When my phone screen lit up, I was crouched in the corner of my rented room, rinsing out a bag of instant noodles I’d been picking at for three days with the last half bottle of mineral water I had.
It was the seventh day since the apocalypse began. The tap water had stopped running, and the shelves at the convenience store downstairs had been stripped bare. My fifteen-square-meter rental room was now a living coffin. A low growl drifted in through the window, the standard background noise of zombies roaming the streets. I hadn’t heard anything but growling for three days. My throat was as dry as sandpaper, my hair stuck to my scalp, and my greasy face could have been used to fry an egg.
The phone’s vibration made my hand twitch. I thought it was another useless push notification from some “Apocalypse Survival Guide,” but when I glanced down, the pop-up on the screen nearly made me throw my phone away.
“The Apocalypse Delivery App has been forcibly linked to your account.”
I froze for five seconds, turning it over in my head. I’d never downloaded this thing.
A pale blue interface appeared on the screen, so simple it was frightening. The time was displayed in the center, with a line underneath: “Time until first delivery: 1 hour 59 minutes.”
Then the order details appeared:
Delivery address: Limin Convenience Store, intersection of Ping'an Road and Jianshe Road
Order: One packet of Master Kong braised beef instant noodles
Delivery reward: Random reward
Time remaining: 1 hour 58 minutes
I stared at “Random reward” and suddenly felt like laughing. The zombie virus had broken out seven days ago. The whole country had lost internet and power, and every app was useless. And now you were telling me a delivery app still worked and could give me rewards?
But that countdown was ticking.
