The world had fallen. The dead roamed the streets, their hollow eyes seeking warmth in the living, their bodies driven by nothing but hunger. Minho walked the shoreline of a lake just outside a small town, boots dragging through wet sand as shallow waves lapped at his ankles. The wind rolled in from the open water, cool and sharp, carrying with it the faint, sour scent of decay drifting from somewhere beyond the trees.

The beach stretched long and uneven ahead of him, scattered with the remnants of a life that had ended abruptly. Towels lay half-buried in sand, chairs overturned and broken, umbrellas snapped and rusting at their joints. Coolers and beach bags were spread out in loose clusters, some closer to the water, others dragged higher up the shore as if their owners had fled in a hurry. Minho adjusted the strap of his backpack and started down the beach, scanning as he went.

He stopped at the first cluster near the waterline, kneeling beside a sun-bleached cooler. The lid creaked as he forced it open. Inside were bottles of water, soda, and a couple of beer cans—warm, untouched, but sealed. He checked each one before packing them away. A few steps farther brought him to another cooler, this one cracked at the hinge. Protein bars, granola bars, crackers, and chocolate bars sat jumbled inside, wrappers faded but intact. He pocketed them, moving on without lingering.

Minho walked farther up the beach, boots crunching through drier sand now, passing empty bags and useless trash until another bag caught his eye. He crouched, unzipping it carefully. Chips. Candy. A small bag of raisins. Cookies crushed but still edible. He sorted quickly, stuffing what he could into his pack before standing again and continuing down the shore.

The dock came into view as he moved farther along, its weathered boards stretching out over the lake. Fishing poles leaned against the posts near the base, abandoned where someone must have dropped them mid-panic. Tackle boxes lay scattered along the planks. As Minho approached, the sound of water against wood grew louder, more rhythmic.

Halfway there, movement across the lake caught his attention. Walkers shuffled along the treeline on the far shore, one partially submerged in the shallows, arms clawing uselessly at the waterlogged sand. Minho slowed but didn’t stop, keeping his path steady as his hand rested on the bat at his side.

Reaching the dock, he stepped up onto the boards, testing them with his weight before moving farther out. He gathered a fishing pole, checking the line, then crouched to sift through a tackle box. Hooks. Sinkers. Enough to try. He took his time setting it up, hands steady despite the tension humming under his skin.

With the sun beginning to dip, Minho walked back off the dock and farther down the beach, choosing a spot tucked between driftwood and a small rise of sand. He gathered dry sticks and broken planks, building a small fire pit and coaxing a flame to life. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light over the sand as he laid out his supplies nearby.

Once the camp was set, he returned to the water’s edge, fishing pole in hand. He cast the line into the lake, watching the ripples spread before settling into stillness. The fire burned behind him, the dock creaked softly to his left, and the distant groans across the water reminded him why he stayed alert.

Tonight, he would fish. Tonight, he would eat. And when morning came, Minho would move again—because standing still in this world was just another way to die.