Who in this world would like zombies?

    Well, scientists do.

    While monsters cannot be captured alive or leave behind corpses, making analysis and research impossible, zombies leave bodies.

    In the current state of the world, with half of civilization already collapsed, no one cares if you hack or shoot at zombies. Yet, during the early days of the apocalypse, there were surprisingly people who worried about the “rights” of zombies.

    In hindsight, they weren’t so much concerned about zombies themselves but about their own futures—what might happen if they became zombies.

    One of the most cited papers on the effects of mutation factors on the brains of dead humans, by Professor J. Caterer, used test subjects who had been former zombie rights activists.

    As for me, zombies are nothing but—

    Splurch!

    —something I utterly detest.

    Especially when I run into them during moments of exhaustion like this. In those times, I almost want to just close my eyes and join my fallen comrades.

    “Rrrrrr!!”

    Splurch!

    But the reason I swing my axe so fiercely to fend them off isn’t because I’m afraid of dying. It’s because I have too much to lose.

    My bunker, my sanctuary, built with my blood and sweat—I’d rather witness the end of the world than see it occupied by someone else.

    Fueled by that determination, I pushed through the horde of zombies and finally reached a safe zone.

    “...Hah.”

    Catching my breath, I checked for injuries.

    There’s a myth that getting bitten by a zombie turns you into one, but it’s nonsense.

    The mutation factor that creates zombies only affects the brains of the dead.

    According to prevailing scientific consensus, the factor dies when it tries to invade the highly active, living human brain, much like how monsters perish in Earth’s atmosphere.

    A minority opinion argues that zombies sometimes appear in areas without Necromancer-type monsters, but that’s not because of some zombie disease. It’s simply due to mutation factors sticking to a person’s body and, upon their death, mutating their brain to turn them into a zombie.

    Still, better safe than sorry.

    I meticulously checked myself from head to toe and tested my movements. No scratches or injuries—clean.

    My trusty cargo bike was intact.

    Defender siblings’ “gift” was also safe.

    I popped a piece of chocolate into my mouth to replenish my energy and calories.

    “...Hah.”

    They say going outside your home is nothing but trouble.

    Looking back, I used to think that venturing out might actually be better for my mental health than staying cooped up.

    That was before I checked the community.

    Before I learned of the atrocity the Defender siblings had committed on the board.

    Unaware of the miserable future awaiting me, I let the sugar from the chocolate soothe my weary body and glanced at the mountainous terrain rising in the hazy distance.

    I roughly gauged my location.

    It was a place I’d memorized after several visual confirmations.

    But then something unexpected happened.

    Lights flickered on in an abandoned apartment complex.

    It was the place where a woman who used to feed stray cats had lived alone.

    After her death in an explosion, the building had been uninhabited.

    Could it be that new residents had moved in?

    The apartment complex was about six kilometers away in a straight line—not far from my territory.

    However, the distance was deceptive. A low mountain range, a stream, and winding backroads separated us, making the actual journey much longer without specialized terrain vehicles.

    While it held no real strategic value, the fact that someone had entered my area piqued my curiosity.

    *

    When asked what motivates people, most would probably say food.

    For me, it’s curiosity.

    I’m not a lazy person, but my actions when curiosity is piqued are vastly different from when it’s not.

    The most noticeable difference is in my initiative.

    Instead of heading back home, I went straight to the abandoned apartment complex—a decision driven entirely by my incurable personality.

    Unit 218, Under Pioneer Corps 22

    A flag bearing the unit’s name fluttered at the apartment entrance.

    As expected, they were Pioneers.

    I checked my remaining ammunition.

    I had plenty of pistol rounds, but my rifle ammunition was running low.

    I wasn’t in peak condition, either.

    The fatigue from extended travel and combat had taken its toll, and there was a real chance that my body wouldn’t respond as I wanted during a critical moment.

    Normally, I avoided fights. But I found myself entertaining the thought of combat this time, largely because of my disdain for the Pioneers.

    The red-pants crew was vile enough, but my past encounter with Lieutenant Colonel Choi’s group revealed the essence of what these Pioneers were:

    Government-sanctioned looters.

    Perhaps the legitimacy granted to them by the state emboldened their cruelty and excess.

    Though the apartment complex wasn’t directly tied to my territory, the presence of Pioneers nearby was concerning enough to warrant reconnaissance.

    As I approached the apartment, something stirred in the darkness.

    Had my senses dulled due to exhaustion?

    I hadn’t even heard a breath.

    I silently cursed myself and focused my gaze on the darkness.

    A figure resembling a person sat motionless.

    Upon closer inspection, it was an elderly woman.

    She sat on a cold stone, her weathered frame resembling an old, rusted machine. She stared at me with a vacant expression.

    “Ma’am?”

    She didn’t respond.

    In fact, she seemed to lack the will to do so.

    Even as I called out to her, all she did was smack her toothless gums, casting a hollow gaze in my direction.

    Suddenly, a loud shout erupted from above.@@@@

    Meanwhile, an elderly woman appeared beside me, staring intently.

    I preemptively excused myself.

    “Sorry, I’m busy—”

    “No, take this,” she interrupted, thrusting something into my hands.

    It was a bizarre mix of dog food and unidentifiable meat pressed together—something I couldn’t possibly eat.

    “Thanks, but no thanks.”

    “Take it!”

    Her tone turned aggressive.

    “Take it, I said!”

    Reluctantly, I accepted it and, sure enough, found a note attached to the back, scribbled with a phone number and a plea to make a call on her behalf.

    Feeling more drained than when I’d been fighting zombies, I left the apartment.

    I spotted the old woman from earlier, sitting alone.

    For a moment, she reminded me of the elderly lady who had always guarded the front of the International Residence—someone I’d never see again.

    Realizing I had no need for the “gift,” I approached her and offered an energy bar.

    “Here, take this.”

    For the first time, the old woman moved like a living being.

    Her hand emerged from her pocket, clutching a string of prayer beads.

    “Thank you. Thank you. Namu Amitabha... Namu Amitabha...”

    “Why are you here alone?” I asked.

    “Didn’t get the injection.”

    “Injection?”

    “The zombie shot.”

    “Zombie shot?”

    “They say it stops you from turning into one. But I didn’t take it, so they wouldn’t let me in.”

    That doesn’t exist.

    If you want to avoid becoming a zombie, you need to wash yourself and clean your clothes to remove any mutation factors.

    “How’d you get here? Did you walk?”

    “Took a bus. The driver and some commander saw this place and said it looked good, so they dropped me off here.”

    “I see.”

    It all fit the pattern I’d come to expect.

    “...That injection kills you.”

    The old woman muttered from behind me.

    “It’s poison. Your hair falls out, and every hole in your body starts leaking fluid until you die. Back at my last place, everyone but me died after getting it...”

    Perhaps it was the nutrition, or maybe she’d been stirred emotionally.

    Either way, the old woman began rocking back and forth, murmuring her prayers.

    “Namu Amitabha... Namu Amitabha...”

    *

    It was a week later when I returned to that apartment complex.

    The previously loud and vulgar shouts had given way to an eerie silence.

    On the dirt-covered road, I noticed fresh tire tracks.

    The fluttering flag was gone, and unsurprisingly, so was the old woman who had been guarding the entrance.

    Behind the building, I caught the acrid stench of smoke emanating from a large pit.

    It seemed this pit was the source of the black smoke that had drawn me back here.

    As I approached, I saw a chaotic mix of charred wood and white ash scattered around, with fragments of partially burnt bones protruding from the pile.

    Human skulls.

    Behind me, I sensed movement.

    A zombie was staggering toward me.

    In its hand, it clutched a string of prayer beads—the same beads the old woman had been holding when she sat in front of the apartment, chanting her prayers.

    The zombie’s forehead bore a dried streak of blood, and a bullet hole was visible.

    The sight was so pitiful, and the thought of having to deal with this corpse yet again so exhausting, that I let slip a thoughtless comment.

    “...You should’ve just taken the injection.”

    The wandering old woman had now joined the others in her fate.

    I lit the note another elderly resident had given me—bearing a phone number—and tossed it onto her corpse.

    The flames caught the prayer beads she had clung to so tightly, consuming them as well.

    “Namu Amitabha.”

    With a chant for the dead, I climbed the apartment stairs.

    I hoped to find survivors or at least some clue as to what had happened, but my search yielded nothing.

    Finally, I ascended to the rooftop. The fresh autumn sunlight bathed the world below in a golden glow.

    In the distance, I saw movement.

    People.

    The empty plains that no one had dared traverse were now teeming with groups of people. Each group carried its own flag, moving east and south.

    Even at a glance, their numbers were staggering.

    Defender’s words came to mind: “You can’t hide forever.”

    I had been confident in my ability to stay hidden, but seeing that massive influx of people made me realize just how flimsy that confidence was.

    Still, they say nothing in this world is meaningless.

    While I don’t fully agree with that sentiment, the old woman and her prayers had sparked an idea in me.

    Thud!

    I dragged aside a piece of debris from a collapsed section of my bunker.

    Beyond the rubble, the hidden entrance to my main shelter revealed itself, shrouded in shadow.

    If I couldn’t hide forever, I could at least hide better.

    The people who had dropped off the elderly residents had chosen that decrepit apartment as their dumping ground because its exterior was just as miserable as its occupants’ prospects.

    I decided to build a decoy house over the ruins of my old bunker—a place so squalid and uninviting that even zombies would avoid it.