The television crackles to life, interrupting the eerie silence that envelops our shelter. Joon-ho and I exchange a glance, a mix of apprehension and resolve in our eyes. We have been anticipating this, yet hoping it wouldn't come to pass. The screen flickers, and the stern face of a government official appears, his expression grave.
"Citizens," he begins, his voice carrying an authoritative weight. "In light of the escalating crisis and to ensure the safety and security of our nation, the government is declaring martial law, effective immediately."
Joon-ho's grip tightens on the armrest of the chair, his knuckles whitening. I feel a knot forming in my stomach as the official continues.
"Under this martial law:
1. All commercial and social activities are to be suspended. Businesses, schools, and public places will remain closed until further notice.
2. Citizens are required to stay indoors. Leaving your homes is prohibited, except for essential activities, which will be strictly regulated.
3. Anyone found outside without explicit permission will be subject to arrest. The military has been granted authority to enforce this order, and they will use necessary force to ensure compliance."
The room feels colder, more confining, as the reality of the announcement sinks in. The official's voice seems to echo, a stark reminder of our new, harsh reality.
"This is not a decision we take lightly," the official says, his eyes scanning the camera as if looking into the soul of each viewer. "But it is necessary to restore order and protect our citizens. We urge everyone to comply for the safety of all. Thank you."
The screen goes dark, leaving us in a stunned silence. Joon-ho turns to me, his face a mask of worry. "This is serious," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're not just talking about arrests. They mentioned... using force."
I nod, feeling a surge of anxiety. "We need to be extremely careful now. Any mistake could be... fatal."
We sit there for a moment, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The safety of our home now feels like a prison, a place where we're trapped, with the outside world a dangerous and unpredictable place.
"I never thought it would come to this," Joon-ho murmurs, looking out the window at the deserted street. "Martial law... It's like we're in a war zone."
But at the same time, Joon-ho and I both know what this means.
It's time to go on an antibiotic hunt. Our preparations were meticulous. Joon-ho and I have spent the previous nights mapping our route to the town center, taking into account the potential hazards and points of interest. The drone footage has shown no signs of military presence or the infected, but we know that the situation can change rapidly.
Dawn is still a faint promise in the sky when we set out from our fortified shelter. Dressed in protective gear, we look more like characters from a post-apocalyptic film than two ordinary people trying to survive. I have my pistol securely holstered and a crossbow slung across my back, while Joon-ho carries a sword, its blade glinting in the dim light.
Our electric bicycles are a silent blessing, allowing us to move quickly and efficiently without drawing attention. The empty streets, once bustling with life, now lay desolate and eerie in the predawn darkness. We communicate in hushed tones, always on the alert for any signs of danger.
As we approach the first pharmacy, the sky is beginning to lighten, casting long shadows on the deserted village. The pharmacy, a small, unassuming building, is exactly as we have seen it in the drone footage – shut down and unguarded.
Joon-ho keeps watch while I use a set of tools to quietly break the lock. The door creaks open, and we slip inside, our flashlights cutting through the darkness. The shelves are mostly intact, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. We work quickly and efficiently, collecting antibiotics and other prescription-only medicines. These supplies are not just for us; in a world where the healthcare system has collapsed, they are valuable for trade or aid.
Every sound seems amplified in the stillness of the pharmacy. The soft rustle of packaging, the gentle clink of bottles being placed into our bags – each noise makes us pause, our senses heightened to any potential threat.
Once our bags are full, I take a moment to look around. The pharmacy, once a place of healing and care, now feels like a tomb, a reminder of the world we have lost. I feel a pang of sorrow for the simple, everyday life that seems like a distant memory.
"Let's move," I whisper to Joon-ho, and we carefully make our way out of the pharmacy.
The morning has been a careful dance of risk and reward. Joon-ho and I have managed to scavenge two more small pharmacies after the first. Their modest size means limited supplies, but every pill, every bandage we gather feels like a small victory in these desperate times.
As we prepare to leave the last pharmacy, a sense of cautious accomplishment begins to settle over us. Our bags are heavier with the day's finds, and there is a quiet hope that these supplies could sustain us for a while longer.
But that hope is shattered by a sound that freezes us in our tracks. A guttural, rasping noise, unfamiliar yet unmistakably ominous, echoes through the empty aisles. Joon-ho and I exchange a glance, instantly understanding. It is one of the infected.
We turn off our flashlights, plunging the pharmacy into near darkness, lit only by the faint morning light filtering through the dirty windows. Our hearts pound in our chests as we listen, trying to gauge the position of the infected from the sound of its movements.
It is close, too close for comfort. The erratic shuffling and intermittent groans paint a haunting picture of what lay in wait. We know we have to move, but any sudden noise could draw it to us.
I signal to Joon-ho, pointing towards the back of the pharmacy where we have spotted a rear exit during our initial sweep. Moving with painstaking slowness, we begin to inch our way towards the door, our every step deliberate to avoid any sound.
The infected, its senses heightened in its twisted state, seems to sense our presence. The noises grow more frantic, a cacophony of desperation and hunger. My hand grips the pistol at my side, the weight of it both a comfort and a grim reminder of the potential danger we face.
Joon-ho is ahead of me, reaching the door first. He carefully turns the handle, the door creaking ominously as it opens. We slip through, easing it shut behind us with a soft click that seems to echo loudly in the tense silence.
Once outside, we don't pause to look back. We move quickly, our steps light but swift, eager to put distance between us and the pharmacy. The electric bicycles are where we have left them, a sight that brings a surge of relief.
As we mount the bikes, the sound of the infected inside the pharmacy grows distant, a haunting reminder of the peril that lurks at every corner in this new world. We ride in silence, the events of the morning a stark illustration of the razor-thin margin between life and death.
It was a wise decision not to engage the infected in the pharmacy. In this new world, where the echo of a single gunshot could be a beacon for unwanted attention, stealth is our greatest ally. Joon-ho and I understand this implicitly; the risk of drawing more infected or, worse, alerting the military to our presence, outweighs the immediate threat of a single infected individual.
As we ride back in silence, the gravity of our situation weighs heavily on us. The empty streets we navigate are a stark reminder of the delicate balance we have to maintain. The hum of our electric bicycles is barely audible, a conscious choice to blend into the eerie quiet of the abandoned town.