I swear, this reads like it was written by a robot that ate too many textbooks...
In this life, I bound myself to a 72-day Apocalypse stockpiling System that can predict the countdown to the end of the world.
This time, the zombie horde won't breach my shelter, and mutant beasts won't be able to gnaw through my bulletproof doors. I'll stand behind a fortress built from mountains of supplies and watch, laughing, as the people who bullied me during the Apocalypse kneel among the ruins, gnawing on their last moldy loaf of bread.
After all, the deadliest weapon in the world has never been a zombie's sharp teeth. It's the foresight of someone reborn, and the hope packed into an entire basement.
