The rain was a blessing and a curse. It washed away the smell of rot that hung over the city, but it turned the asphalt into a slick, treacherous stage.
Han-su stood at the cracked-open rear door of the truck. Outside, the world was a study in grey. The neon signs of Gwanak-gu were dark. The only light came from the occasional flickering streetlamp and the distant, orange glow of fires that refused to go out.
"Ji-young, stay by the door. If I signal, you pull the latch," Han-su whispered.
He stepped out into the rain. He carried a plastic jug and a six-foot length of clear plastic tubing he'd found in a "DIY Home Repair" package.
The nearest car was a silver Hyundai sedan, pinned between a bus and a concrete barrier. A woman was still in the driver's seat, her forehead resting against the steering wheel. She didn't move as Han-su approached.
He knelt by the fuel cap. His heart was a drum in his ears. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He popped the cap. It made a loud click. He froze.
Ten meters away, a zombie—a teenager in a soaked hoodie—turned its head. It tilted its neck at an unnatural angle, listening. Han-su held his breath. The rain drummed on the roof of the Hyundai, providing a rhythmic cover. The teenager eventually turned back away.
Han-su slid the tube into the tank. He leaned down, his face inches from the grime of the car, and sucked on the other end of the tube.
The taste of gasoline was immediate and foul—bitter, chemical, and burning. He gagged, coughing silently into his shoulder as the amber liquid began to flow into the jug.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
The sound felt like a gunshot in the quiet street. Han-su watched the jug fill. One gallon. Two. He needed at least five to feel safe enough to reach the outskirts of the city.
Suddenly, a hand slammed against the glass of the Hyundai.
Han-su jumped, nearly knocking over the jug. The woman inside—the driver—wasn't dead. She was 'turned.' She was staring at him through the glass, her mouth opening and closing in a silent scream, her fingernails scratching at the window.
Skreeeeee.
The sound was high-pitched. The hooded teenager in the street heard it this time. He let out a sharp, yelping cry—a signal.
"Damn it," Han-su hissed.
He pulled the tube out, capped the jug, and began to retreat. But the teenager wasn't alone. From under the parked bus, three more crawled out. From the shadows of a nearby alley, a dozen more emerged. They weren't sprinting yet, but they were converging.
They looked like a sea of grey rising out of the mist.
"Han-su! Get back here!" Mr. Kim's voice echoed from the truck. The idiot was shouting.
"Shut up!" Han-su whispered-yelled, but it was too late.
The horde broke into a jog.
Han-su ran. The jug of gasoline was heavy, sloshing against his leg. He reached the back of the truck just as the first zombie—the hooded teen—lunged.
Ji-young acted. She didn't use a weapon. She grabbed a heavy crate of bottled water and shoved it out the door. It caught the teenager in the chest, sending him sprawling.
Han-su dived into the hold. "Close it! Close it!"
They slammed the door and locked the latch just as the first wave hit the truck. The entire vehicle rocked on its suspension.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
"Did you get it?" Mr. Kim asked, his voice high and hysterical. "Did you get the gas?"
Han-su held up the jug. "Enough to get us moving. Ji-young, get into the pass-through to the cabin. I'm driving. Mr. Kim, you stay in the back. If they break that hole in the roof any wider, use the frying pan. Don't think. Just swing."