The truck sat idling in the shadow of a weeping willow, its engine a low, rhythmic growl that seemed to vibrate against the damp earth. Outside, the rain had tapered off into a thick, clinging mist that swallowed the horizon. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. Ten extra bodies meant ten extra sources of heat, carbon dioxide, and terror.
"Ji-young, the boxes," Han-su commanded, his voice tight.
He didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the Water Treatment Plant, three hundred meters ahead. It was a brutalist slab of concrete, surrounded by chain-link fences topped with concertina wire. In the old world, it was a boring utility hub. Now, with its elevated walkways and singular entrance, it was a medieval keep.
In the back, the sound of tearing cardboard was frantic. Ji-young and Min-ah worked together, sliding boxes across the metal floor.
"This one's... kitchenware. More knives," Ji-young whispered, tossing a set of ceramic blades aside. "Wait. This one is heavy. It's from an 'Industrial Safety' supplier."
She sliced the tape. Inside weren't weapons, but something perhaps more valuable in a world without hospitals: Heavy-duty riot shins and forearm guards. They were molded polycarbonate, designed for prison guards.
"Put them on," Han-su said. "Min-ah, you too. If we have to go through a bottleneck, we can't afford a single scratch."
"Found something else," Min-ah said. She pulled out a long, narrow box. Her eyes widened. "It's a high-intensity thermal monocular. FLIR brand. This was meant for a private security firm."
She handed it through the pass-through to Han-su. He pressed his eye to the rubber cup and clicked it on. The world turned into a ghostly palette of greys and blacks, but then—bloom.
Three distinct orange-white heat signatures appeared on the roof of the treatment plant. They were pacing. Human. One of them held a long, thin object—a rifle.
"They have a scout," Han-su muttered. "And he's looking right at the road. If we drive up to the gate, they'll put a round through the radiator before we can say hello."
"We can't go around," Min-ah said, her voice flat. "The fence runs all the way into the river. The only way is through the main gatehouse."
Han-su looked at the children huddled in the back. A little girl, no older than six, was clutching a tattered stuffed cat. She wasn't crying; she was beyond that, her eyes glassy and distant. If they stayed here, the "Runners" would eventually catch up. If they went forward, they faced men who had decided that the end of the world was an opportunity for promotion.
"Mr. Kim," Han-su called out.
"What? I'm not fighting! I told you, I'm a manager, I—"
"I don't need you to fight. I need you to drive."
The silence that followed was heavy. Han-su climbed into the back, swapping places with the trembling man.
"Listen to me," Han-su said, grabbing Kim by the collar of his expensive, ruined suit. "You're going to sit in that seat. You're going to keep the engine in second gear. When I give the signal, you're going to floor it toward the gate. Don't look at the people. Don't look at the fire. Just keep the wheels straight."
"They'll shoot me!" Kim hissed.
"They'll shoot the truck," Han-su corrected. "But we've got something they don't expect."
He turned to the pile of packages. He had found one more box. It was small, light, and bore a "Hazardous Materials" sticker. It was an order for a landscaping company: Professional-grade smoke canisters for testing greenhouse ventilation.
"Min-ah, you and I are the boarding party," Han-su said, handed her a pair of the riot guards. "Ji-young, you stay in the back with the kids. If the door opens and it isn't us... you know what to do with that chef's knife."
Ji-young looked at the blade in her hand. Her knuckles were white. She didn't nod, but she didn't look away either.