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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Good News
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There are stages to the apocalypse.
Opinions differ from person to person, but the primary indicator for distinguishing these stages is the state of the nation.
All serious stages are conditioned on the collapse of the state.
Ever since the Chinese warlords ignited a suicide war, nuclear missiles rained down on major cities in South Korea, marking the beginning of the nation's downfall.
Countless people died, and numerous cities lay in ruins, yet even at that point, the Republic of Korea's system was still holding together.
There was no need to venture outside at all.
Just tuning into shortwave radio or TV broadcasts provided national emergency alerts explaining the current situation.
Though the main TV had been fried by the EMP, I swapped in the backup unit and monitored things.
Millions had perished, and roughly half the city's functions had ground to a halt, but Seoul and the surrounding areas were swiftly regaining stability through the efforts of military units, civil servants, and volunteers.
I didn't leave the bunker until communications and order had been restored in the district I'd claimed.
To prepare for this day, I dragged out my beat-up old cargo bike and headed toward Seoul.
In America, where everyone and their dog is armed to the teeth, this would be insanely dangerous—but this is Korea.
The risks of snipers or gunfire here pale in comparison to the States.
Even if this were America, I'd have made the same choice.
Cowering from the start gets you nothing.
Of course, even in Korea, you still need to follow basic etiquette.
Cheap off-brand clothes, all worn and ragged; minimal possessions. The apocalypse dress code.
On top of that, I packed three days' worth of food and water, a bit of dollars, and some cigarettes for bartering. For self-defense, a U.S.-made pistol and a razor-sharp hand axe.
There were no major threats on the way to Seoul, but the apocalyptic scenery and air unfolding before me stirred a tangled mix of relief, vindication, and a creeping melancholy that soaked into my bones.
Leaving my well-prepped hideout to head to Seoul wasn't without reason.
"I'm looking for Hunter Lee Sanghun."
I picked out one of the bustling soldiers who seemed the friendliest and asked.
"Hunter Lee Sanghun?"
"Yes. The current head of disaster response."
"Can't you see how busy we are?"
Despite his mild face, he was prickly—but a few packs of smokes turned him miraculously kind.
"Ah, you're looking for Director Lee Sanghun. Such a common name."
"Oh, promoted already? He always stood out from the start."
"Hang on a sec. I'll radio it in. Who should I say it is?"
"Tell him it's Park Gyu, from school. If he doesn't remember, say it's the top graduate from our class—he'll get it right away."
The soldier returned shortly after.
"Director Lee is in a meeting and can't be reached right now."
"I see."
"What's the issue? If there's anything I can help with, I will."
I hadn't really come to meet Lee Sanghun anyway.
I'd known from the moment I left the bunker that he wouldn't make time for me.
Truth be told, I didn't want to see him either.
The reason I'd name-dropped him was something else entirely.
"I'd like a military walkie-talkie and a personal ID code."
Cell phones still worked in some areas, but plenty of places were dead zones.
Especially the farther you got from cities, the more useless they became.
In this situation, the most reliable comms were high-end shortwave radios or K-walkie-talkies.
Heavier and trickier than phones, but far more dependable—and on public frequencies, you could reach anyone nearby without even knowing their number.
Convenient enough on its own, but military models were a cut above civilian ones, with access to encrypted channels.
Meaning direct info from the most trustworthy armed group and intel source around: the military.
"Since you know Director Lee, we can give you the walkie free of charge, but no personal ID code. Those are only for military-police liaisons and monster handlers."
As expected.
I hadn't counted on the ID code from the start.
The soldier handed over a brand-new, unopened unit.
I carefully checked it for defects right there and ran a test.
Perfect—top quality.
Mission accomplished for the Seoul trip.
For the rest of the time, I biked around the city.
Word on the street: five nukes headed for Seoul—four intercepted mid-air, one hit inside the four main gates.
Casualties still being tallied, but over a million easy.
Roads turned into parking lots of stalled vehicles; ruins everywhere.
The area inside the gates, ground zero, was under lockdown.
Homeless wandered everywhere; hospitals overflowed with radiation victims and injured sprawled on the streets.
Public order didn't look too bad.
Whether due to strong policing or citizens too exhausted for crime, time would tell.
EMP effects were underwhelming—many vehicles and cell towers down, but plenty still operational. Power was being restored selectively to priority spots.
What people feared most was the next airstrike.
Government said they'd retaliated with nukes, wiping out the source—but few bought it wholesale.
Sure enough, while cruising Seoul, the air raid siren blared, and I hunkered down in the subway.
Lots of refugees inside.
The area had big apartment complexes nearby, so the station was packed to bursting.
"?"
For a moment in the subway, I doubted my eyes.
Samsung 'Best Lewis Billingthon' Residents AreaLabel 'Chief Head Stone' Residents AreaBrandia 'Proud Noble Hill' Residents AreaLotte 'Rupert Reichpalace' Residents Area ... ...
The subway was sectioned off by apartment complex.
No armbands, but middle-aged men and women with invisible ones prowled neurotically, marking their turf.
A guy in a red hat—must've been sixty lines strong—suddenly appeared before me and barked.
"Hey, mister. Where you from?"
"I'm still in my twenties. Twenty-nine, technically."
"No, where are you from? Local?"
"Ease up on the informal talk. You're not my boss."
"You from around here?"
"No."
"Non-residents over there."
He waved me off without even looking.
The non-resident zone was the dingiest corner of the station.
Rentals & Others
A lightless pit.
A few folks milled about with gloomy faces; faint radio murmurs echoed here and there.
"...This airstrike is cruise missiles, not nukes. Our intercept forces will block them with the spirit of Admiral Yi Sun-sin, but citizens, prepare for any contingencies..."
Soon the ground trembled faintly, distant booms echoing ominously through the station walls.
Boom— boom—
Sharing an air raid shelter with strangers in an unfamiliar bunker isn't exactly pleasant.
No privacy whatsoever.
Rustle—
Hungry, I unwrapped a chocolate bar—suddenly, eyes gleamed like a rat pack spotting food.
Intimidating enough, but then a strange kid sidled up and stared at me wide-eyed.
Gurgle—
Hasn't eaten properly?
Cheeks plump enough for a month of fasting.
His parents, belatedly, dragged him away.
"Here."
I offered a fresh chocolate bar and asked a few questions.
"Rations? They gave us scraps. But even that's..."
The parents glared bitterly at the entrance-holders.
Speaking for them, I asked:
"Complex residents hogging it all?"
They nodded silently.
"Got it."
Fresh insight.
In crises, people band together into interest groups—natural enough. But Koreans have their own focal points.
Clan villages in Joseon days; apartment complexes today.
The more units and influence, the stronger the complex power.
Here in this cramped shelter, the power balance was stark.
Strong complexes claimed prime spots and supplies; weak ones got scraps in the boonies.
Purely Korean scenery.
Soon, all-clear sirens wailed.
- Air raid over! Air raid over! Citizens, return to your duties outside.
I nodded farewell to the short-term family companions and exited the subway.
Heading out, those complex signs and residents caught my eye again.
"..."
Eh, no vandalism, probably.
Koreans tolerate thieves, but bike thieves? Hell no.
Dragging my bike through, I felt their shady stares rake over it—no actual threats, though.
Life's still livable, and the nation holds.
Overheard their chat unintentionally.
"This bombing hit the new town area. Chinese bastards loaded missiles with chemical weapons—damage is insane."
Standard talk.
But one housewife's curt remark halted me.
"Good news."
I doubted my ears.
"?"
Good news? Now?
"Good news. Few decent complexes left in Seoul anyway. If everywhere else gets wrecked but ours, won't we become the top residential spot?"
If just one or two said it, whatever.
But humans always exceed imagination.
"Now that you mention it, huge windfall."
"Our place will be Seoul's premier luxury complex."
"Friend always bragged about his—serves him right."
"Can't wait for the war to end and the rankings to shake out."
"Guess you need crisis for opportunity."
Since the war started, I'd avoided faces.
They'd all be gone soon anyway.
But this time, I couldn't hold back—I looked.
Ordinary faces, anywhere.
That deepened my rage.
"Hey, isn't that going too far?"
Won't see 'em again—worth asking.
Cold glares answered.
A middle-aged woman smirked, swapped looks with residents, and snapped:
"Mind your own way."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I have no way of knowing the ultimate fate of that entire complex clique.
No time to dwell on folks calling world-ending a boon.
But the end of one faction—the 'Rupert Reichpalace' residents—I know well.
Reckon it was a year and a half after my first Seoul visit.
A group of refugees passed my hideout.
📡 RADIO TRANSMISSION 📡 -Kssht! Kssht! This is... District! Rupert Reichpalace Residents Group! Anyone hearing, respond! Repeat! This is...
They kept hailing public frequencies nonstop.
I just listened, no reply.
Had food and water for hundreds, but nothing to spare them.
Not a grain of rice, not a flake of my dead skin.
Still, entering my turf? Not good news for them.
📡 RADIO TRANSMISSION 📡 -Kssht! Aaaargh! Monsters! This is Rupert Reichpalace Residents Group! We're under attack by monsters! Repeat! This is Rupert-fucking-Reichpalace Residents Group!
A month prior, man-killing freaks had shown up near my base.
Not monsters.
Beings corrupted by monster plagues, mutated.
Mutations.
Local cat lady's strays caught the factors, ballooned tiger-sized, and now hunted humans with the ferocity that wiped out mandarin ducks and national treasures.
Weaker than the southern Gold Pack murder-dogs, but against civilians? Unmatched.
Rat-tat-tat!
Scattering gunfire, the walkie wailed miserably.
📡 RADIO TRANSMISSION 📡 -Kssht! This is Rupert Reichpalace Residents... Repeat! We're under monster attack!!
Listening quietly, I finally keyed the mic.
"Good news."