Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 46.3: The Messiah (3)

Unlike Seoul, which had relatively well-prepared evacuation facilities and plans, rural areas lacked the manpower and resources to implement any proper contingency plans. Among these numerous cities, one particularly unlucky place stood out.

Around the outbreak of the war, a small monster infiltrated the city and killed an unfortunate victim. Coincidentally, this monster turned out to be a necromancer-type creature that reanimated its victims as zombies. While nuclear strikes, chemical weapons, and all manners of mass destruction rained down on Korea, this city quietly transformed into a city of the dead.

And on the outskirts of this dead city, now referred to as Jephungho City, lived IAmJesus.

The distant sound of zombie howls echoed through the air.

Even on the city’s outskirts, the eerie chorus of the undead filled the atmosphere. Why zombies howl like wolves remains unknown. Scientists theorized that their degenerated brains occasionally triggered vocal cords to produce primitive sounds by sheer coincidence. Personally, I wasn’t sure about that theory.

From what I’ve encountered, zombies aren’t all that different from wild beasts, though they seem to retain fragmented remnants of their memories from when they were alive.

The hum of my motorcycle engine came to a stop.

Regardless of Baek Seung-hyun's questionable character, his gift—a motorcycle—was proving extremely useful. It ran on almost any fuel, handled rugged terrain well, and had remarkable power. I had to admit, I was a little envious when I saw him riding it around.

I gently tapped the “White Beauty,” which was now my trusted steed, and rechecked the address.

The location was on the outskirts of a town—an odd mix of cafes, warehouses, small factories, farmhouses, studio apartments, and tire shops. Somewhere among this mishmash of buildings lay IAmJesus’ bunker.

A few zombies wandered in the distance.

Hissss!

I sprayed myself with so-called “zombie spray.” It had a minty scent, supposedly something zombies instinctively avoided. While its actual effectiveness was questionable, humans tend to cling to even the faintest glimmer of hope in desperate situations.

What I trusted far more than zombie spray was the heavy two-handed hammer slung over my shoulder.

Unlike axes, which dull quickly and have limited range, hammers don’t lose their edge, and they can take out zombies almost indefinitely—as long as you get the first hit.

The method was simple:

Sneak up behind a zombie,

WHAM!

Smash the back of its skull with all your might.

Zombies, after all, are animated corpses kept alive by mutation-inducing factors. They still rely on brains and nervous systems to function.

The first zombie I struck—a young woman dressed in a fashionable outfit—shuddered violently before collapsing.

Was she attacked during a date?

Dwelling on such thoughts wasn’t productive when dealing with zombies. I quickly erased her appearance from my memory and moved on to the next target.

WHAM! Second zombie down.

WHAM! Third one.

After dealing with several more, I finally reached the area surrounding IAmJesus’ bunker.

It was a lot surrounded by a makeshift wall. To the right stood a single-story chicken restaurant; to the left, a two-story adult store. Beyond the crumbling wall lay heaps of construction materials—pipes and rebar, either discarded or left behind by some unscrupulous contractor.

Poking out of the rubble were short, red-painted stakes.

Ventilation shafts.

There were also various wires and pipes burrowing underground—clear signs of a bunker.

Here in zombie territory, this setup worked. Anywhere else, though, IAmJesus would have likely been discovered and killed long ago.

As I prepared to climb over the makeshift wall,

“Grrrrr!”

Two shadows lunged at me from the blind spot.

Zombies.

SQUELCH! SQUELCH!

I swiftly swung my hammer, dropping the pair before they could even touch me.

One was a man in a suit; the other, a woman in high-end designer clothes. Pulling my embedded hammer out of their crushed skulls, I wiped off the gore on their once-fine attire and listened carefully.

The distant howls of zombies persisted, but there was no immediate response to my attack.

Some nearby zombies stirred, their movements sluggish and disinterested. Eventually, they staggered off in different directions.

Taking a deep breath, I approached the entrance to IAmJesus’ bunker.

There was a wooden plank covering the hatch. It was thick with layers of dirt and dust—clearly untouched for years.

Had he really stayed inside without coming out even once?

I pushed aside my brief moment of doubt and pried up the plank, revealing a steel hatch underneath.

Using the axe handle, I knocked on the hatch in a prearranged rhythm:

Bang-bang... Bang-bang-bang... Bang-bang-bang-bang.

Our agreed-upon signal.

Holding my breath, I waited for a response.

“Sk-Skelton?”

His voice was faint and trembling.

“Yes, it’s me.”

Click.

The locks disengaged.

“Sorry... I’m too weak to open it myself.”

With a grunt, I lifted the heavy hatch myself, revealing a ladder leading down into the darkness.

Carefully descending, I kept my pistol ready in case of an ambush.

But the real threat wasn’t an attacker—it was the stench.

“Ugh!”

It was beyond words.

Not the smell of rotting flesh, but the overwhelming stench of a living person who had long neglected hygiene.

It was the pinnacle of human-generated foulness.

Spraying some zombie repellant near my nose, I steeled myself and continued down.

At the bottom of the ladder, holding a dimly lit phone as a makeshift flashlight, stood a man hunched over.

I recognized him immediately.

Even without the faint glow emanating from his eyes—a pale, eerie light reminiscent of monsters—I knew this was IAmJesus.

His appearance was shocking.

A gaunt figure, long unkempt hair and beard, and hollow, sunken eyes. He looked like a zombie himself.

Yet his face was young—shockingly young. Not even mid-twenties.

But as soon as he saw me,

“Ah, ah, ahh!!”

He recoiled in sheer terror.

“Wh-why... why do you look so normal?!” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be like me? I called you because I thought you were one of us!”

His outburst caught me off guard.

Before I could respond, he cut in, saliva dripping from his mouth.

“Do you have food?”

With a faint smile, I opened my bag and showed him the supplies I’d brought:

Instant noodles, canned meatballs, and a thermos of hot water.

*

Crunch! Slurp!

Bringing a thermos of hot water turned out to be a brilliant decision.

His bunker didn’t seem to have anything capable of boiling water.

I surveyed his living conditions.

A microwave, piles of garbage, a faucet, a toilet curtained off with a shower curtain, and a sink.

I turned on the faucet.

Whoosh.

To my surprise, water flowed out.

I sniffed it cautiously.

There was a faint metallic odor of rust, but it was undoubtedly potable tap water.

“How did you manage this?”

“Manage what?”

IAmJesus looked up from his cup noodles, tilting his head.

“The plumbing.”

“Oh, some construction workers just hooked it up for us.”

“What?”

I turned toward the toilet.

The inside hadn’t been cleaned in years, its bowl a grotesque mosaic of unmentionable stains. But when I flushed it, the water drained just fine.

“The sewer system too?”

“Yep.”

“...Unbelievable.”

It seemed the negligence and complacency of some contractors had inadvertently saved this kid’s life.

Who connects running water and sewage to a survival bunker?

Not only that, but it looked like electricity and even gas had been connected.

These contractors must have built this bunker as if they were installing a regular home, hooking up all sorts of utilities along the way.

“Where does your electricity come from?”

“Solar panels.”

“Solar panels?”

“Yeah, they’re on the roof of the building next door. That building belongs to my dad too.”

“Ah.”

It made sense. This area, with zombies roaming everywhere, essentially had its own built-in security system.

The bunker was unexpectedly spacious.

Looking closely, I realized it was composed of four modular units connected together—probably one of those factory-made modular bunkers you could customize.

But that spaciousness was wasted.

Of the four connected units, three were filled to the brim with garbage.

The stench was indescribable—no doubt the source of the foul odor.

Perhaps, at one time, these spaces had been stocked with food and supplies. But over the years, IAmJesus had consumed everything and replaced it with waste, much like a dung beetle filling a burrow with its own droppings.

“You haven’t left this place even once?”

I asked, appalled by the mountain of trash that looked straight out of a news report.

“Nope.”

IAmJesus answered in his usual halting tone.

Despite his apparent starvation, he barely managed to eat half the instant noodles and meatballs I had brought, now sitting back and patting his stomach.

Around him, scattered haphazardly on a filthy mattress, were grotesque adult toys—just as they’d appeared in his photos online.

I noticed stains surrounding the mattress but decided it was better not to investigate further.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

I’d decided to take him to my territory.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d handle him, but he deserved the chance.

The sniper mother-and-daughter duo would just have to tolerate some minor inconvenience.

“Where?”

IAmJesus asked, looking bewildered.

“To my place. It’s bigger and nicer than this. The air is fresh, and there aren’t any zombies.”

“...”

He stared at me in silence.

The faintly glowing pupils in his hollow eyes fixed on me for a long moment.

“Can you move my computer and satellite equipment?”

“Yes.”

“What about my gaming console?”

“Of course.”

Moving all of it would have been impossible on a bicycle, but the motorcycle could manage. His console was one of those ancient ROM cartridge-style devices from thirty years ago.

He owned dozens of those cartridges—classic games.

“You can’t take all of them,” I said.

“Oh, okay...”

“Pick five.”

“Can I take six?”

“Fine.”

That seemed to satisfy him. But then, there was one more thing.

“...My dad’s church.”

As he gathered one of the grotesque adult toys and stuffed it into his pocket, he spoke.

“Can you take me to my dad’s church?”

Annoyance flared up within me.

“Where is it?”

There was a slight edge in my voice.

At even that faint sharpness, he flinched like a startled animal and avoided my gaze.

“N-nevermind...”

This wouldn’t do.

He was afraid of me.

After all the effort I’d put into building a connection, if he started fearing and avoiding me, it would ruin everything.

“Where is it? If it’s possible, I’ll take you.”

I softened my tone as much as I could, speaking gently.

He turned his glowing eyes back toward me, his hands fidgeting nervously before he finally spoke.

“Downtown.”

“Downtown is swarming with zombies.”

“Y-yeah, I guess so...”

Disappointment clouded his frail features.

For a brief moment, I thought I understood one of the things that had eaten away at his sanity.

He must have been desperate for news of his family.

Yet, he couldn’t step outside, couldn’t open the hatch, and couldn’t even attempt to break through the hordes of zombies.

Trapped between the longing to know and the inability to act, IAmJesus had become the bizarre recluse of the forums.

“Where is it?”

It was dangerous—I knew that.

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But if granting him this small wish could help, it might be worth it.

Even if only to achieve my own larger goals.

“Where is it? Let me check it out first.”

Of course, I’d back out if it was too risky.

“R-really?”

“If it’s possible.”

The key was to show sincerity.

It was far better to physically demonstrate why something was impossible than to just say no.

“Ah, okay!”

He showed me a picture.

The church was excessively large and lavish, resembling a palace adorned with a cross.

The moment I saw it, memories of a pre-war news story surfaced.

It was one of those pseudo-religious cults labeled heretical by the mainstream Presbyterian Church.

I didn’t know the exact details, but I remembered hearing about the cult leader’s unspeakable crimes against female followers. The story was so infamous it had reached even someone like me, who barely paid attention to the news.

Pointing to the grinning cult leader in the photo, IAmJesus said,

“That’s my dad.”

The glow in his eyes carried a mix of emotions—love, hate, and everything in between.