Marauder of the Apocalypse-Chapter 81: Injury

There's a district jokingly called Life Tower.

It was an area centered around a tall building filled with dental clinics, dermatology clinics, plastic surgery offices, ENT specialists, pediatricians, and urologists, surrounded by general hospitals, veterinary clinics, and pharmacies.

The district normally bustled with patients and people concerned about their skin and health, and I'd heard they somehow managed to survive even after the zombie outbreak.

Supposedly by clearing the streets with substances like Botox that could be used as toxins, and providing medical services to survivors in exchange for resources.

I walked with difficulty, rolling my eyes.

"Can we trust these doctors? I've heard some pretty bad rumors."

I needed treatment immediately, but I just couldn't trust them.

Doctors are high-value personnel. They're professionals coveted by everyone, including the police. Yet Life Tower had survived as a group consisting solely of medical professionals.

According to rumors, they pretended to treat people but killed them instead, gave poison while claiming it was water, dissected people alive with surgical tools—basically, they were supposed to be extremely vicious.

Sa Gi-hyeok laughed and nodded.

"Who has good rumors about them these days? Genuinely good people are probably all dead by now. And you shouldn't believe rumors anyway. There's too much fake information going around."

"But still, the rumors..."

As I muttered, Sa Gi-hyeok made a gesture like pressing down on a syringe.

"If we believe rumors, those doctors are vampires. Don't they say they keep people locked up in morgues and use them as blood bags?"

That rumor existed too? I felt uneasy and tilted my head.

This was the apocalypse after all. With blood transfusion packs being hard to find, it wouldn't be surprising if they kept a few people captive as blood sources.

Just then, I heard Park Yang-gun snickering.

"Back in my day, I wouldn't go to a doctor even with a cracked skull. It's much better now that we can at least see doctors."

Wasn't that because he'd been injured while stealing and couldn't go? Considering Park Yang-gun's career, it was a reasonable suspicion.

Eventually, Life Tower came into view. A dilapidated building with no electricity. The tall building had signs for various medical departments and hospitals neatly arranged, though the lettering had become dirty.

Electricity must have been cut off here too, because Life Tower looked gloomy despite its name.

***

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

All of it was a trap meant to poison people.

Naive zombies had already died from eating such bait, and those who had learned stayed far away from this area.

People behaved similarly.

"Please stand in line properly."

"Get out of my way! I'm dying here, move!"

A crowd of muttering patients had gathered. People with reddened faces as if they had rashes, those with makeshift towel bandages wrapped around cuts, others massaging their jaws over their masks as if suffering from toothaches, and some sweating with pale complexions.

Most prevalent were those suffering from what looked like skin diseases.

None of these people even glanced at the food scattered everywhere. They knew it was poison.

Do-hyung mumbled awkwardly.

"There are so many people. We might not get treatment even if we wait all day."

"..."

I quietly surveyed the street. There was no one maintaining order. People arguing in line in front of the hospital, even brandishing weapons, with no one to stop them.

Medical staff in nurse uniforms or white lab coats walked around, but they only checked the bait set up on the streets before moving on.

There were no number tickets like at the streetlight district. They seemed to treat patients in the order they entered. It was as if they were saying figure out yourselves who goes in first.

In this case, I had no reason to hesitate. My wound was more important right now.

"Get your guns out."

"What? Are we going to kill everyone?"

"Who said anything about killing? We're low on bullets."

I pulled out my gun and fired into the air. Bang, the gunshot echoed. The murmuring crowd turned to look at me all at once.

I extended my blood-soaked hand and waved my gun.

"Anyone blocking my way dies. Move."

I really would kill them. They were all sick people too, but my wound was more important. A splinter in my finger hurts more than someone else's severed wrist, after all.

At that moment, one of the people in line laughed hollowly and pulled a gun from their pocket.

"You think you're the only one with a gun? Look, this is a place that saves lives. We should follow at least some basic rules."

"Oh really?"

I heard the police were selling guns, and they certainly seemed to be in circulation. Or maybe people had picked them up from dead police officers in the streets.

Click-click, my companions simultaneously drew their guns. Four handguns in total. I casually pulled back my leather jacket to reveal my police vest.

The person who had tried to stop me slowly lowered their gun.

"The number of guns makes the rules. Go ahead in first."

Others pretended not to notice and looked away. Even those who had raised their voices about line-cutting or brandished weapons did the same.

I strode into Life Tower. Inside, a nurse sat at a desk with a chair, twirling a pen in front of a patient. Seeing my gun, the nurse spoke, ignoring the patient she'd been attending to.

"What seems to be the problem today?"

"Head injury. Got hit by something that fell in the strong winds. I'm bleeding."

"For external wounds... go up to the third floor. The elevator's not working, so take the stairs."

Looks like they really did lose electricity here too.

We climbed the emergency staircase. The third floor was also a hospital, but there was no one waiting in the waiting room.

I gestured to my companions.

"I'll go in alone. If things go wrong... you know what to do."

"Yeah, sure. If I notice anything like those rumors, I'll start shooting."

Truly reliable companions. With guns matching our headcount, I couldn't feel more secure.

I entered the examination room. It looked similar to how hospitals used to be. Sunlight streaming through narrow windows, a white and clean feeling. Various unfamiliar medical tools and bottles of liquid were placed around.

A middle-aged doctor in a white coat looked me over without blinking. His eyes paused briefly on my gun before naturally moving on.

"Let me see your wound."

"Here, on my head."

I cautiously removed my hat, bowing my head to show the wound. Thanks to my recently cut short hair, the doctor could see it clearly and immediately examined the injury.

"This might hurt a bit. Bear with it."

I heard rustling sounds of something being picked up, a bottle being opened, and liquid being applied. I lifted my head slightly.

Without proper gauze, he was soaking clean, finely cut cloth in some liquid. Then he pressed that cloth against the wound on my head.

Pain like salt being poured into a wound rushed in, making me groan.

The doctor spoke mechanically:

"No stitches needed. I'll disinfect it and apply medicine. Do you need a tetanus shot?"

A shot...

I recalled what Professor Kim had written.

The shelf life and storage methods for antibiotics. Some medications had long shelf lives, but needed to be stored at room temperature.

In heat exceeding 30 degrees, there was a high possibility they would deteriorate.

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

Throughout this, I was thinking intensely.

'The medications are probably spoiled too. Is this right?'

In a truly life-threatening situation, I wouldn't be picky about the condition of medicines, but I seemed fine right now. It could be dangerous to receive the wrong medication. Especially if this malicious-looking doctor decided to inject me with a sedative.

Finally, I asked the doctor:

"Do I need to get a shot or take medication?"

At those words, the expressionless doctor looked at me with understanding. It was the kind of look you'd give a child afraid of shots.

"In principle, yes. But looking at your wound, you seem to have come right after being injured. Have you been exposed to any other sources of infection?"

Like dirty water, zombie saliva, or if the wound was caused by rusty metal.

I shook my head at the question. As far as I could tell, none of those applied. The fragment that fell wasn't rusty, and my hat was clean because I washed it frequently.

"Then just go. We don't have medications to spare. Come back if you notice signs of infection."

I nodded in understanding, but still felt somewhat cheated.

'That's it? Just disinfection, Fucidin, and covering with cloth?'

The doctor slowly recited precautions:

"Don't wash your hair until the wound heals, and keep the wound clean. Don't let dirty water touch it."

I listened to these precautions attentively and stood up. I was about to leave when I turned back. A worry I'd forgotten came to mind.

"Since I got hit on the head, is there any risk of a stroke?"

The doctor, who was organizing his medical tools, glanced at me. His calm voice reached me.

"Don't worry. That doesn't seem likely. And even if it were a stroke, we couldn't treat it anyway."