Chapter 2: Prologue

Day 2 of the Zombie Outbreak

I greeted the morning in a holding cell.

Clang clang clang, the sound of metal bars being struck and someone shouting.

“Wake up, wake up! Time to get up! Meals will be served shortly!”

I groggily stood up. My whole body ached from sleeping on the hard floor. The stark reality of the holding cell came into focus through my blurry vision.

Iron bars. Police officers.

Then the memories flooded back. Murder. Arrest. Body search, the confiscated pot, and the interrogation postponed until today when I’d “come to my senses.”

“Ah…”

I covered my face with both hands and let out a deep sigh. My life was as dark as my covered vision.

Murder. My judgment had been completely wrong from the start. Even with zombies appearing, there was no apocalypse. There had been no need to react that way.

I remembered the scenes I’d witnessed through the window of the police car during yesterday’s arrest.

‘The world really was functioning normally…’

Despite the zombie outbreak, there weren’t any zombies visible on the streets. People were just wearing masks, that’s all. The world hadn’t changed much.

Only my life had changed.

“I must have been crazy, really. Ah. Ah. Why did I kill people?”

I smacked my head repeatedly.

Was it because of sleep deprivation? Had I gotten too immersed in writing the zombie apocalypse screenplay? I’d acted on impulse.

And this was the result. A holding cell. Prison-bound. I’d probably make the news.

Lowering my hands, I saw a middle-aged man reeking of alcohol passed out on the floor and a young man with tattoo-covered arms. My cellmates.

“…”

The tattooed man carefully looked at me, then slowly backed away. Whether from my muttering or something he’d heard, he seemed to know I’d been arrested for murder.

The heavy reality hit me again. I was now a violent criminal that people avoided.

I slumped my shoulders and stared blankly through the bars. Now that I’d been caught, there was no point in writing screenplays and planning for the future.

Hire a lawyer, wait for trial…

That was it.

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

I leaned against the corner.

Nothing to pass the time in the holding cell except the TV beyond the bars and the officer watching us.

‘A holding cell… at least it’s an experience…’

I caught myself automatically thinking how I might use this for screenplay direction, then laughed bitterly.

‘What screenplay? I’m headed to prison. Or am I? Could I turn my experience into a screenplay after I get out?’

But what was the point when I’d likely be locked up for at least 10 years? Would it even be possible with a murderer’s label? Or maybe a zombie apocalypse would be better than prison life…

Lost in these stupid thoughts, I looked at the large TV outside the cell.

Emergency broadcast? Breaking news? Whatever it was, an urgent news report was playing.

I listened carefully.

Though showing zombie-like symptoms, these are just virus-infected patients. Prevention is possible through basic disease control measures, so citizens shouldn’t worry too much.

An expert spoke reassuringly. This virus was easier to manage than COVID, which had ended years ago.

Then the announcer received a paper and smiled brightly.

Yes, we have breaking news.

The screen changed.

Armed forces, like a special response team, were storming a building. Soon several people were led out in handcuffs.

Immortal Company, a global pharmaceutical corporation. Executives from Immortal Company’s Korean branch who ordered the release of the I-virus have been arrested.

The scenes changed rapidly.

Drones resembling those used for pesticide spraying, flying over various locations. Concert venues, stadiums, gatherings, transportation hubs, densely populated areas.

The announcer read the report carefully.

According to information from a whistleblower, Immortal Company systematically and intentionally released the virus worldwide using drones under headquarters’ direction.

“Ah.”

I sighed.

Of course a zombie apocalypse was impossible. A virus easier to handle than COVID due to its distinct symptoms. Functioning government administration.

Even with drones spreading the virus, the world wasn’t so easily shaken.

‘Why did I spread that soapy water? I could’ve just locked my door and waited it out.’

A moment’s mistake had become a disaster that pushed my life off a cliff. Deep in regret, I kept watching the TV.

The screen changed again. Not just Korea, but Immortal Company locations worldwide.

Footage of raids on Immortal Company buildings and research facilities in various countries – the United States, China, Russia, Japan, France, Britain.

Governments worldwide are coordinating to search Immortal Company facilities. Doctor, how will this affect vaccine and treatment development?

Of course. If they created the virus, they’ll have research data, and obtaining this data would help development.

The doctor paused briefly before continuing.

At minimum, we can establish effective prevention protocols.

I wasn’t sure if that was true. Maybe they were just being overly optimistic due to press guidelines.

Everything seemed pessimistic to me.

Yes, we have more breaking news. The chairman of Immortal Company headquarters has also been arrested.

The arrested chairman of Immortal Company wore a strange smile as he was led away. That smile seemed to mock me through the screen.

I clenched my fists tight enough for my nails to dig into my palms.

“Because of that bastard.”

If not for that insane Immortal Company, there wouldn’t have been any zombies, and I wouldn’t have killed anyone. Everything, everything was because of that person. My life.

If that person had just made the virus properly, my killing people would have been eliminating potential competitors in the same building.

“If only…”

I muttered. Dark thoughts surfaced.

If only a zombie apocalypse would come. If the world would fall apart. If killing a few people became normal.

My crimes would be buried, and I could live as a normal person.

Fear of trial and prison life, the stigma of being a murderer, my shattered dream of becoming a screenwriter, the uncertain future – it all pressed on my mind like a vice.

I clutched my head and groaned. The pressure felt unbearable, like my brain was being crushed.

Then I heard it.

“Grrrr.”

An animal-like growl. Not the drunk man’s snoring. Not my voice either. I jerked my head up.

The tattooed man crouched on the opposite side. He had suddenly turned into a zombie.

Just like the student zombie I’d seen yesterday.

The suddenly transformed tattooed man grabbed his head with both hands and snarled. I glimpsed drool dripping beneath the shadows. He raised his head. Bloodshot eyes.

“…”

My headache vanished instantly. Locked in a cell with a zombie – what future was I worried about? The present was the problem.

Letters sprawled endlessly through my mind.

‘Zombies. What are their characteristics?’

They transform without warning signs. Definitely aggressive. But what criteria do they use to choose targets? Their senses must be human-level. What should I do now?

Crack- Pop-

The tattooed man twisted his joints as he stood up. Like an excited beast, he jerked his head around wildly. In the silent cell, he pressed his head against the bars following the TV sound, then suddenly turned to stare at the snoring drunk.

I watched the tattooed man quietly and slowly raised my hands, layering them over my mask to muffle my breathing.

‘It’s sound.’

I held my breath in the corner of the cell.

“Urrrk.”

The tattooed man paced roughly between the bars and the snoring drunk. Drool dripped in his wake, leaving a trail.

‘Notice already!’

I desperately tried to catch the officer’s attention with my eyes. I didn’t dare speak, afraid of becoming a target.

“Man, why would someone with so much money do that?”

But the officer just turned around casually to watch TV, and inevitably, disaster struck.

Snooooore-

The drunk lay on the cell floor, snoring loudly. His face was still red from alcohol, shirt and tie loose.

The tattooed man glared at the drunk and crouched low. His face twisted severely. Like someone who couldn’t stand the snoring sound anymore. He opened his mouth wide and lunged.

There was no shout. He just bit into the drunk’s neck.

Rip, flesh torn away roughly. Red blood spurted. The sound and color hit vividly.

The drunk woke instantly.

“Aaaagh! Wha-, Aaaagh! Get, get away!”

Screams and blood colored the cell. The holding cell became a crime scene.

I slowly crept toward the door, and the TV-watching officer jumped up in surprise. He blinked, then urgently grabbed his radio.

“Holding cell here, we have an inmate attacking another inmate!”

Then his eyes met mine. I rolled my eyes desperately. Looking at the infected man, then the officer, silently gesturing at the door.

If you don’t open the door, I’ll die too, please open the door.

The officer looked away.

“Contact 119! And backup! Looks like an infected – I can’t handle this alone!”

No, what backup? Someone’s dying right now!

I almost burst out shouting but clamped my mouth shut. This was maddening. Glancing at the tattooed man, he seemed to have lost interest after his first taste of the drunk.

“Urk, ugh.”

The drunk no longer snored. He pressed both hands against his neck wound, breathing heavily, pupils dilated as he stared at the cell ceiling.

Splash, the tattooed man stomped through the blood puddle, looking around wildly. His bloodshot eyes swept between quiet me and the officer on the radio.

My body tensed automatically. Could I win in a fight? No, fighting wasn’t the issue. Even winning the fight could mean losing ultimately.

Unknown virus transmission routes. Bites, saliva spray, scratches, airborne spread. Had to be careful of everything.

‘Not fighting is best.’

I held my breath. Then secretly gestured to the officer. Moving my hand slowly, I mimed striking the bars. Asking him to draw attention.

“Ah!”

Fortunately, the officer caught on quickly. He quickly extended his baton and bang bang bang, enthusiastically struck the bars on the opposite side from me.

The tattooed man’s dazed face twisted ugly again. He seemed about to cover his ears with clenched fists, then suddenly charged at the bars.

“Graaaaah!”

The tattooed man smashed his head against the bars like he meant to crack it open. His forehead split and bled. Nearly self-harm. The officer backed away at the sight of blood.

“Oh no. This isn’t good.”

Probably worried about various inmate-related issues. Like inducing self-harm, things like that.

But it was too late. The enraged tattooed man kept throwing himself at the bars, grinding his teeth at the officer.

He paid me no attention at all.

‘Perfect.’

I smiled behind my mask.

Then the escape opportunity came.

Several officers rushing to subdue the infected man, the cell door opened to rescue the bleeding drunk, officers tangled up with the escaped zombie.

I looked at the wide open door, the holding cell entrance, and the empty violent crimes office beyond.