On the seventy-third day of the apocalypse, I returned to the ruined supermarket for the hundredth time. In my backpack was the last half bottle of water and a heavy survival manual - the first thirty-seven pages were marked with hope, and after the thirty-eighth page, the names of the deceased were written. I have to find antibiotics before sunset. Xiaoya, the six-year-old orphan who screamed "live" when her mother pushed her off the overpass,
