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A city in the rain. Park Yang-gun and I, wearing raincoats, roamed the streets. Not a soul in sight, not even zombies, all hiding from the rain indoors. The only sound was our splashing footsteps in the puddles.

Strangely, walking in the rain felt good. Like a morning stroll? Imagination and sensitivity sparked.

The dark sky and pouring rain were comforting. I glanced at Park Yang-gun.

“We’re heading to a distant apartment.”

Our destination was Professor Kim’s place. The professor who gave me disaster preparedness materials. Even after his wife turned into a zombie, he spoke of hope on air, only to become a zombie himself during the broadcast.

The apartment, once a virus hotspot, likely had few residents left.

“With the professor, there must be many books. Maybe we can find survivalist literature.”

Useful engineering, electronics, or appropriate technology for the apocalypse. Knowledge truly valuable as civilization nears its end.

Park Yang-gun suddenly looked up, his eyes like those of an alcoholic or gambler.

“What?”

“A distant apartment. I’ve scoped it out before.”

“Ah, right… No, let’s hit this place first.”

He pointed to a house in an alley. A row of tightly packed homes, but the one he indicated showed clear signs of life.

Spiked walls, barricaded entrance, curtains drawn, and no trash or corpses around.

“This is practically begging to be looted.”

“Not looting this would be a crime.”

Ignoring me, Park Yang-gun approached the house, and I followed.

But his actions were odd. No stealth, no searching for entry points. He just banged on the metal gate.

“Anyone home? Show yourself!”

“Hey, Park Yang-gun, aren’t we supposed to steal quietly?”

Flustered, I reached into my jacket pocket, feeling the handgun. Ready to shoot if things went south.

Soon, movement at a second-floor window. Couldn’t hear over the rain, but saw the curtain shift and eyes peeking.

After a moment, someone emerged from the first-floor window, holding an electric saw. Suspicion filled his voice.

“What do you want?”

“Die.”

Bang! A gunshot. Park Yang-gun fired through the gate, hitting his mark.

The homeowner collapsed. Park Yang-gun then pried off nails from the wall, preparing to enter.

I stared in disbelief.

“This isn’t theft; it’s robbery.”

Had the thief evolved into an armed robber? Feeling threatened by Jeondohyeong? Or just overlapping thief concepts leading to a career change?

Park Yang-gun laughed heartily, moving energetically. Climbing the wall, clearing barricades, opening the gate.

He seemed to release all stress, finding joy in what felt like gambling-fueled theft.

“Let’s loot quickly, Kim Da-in.”

“Uh, yeah.”

***

We crossed the city, heavy bags on our backs, passing familiar and unfamiliar places. Similar yet different scenes unfolded.

A mart turned into a dog pack’s den, a solar-powered building occupied by electric nomads, streets near the Tower of Life littered with Botox-laced bait, corpses with plastic waste in their mouths…

The heavy rain reduced threats but didn’t eliminate them.

Passing a poorly barricaded commercial building, a table crashed down from above.

“Ah!”

Luckily, we dodged. Looking up, a zombie peered from the broken window.

The same zombie from the Hope Community’s siege tactics, now applying them in defense, throwing furniture from high buildings.

Zombies revealed themselves from broken windows, smiling like cats hunting for fun, holding bricks, pots, or dishes.

“Run!”

“You lead the way!”

Escaping the siege zombies, arrows flew past us.

Thud, an arrow stuck in a trash bag. A voice warned through a loudspeaker.

“This is our territory. Get lost.”

We looked up. A person stood at a window, bow in hand, loudspeaker at mouth.

An archery club? Rumors said they shot arrows at anyone approaching their zone, even zombies avoided them.

“Such nasty personalities.”

I cursed but raised my hands in surrender, stepping back. Park Yang-gun chuckled.

“I’d love to steal their bows and arrows. Could we do that without weapons?”

“Those bastards would seek revenge if their weapons disappeared.”

We cursed the archery club as we walked.

The streets were in bad shape. Blocked drains turned roads into rivers of trash and corpses.

People in areas without electricity placed pots and bottles outside to collect rainwater.

Some dumb zombies stood in the rain, mouths open, drinking.

In a way, the rain seemed life-giving, but I foresaw future troubles.

“Monsoon season is coming.”

Too much of anything is poison. Oxygen, alcohol, people, even rain. Excessive rain brings disaster.

Sewage backflow, structures collapsing in the wind, flying trash, falling utility poles, landslides…

By summer’s end, infrastructure might be ruined. If only the rain could sweep away people and zombies.

With such thoughts, we reached our destination. Professor Kim’s apartment. Park Yang-gun pointed, breathing heavily.

“That’s the place? Nice apartment. Worth looting.”

“Yes, a nice apartment.”

I focused on the entrance. Dolmen-like gateposts, towering apartment complexes, and the aftermath of the I-virus.

***

Visiting Professor Kim’s apartment felt different from memory. Once a place of routine, now a deserted ruin.

Few cars in the parking lot, most windows broken, already looted. A moving truck with an extended ladder lay abandoned.

If not for the rain, dust would have covered the ruins.

“No zombies, no people.”

“Zombies usually stay in commercial areas. People are likely gone. Last time I was here, the virus was rampant.”

I casually mentioned as we headed to Building 102. No people meant no hassle, though physical exertion remained.

“Professor Kim’s place is quite high up.”

Long since residents left, or perhaps the power was out, the elevator didn’t work. I futilely pressed the button before taking the stairs.

Park Yang-gun followed, muttering.

“This is the classic way. Looting when no one’s around. But it’s more thrilling with people.”

“You’ve already had plenty of thrilling thefts on the way.”

Perhaps to forget stress, Park Yang-gun had harassed many survivors on our journey.

Breaking windows at the sight of candlelight, killing and looting; finding residences by spotting bathtubs collecting rainwater, breaking in, killing, and looting.

Now, he seemed calmer.

“I’ll open the door. I brought tools.”

“Yes, please.”

Breathless, we reached Professor Kim’s door.

Park Yang-gun rummaged through his bag, pulling out flour-like powder and a blue flashlight. He sprinkled the powder on the keypad, shone the light, then shook his head.

“Can’t do it.”

“What’s the problem?”

Unlikely he regained conscience now.

Puzzled, I asked. He pointed to the keypad. Six buttons with fingerprints.

“Can’t crack six digits. Four, maybe, but not six. We’ll have to force it.”

“Six digits…”

How many combinations? 720? Impossible. But finding a crowbar or drill now was tough.

I recalled the six-digit number from Professor Kim’s email ID, matching the fingerprints.

On a whim, I entered the number. Click, the door opened. A meaningful number to the professor.

Park Yang-gun stared wide-eyed.

“Got it in one try? …Did you know him?”

“We were acquainted.”

“Knowing someone makes it scarier.”

Carefully raising a hammer, we entered the dusty hallway. Professor Kim turned zombie during a broadcast, his wife too. Unlikely they were still alive, but who knew.

Listening carefully, we explored the house, knocking on walls to attract attention, but no zombie signs. Professor Kim likely starved to death trapped inside.

“Safe here.”

“So, what are we stealing?”

“Useful books, manuscripts, or materials.”

I headed straight for the bookshelf. The broadcasting spot. Pushing the slightly ajar door, it creaked open. Shelves packed with books, a large desk, simple broadcasting equipment, and a computer.

But no corpse.

“Where’s the body? Did the zombie open the door and wander?”

Uneasy, I left the bookshelf. The professor who advocated for the massacre of a million gave me materials. I wanted to confirm his corpse.

Heading to the bedroom where Professor Kim had tied his wife, Park Yang-gun stood dazed by the door, head slightly bowed, looking inside.

I silently approached, peering into the bedroom.

Two decaying corpses lay on the bed, holding hands. The decomposed couple had died together.

Perhaps the zombified professor freed his wife, as the ropes lay on the floor. I imagined their story.

Zombified couple, starving as food ran out, too weak to move, lying on the bed, holding hands, dying of starvation.

I took out my phone, snapping a photo of their corpses. Remembering Professor Kim’s request: if I met his daughter, to help if possible.

“Can’t help, but I can tell her of her parents’ final moments.”

 

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