Chapter 9

My phone buzzed incessantly.

The city's epidemic prevention command center and the community quickly organized, urging everyone to stock up and avoid going out unless absolutely necessary. With zombies hugging lampposts and wandering outside, "absolutely necessary" was meaningless – even if it was necessary, no one would go out!

Messages flew out of the "Happy Guijin Complex" WeChat group. Anxiety was palpable, emotions feeding off each other through the wires. Officials hadn't named the virus yet; the group adopted the online term: "Zombie Virus."

"Is anyone fucking coming to save us?! Called them, all they say is 'wait'! Can lives wait?!"

"If we don't go out, what do we eat?! I have pets! Can isolate for ten days max. After that, no money, just my life."

"Pets? I have someone with diabetes here!"

The community grid worker kept trying to soothe: "Please remain calm, residents. Trust the city's arrangements. If the city can't, the province will. Our nation is our stronghold."

Many residents with little national flag emojis by their names gave thumbs up.

Mom patted my head. "Dinnertime. Stop looking for now."

I took a few deep breaths, patted my cheeks. "I'll cook tonight."

We hadn't turned on the main lights for two days now. Under the thick double-layered curtains, only a small desk lamp glowed. Its pale yellow, warm light pooled in a small corner of our living room. Dad frowned, still watching the news.

Having witnessed such brutal, bloody scenes, I desperately needed a distraction.

Mom's meticulousness shone through; she'd organized all the ingredients by expiration date, labeling them clearly, placing the soon-to-expire items at the front. We needed light meals these days, and we couldn't use the range hood.

I grabbed some frozen shrimp, a small bunch of greens, and some clam meat, planning a seafood noodle soup. I used fresh noodles, cooking them until 80% done before setting them aside. Blanched the greens. Normally, I'd peel the shrimp shells, but peeling meant garbage. I pouted, accepting my fate.

I fried the shrimp heads for their oil, sautéed minced ginger and bird's eye chilies until fragrant, then added the clam meat for a quick stir-fry. Poured in boiling water – a loud, sizzling hiss. Sprinkled in seafood powder (should have been broth), chopped scallions, and tossed the noodles back in to soak up the flavor. Mom turned on the air purifier. Dad put his phone down and came over.

"Your dad and I always worried you'd starve because you couldn't cook."

I deliberately picked plates with a cute Doraemon color scheme. The atmosphere at home finally lightened a fraction. I rolled my eyes slightly. "Seriously, I've lived on my own for years." But maybe in my parents' eyes, I'd always be the kid who took the train home every weekend to crash and demand food? (I wasn't actually that lazy.)

"Alright, enough talk. Eat up. Let's try Xixi's cooking."

"It has to be amazing!" I beamed shamelessly at Mom.

"Xixi's noodles are perfectly chewy, the shrimp is springy, the broth is sweet and savory – delicious and satisfying!" Dad chimed in suddenly, so earnestly it made me want to burst out laughing. But seeing Mom's warning glance to keep quiet, I covered my mouth, stifling giggles. Why so serious all of a sudden?

The hot noodles going down warmed me from the inside. If this weren't a zombie-and-pandemic apocalypse, what an ordinary, cozy night this could have been.