A Plan in the Making

37

After discussing, we decided to move to Room 202 together and take turns on guard duty around the clock.

Maybe it was because they were too far away, but the zombies on the upper floors didn't cause any commotion.

As Chris had predicted, most of the problems were caused by the zombies on the lower floors. Because the fall height wasn't enough, most of them didn't die immediately.

In the first few days, the terrace was crawling with mangled flesh.

Many zombies had completely severed spines, with their upper and lower bodies connected only by bits of flesh, but that didn't stop them from crawling towards each other.

Biting and being bitten.

Hunting and being hunted.

Consuming and being consumed.

The slaughter among zombies escalated once again.

This time, injured fellow zombies were also added to their menu.

We waited until the zombies completely stopped falling before we began to clean the second floor.

Chris shoveled all the remains along with the accumulated snow downstairs, while Anne and I used alcohol to disinfect and mask the smell.

Now, it was just a matter of waiting to see how long it would take for them to disperse. As long as the horde remained gathered below, no survivors would approach,

which paradoxically served as a barrier protecting us.

I brought out the radio again.

In the first month of the lockdown, I had almost slept with it every night,

but the greater the expectation, the greater the disappointment.

After that, things kept happening one after another, and I gradually forgot about its existence.

Now, Chris's prediction had completely dispelled any thoughts I had of coexisting with the zombies.

Suddenly, I was back to my initial state.

I also tried to do other things to distract myself,

like making pastries.

None of the three of us liked noodles, so the stockpile of dried noodles was almost untouched, let alone the flour.

So, I made several batches of steamed buns.

Surprisingly, KK loved them,

so I made more and froze them in the fridge. Before feeding, they just needed to be reheated, which was much more convenient than rice.

I even made a sweater for KK out of an old hoodie, embroidering its name on it.

However, due to my poor sewing skills, the collar was too large, and it ended up being an embarrassingly low-cut outfit for KK.

As a representative of modern women, the cat continued her habit of going out to hunt. On her luckiest days, she would catch plump doves for three consecutive days.

The two little ones were getting along better and better.

No,

more accurately, KK thought their relationship was getting better.

He often acted hyper, bouncing around the cat like a spring.

Initially, the cat would get startled and puff up, but she seemed to have gotten used to it. If one punch didn't solve the problem, she would throw another.

After experiencing the cat's iron fist, KK became more restrained and started trying to express his affection in a more gentlemanly manner.

Every time he did, the cat's expression was always intriguing.

Maybe she neither wanted to smell KK's butt nor be smelled by him.

All winter, KK persistently harassed his new friend,

while the cat tried every means to avoid the enthusiastic golden retriever's advances. During this time, Anne kept me company while tinkering with the radio, making buns, and watching the daily cat-dog battles.

When I sewed, she would sit beside me, organizing the yarn.

"Don't worry," she seemed to easily see through my anxiety. "We'll find a way."

"Just do what you want to do."

I dropped the needle and thread, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, "Anne, are you holding the protagonist's script?"

"Of course," she immediately straightened her back, "I'm definitely more reliable than Chris."

Even after hearing Chris's doomsday model, Anne remained in a wait-and-see mode. But undeniably, each of us began to worry about the food supply to some extent.

If it was just a matter of quantity, that would be easier to solve.

With so many residential buildings in the community, we could collect a lot of rice and noodles just by sweeping through one building.

But considering the expiration dates, the problem became more tricky.

As Chris said, this is a problem that every rescue faction has to face.

The rice at home is marked with an expiration date of September this year.

If stored properly, it should last longer,

but what about after that?

What about three years later, five years later?

Only by finding staple crops to cultivate can we prevent a long-term food crisis.

Whether we wait for rescue or not, it's better to be prepared than to make amends after.

We found rice and wheat seeds in the agricultural supply store, but we had no idea how to plant and harvest them.

The only crops I was confident in growing were root vegetables like potatoes and sweet potatoes. Unfortunately, the potatoes in the storage room had been processed and could no longer be cultivated.

Thinking it over, the only place likely to have sprouted potatoes was the supermarket. "We must set off as soon as possible," I silently resolved.

As the temperature rises, they'll start to rot and mold.

Now is the last chance.

For the rescue faction, this is undoubtedly a difficult ideological shift.

It's not that I'm unwilling to think long-term, but viewing from this perspective means directly denying the existence of "rescue."

Thinking about what we'll eat three or five years from now implies accepting that our current state will continue indefinitely.

Everyone has their stance, and so do I.

How many people would risk the immediate dangers for a crisis years away?

But the harsh reality of survival is this:

When you realize something is wrong and rescue doesn't come, it's often too late.

During the three to five years we rely on stored food, most seeds will have already molded and expired.

"When the heavy snow seals the door, it will be too late for everything."

I sighed, "Should we call Chris over to discuss the plan together?"

Anne looked at me with a knowing smile, "Actually, there's already a draft. Want to hear it?"

Seeing her expression, I slowly realized that my gratitude had been premature;

she had been playing me with a retreat to advance trick.

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