Hearts of the Wasteland

His Adventures

I still relive the first day as if it were a haunting war memory, each detail etched into my mind like a scar. The screams, raw and primal, echoed endlessly, blending with the unrelenting terror and the sharp staccato of gunfire. The stench of blood and decay hung heavy in the air, draping over the streets like a suffocating, invisible shroud. It was the day I lost Mingi, my best friend, and with him, a piece of my soul. Day one is burned into my memory, an indelible mark of the day the world was irrevocably shattered. 

The day the world itself died.

San jolted awake with a quickened pulse, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The nightmare still clung to him as he sat up, eyes darting around the room for any sign of threat. His combat knife was already in hand, but the room was empty. The only company was the drifting dust and the moss creeping along the walls of the abandoned building he had claimed as a temporary refuge. He exhaled sharply, letting the knife drop to his side as he pulled his knees up to his chest. Wrapping his arms around them, he buried his head, trying to shut out the reality he couldn't escape.

With his eyes closed, San could almost convince himself that the world hadn't disintegrated into chaos. He imagined he was back in high school, idly daydreaming through Ms. Yang's monotonous algebra lectures instead of facing the shattered remnants of his life. If he kept his eyes shut long enough, he could almost believe everything was fine.

But reality was relentless. Five years had passed since the apocalypse began. Most of the people he once cared about were dead, leaving him to navigate this hell alone. He had become a solitary wanderer, too afraid to form bonds, knowing all too well how fragile they could be. The horrifying visions of his loved ones meeting grisly ends had become more than nightmares—they were the grim reality.

Reluctantly, he roused himself, the effort to survive outweighing the pull of despair. Gathering his few essentials—a large backpack containing a water bottle, an empty lunchbox, a can opener, a sleeping bag, ammunition, and his knife and pistol with a makeshift silencer—he prepared to leave his temporary camp. Scanning the streets for any signs of life—or rather, 'unlife'—he slipped into the alleyways, favoring the shadows for concealment. With his supplies dwindling, his best chance at replenishing them lay at the nearest supermarket, hoping some cans remained on the shelves.

Navigating the abandoned streets of Seoul was a grim routine. Avoid the light, stay silent, and remain unseen. These were San's guiding principles for survival. He maneuvered through the labyrinth of decaying vehicles and overgrown grass, moving with practiced stealth until he reached a medium-sized supermarket. The corpses at the entrance were fresh, a grim reminder of the recent danger. San knew the risks—gangs roamed this area, their brutality indiscriminate.

Steeling himself, he drew his pistol, the silencer a faint reassurance against the potential of an ambush. He edged through the aisles, his movements precise and cautious, until he found the remaining cans of food. "Bingo," he murmured, holstering the gun to inspect the cans. He quickly filled his bag without checking the contents, driven by the practical need to stock up rather than curiosity.

A sudden gunshot shattered the fragile calm, and San's instincts kicked in. He dropped to the floor, snatching his gun and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. Crawling to the end of the aisle, he peered around the corner, his pistol poised. A young man, face twisted with fear, darted past.

"Get back here, you little shit!" A gruff voice echoed, disinterested in subtlety. San seized the moment to escape, waiting until the commotion subsided before slipping towards the fire exit. He eased it open, peering out to ensure the coast was clear before making his escape. He was almost free when, in an instant, he found himself on the ground, a new weight pinning him down.

San's eyes flew open to find a stranger sprawled across him. His heart raced as panic surged through him. He shoved the intruder away, instinctively raising his gun. The man tumbled onto his back, groaning, and threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Whoa, hey, just hear me out! I swear, I'm not your enemy!" His breath came in ragged bursts, desperation lacing his voice.

San's gaze was unyielding, his gun unwavering. "Why should I believe you?" His voice was as cold as steel, his finger poised on the trigger. "Believe me or not, but those guys," the man said, nodding toward a group approaching in the distance, "they're definitely not your friends."

San whipped his head around, his eyes locking on the approaching figures. When he turned back, the stranger had already scrambled to his feet and gripped San's wrist tightly. "Trust me," the man urged, his voice urgent, "you don't want to find out what they're capable of."

Before San could react, a gunshot whizzed past, narrowly missing him and causing him to drop his backpack. He flinched, the sting of fear sharp in his chest as the stranger yanked him to his feet. They bolted together, outpacing the gunfire and the gang members pursuing them while yelling curses. They raced to the edge of the abandoned car park, scrambling over the fence with urgent speed. On the other side, the stranger—now identified as Wooyoung through the gang members' yells—gripped San's wrist once more, pulling him into the darkness of the forest beyond.

"Fuck you, Wooyoung! We'll find you!" The threats echoed behind them, but they quickly faded as they plunged into the forest's oppressive gloom.

They ran through the dense undergrowth, the forest enveloping them in its shadowy embrace. After what felt like an eternity of relentless motion, Wooyoung finally skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. San, though equally winded, kept his gun close in his back pocket, his face showing no hint of exhaustion.

"I just saved your life, and you're still not convinced?" Wooyoung's voice was tinged with a dramatic flair as he clutched his chest, shaking his head in mock dismay. His attempt at humor was met with San's unchanging, stony expression.

"Mysterious type. Got it." Wooyoung gave a resigned smile before continuing, "I'm Jung Wooyoung. And you are?"

San hesitated, the weight of exchanging names feeling like a prelude to unwanted entanglements. Finally, he replied, his voice cold and clipped, 

"Choi San."