Hunger is the best alarm clock.
Ling Ye woke up in a piece of cold concrete debris, and the burning twitching feeling in his stomach was more effective in dispelling sleepiness than any sunlight. He carefully moved away the half of the cabinet that was pressing on him, and the dust fell, dancing like a ghost in the dim light.
He was in the back warehouse of a drugstore, with half of the roof collapsed, like a grinning, mocking mouth, facing the gray-white, eternally gloomy sky. The air is filled with a smell that is a mixture of dust, mold and some indescribable sweet smell - this is the most familiar fragrance in the apocalypse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Water.
