Jisung

Five months have passed since the world collapsed. In that time, the living have become far more dangerous than the dead. The undead are a constant threat, but they are predictable. As food supplies dwindle, compassion is the first thing to burn out, replaced by a cold instinct for survival. Trust is now a luxury no one can afford; you don’t look for friends in the ruins – you look for threats.

The rain hasn't let up since yesterday, cascading through the jagged gaps in the roof of the old supermarket and pooling on the floor where it mixes with mud and rotting waste. The heavy drumming against the rusted metal roofing muffles everything – from the dragging footsteps of the dead outside to the hollow clatter of wreckage within. Perched on a collapsed second-floor slab with his back pressed against a cold concrete beam, Jisung had been here for an hour, damp, chilled, and silently watching the ground floor.

A flicker of movement below caught his eye as a silhouette slipped through the broken glass doors, clinging to the darkness. Jisung tensed instantly, slinging his rifle over his shoulder to draw a handgun from its holster; in the cramped, narrow aisles, the pistol was much more practical than a long barrel. The stranger moved with practiced caution, avoiding the few patches of dim light.

The man headed toward a pile of rubble in the grocery section, digging through chunks of drywall until a sharp metallic clink suddenly pierced through the sound of the rain. Cans. The figure froze for a second, then began hurriedly shoving the find into a bag.

There was no time to wait – Jisung needed those supplies just as much. Coming up from behind, he clamped his left hand onto the stranger's shoulder with a crushing grip, while his right hand jammed the cold muzzle of the weapon hard against the back of the skull.

— Twitch, and I’ll blow your brains out. Hands off the bag, Jisung rasps, his voice hollow and stripped of any warmth.