The PC Bang Sanctuary
I'd ended up inside a zombie apocalypse novel. My luck had been absurdly good. Honestly, I'd half-expected something nasty waiting inside, and if there had been, things would've gotten ugly fast. Swinging a bat around in such a cramped space would've been a nightmare.
"Whoa."
The PC Bang was stocked to the brim with food. Sure, some of it had already gone bad and needed tossing, but even after clearing that out, there was still an absurd amount left. Cup ramen, all kinds of snacks, canned sodas, bottled water. Throw in the frozen stuff and I could probably hole up here for weeks without issue.
"Holy shit. This is insane."
While I was rummaging through the place, I found something else in the storage room: a pedal-powered generator. No idea why a PC Bang would have one, but being able to generate electricity was a massive advantage. Originally I'd planned to rest here and move on, but that plan changed.
"I'm staying."
Food, water, and now a generator for power. There was no way any other spot would offer better conditions. It made more sense to just live here. If I could hold out for a few months, the protagonist would start moving in earnest, scouring other areas for capable survivors. I could just get rescued then. Surviving alone for months ought to earn me decent treatment.
"...Still feels risky, though."
The protagonist wasn't exactly the type who went crazy for women. But just like how a smut novel without sex scenes was pointless, the author always manufactured situations that forced the protagonist to get busy. Dramatic rescues, conveniently attractive heroines, the whole zombie apocalypse excuse making polygamy socially acceptable. Surviving was great, but that didn't mean I wanted to become some guy's breeding stock. I figured it was worth worrying about as I headed toward the counter.
The entire basement floor belonged to the PC Bang. They'd turned the stairwell entrance into part of the shop itself, maximizing every inch of space. That meant it was spacious, but it also meant more people would be needed to manage it. Places like this usually kept at least one room for staff to eat and sleep.
"Nice."
My guess was right. Behind the counter was a small staff area with a bed just big enough for one person and a door that could barely be called a door. Dust had piled up, but that was nothing a quick cleaning couldn't fix. What caught my eye was the notebook lying on the bed.
".............................."
I wasn't an idiot. I'd already learned that reading diaries like this only ever made me depressed. The college student's note and the manager's suicide note had taught me that much. Yet here I was, already flipping it open. There might be useful information inside.
And there was. A radio. An emergency exit leading to the first floor that was normally kept locked. Little details like that filled the pages. The writer was a man in his early forties. He'd started working right after turning twenty-seven, quit his office job at thirty-eight, and used the severance pay to open this PC Bang. He wrote about supporting his family in a rough but densely packed handwriting.
Jokes about buying a generator to save on electricity while getting some exercise. How listening to radio shows while working gave him energy. His wife worrying because he didn't get enough sunlight, so their son had bought several boxes of vitamins. Traces of an ordinary life filled every page.
And on the very last page:
His wife had appendicitis and he'd opened the shop late. Things didn't look good, so he might need to head home.
I snapped the notebook shut.
............In the early days, zombies had appeared everywhere. The moment the incubation period ended, the infected turned, and every group had been wiped out before they could react. Doctors mid-examination became zombies and tore into patients. Classmates who'd been resting in the dorm suddenly started howling like beasts. Kindergarten teachers played deadly games of tag with their own students.
So the odds of the man's wife still being alive were extremely low.
"Fuck."
My mood was in the gutter. I'd tried to console myself with the useful survival info I'd gained, but the shitty feeling wouldn't go away. I dropped my bag, collapsed onto the bed the man had used, and pulled the headset down over my ears.
It wasn't particularly noisy and there weren't any zombies nearby, but after wearing it for two weeks straight, going without it felt wrong. I only felt safe when it was around my neck or covering my ears. Still, it got in the way sometimes, so I'd experimented with regular earphones and earplugs. But somehow, nothing worked like this cat-ear headset. And strangely enough, even when I lost it, it always ended up back around my neck, like my hands moved on their own.
"..........Ah, that's better."
Just wearing it made the gloom lift a little. I wouldn't call it outright pleasant, but the depression had faded. I sat up slowly and stepped out of the room. According to the diary, there was an emergency exit leading upstairs. The main entrance was useless—door locked, shutter down, zombies clustered outside. I needed another way out. I couldn't stay trapped here forever.
"So it should be around here somewhere... besides the emergency exit..."
Feeling my way through the dark PC Bang, I found a small door. The emergency exit sign confirmed it. I slowly undid the lock and listened. Nothing seemed to be moving outside, so I opened it.
"Ah."
It looked like they'd been using it as storage. Cleaning supplies filled the space, along with a staircase and another door at the top. I pushed through the clutter and tried to read the sign on the door. It was nothing special—just instructions to evacuate here in case of fire. More importantly, I finally felt like I could relax. I had an escape route for emergencies, food and water inside, and electricity. That last part especially was a relief.
"But I won't be able to listen to music."
I'd cut the cord on the cat-ear headset, so of course I couldn't. Unless I found a new one, it'd have to stay as a glorified pair of earmuffs. A little disappointing. Falling asleep to music would've helped with the stress. But complaining wouldn't change anything.
"First, let's figure out the lights."
Lighting up the entire PC Bang was obviously impossible. The goal was just the small staff room. The bicycle generator was oddly designed—it could charge batteries with regular cells, and pedaling it yourself worked too, though the efficiency was laughable. Two hours of steady pedaling only gave enough power for one hour of light in the room. The one saving grace was that there were two spare batteries that could be swapped in. I didn't know how charged they were, but having more storage capacity was good.
"Shit."
Even so, the answer wasn't obvious. I turned the generator on and checked the battery display on the handle. It looked like ten glowing segments, but something seemed off.
"Seven... over 70% charged?!"
Each battery could hold up to 500W, so that meant 350W stored. Just to be sure, I checked the other two. Both were completely full. I frantically flipped the notebook open again and reread the section about the generator, this time carefully. Only then did the full picture make sense.
A friend had been using this generator and sold it cheap when he bought a new one. The owner had bought it for exercise, planning to fill at least one empty battery. But there was something even more important written there.
"..............It's close, huh?"
The man's friend was apparently a survivalist. He also worked at a major corporation. His hobby was maintaining a personal bunker, and his wife was a survivalist too, so they got along. They were close enough that the owner had even been invited over for meals at the bunker. And he'd written down the exact locations of both the bunker and the safehouse, joking that he might need them someday.
I couldn't help but feel my eyes widen. A survivalist's bunker and safehouse, maintained by a corporate salaryman. I needed to revise my plans. The PC Bang was decent, but it couldn't compare to an actual bunker and safehouse. Pretending to be a relative of the owner and heading there seemed like the best move. If the friend was still alive, I could spin a sob story. If not, I'd just take the place for myself. If I got lucky and the friend or his wife had already turned, things would be even simpler. The friend lived in a house, not an apartment, so clearing it out would be easy too.
I prayed the guy was dead while memorizing the address and directions as best I could. Then it hit me.
"......Ah, fuck."
I wasn't just using a dead man's stuff anymore. I was planning to rob someone who might still be alive. And I'd genuinely hoped they were dead. The thought made my stomach turn. I wasn't some saint, but I wasn't a complete monster either. I wasn't the kind of person who'd trample others without hesitation just to save myself. Yet here I was, thinking like one. The disgust kept me frozen for a while.
Eventually, a single word slipped out.
"Fucking idiot."
Too tired to dwell on it, I lay back down and went to sleep.