Apocalyptic Sandalwood

The most useless thing in the apocalypse is memories. He leaned against the broken wall, rain dripping from his forehead into his collar. How long has it been raining? Can't remember clearly. Anyway, from that day on, the sky was like a leaky coffin, pouring moldy liquid constantly. The roar of zombies could be heard in the distance, like a rusty saw pulling at bones. He chewed the last half of the compressed biscuit indifferently, and the crumbs fell on the stained combat uniform. It tastes fucking awful, but it's better than starving to death. There was a corpse across the street, too rotten to be recognized. Maggots squirmed in the eye sockets, like a silent feast. He stared at it for a long time, and suddenly remembered the pot of succulents he had raised before the end of the world. Forgot to water it and it died. Now that I think about it, it's really a luxury trouble. There was still half a bottle of water in the side pocket of the backpack. When I shook it, I could hear the faint sound of water. Do you want to drink? Or should I endure it any longer? This meaningless struggle filled his every day. Survival becomes a series of trivial multiple-choice questions, each one leading to hell. The wind blew a torn newspaper to my feet. The headline on the front page is still clear: "Technology Changes Life." He scoffed and kicked the newspaper away. There are only two things that can change your life now: bullets and luck. There were footsteps in the distance. He immediately clenched the iron pipe next to him, his knuckles turning white. The sound gets closer and then gets further away. It's not for him. He breathed a sigh of relief and realized that his palms were all sweaty. He spent three full years in this state of shock. Sometimes he would think that he might as well become the walking zombies outside, at least they wouldn't have to think about tomorrow.