Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 52.2: Boiler (2)

To be brutally honest, the chances of me taking these kids in are slim to none.

This isn’t a matter of morality—it’s about survival.

Even when it came to the sniper and her daughter, with whom I share a long-standing bond, I hesitated to bring them into my circle. Taking in these pitiful children would be a betrayal of the principles that have kept me alive until now.

“Freeze.”

Just because they’re kids doesn’t mean I’m about to let my guard down.

I’ve seen raiders use children as bait, and even these kids might not be as innocent as they seem.

Click.

I raised my rifle, and the children froze in their tracks.

“Turn around. Hands in the air.”

Even a child can kill someone if they have a weapon.

The ages of the children in front of me ranged from lower to upper elementary school.

If they know how, taking down a careless adult is no big feat.

The kids in my sight didn’t appear to be armed.

“There.”

I aimed a warning at the railing leading to the second floor.

“I know you’re hiding. You’ve got ten seconds.”

I watched the children’s reactions closely as I aimed my rifle.

The youngest looked utterly lost, unsure of what to do.

The two older ones exchanged glances, silently communicating.

Bang!

I fired a warning shot at the children’s feet.

They screamed and either crouched down or dropped flat on the floor.

“Eight.”

I shifted my gaze to the railing and began counting aloud.

“Seven.”

A white handkerchief fluttered out from behind the railing.

“Alright, alright! I’m coming out.”

An adult’s voice—a raspy, phlegmy tone, more middle-aged than youthful—called out.

The owner of the voice soon emerged from the railing.

A man with long, disheveled hair and a dark complexion limped into view.

“Come down. Hands in the air.”

The man slowly descended the spiral staircase to the first floor.

But he wasn’t alone.

Trailing behind him, like ducklings following their mother, were several small children.

It was immediately clear that these kids weren’t his.

“Whose kids are these?”

The man smirked bitterly, shaking his head.

“Picked them up. They’re beggar kids.”

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

“Beggar kids?”

“I took them out of there.”

The man spread his arms wide, his voice growing more fervent.

“I brought them out of that hell!”

*

The man didn’t reveal his name, but the children called him Sergeant Jang.

I hadn’t intended to exchange words with him, but he insisted on a conversation, so we spoke briefly outside the house while the children looked on.

He got straight to the point.

“Do you need kids?”

“No.”

“If you do, take your pick. A little food will do.”

“I said I don’t need them.”

When he pressed too hard, I had no choice but to aim my pistol at his stubbled chin.

Between the wiry hairs of his beard, I noticed small, white worms wriggling.

Lice.

I immediately took a step back, putting distance between us, and spoke coldly.

“Is that all you wanted to say?”

“You need a boiler, don’t you?”

Sergeant Jang smirked.

“I saw you checking out the wood-burning boiler next door. You planning to take it?”

I had been.

At least until I encountered these people.

“No. I was considering it, but I didn’t know you were here. I’ll leave it.”

Wood-burning boilers are everywhere. I could find another one elsewhere. Or I could ask Defender for help.

“We’ll help you take it. You just need to load it onto that motorcycle, right?”

“...”

“Come on, just give us a little food. You can see the kids’ condition, right? They’ll starve to death like this.”

I didn’t look at the children.

It was intentional.

I didn’t want to develop any unnecessary pity.

I wasn’t going to take them in or care for them anyway.

Sergeant Jang fixed his gaze on me and continued speaking.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just give us some food. Not much. We’ll load the boiler for you. The kids aren’t useless. They’re not just sitting around—they can work. You’d be surprised how sharp they are.”

Before I could respond, Sergeant Jang turned and barked orders at the hollow-eyed children clustered behind him.

“What are you standing around for? Get ready to dismantle that boiler! Grab tools! Bring the cart!”

While he groveled before me, he roared at the children like a tyrant.

“What about the ones inside?”

I gestured toward the house with the muzzle of my rifle.

At my question, Sergeant Jang’s lips twisted into an awkward smile.

“What are you talking about?”

“There are two more inside.”

“...You’ve got good instincts, huh?”

Click.

I raised my rifle.

I usually prefer to resolve things through conversation, but something about this situation—the strange vibe of the abandoned neighborhood, the unsettling presence of so many unfamiliar children, and Sergeant Jang’s crass, filthy demeanor—put me on edge.

“Who are they?” I asked irritably.

Sergeant Jang’s eyes darted around nervously.

“Well, uh...”

“This conversation is over. Go back inside. Take the kids with you.”

“No, wait! Listen to me! Look, they’re kids—well, not exactly kids anymore. They’ve grown. They’re... what do you call it? Teenagers! They’re in their rebellious phase or whatever. They don’t listen to me anymore!”

Sergeant Jang’s rambling revealed two things to me.

First, he was someone at his breaking point, both physically and mentally.

Second, he was afraid of those “other kids” watching us from the shadows.

“They only listen to you,” he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. It was probably his last attempt to salvage some pride in front of the younger children.

I sighed and addressed the figures hiding in the shadows of the house.

“Come out.”

At my words, the hidden figures emerged.

A boy and a girl.

They were teenagers, likely in their mid-teens.

The girl, in particular, was tall—almost as tall as Sergeant Jang.

“We don’t have any weapons. We just didn’t want to come out and were watching, that’s all,” the girl said, staring at me directly.

She didn’t seem scared of me.

The boy, on the other hand, had hollow eyes tinged with subtle hostility. But his glare wasn’t aimed at me—it was directed at Sergeant Jang.

“Send the kids back inside,” I told Sergeant Jang.

He motioned to the children.

“You heard the nice man. Go inside. Now! Move!”

The younger children obeyed without complaint, but the older ones—particularly the reluctant teenagers—muttered something under their breath as they shuffled back into the house.

The boy kicked a stone at his feet in frustration, making no effort to hide his annoyance.

Sergeant Jang muttered under his breath, glaring at the boy.

“Damn brat...”

“What happened here?”

I handed him a packet of instant ramen noodles and asked casually, my curiosity piqued.

This odd man and his strange mix of children were becoming more intriguing.

*

"I used to be a soldier. Stationed at the front lines."

Crunch.

Sergeant Jang began his story as he bit into the brick of instant ramen.

He claimed to have been one of the soldiers guarding the border. He had experienced the final North Korean offensive and was later reassigned to a defense unit near Ganghwa Island during the early days of the war with China, tasked with holding critical positions.

Eventually, he was redeployed to the front lines to fight against monsters and mutations. When the front collapsed, his unit turned into a warlord's militia, and he became a raider under the command of a disillusioned captain.

"Before I knew it, I wasn’t killing enemies anymore—I was killing our own people. It happened so fast. And when I came to my senses, I realized I was in hell itself. I couldn’t stomach it, especially the beggar kids they were using as bait."

As everything around him fell apart, Sergeant Jang discovered the children used as bait, called beggar kids.

"...It was the wrong choice. I should’ve left on my own, but my weak-willed self decided to take them with me. My stupid compassion got the better of me."

Sergeant Jang looked up at me.

"I should’ve acted like you."

"Like me?"

"You didn’t even glance at the kids, just like our captain."

"..."

It seems we’re all the same in the end.

No matter how shabby, suspicious, or flawed this man appeared, he still looked at me, observed my actions, and tried to understand my intentions.

He wasn’t wrong about what I was thinking, and while it embarrassed me to be so easily read, I didn’t let it show.

"So, you took the beggar kids with you?"

"That’s right."

"And your captain and former comrades?"

"They’re dead. Burned the barracks down myself."

His hands and eyelids twitched as he spoke.

"...The boiler."

It seemed like he was on the verge of a seizure. His already dark complexion turned even darker, almost pitch black, as if he were about to collapse.

Thankfully, the episode didn’t last long. After taking a deep breath, he composed himself and asked, as if nothing had happened:

"Shall we move the boiler now?"

"Alright, let’s do it. But will it fit on my motorcycle?"

"There’s a cart. We’ll hitch it up. Easy enough."

"I don’t have much food to spare."

"A little will do. You saw the kids—they won’t last long. The youngest one looks like he’s about to die."

I didn’t completely trust him, but doubting him at this point felt unnecessarily disrespectful.

Besides, the boiler was something I genuinely needed. If he was willing to transport it for free, it was a great deal on my end.

"Fine. Let’s do it."

Sergeant Jang’s health wasn’t great.

He limped, coughed constantly, and occasionally stood frozen, unmoving, as if he were dead.

But despite his poor condition, he was impressively efficient when it came to the task at hand.

Even I, with my carpentry experience, couldn’t figure out how to dismantle the boiler, but Sergeant Jang expertly disassembled, packed, and loaded the bulky equipment onto the cart in no time.

Occasionally, though, he would lose his temper at the children, scolding them harshly enough to bring them to tears. Once, he even pretended to unbuckle his belt as if he were about to hit them.

The children didn’t seem to follow him out of affection—they were clearly driven by fear.

The boy and girl I’d seen earlier didn’t help with the work.

They lingered behind the building, their gazes cold and sharp as they glared at Sergeant Jang’s back.

Before long, the work was finished.

The makeshift cart, though crude, was securely hitched to my motorcycle, and the heavy wood-burning boiler was loaded on top.

"There you go, sir! The boiler’s all loaded!"

To be honest, I was surprised.

What I thought would be a major ordeal had been wrapped up far more quickly and easily than I expected.

The payment? A few packets of dried rations and instant noodles.

It felt like an absurdly cheap deal for what I’d gained.

"..."

Even so, I still didn’t feel comfortable in this place.

The strange atmosphere of the abandoned neighborhood, Sergeant Jang’s rough demeanor, and the skeletal children with their hollow eyes—I didn’t want to stay here a second longer than necessary.

But I believe in fair trade. If someone completes a job, they deserve their payment.

"It feels like I haven’t given enough. I’ll bring some more food tomorrow."

It would be a lie to say I felt no pity for the children.

"You’re serious? You’ll bring more?!"

"...I’ll come by tomorrow during the day."

"Hey, uh, if you’ve got any, could you bring some alcohol? Just a little!"

I glanced sideways at Sergeant Jang, trembling as he begged, and climbed onto my motorcycle.

"See you tomorrow."

The motorcycle roared as it struggled under the weight of the boiler but soon picked up speed, its engine growling loudly as I rode away.

*

"Thank You. Truly, Thank You."

“I didn’t think you’d actually come back. Truly.”

I handed over a significant portion of food I didn’t need, including a bottle of soju.

It wasn’t just for Sergeant Jang—it was my way of showing some appreciation for the soldiers who had once sacrificed to protect this country.

Sergeant Jang, like many survivors in this era, was an alcoholic.

The way he cracked open the soju bottle and downed it in gulps without so much as a bite of food made that clear.

“Ahh! This is it. This is the stuff!”

Drunk or sober, his behavior and expression didn’t change much.

He remained jittery, insecure, and constantly glancing over his shoulder at the teenagers behind him.

I’d known from the beginning what haunted him.

After a few drinks, he started to open up more candidly.

“I should never have taken in those kids. I should’ve just left them behind.”

The kids.

“Couldn’t you have abandoned them halfway?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“You seem to hate them enough.”

“If I left them, they’d all be dead. Last winter, only two of them died because I was there. If I hadn’t been, they’d all have frozen to death. Every single one of them!”

I couldn’t understand his feelings about the children.

They seemed to be a chaotic mess of contradictions—he pitied them but despised them, they feared him but also seemed to scare him in return.

Soon enough, I identified the source of my unease.

There was no clear purpose behind his actions.

What was driving him to live such a contradictory life?

I asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Sergeant Jang licked the neck of the empty soju bottle and gave me a strange smile before murmuring:

“I don’t know. But when I came to my senses, I was stuck with this damned burden.”

Then his eyes gleamed.

“No, I think I do know,” he said with sudden conviction.

“To avoid going to hell.”

“Hell?”

“I’ve done so many bad things. Doesn’t doing at least one good thing keep you out of hell? I know there’s no such thing as hell, but I can’t just die as a piece of shit, can I?”

I still didn’t understand.

Was it some form of atonement?

That was as far as my comprehension could stretch.

Sergeant Jang’s view of the world and mine must differ greatly in many ways.

I shifted my focus to a more immediate issue.

“What about those older kids? The boy and the girl?”

The ones he seemed so afraid of.

They were dangerous.

If left unchecked, either Sergeant Jang would die, or they would.

“You planning to kill them?”

In a similar situation, I would.

“No.”

Of course, Sergeant Jang wasn’t like me.

“If you don’t, you might be the one who gets killed.”

“Then so be it.”

“Is that part of your atonement too?”

“Atonement? Nah, it’s not that grand. But if I kill them, the rest of the kids are as good as dead too. You can see I’m not long for this world, right?”

“...”

“I’ve taught those ungrateful brats how to survive, at least a little. They’re shitty kids, but the others like them more than they like me, and those two care about the others more than I ever could.”

Sergeant Jang, who had been grimly reflecting on his dire reality, suddenly broke into a boyish grin.

“Got a K-walkie?”

“I do.”

“You know CQ?”

“Of course.”

CQ is the universal call signal for open frequency communication on walkie-talkies.

Most people skip it, but by-the-book protocol requires starting with CQ when broadcasting to random listeners.

“I told them to use ‘C8.’ When they get their hands on a walkie-talkie, they’ll just go ‘C8, C8!’ over and over.”

Sergeant Jang chuckled, his flushed face lit up with amusement.

I wasn’t just here to listen to his drunken ramblings or life story.

I handed him another item I’d brought along—a sheet of vinyl from Woo Min-hee.

I explained how to use it.

“If you find anything white or close to white, contact me on the walkie-talkie. I can’t help everyone, but I might be able to ensure at least one of those kids has a chance at a decent life.”

That concluded our conversation.

With his flushed face and a mix of reluctance and gratitude, Sergeant Jang waved me off as I prepared to leave.

“Hey, you bastard!”

He sent a farewell signal that only we survivors understood, but I didn’t respond.

*

Sergeant Jang never contacted me again.

To be honest, I completely forgot about him—and even the wood-burning boiler.

The summer was oppressively hot, and chaos unfolded in the north as yet another monster eruption plunged the region into turmoil. Meanwhile, in Incheon, an unprecedented disaster turned the entire city upside down.

I only remembered Sergeant Jang when the early chill of August began to cool the ground.

While others on the forum rejoiced over the cool, autumn-like weather, I hurried to retrieve the wood-burning boiler. I decided to test it out.

Whoosh.

The flames roared to life, and the boiler’s performance was impressive—no malfunctions, no repairs needed.

Even then, Sergeant Jang didn’t cross my mind.

Not until my K-walkie suddenly picked up a signal on the public frequency.

“Shibal.”

A young girl’s voice echoed over the walkie-talkie, spewing an unexpected curse.

Why on earth?

As I listened, the same curse repeated over and over, ringing through the static.

“Shibal, shibal.”

It was then that I remembered Sergeant Jang.

These must be his kids—the ones who had especially hated him.

“Is anyone there? Please, someone respond.”

The fact that this voice was coming through likely meant one thing: Sergeant Jang was no longer alive.

A question crept into my mind.

Had the kids killed him?

Or had he succumbed to his illness?

“Hello? Is no one there? Shibal, shibal!”

There was no way to know the answer.

After all, I wasn’t about to respond to that signal.

“Hello! Is anyone there?!”

At least that bright, innocent voice still carried a faint glimmer of hope.