On the day when the apocalypse came, Zhao Wuming ran 32 takeaway orders.
There was something squatting in the alley of No. 32—A dead cat in its mouth, its intestines dragging on the ground, making a clicking sound. He stared at the cat for about a second. The first thought in my mind was not to run. This fucking cat is orange. He had fed it before. Ham sausage. One dollar a piece.
Zombies are afraid of light. They hide in the shadows during the day and don't come out until dark. Others stocked up on guns and food, but Zhao Wuming didn't stock up on anything - he had been delivering food in Old City for three years, and he could tell which alleys had sunshine at what time and which time they didn't, with his eyes closed. The mind is a living map. The shadow is the road, and where there is no shadow, you will die.
There is no braised chicken in the incubator. It contained three children, an old drunkard, and a claw hammer. He is still delivering. It's not that I don't know the end is coming - it's that I don't know what to do if I don't send it. Delivering food was the only thing he knew for sure.
Two bucks will be deducted for overtime. Deduct money for negative reviews. It's been three years, and I can count on my fingers. When someone robs him of water in the apocalypse, his first reaction is not "I'm going to die" but "This bucket of water is worth 12 yuan, so you rob me of 12 yuan."
A city is rotting. A delivery boy led seven people to find their way in the shadows. They have no superpowers, no system, no memories of rebirth - only an electric car, a ledger, and a rider who is stingy to the core. And the words that he didn't even believe but lived by for three years:
"Once you take the order, you have to deliver it."
