C9 Preparations Before Breaking Out!

On February 9, 2013, twelve days had passed since Willett's nocturnal struggle with the zombies. Yet, the horde of undead beneath his apartment showed no signs of retreating; if anything, their numbers seemed to be growing.

It was unclear whether the virus was causing the zombies to mutate, but nearly fifty days had elapsed since the outbreak began. Other than some decay and peeling skin, the zombies appeared unchanged. They remained as foul-smelling, bloodthirsty, and relentless as ever.

Willett ignited the last of his rice supply and glanced at the calendar, chuckling wryly to himself, "According to the lunar calendar, it's the 29th today. Tomorrow marks the Spring Festival." He then surveyed his dwindling provisions, acutely aware that his rice would last less than a week with frugal consumption. Without a new plan in the next few days, he faced certain death.

After continuing his daily training on the rooftop and massaging his sore shoulders, he approached the edge and peered down at the sea of corpses below. Willett's brow furrowed in concern. The sheer number of zombies was overwhelming. A few hundred, even a thousand, he could handle, but there were at least ten thousand amassed there. It seemed he had attracted zombies from several streets over, including those from the supermarket across the park. He had come to fully understand the phrase "beyond measure," though it was a sea of corpses, not people, that surrounded him.

"My head and my balls ache!" he muttered, voicing his frustration while pondering an escape plan. If there had been a clear solution, he would have found it by now. He knew zombies feared fire, but his home was no oil refinery, lacking the vast quantities of fuel needed to make a significant impact. The bit of cooking oil he had wouldn't even ignite a handful of zombies, and his supply of liquefied gas was nearly depleted. Even if it weren't, he dared not use it as an explosive; despite such scenes in movies, he had no desire to risk being blown to bits. He took solace in the fact that the zombies had become somewhat more docile after a thunderstorm, which likely spared his building from being razed. Another small mercy was that he hadn't encountered the Licker since their last meeting; it had probably moved on to the densely populated city center. It was these small graces that had allowed him to survive this long.

He had mulled over the question of how to safely escape and secure supplies countless times. The idea of climbing onto Welborn's rooftop and descending from there had crossed his mind, but the zombies' hearing was freakishly keen. He wasn't confident he could avoid drawing their attention while making his way across. If he attempted it and failed, he feared his last avenue of escape would be sealed off. He resolved not to take such a risk unless it was an absolute last resort.

Willett shook his head forcefully, as though this could somehow lessen his troubles. He decided to put the problem out of his mind for now. It was one of his best qualities: if he couldn't solve something, he wouldn't dwell on it and make himself miserable. He had resolved that if things hadn't improved by the time the Spring Festival rolled around, he would take some essentials and make a break for it from Tucker's place. It seemed like the only option left.

Time marches on, indifferent to human desires, and another day slipped away. The next morning, Willett awoke and took a breath of the less-than-fresh air, stretching languidly. He had gradually become accustomed to the pervasive stench of decay. Humans, after all, are the most adaptable of creatures.

"Man, we really are creatures of circumstance!" he exclaimed.

Willett admired the increasingly defined muscles on his body with a satisfied sigh. Two months ago, he wouldn't have believed he could be this muscular. While he wasn't at the level of a professional bodybuilder, by normal standards, he was doing quite well—definitely more cut and defined. Glancing at his flat stomach with its hint of abs, he chuckled, "If I had these muscles before, maybe I wouldn't have had such trouble finding a girlfriend! Haha!" Only those who have transformed fat into muscle can truly appreciate the sense of achievement that comes with it. At least Willett felt a profound sense of accomplishment. His positive attitude remained intact, even in dire straits, finding joy amidst the suffering. Looking at the calendar, he took a deep breath. Normally, he would be gathering with his family around this time.

Indeed, today was the Spring Festival, marking Willett's first in the apocalypse and the first he would spend alone in his entire life.

In years past, his home would have been filled with festive clamor. He returned to the fifth floor, his eyes sweeping over the familiar decor of his home, as memories of last year's Spring Festival vividly played before him.

He recalled how his mother had been bustling about last year, warmly welcoming guests, while his father donned an apron and entered the kitchen. Humming an indecipherable tune, his father had begun to showcase his culinary talents. His younger cousins had eagerly gathered around him, the eldest, clamoring for red envelopes. And he, with hearty laughter, had handed out a share to each of them.

After his father had finished preparing all the dishes, Willett and his mother would arrange the sumptuous spread on the table. His usually serious uncle would break character, smiling and joining in the fun with them. The family would then sit down to a joyful meal together. Post-dinner, everyone would congregate on the rooftop. The adults would gather in small groups to catch up on family news and play mahjong, while the children, supervised by Willett, would set off beautiful fireworks, their laughter filling the air. Later in the evening, they would all gather around the television, watching the familiar Spring Festival Gala, basking in the warmth of family.

Lost in these memories, Willett was struck by a wave of loneliness. He had been avoiding thoughts of his uncle and parents, fearful that his imagination would conjure up gruesome images. He entered his bedroom and sat down on the bed in silence. Turning on his phone, he scrolled through old photos. How he yearned for a signal, to hear his mother's nagging and his father's stern lectures—those once-annoying sounds now deeply missed.

Tears splashed onto his phone as a profound sense of vulnerability overcame him. In the past, he'd shrugged off adversity, fortified by the presence of his family. But in this post-apocalyptic world, with his family missing and friends unaccounted for, he was utterly alone. Curling up on the bed, he wrapped his arms around his legs and wept quietly.

Eventually, Willett's tears dried, and he realized it wasn't the time for weakness. He didn't know if others had experienced mutations like his, but he was determined to survive, to use his own strength to find his loved ones. As long as there was a chance they were alive, he would find them.

Reinvigorated, Willett consoled himself. Despite the world turning into a sea of corpses, he was still alive and well—that was something to hold onto.

We often take for granted the very days that others yearn for.

With this thought, he shook off his despair and rose from the bed. Food supplies were dwindling, so he resolved to pack everything useful. Once the Spring Festival was over, he would plan his escape.

After over two hours of thorough searching, Willett unearthed a trove of treasures around his house that had previously gone unnoticed or undiscovered.

He first came across a waterproof diesel lighter hidden beneath his father's bedside table—a gift he had given his father long ago, never imagining it would come in handy now. Accompanying the lighter was a small bottle of diesel. Uncertain of what challenges awaited him once he broke through the encirclement, he understood that a reliable source of fire was essential in any situation. He secured the items in a small sealed metal box and fastened it to his belt.

Later, he stumbled upon an old military water canteen inside a storage cabinet on the rooftop. It appeared to be a relic from his grandfather, sturdy and sizable. It could carry a substantial amount of water, and in a pinch, the canteen's mouth could be removed to boil soup. Its durable material could also serve as an improvised weapon against zombies; he figured that with its full weight, it could easily crush a zombie's skull. He filled the canteen with water and set it down carefully.

Continuing his search, a delightful surprise awaited him under his parents' bed: an extended machete with a sleek, streamlined blade, about 1.5 meters in length, glinting sharply. It was adorned with the image of a roaring dragon. His father had carried it for self-defense during his days as a sports car enthusiast. Willett had seen it many times as a child and had heard it was a special purchase his father made on a trip to Tibet. He had assumed that his father had either discarded it or passed it on to someone else, but it had been preserved all along. Had he found this gem earlier, he wouldn't have had to go to the trouble of crafting a makeshift spear. Nevertheless, having an additional weapon now improved his odds of staying safe. His encounter with a sea of corpses had taught him that while a short spear was useful for defense against large groups, it lacked the power for an offensive thrust. Extracting a spear from a zombie's skull required too much effort. But with this machete in hand, he felt a renewed sense of confidence about breaking through the zombie horde.

Finally, he dug out an old hiking backpack he'd bought for a camping trip and filled it with the remaining rice, spices, and chili sauce from home. Noticing there was still room to spare, he poured several bottles of his dad's cherished white wine into plastic bottles and added them to the pack. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he knew from "Survival and Escape" that strong alcohol could be quite handy in the wild—for boosting circulation, warding off the cold, disinfecting wounds, and even creating makeshift incendiary devices. It was, in essence, an essential item for travel, self-defense, and survival.

Lifting the backpack, he found it surprisingly manageable. For Willett, whose body had been enhanced, the weight was no issue at all. Now, with everything in place, he just needed the right moment to make his move. He placed the backpack in his bedroom, ready for the opportune time to escape. Then, grabbing his machete, he headed to the rooftop to sharpen the blade. This life-saving tool needed to be razor-sharp to conserve energy when facing zombies. The rainy night's battle had taught him that in a crisis, even the smallest reserve of energy could mean the difference between life and death.

As dusk fell and his preparations were complete, Willett decided to take a break. He fished out the last bit of fish from the fridge, fried it up with some chili sauce, and cooked a large pot of rice. He savored his meal, aware that no one could predict tomorrow's events, but knowing he had done what he could today. As he looked at the golden fish on his plate, he hoped this dinner would bring him luck. He wished for continued prosperity, to be able to celebrate another New Year's day in the future.

But just as he finished his meal and was about to rest, a sudden thunderous boom echoed from outside. The weather had taken a turn...

On the evening of February 10th, 2013, the earth witnessed its second thunderstorm since the apocalypse.