Seven days before the apocalypse, Jiang Tang received a note from her late mother: Day seven, goods, use the south gate.
No one believed her. Her relatives called her crazy, the bank demanded repayment, and even her younger brother thought she'd developed a hoarding obsession.
Only Jiang Tang knew the truth: seven days later, the Gray Tide would sweep across the globe. The infected would burn with gray skin and bite anyone they saw.
She drained her savings, maxed out every credit card, and stocked the abandoned logistics warehouse her mother had left behind to the brim.
When the apocalypse came, others would raid supermarkets. Her supermarket was a warehouse.
Enough grain and cooking oil to last three years, medicine sorted by batch number, drinking water stacked to the ceiling.
Her golden finger was simple: time stood still inside the warehouse, and anything stored there would never spoil. But it could only store things, not produce them. No supplies meant an empty building.
Zombies came? No problem. They could hear sounds, but couldn't see anything that stood still. Jiang Tang crouched behind the shelves as zombies walked right past her without even glancing her way.
The base wanted to requisition her supplies? Zheng Henian showed up with a group of people and opened with, "We'll redistribute them as needed."
Jiang Tang took out her ledger and said unhurriedly, "Redistribution is fine. Sign and seal an agreement first. Thirty percent interest. If you don't repay it on time, I'll hang a banner outside your base."
Her younger brother asked, "Sis, you stocked up so much. Can you even eat it all?"
Jiang Tang tapped the shelf. "Expiration dates can lie. Ledgers can't."
But she never expected that deep inside the warehouse, behind the iron door marked number seven, a secret more terrifying than the zombies was hidden.
