Apocalypse: Stockpiling Supplies in My Senior Year Classroom

Seeds are memories. Numbers are frequencies. Respond, and you board.

The apocalypse arrived without warning, trapping Class 7, Senior Year, in their school building. No System, no special powers, just twenty-three bottles of mineral water, half a bag of spicy strips, and a group of high schoolers with their minds full of college entrance exams.

Wang Hao led his classmates in searching the floors, making weapons, and rationing food as they struggled to survive amid zombies and human nature. But they soon realized something was wrong with the infected: they didn’t bite anyone. They formed orderly lines and stared up at the sky. They weren’t hunting. They were waiting for a train.

A whistle sounded from underground. A string of numbers could appear on anyone’s wrist. Those called would stand up on their own and walk toward the metal platform rising in the middle of the sports field. They weren’t being controlled. They were responding. Those who boarded never came back. Those left behind were just empty shells.

And in the corner of the classroom, the forgotten boy had been lying against the barrier, staring at them for six whole days. His number was 0041. He was waiting for the next train.

“Don’t panic. I’ll count to three. One, find weapons. Two, block the doors. Three, whoever cries again gets thrown out to feed the zombies, assuming they still bite.”