FEAR / Seventeen

SEPTEMBER 16TH WAS THE DAY HALF THE SOUTH KOREAN POPULATION DISAPPEARED.

THE REMAINING HUMANS HAVE BEGUN TO CALL IT

THE DOWNFALL. 86 DAYS LATER…

ONE

5:32pm

What can one do when the world is ending? Seungkwan thought listlessly as the sky above settled into a tranquil purple, hints of gray splashing in through the rays of wan sunlight as the once-glowing medallion sank below the horizon line of Seoul, South Korea. Nothing in particular, it seemed. The past twelve weeks had been a blur of attempts to spark fires, the backbreaking pain of lugging metal can after metal can of water across a half mile of obliterated ruins, mixing packets of spicy flavoring into cup noodles and sucking the orange color straight from the chopsticks, and wind—terrible gusts of wind that yanked back his hair and sent him tumbling back into the grass. He supposed there was no use in hoping, having faith in rescue when twelve weeks of this had gone by, and so fast. Time flies when you’re having fun, they say. No. Time flies when you most desperately wish to preserve it. 

They’d gathered the tents two days in, in a foggy haze of uncertainty and disquietude, once nearly all of the escaped citizens had banded together. Still, though very rarely, a survivor would barrel into the camp, gravely injured or ill, and Choi Seungcheol—a trained doctor and surgeon—would spend countless hours tending to them, even if they ended up passing in the end. Seungcheol was a brave, impenetrable person that Seungkwan wished he could be. Instead, he wept each night, plagued by hunger and exhaustion and apprehension. 

There were about nineteen tents. Each the generic size, fit for a family of three or possibly four, though most families had been separated during that day—torn apart in the haste of fending for their own lives. The tents consisted of primarily singular people, strangers to each other, squashed together into a compact living space and forced to share food, water, and essential necessities. There were no children. At least that decreased worries. 

A bit. 

Hardly.

Out of the multitude of tents, one stood out in size. The main tent.

It was large, and seemed to tower menacingly over everyone, even Kim Mingyu—an insanely tall twenty-four-year-old who was currently drawing faces into the dirt, best friend Jeon Wonwoo by his side. It was an elegant canopy tent, designed for a beautiful, expensive wedding, only to be muddied and spattered with indecipherable splotches. Back when the world was normal, Seungkwan might have envied the wealthy couple getting married in this tent, might have felt begrudging towards them. Now, he felt an endless dread whenever the brief memory of this imaginary couple crossed his mind. They had probably disappeared, just like the rest of South Korea, on September 16th. Well. Most of South Korea. Everyone except for the people in these camps.

Sometimes, Seungkwan sat down and theorized. He was a fan of theories, used to read them online and create them himself. He found it to be a controllable, tame way to escape reality—concocting his own with clues and little pieces of evidence too clear to disregard. He theorized that about the bugs that had risen from the ground, the bugs seemingly responsible for the disappearance of nearly the entire South Korean population (and maybe other populations around the world, but Seungkwan hadn’t a single idea what was going on outside of South Korea, considering there was no form of communication available). He thought maybe they were aliens. Aliens, impeccably buglike aliens, come to annihilate the human race. Or maybe robots, they could have been robots, bug-robots with injectors that dispensed disappear-potion affixed to their teeth. Yes, yes, he was entirely aware that these theories were ridiculous and most likely untrue, but he was ready to believe quite about anything—wanted to. With each motionless, lethargic day that passed, his hope weakened. It was so weak that he barely felt any emotion at all. Even with his two closest friends, Chwe Hansol and Lee Chan, pressed up next to him. He was lucky enough to have found them, lucky enough to have survived that near-apocalyptic event in the first place, but instead he felt empty. Cold. Desolate.

Sitting rigidly beneath the canopies of the main tent (where he spent the majority of his days), he ate packaged convenience store ramen for the thousandth time in his twelve weeks. He was slightly comforted by the slurping noises of his best friends yet disturbed by the silence of their voices. Chan, mostly. Hansol was typically a chill person, but Chan was animated and talkative, always laughing and smiling and playing around and—Oh, it’s not his fault for feeling depressed. Look at you. You haven’t smiled in weeks. Seungkwan lightly slapped himself, chewing mournfully. Tears rolled down his cheeks, gone unnoticed. Or so he thought. Hansol peered inexpressively into his eyes and caught a tear with his thumb, brushing it from Seungkwan’s cheek with the grace of a dove’s wing. Seungkwan scrutinized the twenty-three-year-old, searching him up and down. Being the eldest of the three (though certainly not the eldest of the camp), he tended to look after his close friends in a way that a guardian would—but Seungkwan was not a guardian. He saw Hansol’s thick silver hair was blotched with dirt and dust, face bruised; tired and sorrowful, glassy brown eyes rimmed with red. It was his inexpressiveness that worried Seungkwan. His flat brows and gaunt cheeks and parched, pursed lips. 

“It’s okay,” Seungkwan lied hoarsely. He scrubbed at his own face, absorbing tears into his skin until they were slain—once and for all, he hoped. “Eat.” He scrunched up his facial features in Hansol’s direction. The silver-haired male gazed back mechanically, his lusterless complexion glinting with the hues of the varicolored setting sun, hands loosely clutching the cup of half-devoured noodles. Seungkwan gently smacked Hansol’s arm. “Eat.”

Hansol cast him a side glance, then fingered the chopsticks, twisted the orange noodles in the cup, opened his mouth, and silently chewed. Seungkwan’s heart thudded as he released a pained sigh, and dug into his own noodles. He was hungry—starving, yet…nauseated by the idea of eating this ramen again. And the problem was that he knew he should be grateful. Grateful to have this food, grateful to still be alive. But he was miserable. 

The stash of cup noodles packed neatly in the left corner of the main tent had come from a twenty-five-year-old by the name of Kwon Soonyoung, a free-spirited guy with bright blonde hair and squinty eyes. On the third night subsequent to September 16th, he’d been sitting quietly in the canopy tent before leaping to his feet in alarm, startling those who huddled together, food-deprived, before a feeble flame sparked from tedious work and splintered fingers. He announced loudly that he’d stashed food in his basement two years ago in case any sort of apocalyptic event took place out of the blue, and he was sure it was still intact. While Lee Jihoon—a hotheaded male of about Soonyoung’s age—argued that it wasn’t possible, that the weird bug creatures had destroyed every building in the country and left only heaps of debris and dust, Soonyoung snapped back that the basement was entirely underground, and this task would require some digging, but he had been absolutely positive his plan would work. 

It did. Unanticipatedly. 

Soonyoung posed as a temporary leader and gathered nearly the entire camp to help dig up his basement. Despite starvation and weakened muscles, the camp containing of possibly fifty-five people managed to move layers and layers of debris from Soonyoung’s fallen house, finally arriving at the basement, which was filled to the very brim with dirt. So much dirt, most lost hope consequent to seeing it. But Soonyoung encouraged them to move on, and succeeded, with that incredibly loud voice of his. Wen Junhui, a guy with a stripey shirt, purple hair, and fun earrings had apparently used a shovel as a weapon to try and defeat the bugs as they’d raided his home, and it had served him well—so he was able to get a load of the work done a whole lot easier than the rest, who dug through the dirt with bare, scraped hands. It took a whole eight days to empty the basement, and during that time, the group downed water from the extraordinarily convenient river nearby to make sure they didn’t die. By the end of it, they lay on the dirt-spattered, detonated road with bloody hands and heaving breath. Noodle stash gleaming in the late September sunlight like a blessing from the gods.

For now, Soonyoung sat almost contentedly in his corner of the main tent beside his handsome friend Lee Seokmin, slurping his basement noodles. The cup was covered in splotches of dirt, but nobody minded—who in their right mind would? Nobody seemed to mind that the noodles were expired, either. Food was food. What feared Seungkwan was what would happen when that food ran out. Sure, it would take years and years and years before they emptied the river, but the noodle stash was growing dangerously scarce and it constricted Seungkwan’s lungs whenever he thought about it.

So he didn’t. 

He became aware of sniffling to his left and glanced towards Chan, who had stuck his head between his knees, full cup dangling limply from his unmoving hand. Chan was the youngest person left in South Korea—presumably, since the bugs had taken all the kids—and that had to be taking hell of a toll on him despite his usual strength and impeccable persistence. Concern swelling, Seungkwan’s arm hovered heavily above Chan’s stilled form, words jammed in his throat. Are you okay? He wished to ask, tenderly, lovingly, in a way that indicated that he cared, and he did. But for some indecipherable reason, he merely continuously hovered. Hansol noticed, and made a throat-clearing sound that caused Seungkwan’s heart to leap. He whipped his head towards the silver-haired, arm still floating oddly before Chan—who was now squeezing his cup of noodles so hard that his fingernails made indents. Hansol did not speak, only gestured to Chan with his eyes, as if to say: Well? Are you going to do something oh-so-dependable elder? Seungkwan’s brows drew in close and glared defensively, then blew out a sigh and turned in Chan’s direction. The twenty-two-year-old was sobbing.

“Chan?” he whispered, fingers gently prodding at the skin of Chan’s bare forearm, battered with scrapes and bruises. The youngest flinched at his touch, which buried deep into Seungkwan’s heart. He retreated backward in shame, accidentally ramming into Hansol’s shoulder and splattering perfectly innocent noodles into the grass. Chan raised his dark eyes, raw and red around the brim, tears streaking his pallid face as his frame trembled like a twig in a hurricane, teeth clenching, expression on the brink of wild before he—

“Screw this!” Chan wailed as he stood and chucked his ramen across the tent, catapulting noodles into Soonyoung’s face, who hardly blinked as he was smacked with his own expired food. The youngest didn’t waste a moment upright and collapsed to his knees in sobs, turning every single head in the large tent, including those heads who rested fearfully in the nineteen-or-so smaller camping tents beyond. It became so silent that Seungkwan could only hear his own breath, the blood coursing through his veins, and the thunder of his rampaging heartbeat. He sat glued to the muddy canopies, right beside Chan yet terrified to say or do anything, terrified to comfort him, lightly pat him on the head and coo to him that it would be okay if he simply believed because that wasn’t true, everything was spiraling into hell, they were all going to die when they ran out of food, there were too many unanswered questions dangling in the silent air—like what the hell were those bugs and what did they have to do with the disappearance of almost every single citizen of South Korea except for us lucky fifty-five? 

While Chan violently cried and his two closest friends sat still, Choi Seungcheol entered the tent from outdoors. The twenty-six-year-old medical expert was flocked by his two assistants, Yoon Jeonghan—a platinum-haired male with high cheekbones and delicate features—and Hong Joshua—an odd twenty-five-year-old with golden hair and a constant cheshire-cat gleam to his honey-brown eyes. The three served as dependable leaders of the camp, despite the fact that several individuals were much older. It was Seungcheol’s medical experience that mattered to everyone, plus Jeonghan and Joshua held such auras of menacing authority that even someone aged beyond them wouldn’t dare attempt to put them in their place. 

Seungcheol knelt down cautiously before Chan. Gently, his soft fingers brushed Chan’s hair like butterflies in a spring wind, weaving through Chan’s blonde strands, until finally—

“Please go away,” Chan murmured into his arms, sobs receding to soundless tears.

“I’m not going to go away. You quite clearly are in need of comfort,” Seungcheol reasoned.

Seungkwan’s heart imploded. I should be the one comforting my best friend, he thought, but did nothing. He fixated his eyes toward the grass beneath him and spied on the conversation next to him through his peripheral vision. 

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you, then,” Chan snapped back.

A flicker of amusement passed over Seungcheol’s features. “And why is that?”

“Because—because—” Anger erupted, festering over Chan like flames. He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m tired! And so sick of eating the same goddamn thing everyday! I don’t care if I should be thankful because this guy” —a half-hearted gesture at Soonyoung, who was still working the noodles off his face with his tongue—“found us some noodles from his basement because they are gross, you know it too, Seungcheol.” He contemptuously poked the doctor in the forehead, and the Seungcheol raised his brows. “Don’t you wish you could stop pretending that you know everything, that you’re this magical savior that can nurse anyone back to health with the slightest touch, ‘cause you’re not. You’re just a guy. Like everyone else. You can stop hiding your feelings behind that super-manly leader wall you have put up and cry, for god’s sake!” Chan shoved Seungcheol’s shoulder, but he didn’t budge.

If Seungkwan imagined it, the smallest hint of irritation bloomed on the doctor’s face.

“You act as if you are the only person in this camp, Lee Chan,” Seungcheol said flatly.

Chan’s lips trembled. “Maybe I am.” He hid his head between his knees once again. Seungcheol sighed emptily and got to his feet, brushing dirt from his khaki shorts. He stole one last glance at Chan’s quavering ball and strode away, stone-faced. 

A single tear dropped into Seungkwan’s noodles, Hansol too inattentive to brush it away.

Though Seungcheol had left—possibly to tend to the fire in the center of the tent—Jeonghan and Joshua remained kneeling with Chan. 

“I know this is a hard time,” Jeonghan muttered softly, squeezing Chan’s arm. “But everybody is going to pull through. Especially you, Chan. When we all came together—this camp—on that day, you caught my attention. Do you want to know why?” Something in Jeonghan’s words momentarily lifted Chan’s watery eyes, before he grudgingly veered his gaze back down towards his feet. The platinum-haired elder offered a quiet laugh and sensitively seized Chan’s right shoulder. “Because you inspire me to speak up, to lead. From the start, you were bossing your friends around, bossing me around, and I couldn’t help but wish I had your confidence. I’d never seen you before in my life, and yet, I felt this connection to you. But then…” Jeonghan’s glassy brown eyes dimmed of light. “You fell silent, Chan. You went from the passionate young leader who helped gather all these tents outside to a blocked-off, trembling piece of crap. That’s not you.”

Chan’s head snapped upright, eyes ablaze. 

“And how would you know what’s me and what’s not?”

“He knows a lot of things,” Joshua replied icily from behind, though his mouth was cheshire-cat smiling and his eyes were warm. Maybe it was only Seungkwan who could sense the glacial chill in the golden-haired’s words. This unsettled him, so he promptly tore his awareness away from the two and decided to focus on Hansol, who’s head had drooped towards his left shoulder as if he’d fallen asleep. Seungkwan frowned and poked Hansol’s cheek, but his best friend hardly responded, so he settled on violently jostling him until he jerked awake like somebody had put him in an electric chair.  

“What,” he murmured, voice gravelly, without meeting Seungkwan’s eyes. It wasn’t even a question; merely a statement. What.

“Wanna sit by the fire? I’m getting cold.” He wasn’t actually cold, but that seemed to be a viable excuse to escape the seemingly inevitable back-and-forth banter between team Chan and team Jeonghan-Joshua. Hansol shrugged spiritlessly in response.

“I’m hot, though.”

“Why, are you sick?” Seungkwan found himself asking, thrusting out his hands to feel Hansol’s skin. His close friend swatted him away instantaneously.

“No. Just attractive.”

In the silence that followed, Seungkwan felt his lips curl. It was odd. So long it had been since he’d heard a joke, so long it had been since he’d smiled. He pressed a quivering hand to his mouth, suppressing the grin. “Don’t do that again. Feels weird.”

“What, make you happy? Isn’t that what everyone wants? A distraction?” Hansol wondered, almost thoughtfully. 

“I’m not used to it anymore. It hurts. And my eyes feel raw because I’ve cried every night,” Seungkwan admitted, jaw shuddering as he strained to conceal his need to break down into the same sobs as Chan just moments ago. “It’s just become so miserable. This fear of dying I have is screaming at me, but yet I have no urge to be productive and lessen those chances. And I want to be alone sometimes here because it’s so confined and claustrophobic and—and—” A tear slid down his cheek. Another. Soon, hot torrents of despair were streaming, unceasing, and he could not do anything to prevent them. “I don’t know, I just don’t want to be lonely either. It’s like, sometimes I feel everything at once and then I’m just…just…paralyzingly numb.” 

Hansol bit his lower lip, dark eyes glittering, and yanked Seungkwan into a monstrous hug.

The embraced lingered for a while. 

But the two best friends immediately pulled apart once Chan began rise to his feet to shout. 

“Stop trying to ease me into this nonexistent serenity you both pretend is right around the corner! Haven’t you stopped to look around? Half the country is gone. No—most of the country is gone. And we don’t know anything else about the world because we have no communication. Does that sound like serenity to you? You know why I’m not the so-called ‘passionate young leader’ like I apparently used to be a long time ago? Because I had hope then. I thought maybe if I survived the bugs then I could survive anything. But I’m dying from the inside. Eating the same food each day is torture. I hate everyone pretending like we need to socialize with each other to stay sane, because besides my friends, I would rather swallow a porcupine than talk to any of the people in this place. I hate being in your presences—I’m so sick of you all!”

Seungkwan and Hansol’s eyes met. 

“We’ve gotta get him to stop,” Hansol breathed. 

    “Before Seungcheol kicks him out,” Seungkwan concluded, eyes shooting wide.

    The two rose unsteadily to restrain their friend from going any further than he already had, clutching his arms and attempting to heave him away from purse-lipped Jeonghan and still-cheshire-cat-smiling Joshua. Chan growled in protested, wrestling out of their grip with that insane, almost inhuman strength of his that never failed to stun Seungkwan every time. Eventually, Hansol managed to latch both arms around Chan’s torso and keep him held in place like a seatbelt binding him to a car seat, despite his thrashing. Seungkwan stood behind them, feeling worthless and guilty and paralyzingly numb—like always.

    “Lee Chan,” Seungcheol sighed from across the canopy tent. His arms were folded over his tight black shirt—which offered glimpses of his muscles, taut through the fabric—and he hardly appeared to be angry; solely engaged. Beguiled. “You seem to have expressed the thoughts inside your head quite assuredly. Have you always been a theatrical one?”

    Chan practically sizzled with rage. “There’s nothing theatrical about the truth,” he murmured.

    Seungcheol stalked closer, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “You’ll just have to put on a play. A one-man show. The camp will be buzzing with excitement—”

    And then the screams. 

    Every pair of eyes whizzed towards the origination…

    Skull-shattering, guttural screams, coming from outdoors. 

GO TO CHAPTER TWO