Chapter 167

               

A week had passed since the zombie apocalypse began. Sweeper watched the situation from his motel, eating the food he’d stocked up on.

In times of chaos, it was always most rational to observe first.

Sweeper expected things to calm down, but the chaos only got worse.

The streets were in turmoil.

The sounds of sirens, screams, and shouts all blended together like paint, making his head spin.

Electricity and city gas were cut off, and the water supply stopped. No cleanup operations were underway, and rescue efforts faded away after the first few days.

It was, in effect, the collapse of the state.

He couldn’t understand it. Even if zombies were infectious, could a country really fall this easily?

This wasn’t just a zombie incident. Something else was making things worse.

That was Sweeper’s judgment and conclusion. He decided not to underestimate this crisis.

After the government’s final announcement, there was no further action, and the military seemed completely disorganized. No proper measures were being taken.

Radio broadcasts only played emergency bulletins. Most were just low-quality disaster updates and evacuation information. Before long, even that switched to an endless loop of automatic messages.

Finally, after a week, Sweeper needed to go out for food again.

This time wasn’t like before. He needed supplies and water that would last a long time. The seriousness of the crisis hit him hard.

Something that had never happened before.

–The connection cannot be made.

No contact with the relay office.

“Damn, this is driving me crazy.”

Sweeper bit a cigarette and scratched his head. Ash dropped onto his thigh. He sat, lost in thought, until the cigarette burned down to the filter and finally spat it out.

He packed his few belongings into his backpack, opened the window, and climbed onto the railing. Below him, hordes of the dead filled the street. The moment he set foot on the street, he knew he’d be caught in a feeding frenzy of corpses. All of this had happened in just a few days.

He skillfully climbed the curtain rope he’d prepared in advance, went up to the rooftop, and moved between buildings.

Convenience stores and markets near the motel had been picked clean.

If not, they were overrun by zombies—an impossible task for regular people.

Sweeper clung to the railing like a flying squirrel, scanning the surrounding roads.

The world was filled with zombies. The stench of decay was overwhelming. Occasionally, survivors ran into the streets, only to be caught and disappear with screams.

No matter how weak zombies were, getting blocked by a crowd was dangerous. Even a few minutes of sprinting would leave you exhausted, and the moment you ran out of breath, zombies’ rough hands would drag you down.

‘Why don’t I hear any gunshots?’

That was the strangest part.

Why weren’t they using firearms? With things like this, shouldn’t everyone be using personal and public weapons to create safe zones—either sealing off or clearing areas?

That’s how it should be.

But a whole week passed without a single gunshot.

At a convenience store in a shopping center, Sweeper grumbled about the idle soldiers while hesitating to open the door.

It wasn’t fear.

Zombies that couldn’t even run weren’t much of a threat.

He was a contract killer, specializing in international criminals. He’d endured hellish training since he could walk. He wasn’t someone who felt threatened by these creatures or hesitated to kill.

The only thing that bothered him was that these were civilians. He’d never killed civilians without permission.

Hmm, Sweeper snorted and clenched his fist.

Now he had to make a decision.

If these were really the zombies he knew, he wasn’t going to let them bite him without a fight. If things didn’t show any sign of calming down, he couldn’t hold back anymore. Sweeper spun his axe in his hand.

First, clear this place, then head to the shelter. He needed accurate information to understand the situation.

—

Sweeper arrived at a nearby shelter and rubbed his eyes. At the entrance of the indoor gymnasium designated as a shelter, a line of makeshift yellow-and-black steel barricades stretched out, but not a single person was in sight.

The zombies wandering nearby were either bumping into the barricades and twitching, or pacing around like puppets.

No guards.

Not even the zombies roaming right next to the shelter were being dealt with—how were they supposed to evacuate survivors?

‘Hmm…’

Sweeper looked up at the railing above the shelter. Two soldiers in military uniforms stood watch, their guns slung over their shoulders.

‘They’re armed?’

The situation was more mysterious than ever.

Sweeper smashed nearby zombie heads and quickly vaulted over the stadium’s outer wall with neat parkour.

He quietly approached a spot near the railing where there were no zombies. The soldiers spotted him, panicked, and pointed their guns. Probably because of the zombie blood on his clothes and the bloodstained axe in his hand.

“Stop!”

They still didn’t look like they wanted to come down. Sweeper wiped his axe clean on his pants, strapped it to his waist, and raised both hands to show he meant no harm.

“…Who are you?”

“Hey there. As you can see, I’m a survivor in need of rescue.”

Sweeper grinned widely to show he wasn’t a threat, but the soldiers still glanced nervously at each other.

“I came to the shelter, but isn’t it dangerous to just leave it like this?”

At his words, the older-looking corporal nodded and pointed to a metal ladder. The stairs had been destroyed.

“Come over this way.”

Sweeper slowly climbed the metal ladder up to the stadium railing. As he got closer, the corporal held out his palm to signal him to stop. Sweeper paused.

“Are you bitten? You’re covered in blood.”

“Oh, that’s just zombie blood. I’m not bitten, as you can see.”

“Please stay like that for an hour. It’s procedure.”

“Sure.”

The two soldiers kept their guns trained on him. After a moment of silence, Sweeper spoke first.

“Why are the stairs all smashed?”

“The company commander ordered it. To keep the zombies from coming up.”

“I see.”

“Where are you from?”

“Like I said, just a regular citizen.”

“You made it through that street full of zombies?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“How? They’re just slowpokes.”

The private gaped. It was a bit harsh for a kid just past twenty. Sweeper thought to himself.

“Why aren’t you taking care of those zombies?”

“…We don’t know. Ask a sergeant or officer.”

The corporal, with a bit more experience, was sharper and more disciplined. No useless chatter, and very thorough. Impressive for someone so young.

Sweeper leaned on the railing and smoked a cigarette. He’d already gone through a whole pack today. The soldiers watched him hungrily.

“Smoker? Want one?”

Sweeper grinned and offered them cigarettes.

“It’s a world where you just keep thinking about smoking.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Still can’t believe it…”

It had only been a week. They were following orders, but they had to be stunned. Even he, with all his experience, was bewildered. In time, some soldiers would lose their minds or go wild.

After about an hour, the soldiers lowered their guns.

“Are those loaded?”

“Blanks.”

Sweeper grinned.

“Please submit your belongings and sign here. You can’t bring weapons like axes inside. Fill this out and we’ll return your things after checking.”

“What’s this?”

Sweeper shook two pieces of paper.

[Reservist Call-up Agreement]

[Unit Control Agreement]

“You have to sign these to enter the shelter. So you can be called to fight in an emergency…”

Sweeper frowned and pushed the call-up agreement away.

“I can’t sign this.”

“Sir, if you want to enter the shelter, you have to sign. The nationwide reservist call-up is already in effect.”

The corporal explained firmly, clearly used to this conversation. Sweeper nodded and pointed to his backpack.

“Check the left pocket.”

The corporal signaled, and the private opened the side pocket and found a wallet. Sweeper cupped his hands, and the private handed it to him. Sweeper took out an ID.

“What’s this?”

“Officer’s ID. I’m already affiliated. No dual registration allowed.”

The corporal was surprised as he checked the ID. Inside was a photo, serial number, and unit name showing affiliation with the UN forces.

“You’re UN forces? Why are you here…?”

The soldiers stood awkwardly, unsure whether to salute. Sweeper waved them off.

“Relax, I’m not even in your unit. I’m here on assignment and got caught up in this. You get why I can’t sign, right? No dual affiliation.”

“I’ll report to the company commander.”

Sweeper nodded.

The private dashed off at lightning speed.

It really works well.

Of course, the ID was fake.

He always carried a few fake IDs for missions. Military facilities were easier to handle with a foreign military ID than a domestic one.

It was almost always accepted, but especially in times like this when IDs couldn’t be checked, it worked even better. You could paint whatever picture you wanted.

Re-enlistment, though? That would be a nightmare.

He never planned on tying himself down. In a crisis, getting tied to an organization was dangerous. He had to live like a wanderer, free to come and go as he pleased.