Four zombies were tearing at the rolling shutter door, the iron sheet was being torn out with an ear-piercing scream, and the smell of rust mixed with the smell of corpses poured in from the gaps. The rolling shutter door in my warehouse will not last long, I know very well.
On the twelfth day of the apocalypse, I hid in this underground warehouse, relying on a few boxes of mineral water and compressed biscuits to survive until now. There was also a bag of expired flour in the storage room. I was just thinking about slapping it on the zombie's face to create an opportunity to escape, when a translucent light curtain suddenly lit up in front of me.
