Chapter 3: The Wasteland

Cold sweat beaded on Su Xiaomu’s forehead as the decaying monstrosity shambled relentlessly towards his hiding place. Hiding in the cramped kitchen was suicide. He needed space. He needed to strike first.

Calm… Calm down, Su Xiaomu… He forced air into his lungs. You fought for this life. Don’t waste it. Even if the fucking heavens are screwing with you, don’t you dare lose…

Holding his breath, he flung the kitchen door open and charged, cleaver raised.

THUD! A spectacular crash echoed as his foot caught on something unseen. He went down hard, sprawling flat on his back, pain shooting through his brittle frame.

“Damn the original owner! Even dead, you’re trying to drag me down!” Su Xiaomu cursed, scrambling up despite the agony. He lunged at the approaching zombie, cleaver swinging wildly. Chop! Hack! Slash!

He aimed for the head. Then the neck. The torso. He hacked mindlessly, fueled by terror and revulsion. Brain matter splattered the dusty floor. Limbs separated. Chunks of decaying flesh littered the living room. Only when the thing was reduced to a twitching, dismembered heap did he finally stop, gasping.

“Ugh… Ugh… BLARGH!” The sheer, visceral horror of what he’d done hit him. His stomach convulsed violently. He doubled over, retching uncontrollably onto the already filthy floor.

“Wait… no food… can’t waste…” he choked out between heaves, a wave of despair washing over him as he emptied his nonexistent stomach contents. Finally, only bitter bile came up. He collapsed onto his knees amidst the carnage, the stench of death and his own vomit thick in the air, triggering another dry heave.

His eyes burned, dry and gritty. He felt utterly hollow. Staggering back into the kitchen, he plunged his head under the faucet, gulping water and scrubbing his face. He drank until his stomach felt bloated and sloshing.

A frantic search of the kitchen cupboards yielded nothing but dust. Water was the only resource. He grabbed some ragged clothes from a closet, bundling them into a makeshift pack, then retreated to the bedroom, sitting heavily on the grimy bed to confront his new reality.

Su Xiaomu truly hadn’t expected this. He’d died – unjustly, pathetically. Maybe that lingering resentment had convinced the heavens to grant him a second chance. But they’d played a cruel trick. He hadn’t just been reborn; he’d been dumped into the year 2212. And he’d landed squarely in the middle of the very apocalypse he’d always dismissed as nonsense. Yes, this was undeniably the Wasteland.

The newspaper he’d found was dated June 2nd, 2012. The day before – June 1st – was infamous. The day orbital paths collapsed, planes fell from the sky, unexplained earthquakes and tsunamis ravaged the planet, eclipses blotted out the sun and moon simultaneously. This paper, reporting the immediate aftermath, was his only tangible clue. Magazines with earlier dates were useless relics. Technology hadn’t leaped forward impossibly in 200 years; it seemed progress had stalled, or worse, regressed.

Su Xiaomu felt like the universe’s ultimate punchline. His past life… his previous life… had been filled with online chatter about doomsday prophecies. He’d been one of the scoffers, the rational debunkers. Ironically, he’d absorbed enough to recognize the “rotting corpses” for what they were: zombies. Ghouls. The walking dead. The apocalypse had simply arrived two centuries late.

The two he’d encountered were far more grotesque than any fictional description. Closing his eyes and wishing for his ghostly state or his old world was pointless. He was here. Trapped in the Wasteland.

Su Xiaomu was certain the original owner of this body had starved to death. This emaciated husk, this walking skeleton… it must have endured prolonged famine. Why else would he be here now? The bitter irony struck him: waking up to a fortune in gold, dreaming of a life of luxury and beautiful women… only to realize he was the biggest idiot alive. In the Wasteland, food was the only currency that mattered. Gold was worthless. Less than worthless. A rock would be more useful for bashing in a zombie’s skull.

His eyes stung, too dry for tears. He tried to curse, but only a choked gurgle escaped his parched throat. Despair threatened to swallow him whole.

After a long moment, Su Xiaomu shook himself. He looked down at his skeletal frame, then at the pathetic bundle of rags. He needed food. He had to go outside.

He knew the odds were terrible. He might starve like the body’s former occupant. He might be torn apart by zombies. He might even become one of them. But he had life. However fragile, however horrific the circumstances, he couldn’t give up. A small comfort: this was still G City, his old home. At least the geography was familiar.

Shouldering his pitiful pack and gripping the bloodied cleaver, Su Xiaomu edged cautiously out of the apartment. His eyes narrowed, catching sight of a slumped figure at the end of the hallway…