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There’s a street jokingly called the Tower of Life.

It was a street packed with a tall building housing various hospitals—dentists, dermatologists, plastic surgeons, ENT specialists, pediatricians, urologists—surrounded by a general hospital, an animal hospital, and pharmacies.

The street was usually bustling with patients and health-conscious folks, but somehow it survived even after the zombie outbreak.

They cleaned the streets with drugs like Botox that could double as poison and provided medical services to survivors in exchange for resources.

I trudged along, rolling my eyes.

“Can we trust those doctors? The rumors aren’t great.”

I need treatment right now, but I just can’t trust them.

Doctors are high-value professionals. Cops and all sorts of people covet their skills. Yet, this Tower of Life is a group that survived solely because it’s made up of medical professionals.

Rumors say they pretend to treat you but kill you, give you poison disguised as water, dissect people alive with surgical tools—basically, they’re ruthless.

Sajihyeok laughed and nodded.

“Who has good rumors these days? The truly good people are probably all dead. And you shouldn’t believe rumors anyway. There’s too much fake info.”

“But still, the rumors…”

As I muttered, Sajihyeok made a gesture like pressing a syringe.

“If we go by rumors, those doctors are vampires. They lock people up in the morgue and use them as blood bags.”

Was there really such a rumor? I tilted my head uneasily.

It’s the apocalypse. Blood packs are hard to come by, so locking people up to use as blood bags makes sense.

Just then, I heard Park Yang-gun chuckling.

“Back in my day, even if my head was split open, I wouldn’t go to a doctor. Now, at least we can go to one, so it’s much better.”

Wasn’t that because he got hurt while stealing? Considering his history, it’s a reasonable suspicion.

As we talked, the Tower of Life slowly came into view. A shabby building with no electricity. The tall building had signs for various departments and hospitals, though the letters were faded.

The Tower of Life, despite its name, felt eerie without electricity.

***

The area around the Tower of Life was overflowing with food. Torn bags of snacks were scattered inside abandoned cars, cups of coffee sat on the roadside, and rice was piled in dog bowls like bird feed.

It was all a trap to eat and die.

The clumsy zombies had already fallen for it and died, while the smarter ones stayed far away.

People were no different.

“Get in line properly!”

“Move! I’m really about to die, move!”

The crowd of patients was chaotic. Some had rashes, others had clumsily wrapped towels around their hands, some were touching their mouths through masks, and some were pale and sweating.

Many seemed to have skin diseases.

They didn’t even glance at the food scattered around. They knew it was poison.

Jeondohyeong muttered awkwardly.

“There are so many people. We might not get treated even if we wait all day.”

“…”

I quietly scanned the area. No one was maintaining order. People were fighting in line, and even when weapons were drawn, no one intervened.

Nurses and doctors in white coats were around, but they only checked the traps set on the streets.

There were no numbered tickets. It was first-come, first-served. Whoever got in first was up to you.

I couldn’t hesitate anymore. My injury was more important.

“Take out the gun.”

“Huh? Are we killing everyone?”

“Not everyone. We’re low on ammo.”

I pulled out my gun and fired into the air. Bang! The crowd turned to look at me.

I waved my bloodied hand and the gun.

“Anyone blocking my way dies. Move.”

I’d really kill them. They’re all hurt, but my injury was more important. A thorn in my finger hurts more than someone else’s severed wrist.

Just then, someone in line chuckled and pulled out a gun.

“Who said you’re the only one with a gun? Hey, this is a place to save lives. At least follow some basic rules.”

“Oh?”

Cops selling guns must’ve flooded the market. Or maybe people picked them up from dead cops on the streets.

Click, click. My companions all drew their guns. Four guns in total. I subtly opened my leather jacket to reveal my police vest.

The guy who stopped me quietly lowered his gun.

“Numbers rule. Go ahead.”

Others pretended not to notice. Even those who had raised their weapons earlier looked away.

I strode into the Tower of Life. Inside, a nurse sat at a desk, spinning a pen. She saw my gun and dismissed the patient she was dealing with.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Head injury. I got hit by something blown by strong winds. I’m bleeding.”

“If it’s a trauma… go up to the third floor. The elevator’s out, so take the stairs.”

So, no electricity here either.

We took the emergency stairs to the third floor. It was also a hospital, but no one was waiting in the lobby.

I gestured to my companions.

“I’ll go in alone. If things go south… you know what to do.”

“Yeah, if it feels like those rumors, we’ll shoot.”

Reliable companions indeed. With as many guns as heads, I felt secure.

I entered the examination room. It looked the same as before. Narrow windows letting in sunlight, a clean, white atmosphere. Various medical tools and bottles of liquid I didn’t recognize.

A middle-aged doctor in a white coat scanned me without blinking. His eyes briefly lingered on my gun before moving on.

“Show me the wound.”

“Here, my head.”

I cautiously took off my hat and tilted my head to show the wound. The doctor quickly inspected it.

“This will hurt a bit. Bear with it.”

I heard the sound of something being opened and liquid being applied. I lifted my head slightly.

Instead of gauze, he used a clean cloth soaked in some liquid and pressed it against my wound.

The pain was like salt on a wound, and I groaned.

The doctor spoke matter-of-factly.

“No need for stitches. I’ll disinfect and apply some ointment. Do you need a tetanus shot?”

A shot…

I remembered Professor Kim’s notes.

The shelf life and storage of antibiotics. Some drugs have a long shelf life, but they need to be stored at room temperature.

In this heat, over 30 degrees, they could easily spoil.

The doctor roughly disinfected the wound and applied Fusidin to my head. Then he placed a clean cloth over it and secured it with tape.

Meanwhile, I was deep in thought.

‘The medicine might be spoiled. Is this safe?’

If I were really about to die, I wouldn’t care about the medicine’s condition, but I seem fine now. Taking the wrong medicine could be dangerous. What if the doctor gives me a sedative?

Finally, I asked the doctor.

“Do I need a shot or medication?”

The doctor, who had been expressionless, looked at me as if I were a child afraid of shots.

“Technically, yes. But judging by the wound, you came right after getting hurt. Were you exposed to anything infectious?”

Dirty water, zombie saliva, or rusty metal.

I shook my head. Nothing like that had happened. The debris wasn’t rusty, and my hat was clean.

“Then you’re free to go. We don’t have an abundance of medicine. Come back if you see signs of infection.”

I nodded, feeling like I’d been shortchanged.

‘So, just disinfect, apply Fusidin, and cover it with a cloth? That’s it?’

The doctor slowly recited the precautions.

“Don’t wash your hair until the wound heals. Keep it clean. Avoid dirty water.”

I listened carefully and got up to leave. As I turned to go, a forgotten worry popped into my head.

“I got hit in the head. Is there a risk of a stroke?”

The doctor, who was tidying up, glanced at me. His voice was calm.

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t seem like it. And if it were a stroke, we couldn’t treat it anyway.”

 

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