Chapter 18

My mom brought me honey water and hugged me. "Rest. We’ll keep watch."

I forced a smile before retreating to my room, clutching a pillow until sleep took me.

When I woke around six in the evening, dinner was ready—warm, savory congee.

As for the baby? We’d fed him rice water and powdered milk.

(The powder was originally for baking. Guess that plan was scrapped.)

"You know, Xixi was just as scrawny as a baby," Mom mused, cradling the little one. "Never thought you’d grow up so big."

She gave me a pointed look. "I always imagined holding another grandchild. Didn’t think it’d happen like this."

Me: ??? Mom, really? Even in the apocalypse, you’re matchmaking?

The baby—now nicknamed "Wángzǎi" (after the milk brand)—cooed happily, his belly round from the meal.

"What’s his real name?" Dad asked.

Uh. His mom had told me once, but… I forgot.

"How about Wángzǎi?" I suggested, eyeing the milk carton.

"Wáng Wáng. It’s perfect."

"Combined with Xixi, it means ‘hope.’ Our family’s hope."

"Right. The four of us—we’ll make it through this."

Maybe it’s a uniquely Chinese kind of optimism.

As long as you hold onto hope, light will find you.

The days that followed were… surprisingly peaceful. My rooftop garden flourished, greens ready for harvest.

Temperatures dropped.

One morning, I brushed frost from the kale leaves—sweeter after a freeze.

I plucked just enough, leaving the rest to regrow.

Wángzǎi thrived, his cheeks filling out.

But I never warmed to him the way my parents did.

Sometimes, I’d jot down story ideas or absently play with his tiny feet.

We kept the radio on, scanning for signals.

On Day 78, we caught intermittent broadcasts—proof that survivors were organizing, that official channels still existed.

But the news wasn’t all good.

"This is the Zombie Response Command Center. Current reports indicate that infected are forming migratory hordes. Coordinates of confirmed hordes will be broadcast. Evacuate immediately."

"112°E, 28°N."

"115°E, 41°N."

One cluster was too close for comfort.

We’d have to send drones for reconnaissance. If they entered our zone, we’d abandon our supplies and flee.

Our scouting revealed only two other households in the complex.

Using drones, we lured zombies away—they’d chase the noise, clearing paths.

From above, we saw scorched buildings, looted pharmacies, bodies wrapped in tarp.

Schools overrun by infected children.

Three months ago, this city was campaigning for "Civilized Urban Development."

The first three days passed quietly.

Then, on the fourth, we spotted them—a horde of 800, moving like a living wall.

By nightfall, they’d slowed.

But if they reached us, our building wouldn’t survive.