The "bomb" was crude. Han-su had placed three canisters of portable butane—the kind used for tabletop K-BBQ—into the store's industrial microwave. He set the timer for three minutes.
"When that thing goes off," Han-su whispered, his voice barely audible over the scratching of fingernails on glass, "we don't look back. We don't stop to help if someone trips. We get into the back of the truck and lock the door. Understood?"
Ji-young nodded, her knuckles white as she gripped a heavy backpack filled with bandages and canned peaches. Mr. Kim looked like he was about to vomit. He held a plastic crate of bottled water like a shield.
Hummmmmm. The microwave began its deadly countdown.
Han-su gripped the handle of the sliding door. The glass was already spider-webbing from the pressure of the horde outside. There were at least twenty of them now—some in suits, some in pajamas, all united by a singular, mindless hunger.
60 seconds.
A zombie—a former salaryman with his tie caught in his own teeth—slammed his forehead against the glass. CRACK. A shard fell. A grey, rotting hand reached through the gap. Han-su didn't flinch. He brought the edge of the heavy frying pan down on the wrist.
The sound was like a dry branch snapping. The zombie didn't scream. It just kept pushing, its broken bone scraping against the glass.
"Get ready," Han-su breathed.
10 seconds.
The microwave emitted a strange, high-pitched whine. The metal interior began to spark.
3... 2... 1...
BOOM.
The explosion wasn't massive, but in the silence of the dead city, it sounded like a thunderclap. The microwave door flew off, and a fireball scorched the ceiling. The concussive force shattered the already weakened front windows.
The zombies near the door were knocked back, but more importantly, the ones further down the street turned toward the noise.
"RUN!" Han-su yelled.
They burst through the shattered glass. Han-su went first, swinging the frying pan like a macabre scythe. He cleared a path through the dazed creatures. Ji-young followed, surprisingly nimble. Mr. Kim stumbled, the water crate sloshing, but the sheer adrenaline of certain death kept him upright.
Forty meters.
Thirty meters.
A zombie lunged from behind a parked sedan. It caught Ji-young's jacket. She shrieked.
Han-su didn't think. He spun, the momentum of his heavy work boots carrying the strike. The bottom of the pan slammed into the zombie's temple with a sickening thud. The creature collapsed, its skull caved in.
"MOVE!" he roared, grabbing her arm and hauling her toward the rear of the delivery truck.
He fumbled with the keys. His hands were slick with sweat and something darker. The lock turned. He threw the rolling door up with a deafening rattle.
"Inside! Now!"
Ji-young scrambled in. Mr. Kim threw the water crate in and dived after it. Han-su was halfway in when a cold, clammy hand grabbed his ankle. He looked down. It was the woman from earlier—the one in the heels. Her jaw was gone, but her grip was like a vice.
Han-su kicked out with his free leg, his steel-toed boot connecting with her neck. He felt the vertebrae give way. He pulled his leg in and slammed the rolling door down, sliding the heavy latch into place.
Clack.
Silence. Then, the sound of dozens of hands beginning to drum against the thin aluminum walls of the truck.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
They were inside the box. But the box was surrounded.