Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: An Unlucky Day (4)
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Nobody called it by its official name, the Korean Environmental Beautification Union. It was just known as the Cleanup Guild. In the silent office after all the employees had clocked out, a modest party was underway.
There was only one attendee. The middle-aged man, known more as the Director than by his name, uncorked a bottle of whiskey he'd been saving for a special occasion.
Pop!
The Director savored the whiskey's aroma for a moment before chugging straight from the bottle. The burn of liquor over 30% proof sliding down his throat was pure bliss.
It was worth putting up with his subordinates' side-eye and keeping it stashed away.
Anyway, after rinsing his gut with whiskey, the Director sank back into his chair.
It was a perfect night.
He'd gotten rid of a long-standing headache, and in return, he'd pocketed stacks of cash piled high on his desk. Not Korean won featuring President Lee Seung-baek, but bundles of crisp U.S. hundred-dollar bills with Benjamin Franklin's face.
The Director picked up one bundle and sniffed it. The thick, musky scent of cash—better than any snack in the world.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
It was all thanks to that murderer making waves lately.
Three days ago, the psycho had demanded, out of nowhere, exactly ten people to kill.
A demand straight out of a madman's playbook. The problem? The Director didn't have anyone to hand over. He was the head of the Cleanup Guild, not some human trafficker.
But refusing wasn't an option—not with how many bodies that guy had already piled up.
In the end, he'd called upstairs for help. It was meant to be a plea to rein in the crazy killer, but the higher-ups handled it differently.
—Ten employees? Just give 'em. We've got some disposable ones anyway.
The Director realized who those "disposable ones" were.
The ballsy foreman who'd dared defy the bosses, and the idiot cleaners who'd blindly followed him. The higher-ups suggested cleaning house while they were at it. Exactly ten in number.
The Director didn't panic or feel guilty. He followed orders to the letter. And gratefully, the bosses hadn't said a word about the kickbacks from tying up loose ends.
Silence is golden, right? That's how he read it.
*Take your cut.*
And he did, gladly.
The salaries meant for the cleaners, the modest life insurance payout from the killer... and the foreman's hidden nest egg. An unbelievable fortune had landed in his lap overnight.
The biggest chunk was the foreman's stash, of course. He'd heard the guy was loaded, but this?
*No wonder he had the guts to mouth off to the bosses.*
But...
*Know your place. You didn't, you went berserk, and now you've done someone else a favor in death.*
The Director raised his glass in a toast of pity and thanks, downing another swig. The sharp buzz warmed him pleasantly.
He let the intoxication wash over him, savoring the moment.
About ten minutes later, he stood, pulling a large duffel bag and a cluster of smaller ones from under his desk. Cheap market bags, no logos, no frills.
But a bag's worth is in its contents.
He started dividing the bundles into them. Simple reason for stuffing cash into bags instead of the safe.
*This much money? Eat it alone, and it'll bite you back.*
Blood money, sure—but bloodier than actual blood? Nah. Best to spread it around early, avoid headaches later.
Bundles for the bosses, the officials who had his back, and the cops went neatly into the bags. Maybe the booze, but sweat beaded on his forehead just from the transfer.
After packing about half, the Director straightened, wiping his brow with a satisfied grin. Like a farmer reaping an honest harvest, he beamed at his lifeline bundles. Couldn't help but chuckle.
He reached for the largest bag to claim his share.
Crash—
Something shattered behind him.
He whipped around in shock, spotting something vaulting through the window.
*This psycho... we're on the fourth floor?*
Had the killer come for him after all?
In a panic, the Director yanked a pistol from his desk drawer. He scrambled into a stance, aiming at the intruder.
But...
The guy's look was way too familiar. Covered in blood and grime, but that was a Cleanup Guild jumpsuit and gas mask.
"Director."
"W-who the hell are you?"
"Why'd you do it?"
The cleaner who'd smashed through the window spouted nonsense. The Director considered bolting, but his eyes snagged on the cash bags piled on the desk.
Money breeds courage where there was none. Gripping the gun two-handed, he bellowed at the approaching figure.
"Who are you, you bastard!"
"Why'd you sell us out to that guy."
Sell them out? The Director caught the implication, narrowing his eyes.
"...Foreman?"
No answer. He racked his brain.
Had one of the cleaners handed to the killer survived?
Obviously—why else spout this crap.
*Idiot killer couldn't even finish one cleaner properly?*
He sized up who among the betrayed crew had the guts for this.
Foreman was too old. Dukbae's age group lacked the spine.
Left with the young ones... James was foreign, weird accent. The rookie, Dung Beetle, was too quiet for trouble.
Only Chunsik fit.
Decision made, the Director licked his dry lips.
"Chunsik, survivors gotta think survival. Ha, you come back here?"
Sweat slicked his gun hand. Damn, he tensed, expecting a lunge. But the guy just kept talking, voice muffled.
"Answer the question. Why'd you sell us?"
"Why sell? Your foreman piss off the bosses—forgot that? Worms cleaning corpses should stick to hauling 'em. You didn't see this coming?"
"For that lame reason...?"
"Lame? You idiots skip the shake-down, hand bodies straight to city hall—know how much that cost us?"
Bang! The Director fired. The cleaner took it in the thigh, crumpling.
"I'm the bastard! Top marksman in the army. Know that?"
He skipped mentioning the headshot that hit the leg.
Hah—damn. Regaining composure, the Director steadied his breath and grabbed the whiskey.
"Stupid fuck. Money a joke? People die for it in Africa and beyond the gates every day."
Pure bullshit from start to finish. He didn't even buy his own words.
But who cares?
Key fact: the guy was crawling, shot. Director stood fine.
"...At least we agree on one thing."
The downed cleaner neither argued nor raged.
Just a deep sigh, and eyes piercing through the mask like daggers.
"What, you're toast now?"
Gun and booze bolstered him. A swig, then he swaggered over confidently.
"Some people die for money."
"You little... ha, can't read the room? Back from death's door, seeing red?"
He closed to point-blank, dead sure of his aim. Fleeting thoughts: how to dump the body, how much to bribe responding cops. Whatever.
"Die."
He squeezed the trigger.
The guy exploded upward.
"Urk?!"
Caught off-guard, the Director froze.
Bang! The shot sliced air. The cleaner headbutted his jaw.
Crack! Jawbone and teeth shattered; the Director's head spun.
*No, can't pass out now...*
Thought ended.
Smack!
Something smashed his skull again. Agony engulfed him.
Consciousness plunged into darkness.
***
"Groan... ugh..."
The Director woke groaning like a rain-soaked mutt. The hit spot throbbed mercilessly; he writhed, eyes shut for minutes.
"Help... somebody..."
No response to his pitiful plea. He tried rubbing his eyes, but limbs bound tight—could barely twitch his head.
Finally, minutes after regaining senses, he opened his eyes.
"Awake?"
First in blurry sight: a black gas mask like the cleaners wore.
"You... who..."
"Disappointed it's not Chunsik?"
"D-Dukbae? It's Dukbae, right? Misunderstanding. I can explain."
"Dukbae Uncle... you say that name easy."
The guy slowly removed the mask.
First, a young man's jawline, not quite adult. Then black hair matted with blood and sweat. Finally, eyes gleaming from beneath.
"Golden eyes...?"
Molten gold, chilling irises. Only one cleaner he knew had those.
"Dung Beetle, you... how?"
"Can't I be alive?"
"..."
The Director scrambled mentally. How to survive? Appeal to emotion? Threaten?
"You crazy bastard!"
Threat it was.
"Know what you've done? What you're ruining!"
His memory: Dung Beetle, born yard dog—did the dirty work without complaint. Yell a bit, he'd snap out of it...
"W-wait. What the hell you doing?"
Against expectations, no cower.
Worse: he pulled a massive gasoline can from behind, striding forward.
"Wait! Hold on!"
Lid off, gas poured over the Director's head. Chilling fumes enveloped him.
"..."
Now he took in surroundings. Dim light, corpses stacked mountain-high.
The massive body warehouse where cleaners diverted corpses.
Something massively wrong dawned. Thigh-shot guy dragged an unconscious adult from office here? Possible?
Head lagging reality, Dung Beetle spoke.
"Director, I'll give you a chance now."
"Chance? What kind?"
"Chance not to burn."
He pulled a lighter.
"Simple. I ask, you answer."
"..."
Click, click. Dung Beetle flicked it on and off silently.
Terror-stricken Director nodded mutely; Dung Beetle spoke first.
"First question. This mess—bosses' orders?"
"Y-yeah. Killer demands ten to kill, they say perfect chance, hand over your whole team. Believe me! I just followed orders."
"..."
Director swallowed hard. Those golden eyes glaring down were terrifying.
"Second. This body warehouse—what is it?"
Eyes squeezed shut. Unanswerable. Answer, save now but die later. Bosses wouldn't spare a leaker.
No answer, die now.
Tears or gas? Liquid trickled from wrinkled eyes.
"This warehouse... Cleanup Guild's reason for being."
"Reason?"
"Urban legend about us—you heard."
"Cannibal factory? Supplying corpses to necromancers? Bullshit?"
"Yeah, that rumor. Half-true."
Half-true? Dung Beetle frowned.
Cannibal factory? Total crap. Butchering's delicate. Needs slaughterhouses, freezers.
Piling bodies here? Deliver rotten meat, lucky.
So, necromancers? Hard to buy too.
"You expect me to believe that?"
Voice low, Director glanced nervously.
"Hard, yeah. But pure truth, swear it."
"Cleanup Guild's government-run? U.S.-listed terrorists? That it?"
Lighter thrust close; Director recoiled.
"Red bigshots meet U.S. presidents openly. Korean gov shaking with terror groups—so weird?"
Dodging flame, he added.
"Don't know how high it goes. I'm just delivery grunt. But this: we've done it over 20 years."
"Lies. What gov get from necromancers?"
Click—flame neared. Director screamed.
"A-Awakening Potion! Gov gets Awakening Potions!"
"Awakening Potion?"
"Yeah, damn it—the elixir turns Earthlings into mana users, one-in-three chance! Necromancers supply gov."
"..."
"Heh... why this pissant country has more mages than whole South America? Built Hogwarts?"
Plausible. Korea did produce mages like nowhere else.
Gov blamed open gates in Kaesong... but necromancer deal? Fit better.
"...Proof? Got proof?"
"Damn it, this warehouse! Look normal? Preservation spells keep bodies fresh, seals trap smells!"
Director yelled; Dung Beetle scanned anew.
True— this many corpses should've reeked everywhere. Gas mask barely enough? Magic only explanation.
"Who else builds this? Please, believe. Why lie dragged here?"
Desperate plea. He wanted to live. Untapped wealth, joys unlived— not like this.
But Dung Beetle eyed skeptically, gauging truth.
"If true, when necromancers come? Pickup schedule?"
"Three days. Three days—regular pickup. Contact: abandoned Incheon Port Dock 13!"
Spilled top-secret freely. Too late to stop.
"Three days..."
Dung Beetle clammed up. Silence scared as threats.
"M-more questions? I'll spill all—spare me."
"No more. Doubt you know much anyway."
"T-then you spare me?"
No answer, just stare. Golden eyes, loathing and hate locked on his.
Silence till gas on cheek mixed sweat, flowed. Dung Beetle clenched fist, pocketed lighter—like resolved.
"Promise kept. I'll let you live."
Relief sigh. Inward sneer: *Stupid fool, let me go?*
"Thanks. Truly..."
Outward: weak, pathetic. No need extra beef.
Survive now, revenge plenty. Or flee gov first.
Anyway, Dung Beetle left toward entrance.
Director relaxed when footsteps faded. Clutched pounding chest, sighed.
"Damn, could've untied me."
Struggled free, grunting. Freeing one arm, odd smell tickled nose.
Something... meat burning...
"Shit..."
Smoke from Dung Beetle's direction. Turned: black smoke, rising flames.
"This... this..."
No escape, no vents—perfect seal for magic.
Break out before blaze? Maybe...
But gasoline-soaked head to toe? Useless.
"You dog bastard!!!"
Realized: sit, burn, wait. Despair.
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