fresh ingredients, of course. That naturally led me to consider real-time foraging. Farming took too long and was risky if discovered, so nix that. Hunting seemed equally tricky. In the end, I concluded that something passive like fishing was ideal.
It absolutely wasn't because I was a lazy shut-in who hated working. That's how I decided to learn fishing before the apocalypse hit.
A few days of shock at the surprisingly expensive rod prices and watching survival YouTube videos on making my own rod. I started practicing at a spot not far from my bunker.
But fishing... it was harder than I thought. Maybe the old man who approached me one day—another angler like me—felt sorry for me, striking out empty-handed every single day.
"Wow, you're here every day, young man. Must really love it, huh?"
Looking back, he might've just found it weird that some unemployed bum was fishing all day instead of working. The kindly smiling grandpa tossed out casual topics first: where I lived, what I did, if fishing was a hobby, and so on.
I'm not a fan of people in general. But I'm not so rude as to snap at an elder three times my age. The conversation flowed with him asking and me answering.
Before long, I started enjoying our meetings. Fishing had this mystical quality—time flew while chatting, the stalled clock suddenly racing ahead. At some point, we were naturally sitting side by side, rods in hand.
"I hooked a lunker once! The moment I lifted it, I felt the heft. My son measured it later—55 cm long, at least 5 kg."
From what I'd researched, bass over 50 cm were classified as lunkers, a type of monster catch. I had no clue how impressive the weight was as a novice, but... considering his age, it was probably huge.
As always, I humored his boasting appropriately.
"Oh, really? Here?"
"Nah, somewhere else."
"Why come here if you had such a hot spot?"
"Aigoo... I can't for the life of me remember where."
"......"
"Heh heh heh! Try getting old yourself! I can barely recall yesterday's date—always getting nagged by my son."
"Ah, I see."
"This kid doesn't believe me! I even made spicy fish stew for my son and daughter-in-law with it!"
Boast or not, the grandpa was genuinely skilled at fishing. His form and attitude toward it were leagues above mine.
"The key to fishing is mindset. Clear as a mirror, still as water. Fish know right away when greed tugs at the float. Stay calm—that's how you hook 'em."
"Oh, so mindset trumps rod or bait?"
"What nonsense. Expensive gear's the best, obviously. Lend me that one."
"Grandpa, no..."
He was still just a hobbyist, after all. But his experience and knowledge far outstripped my newbie self. I learned diligently from him like a good student: water currents, bait threading, rod maintenance, fish gutting.
After days of failures, his teachings turned me into a decent angler. Alone, it would've taken ages. Steal one technique, call 'em master; this guy deserved "sifu."
"Hm, nothing left to teach. You're ready to graduate."
"Huh? I'm keeping at it."
By then, I'd grown hooked on fishing myself. They say late starters get addicted harder. I'd fallen completely into the leisurely healing time and our chats.
"Fishing like this brings back old memories."
"Old times? That lunker?"
"Nah, back then, I'd fish with a buddy, just the two of us."
I nodded, touched by the mention of his friend.
"Must've been a handsome, upstanding guy."
"Nah, kinda nasty personality. Like you."
I glared; he dodged with his usual hearty laugh.
"You're better than that jerk, though. He'd lash out at nothing."
"Oh? Tantrums?"
"Once, we had a fishing date, but he showed up fuming. Asked why—he'd fought with his wife, face beet red."
Grandpa chuckled reminiscently.
"Couldn't shake it even while fishing, muttering nonstop. Back then, the area was less developed. A fox appeared right in front of us."
I shot him a skeptical look. Truth be told, his boasts were over-the-top. He'd forget his own stories or contradict himself casually. I figured this was more of the same.
"My pissy friend chucked a rock at the poor fox and chased it off. I warned him foxes hold grudges. And wouldn't you know—the guy's lunchbox was empty, not a grain left!"
"Whoa, fox stole his lunch as revenge?"
"Probably. Foxes are mystical. Had to eat lunch, though, so I shared some rice. Like, half of half."
"Stingy."
"Heh heh heh! Anyway, I opened my lunchbox... and yep. Fox was sly—mine was half-empty too."
Oh, this was getting fun.
"Smart. So what happened?"
"Come evening, the hungry jerk groveled to his wife."
His wife? Not the fox?
I blinked, then burst out laughing as realization hit.
"Ahahaha!"
"Puhahaha!"
Grandpa laughed too. Our fishing sessions were a blast like that.
How much time passed? I'd gotten skilled enough to fish solo. But one day, grandpa stopped showing up.
The spot was already deserted. I sat alone where we'd shared drinks, blankly dangling my line.
"......"
Had I grown that attached? Solitude felt lonely; mostly, I worried about him.
As the apocalypse loomed and Korea grew chaotic, I finally decided to look for him. He had fishing savvy; I prided myself on tracking people.
I ended up at a rundown apartment. Intel said he lived there with his son and daughter-in-law. But they'd moved.
I asked neighbors just in case. A chatty auntie dropped a bombshell.
"The old man's got dementia."
"Pardon?"
Shocking to me. Grandpa, dementia? His expert fishing bore no signs. But his non-fishing stories always felt off, awkward.
I'd overlooked it since fishing was our bond. Too late, I realized.
"Dementia treatment?"
"That, and... their baby died. Old man and mom ended up in a psych ward from the shock."
My lips dried like scorched earth.
Grandpa never once bragged about grandkids. Why, when we chatted about everything trivial?
"The baby's corpse was weird. Like boiled in scalding water..."
I returned to my bunker from his old apartment. Could've dug more, but no heart for it.
Instead, I searched one term online, just in case.
The average weight for a 1~3-month-old boy is 4.5~6.4 kg, and for a girl, 4.2~5.8 kg. Boys measure 54.7~61.4 cm in length, girls 53.7~59.8 cm.
—I hooked a lunker while fishing before. The moment I lifted it, it felt so heavy. My son measured it later—55 cm long, at least 5 kg.
[The baby's corpse was weird. Like boiled in scalding water...]
—Aigoo, this guy doesn't believe me! I even made spicy fish stew for my son and daughter-in-law with it!
Thud!
"Hoo..."
I gave up investigating grandpa entirely. More precisely, I lacked the guts to confirm his state.
It's fine. Nothing's certain yet.
Maybe the auntie heard wrong rumors. A happy truth could await. Maybe he hit the lottery, ditched his fishing buddy, and jetted off to ogle fancy rods.
I stashed the spare rod I'd bought as a gift, fooling myself.
......
Until I saw for myself, nothing was sure. Until the truth, every bad thing could just be the fox's revenge.