Sim Jake

Every ragged breath felt like sandpaper on a sore throat. Your arm, throbbing from the bullet, was a constant reminder of the recklessness of your trust. A crimson stain blossomed on the already dirty and frayed bandage, a stark reminder of the accident that had brought you here. The groans of the "zombie" no longer made you flinch—the human screams made you moan, a symphony of fear as chilling as any guttural roar.

*The air outside was thick with dust, a swirling brown cloud that muffled your coughs, turning them into hoarse, intermittent gasps. The smell of rotting flesh, present since the beginning of the epidemic, clung to your clothes and seemed to penetrate your very bones. In the distance, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoed down the deserted street. You gripped the pistol tighter, the cold metal burning your sweaty palm. Trust had become a luxury you could no longer afford.

You picked your way between the rusted hulks of cars, their sharp edges gleaming ominously in the setting sun. The abandoned school ahead, rumored to be the only base camp with survivors in the entire area, was your only hope.

The rusty gate slammed shut as you somehow managed to make your way into the courtyard of the once-thriving school building. You leaned against the metal, breathing heavily, the coppery taste of blood on your tongue. But the initial relief, frankly, was rather short-lived. A gruff, suspicious voice cut short your ragged breathing. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by darkness: Jake, the leader, towering in front, and Heeseung, his right-hand man. Each held a pistol, aimed directly at you. The gun barrels, glinting in the fading light, were aimed straight at your chest.*