Prologue: I Want to Ride the Subway
I want to ride a subway.
A train, they said, with identical cars strung out behind it in a long tail, each one hauling the next along by the scruff as they ran. A means of transport that loaded hundreds of people at a time and roamed the tunnels under the earth. By the time I was born, the subways had already stopped.
The Old Man used to say the apocalypse began the day public transit vanished, and when he said it his eyes went thick with longing. Standard old-man repertoire: live by picking over the past until the day you die.
Anyway, the stories about those old subways are unbelievable from one end to the other. Start with the claim that total strangers were packed skin to skin inside a narrow car. That's the same as begging to be killed. They even say you could board without anyone searching your body — forget a metal detector; there wasn't so much as a check on who you were. Somebody upstairs must have skimmed the money that should have gone into keeping the place safe. And still, they say, plenty of people climbed on with no weapons at all. At that point it's basically fantasy.
Even so, maybe some sliver of it was true. Ride one myself and I'd know soon enough, but there's no way left to do that. Whenever I put on a face that said I didn't understand, the Old Man would tack on the same line he always did, parrot-fashion: that was what peace was, and before the apocalypse the whole world had been like that.
Bullshit, obviously. That era, a few measly decades back — I don't have to have lived it to see straight through it. There is no age of peace. Part of why I'm still walking around in one piece is that I never believed garbage like that.
Trust anyone who so much as speaks of peace, and you die.
That's my iron rule. The reason I've survived this long.
Anyway. I want to ride a subway. Tearing at full speed through a dark tunnel deep underground — wouldn't that feel like punching clean through into space? Impossible now, of course. The stations on the surface were destroyed ages ago, and plenty of the ones underground have collapsed as well. The handful of subterranean stations still standing were taken as the finest shelters by whoever had the strength to hold them. Safe to assume no train is ever going to light those tunnels again.
Even so, a man is free to daydream. And if you're going to do it, it might as well be as fine a daydream as you can manage.
Footsteps. Something's. Lucky for me it's ruins — plenty of places to hide. Then again, most of the country is ruins, so being unlucky would take more work. I flattened myself at once against the inner wall of the nearest building. Crumbled down to almost nothing, and the thing still hid me completely; call it a building if you like. Breaking off work in broad daylight to hold my breath in a ruin. An ordinary day.
The steps came irregular, but there was an order in them all the same. They were watching their surroundings. Not monsters, then, and not zombies. Three of them, by the sound. Too few. Stragglers? It would help if they'd chat enough for me to pin down what they were. Anyone soft enough for that was already dead.
The moment you step indoors, confirm the exits first. Where they are, and how many.
I've forgotten who first taught me that. These days I only remember it as something I've taught myself, dozens of times, hundreds. I swept the area fast and marked my ways out.
The footsteps stopped. Right at my back. A single wall stood between us, and it was far too thin.
Close enough that the sound came clear: cloth brushing cloth, crisp and disciplined. A hand signal. The point man's order to halt, most likely. Then a rustle and a clink of gear, shallow breathing, the sound of a body moving big. One of them dropped low. The point man, then.
Reading what's left on the floor. My footprints weren't old; they'd stand out sharp. A smart one would just keep walking the way he'd been going. There were only three of them. No need to force a fight.
Two soft brushes. A glove against a sleeve makes a sound like that — a hand signal, the wrist flicked twice. Unless they'd invented their own, it meant enter. Advance.
Damn it. They'd decided to confirm what I was. Nothing for it. I'd step out on my own feet.
"Haaah... What's all the rustling for?"
No need to introduce myself out loud. The armband on my arm and the mark on my bag would say what I was.
"A postman?"
The point man saw the postman's armband and lowered his muzzle. As expected: three stragglers. Their uniforms still wore every mark of a brutal fight, and their faces announced exactly how their supplies were holding. Days without food. That explained why a mere three of them had pushed to find out who I was.
"Postman. What's your assignment? Delivering mail?"
Wearing a uniform doesn't put a postman under your command. You don't get to bark orders.
"I'm on my way to pass an air-raid warning. Finished the mail yesterday."
In this shit world, though, being handled like this is routine. Play along for now. This was reconnaissance.
"An air-raid warning. Rough work, pal."
"Look at the hide on this one's face. Tight as a drum. Not a sign he's suffered."
"Mr. Postman, I'm sorry, but..."
Muzzles down, and still no better than thugs. Fine. Let's see how heavy these robbers' wallets are.
"Hungry? I've got some food left over, as it happens."
"You do...! Ha. We're saved..."
"Anything worth a trade?"
"Of course!"
The straggler hurried his bag open with a little hehe. Inside: hygiene supplies, a small battery, a little knife, a lighter, and antibiotics. A Type-A survival bag of the Republic of Korea Armed Forces. There would have been cigarettes too — smoked already, or tucked into a pocket. Judging by the survival gear and how they were armed, they'd been sent to cull monsters. And as always, it wouldn't have gone to plan. When they crawled out with nothing but their lives, that alone would have been reason enough to thank God. Give it about two days, and you start glancing around in case something even more thankworthy might turn up.
"We'll pay you fair, Mr. Postman. We're all doing the country's work, aren't we? How much drinking water have you got?"
A lot of chatter, but the promise of a good price was probably true. They looked like they had a little surplus. What I'd actually wanted to confirm, though, they weren't showing me.
"Ammunition?"
"...Huh?"
"How much ammunition do you have?"
They dropped their eyes and looked me over. No rifle on me. At best, they were thinking, a pistol or a submachine gun hidden under the clothes. He lifted the service rifle hung on his body to show me. Left-handed, so he held it reversed, and the selector sitting on safe was plain to see.
"You blind? Our rounds are 5.56. You can't even use—"
"I'm not looking to shoot them myself."
Small, light, and they hold their value.
"You want them for money? Antibiotics and batteries are plenty—"
"I only take ammunition."
The rat-faced point man cracked a smirk.
"Funny guy. Ha."
The one behind shouldered forward and stepped out. This one, at least, looked like a person.
"I get what you're saying, but we've got to save our ammo too."
Smiling with his eyes, voice gone soft and easy. Time for the next step. I held up a five-hundred-milliliter bottle of water and a pouch of compressed powdered rations.
"One round. That's all."
A short silence.
"...One round? You'll hand all of that over for a single cartridge?"
The rat, one eyebrow cocked.
"Yeah. One round. Not more, not less. One will do."
However expensive ammunition got, this was double the going rate. I opened the ration pouch and rubbed it gently, and the smell of grain came drifting out. They flared their nostrils in order, nearest first. The one who looked like a person stuck his head out again.
"...No. If the antibiotics aren't enough, I'll throw in the lighter, yeah? Filled all the way, and I haven't lit it once. Here, look — see? The lighter itself is practically new. Check the manufacture date..."
There it was. Just as I'd thought.
"Lighter or no lighter, I told you I only need ammunition. Fine. I'll add another bottle of water. How's that? All it takes is one round."
The three faces went hard. Now they'd caught what I was after.
"You don't have any live rounds, do you."
Men who'd clawed their way off a battlefield ready to die. They'd have run while blazing away with everything they had. With death right in front of them, there wouldn't have been the luxury of saving a few rounds.
Chk.
"Want me to show you whether this mag's empty or not, you fuck?"
The rat, showing his true colors. All three raised their muzzles together, and the sight of it was almost pitiful. Even then he hadn't taken the selector off safe. Couldn't even act.
"What's the matter? Men doing the country's work, together."
"Oh, fuck off! We're not making it back anyway, you hear me? We've got nothing left to be scared of! A postman bastard with nothing to do!"
His voice echoed through the ruins. Off fallen walls and broken glass, it would have carried hundreds of meters at the least. Nothing left to fear — that much was clear. Not making it back. So they'd broken military law and run. Not stragglers. Criminals.
"Nothing to do? That's a harsh thing to say."
"Shut your mouth and throw the bag over here, errand boy."
"That's postman-phobia."
"Post... what? What the hell is that bastard saying?"
The third of them, who hadn't said a word the whole time, put his mouth to the rat's ear.
"Postman-phobia. Postman-phobia."
"Fuck's sake, dragging out the fancy words. You educated or something?"
"A little. And I can tell you aren't."
"You little—!"
Just as the rat was about to blow, the one behind him snatched up a rifle and hurled it at my face. Going to block my view, are we. A rifle with no ammunition isn't money, and it's nothing but heavy. I stepped aside. In that gap the rat drew a dagger and closed to within a breath.
The swing he sent at my throat was big. Far too big. A man who'd never properly used a knife.
Whump! A folding shield snapped open from the right arm I'd raised in a fist and caught the dagger.
Skree.
"Shit...!"
The rat scraped the blade off the shield and yanked it back. A small real scratch was left behind.
Two throwing knives came whistling in after, one from each of the others. Sloppy aim. The first was headed for my left humerus — not a fatal place even if it landed. Ten points out of a hundred. The one behind it was on a line to shave the rim of my right ear by a hair. Zero. I turned just enough to slip the first and snatched the one flying at my ear out of the air.
"Sh-shit, what is that guy?"
The rat backpedaled. I threw the knife at the selector of his rifle.
Tick! Semi-auto.
"Corporal. You think it fires if you leave it on safe?"
While the rat's pupils shivered, I checked the shield.
"Just got this, and it's already damaged. How are you planning to make that right?"
Only then did he notice the words engraved across it.
"Wh-what the hell are you."
"Shame about where the scratch landed."
His dagger had cut straight across the words Republic of Korea.
"A man doing the country's work, and where's all that patriotism gone?"
"You... what are you, exactly?"
Dementia, maybe. I shifted so he could get a proper look at the armband on my left arm.
"You saw it. I told you. Postman."
"Is this bastard insane...? You're actually just a postman?"
"Not quite. A postman with a bit of education."
I showed the armband once more to the face that wouldn't believe it.
"A p-postman, daring to loot an officer's shield and use it? You crazy? That's a death sentence, you!"
Rich, coming from men who'd run. Then again, the law only has to be on your side when you need it.
"So none of you have ammunition. Cigarettes?"
"...What?"
"I asked if you've got cigarettes. Ah — why am I so itchy?"
They didn't seem to follow, so I drew my special Backscratcher. Nothing better for scratching the sideburns.
"That thing he's got..."
"A hunter's pistol..."
"What's he saying? A postman wouldn't carry something like that around. That'd be a death sentence. This, you see — this is a backscratcher."
Even a thing born a pistol can go by any number of names, depending on the use.
Scratch, scratch.
"Ahh. That's the spot."
"Crazy son of a bitch..."
They took a step back. A backscratcher indeed — a sovereign remedy for settling a situation. The only problem, if it was a problem, was absentmindedly hooking a finger over the trigger while you scratched your head.
"Military gear wasn't enough, so now it's hunter gear too... However you got it, you're using it yourself instead of turning it in? A postman...?"
"Living like he's got nothing to lose. Has to be insane..."
"You really a postman?"
Tsk. No appreciation for a man's sincerity. My station really is postman. A very diligent one.
"So. You got them, or not."
"...?"
"Cigarettes. I asked."
They hesitated, trading looks. Then, one by one, hands went fumbling for pockets. A single cigarette came out in each.
And so another ordinary day completes itself. Ruins, hunger, plunder, and now and then a Backscratcher.
The Old Man used to lament that the end of the world had turned into daily life. What he expected me to do about it, I couldn't say. I was born after the apocalypse; from the start, this was the day-to-day. To me the world is the same as it ever was. Think of it that way, and by my measure the apocalypse never came at all.
For certain people, though, it was today. The end was scheduled to pay a visit.
Four hours until the air raid. I'd lost time, but if I hurried I could still get the warning out when it needed to go out.
Time to work.