It had been three days.
Three days inside the house, and no one had killed anyone yet.
I considered that to be a huge success.
The routine settled without anyone really agreeing on it. Xu Zhenlan and Zhou Chenghai spent most of their ti monitoring the house and watching the news, while Jian Yuche and Wei Lingyun move between checking the periter and reinforcing whatever Chenghai decided needed attention.
It was clear that they didn’t trust each other, but they’ve stopped acting like it mattered anymore.
The only annoying thing was that the television stayed on almost constantly.
Every channel showed the sa thing: cities overwheld, ergency services gone, and the governnts repeating the sa instructions over and over again: stay inside, do not leave, help is coming.
I didn’t bother to watch it.
Instead, I stayed on the couch with my phone, scrolling through short dramas, movies, and anything else that was still accessible.
The internet hadn’t gone down yet, and that was enough for .
I tapped the download button on another series—so historical romance with forty episodes—and watched the progress bar fill slowly while the opening credits played on mute.
From where the n sit, it looked like I was ignoring reality, not not one of them ever bothered to correct .
It was almost like each of the individually had reached the sa conclusion without saying it out loud.
I don’t understand what’s happening, and it was better that way.
Zhenlan let stay where I was without interruption. Chenghai didn’t try to pull into anything useful. Even Jian Yuche, who questioned everything else, didn’t once ask for the weapons he kept insisting I had.
It was like no one wanted to be the one to tell that the world outside had ended and that we might die at any ti.
I shifted slightly against the couch and continued scrolling, adding another movie to my queue. The storage bar on my phone was starting to fill—sixty percent now and climbing steadily. I had been downloading for two days straight, prioritizing anything with high ratings and long runtis.
Dramas. Docuntaries. Action movies. Codies. Anything that would still be entertaining after the hundredth viewing.
After all, the internet wouldn’t last forever.
I knew that, even if they thought that I didn’t.
From the living room, Chenghai’s voice drifted over the sound of the television. "The power grid is holding for now. But once it fails, we’ll need to rely on the backup generator."
Zhenlan’s response was quieter and harder to make out. Sothing about fuel reserves and rationing.
I tap download on another file. A cooking show this ti that had twelve seasons. I didn’t particularly care about cooking, but it was long and reruns wouldn’t be as obvious, and that was what mattered.
And still, the television continued its loop.
A reporter stood in front of a burning building, her voice tight with controlled panic. Behind her, figures move through the smoke—too many to count, too erratic to be coordinated. The cara shook right before the feed cut to static, then switched to another city, another reporter, another scene of collapse.
"—advising all citizens to remain indoors and await further instructions. Do not attempt to leave your hos. Do not engage with—"
The sound cut out briefly only to be replaced by a high-pitched whine, then returned to normal.
"—military presence in affected areas has been increased, but response tis remain—"
Another cut.
This ti it was mummies stumbling out of the Great Pyramids.
Another cut.
This ti it was the catacombs in the country of Valoir State where skeletons were walking out of the tombs like rats running off a ship.
I could feel the n in the room stiffen up as they realized that what was going on outside our door was happening all around the world.
And it wasn’t just the recently dead. It was too late, but they would soon understand that anyone or anything that had once died was now coming back to life. Every human from the beginning of ti, every animal, if it lived, it was back and walking the earth again.
That ans, we might have around nine billion people in the world today, and roughly around 110 billion zombies.
Trust , if you thought that space was at a premium before... that is nothing compared to how it was now.
But I didn’t care about the numbers. All I cared about was 1.
.
Everyone else could die and stay dead, but I would do whatever I could do to survive.
Does that sound cruel? Too bad.
To help soone else to survive was the truly cruel thing.
Shaking my head, I forced the thoughts out of my mind.
Taking in a deep breath, I scrolled past a drama about office politics and selected a survival docuntary instead. Ironic, maybe, but it could be useful. I tapped download and watch the file size appear on screen—2.3 GB.
That would take a few minutes.
I leaned back and pull the blanket higher around my shoulders.
Outside, sothing hit the side of the house. Not hard enough to break through, but enough to remind everyone that they were still out there.
Still waiting for one of us to break first and try to make a run for it.
The television shifted to another broadcast. A different governnt official this ti, standing behind a podium and reading from a prepared statent. His voice was steady and controlled, designed to project calm.
"—coordinated response is underway. Citizens are advised to remain in their hos and avoid all contact with affected individuals. Ergency services are operating at reduced capacity, but assistance will be provided as resources allow—"
The cara cut to a wide shot of the room. Half the seats were empty, but the officials who were present looked exhausted. One of them was staring at sothing off-screen, his expression blank.
"—asking for your patience and cooperation during this unprecedented—"
The feed cut out again, but this ti it didn’t co back.
The screen went black for three seconds, then switched to a pre-recorded loop. The sa instructions. The sa reassurances. The sa carefully worded lies about help coming and situations being under control.
Zhenlan’s voice drifted from where he was sitting. "They’ve stopped broadcasting live."
Chenghai didn’t respond imdiately, but when he did, his tone was flat. "They stopped two days ago. This is just the loop."
"How long until the grid fails?"
"Days. Maybe a week."
"And then?"
"Then we rely on what we have."
I tapped download on another file. A cody special. An hour and a half. Not long, but it was sothing.
The storage bar on my phone climbed to seventy percent.
I was almost there.
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