Uninvited Guests
“…Nngh.”
I tried to push myself up, but my body wouldn’t move.
My arms.
They wouldn’t bend.
What time is it even?
How long did I sleep?
“Urgh…”
The hard floor had felt comfortable enough last night. Now my back, my legs — hell, even my neck — had gone completely stiff.
“Whoa, whoa. Don’t try to move all at once.”
A pair of hands carefully helped me sit up. I leaned into them and managed, barely, to get upright.
A water bottle appeared in front of eyes that still refused to open properly.
“The sun’s high. Time to get up.”
“…Hard to call it high when it’s pitch black in every direction.”
“We’re inside a bunker, so of course it is. Still — we have to keep to a schedule if we’re going to live like people.”
So they have a clock, then.
That made sense. A clock meant rest periods and work periods could actually be kept.
Still… the debuff from sleeping on bare concrete was no joke.
I should throw together a cot sooner rather than later.
“I checked — the electric stove works. Looks like we’ll finally get some well-seared canned ham.”
“Canned ham, huh.”
Canned ham.
The words alone didn’t paint much of a picture. The ham I knew was greasy and delicious over a bowl of rice.
“I know it’s garbage. But it’s not like we can get a proper cut of pork around here. Bacon’s pure fantasy.”
Anything tasted good over hot white rice, sure, but…
Of course the setting had to feel like a mash-up of America and Russia.
So around here, canned ham was… what? Spread on bread?
Assuming any decent bread still existed.
“Ah — and Sarah woke up.”
“That’s good news.”
Injured people usually just drained resources. If infection set in, the medicine bill went insane. And if whoever was nursing them got caught in a fight and hurt themselves, the infection could spread that way too.
The faster someone recovered, the better for everyone.
“Would you take a look at her while we eat?”
I wasn’t a doctor, exactly.
…But I couldn’t exactly say no to someone looking at me with that much trust in their eyes.
No choice, then.
I limped down the corridor, and the barricades sealing both ends of the passage caught my eye again. Solid work. Old zombies couldn’t climb, and even if they tried, we’d hear them. Safe enough, probably.
But that smell.
That salty, savory smell… no way.
“Is that the canned ha—”
“Smells good, right?”
That’s Spam.
“My dad taught me the method. Eating it raw is fine, but if you sear it until it browns a little and pair it with those dry, bland crackers, it’s a whole lot better.”
No.
Nothing beat laying it over a bowl of freshly steamed, fluffy white rice.
“You’ve probably never had it, but give it a try — it’s better than you’d think. Of course, it’s no comparison to a life of well-cooked bacon, eggs, and toast…”
Hmm. Bacon, eggs, toast.
Bacon meant livestock. Eggs meant chickens. Toast meant growing wheat.
In the game, I’d always burned through preserved food for efficiency. Looking back, though, a proper meal had done more for depression than I’d given it credit for.
“We’re here. Sarah’s in that room.”
Still half-lost in thoughts of food, I arrived at a room full of sizzling sounds.
They’d unpacked and set up house in the room right next to the medical wing. Unsorted supply crates suggested it had been a storage space once. Blankets were scattered everywhere.
“Well, well. The doctor’s awake.”
Yesterday it was “yellow monkey.” Today he was greeting me with a bright smile.
I followed James to the wall of the room where the food was cooking and leaned against it.
So there were power cords after all.
I’d never seen anything like this in the game.
“How’s the body?”
“Aches like hell, but I’ll live.”
“I could tell from the way you ran yourself ragged without a wink of sleep yesterday. A guy built softer than Sarah — so I made sure we had some protein ready.”
Ah. That salt-and-grease smell, thick enough to clog an artery just by breathing it in.
…Should I grow rice too?
If I could get seeds, it was doable. Late-game content, sure, and I’d need to recruit a farmer — or read myself half to death on the subject, and that part definitely wouldn’t get the same game-logic free pass my crafting did.
“What’s with the faraway look? Meat got your mouth watering?”
“Who salivates over this… wait.”
James and Curtis were staring at me strangely. I wiped my mouth.
Damn. Soaked.
“Ever had it before?”
“Yeah, uh — in Korea there’s this dish called budae-jjigae. Back when the U.S. military was stationed there, people took leftover rations, threw them in a pot, and made a stew. Or they’d grill stuff like this and eat it with rice.”
“A stew? Made of… canned ham soup?”
“Bone broth, canned beans with ketchup, sausage… sometimes a slice of cheese on top.”
Their faces were doing something complicated.
“It’s good.”
“…Didn’t know Koreans were into that kind of freak food.”
“I—I’ll eat whatever, so just… the good stuff is fine…”
Why were they reacting like that?
It was delicious.
…Fine. I’d ramp up development so fast I could force-feed them rice and Spam myself.
“Anyway, Dad’s handling the cooking. Mind checking on Sarah?”
“Sure.”
Leaving Curtis behind — still watching me with a dubious look as he waved me off — I walked the dark corridor to the medical room.
The door was slightly ajar, but barging in would have been wrong.
Knock, knock.
A rustling sound answered from inside.
“Come — ahem, ahem! Come in.”
A voice thick with sleep.
I eased the steel door open. Sarah sat there, hair a mess.
“…Hmm.”
Even at a glance, the bandages needed changing. There should have been disinfectant alcohol in the emergency medical kit, right?
I washed my hands in silence and pulled on gloves. I heard her draw a deep breath.
“—They said you saved me.”
“Just doing what needed to be done.”
The rubber gloves snapped into place. I snipped the old bandages free with scissors and dropped them in a bin, then pressed cotton against the dried blood and seepage, wiping carefully.
“Just doing what… needed to be done.”
Sarah watched me work on her wound, her face twitching faintly —
“Nnngh…!”
“Does it hurt?”
“The alcohol — hiss…”
“Scared me for a second.”
I laid gauze over the wound and wrapped fresh bandages around it. Healing would take time, but still.
“Can you move?”
“I’m starving enough to die. After I eat something.”
“Fair enough.”
What could Sarah do? Guard duty, combat, hunting — like Curtis and James?
Something more would be ideal, but maybe that was asking too much.
“I’ll bring you some food. Menu’s seared canned ham and crackers, apparently.”
“…I feel like it’s been forever since I ate anything green.”
“Vegetables.”
“Yeah. Vegetables. Everything’s always salty and greasy. I know it’s a luxury, but… cola. Cola too.”
For crying out loud.
The second the fortifications were done, farming was first on the list.
“Just venting. If I said this to Grandpa or Dad, they’d ask me how many times they’ve heard it already. I know it’s not their fault, though.”
She pressed carefully at the wound, then took painkillers and water from beside her pillow. Her feet found the floor. A slight wince crossed her face.
“Let’s go. Time to eat.”
“I was going to bring the food to you.”
“You said to keep this room clean. And it’s not like my leg’s broken.”
Most people would want more rest. Why was she pushing herself harder instead?
“You coming?”
“Just finishing up here.”
She nodded and limped out through the door. A burst of noisy chatter soon drifted back down the hall.
…Well. She was the granddaughter and daughter those two doted on.
I left the waste behind and stepped out — and my eyes went straight back to the dark barricade.
“….”
I gave it a light shake with my hand. Pushed it with my foot. It didn’t budge easily — properly installed —
“Gyaaah!”
“Hwaaak!!”
A hand. My hand —
Even in the dark, I could see it clearly.
“What’s goi— oh, shit!”
A light snapped on, and the situation resolved itself in an ugly second.
Zombies packed against the far side of the barricade. Reaching through, clawing, throwing their weight against the steel plate.
“Did it bite you?”
“N-no. Just don’t shoot.”
Drawn by the light and the cooking smell, probably. Thankfully, nothing but old zombies as far as I could tell…
“Goddamn it. We’re almost out of magazines.”
“How many are there?”
At a glance, well over ten.
“I’ll check the other side.”
“Sarah — give the shotgun to Hyunwoo.”
“Got it.”
At this rate, every meal would turn into an ambush. And if we couldn’t clear the bodies, the stench of decay would make life miserable on top of everything else.
“…No rest for the wicked.”
Kill them before more piled up. Or build enough firepower that it wouldn’t matter how many came.
“Other side’s clear.”
“Clean. We should move.”
“No. We’re holding this place.”
For any other character, nomadic life would have been the optimal play. Break free of the spawn zone fast, stretch food as thin as possible, reach a settlement big enough to call a city, take quests, earn money, buy food, rinse and repeat.
Level up that way, and sure — it worked.
But I was a Crafter. I could make anything with my own hands.
And what I wanted was a community built by those hands — one that would eventually sustain itself without me lifting a finger. Early hardships like this were meant to be endured.
“Hold it? We’re low on ammo.”
“We’ve got a generator, and the water pump still needs a full check, but—”
“I get not wanting to abandon a medical room we just set up, but—”
“Sarah’s hurt. She needs rest for a while or the wound will reopen.”
“…If you’re going easy on me because I’m a woman, I’m ready to enlist right n—”
“You’re a person before you’re a woman, and an injured person needs rest first. If that wound turns into something I don’t recognize and starts to fester, I won’t have a fix for it.”
Because she was a woman?
Not even close.
In my eyes, they were all future labor. If even one of them died, the two men with the crack shooting skills would lose their minds — and in the worst case, put a bullet through their own heads.
I was never, ever going to watch that happen.
“You said we’re short on ammo?”
“Five-five-six and buckshot both.”
“Buckshot I can make right now.”
Three pairs of eyes locked onto me.
“…You’re joking.”
“No. I can do it. If you bring me the materials.”
That was what a Crafter was for.
Bullets. Electricity. Water. Food.
A Crafter could make all of it.
“Scrap metal, gunpowder, and plastic casings. That’s all I need.”
“…That’ll actually work? Seriously?”
“Hurry. Before more of them stack up out there.”
Before we even ate, I grabbed the welder and a sheet of steel plate.
No time to waste.