****
The damn leaky faucet next door kept *drip-drip-dripping*, tangled up with Chen Mo's off-key humming of *Ordinary Road*.
It scraped across my brain like a rusted saw. That fucking song.
He'd hummed it the day he proposed, babbling about "walking this ordinary road together till the end." Bullshit.
In my last life, that tune was my death knell, drowned out by zombie shrieks as he clutched the three supply crates *I'd bled for and ran off with Lin Wei, that bitch, without a backward glance.
Lin Wei. My "best friend." The one who'd smiled sweetly while shoving me into the tide of rotting flesh. "Wanzhao," she'd chirped, "you're tougher than me. Hold them off for us, yeah?"
Ha.
My lips twisted. No tears. Just a low, dry chuckle that rattled in the emptiness of my cheap apartment. Sounded like something straight out of a horror flick. Fitting.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
The screen's glare made me wince. Muscle memory took over. Tap the yellow app icon. Location. Search – *Wang's Braised Chicken with Rice*, Chen Mo's favorite poison.
Double chicken. Fried egg on top. Delivery address: His company reception. Workstation number? Etched into my bones.
The cursor blinked in the notes field. My finger hovered. One beat. Then I slammed it down:
> Last meal. Eat it while it's hot.
Send.
The phone buzzed instantly. Lao Zhao flashed on the screen. I swiped to answer.
"Hey? Boss?" Lao Zhao's gravelly voice boomed down the line, thick with confusion. "Just got your order… What the hell's this 'last meal' note mean? For Chen Mo? Damn creepy! You fightin'? Can't curse a guy like that!" Lao Zhao, my senior courier. Solid guy. Loud. Usually on my side.
I walked to the window, yanking open the cheap, faded curtains. Grey dawn light spilled in, carrying the greasy smell of breakfast stalls from below. Next door, Chen Mo's shitty humming persisted.
"That's right, Lao Zhao." My voice was flat. Dead calm. Like frozen lake water. "Hang it on the handle of the file cabinet next to his desk. Don't hand it to him. Don't speak. Hang it and go." He needed to see it. Needed to sit there, staring at that "last supper," counting down the minutes. Just like I'd lain in that cold alley last time, listening to my own blood drain away.
"But… Boss, this is…" Lao Zhao stammered, unease crackling.
"Do it." I cut him off. No room for debate. "Thanks for today." Click. I hung up.
Shoving the phone in my pocket, I snatched my scooter keys off the hook. Slammed the door shut, locking his godawful singing inside. Threw a leg over my electric scooter.
The key twisted, the motor whining to life. The morning wind slapped my face, cool and sharp, but my mind was a floodgate bursting open, filled with bloody shards of the past.
Chen Mo's lying face. Me burning up with fever. Him trading the location of our dank basement hideout for half a bottle of murky water with a pack of desperate survivors. Their hungry snarls as they burst in still echoed.
Lin Wei. Wearing my gift – that blue hiking jacket I'd blown half a month's wages on for her birthday. Wielding mycombat knife, the one I'd taught her to use. Plunging it clean through a thin woman's throat.
For a single pack of stale, rock-hard biscuits. Blood sprayed her cheek. She wiped it off, grinning at a shell-shocked Chen Mo.
Ptooey.
A perfect fucking match.
Selfish to the core. Vicious beyond human. And me? The fucking welcome mat they'd stomped on, ground down, and sucked dry.
The scooter buzzed forward, tracing my usual delivery routes.
The images in my head screamed, making my temples throb. Almost without thought, I swung the handlebars, pulling up in front of the massive downtown mall.
Through the polished glass, the cosmetics counter blazed like spilled paint. And there, in that glossy world, I spotted her.
Lin Wei.
Leaning into the counter's lighted mirror, face tilted, carefully applying lipstick from a slender tube. She stroked it onto her full lower lip with the focus of a master painter.
Crimson paste.
My pupils snapped tight.
Scarlet 1987.
The name burned into my brain like a brand. Last life, huddled in a filthy sleeping bag in some temporary safe hole, she'd stared at a saved ad on her phone, eyes glazed. "Wanzhao, look at this color… Perfection. If I could die wearing this, even in the apocalypse, it'd be worth it!"
Worth it? Fine.
I pulled out my phone. The screen's glow lit my impassive face. Switched to a prepped anonymous account. Opened the shopping app. Searched. *Scarlet 1987. Limited Edition. Click. Pay. Done in seconds.
Delivery address?
My finger hovered. Then stabbed the screen:
> West District, Dongfeng Road 127, Shunda Abandoned Auto Repair Warehouse.
3 a.m. tomorrow. Ground zero for the first wave of mutated strays. Those beasts, twisted by some unknown virus. Sense of smell cranked to nightmare levels. Mad for the scent of blood.
The screen flashed green: *Merchant Has Shipped*. I stared at the words. A cold, twisted smile stretched my lips.
*Zzzzt… Boss? Hey! Boss, you copy?
The walkie-talkie on my belt crackled to life. Lao Zhao's voice, loud and exasperated: "You got a screw loose today? Ordering a 'last meal' for Chen Mo at dawn, now shipping shit anonymously to that godforsaken scrap heap in the west? What'd you send? Boss, level with me. You… you tangled in something bad? Don't scare me like this!"
I lifted the walkie-talkie, gaze drifting over the noisy street to the horizon. Sunset had exploded without me noticing. Huge swathes of violent orange-red bled across half the sky, garish as the blood pooling in that alley.
"Lao Zhao," my voice crackled out, unnervingly calm, almost soothing. "Listen to me. Today, when you clock out? Go home. Now. Lock your doors. Barricade them. Use the damn dresser if you have to. Go to the supermarket. Bottled water. Compressed biscuits. Buy everything they have. Money's no object. Pile it floor to ceiling in your living room."
Silence from the other end. Just static hiss.
I paused. Then spoke again, each word sharp and clear. "Remember. Starting tomorrow? Don't go outside. Not one step. Don't open the door. Not for the king of heaven. Not for your own father." My voice dropped, icing over. "Especially—" I bit the word out, cold as a grave, "—especially for those 'familiar faces.' The ones you *know*."
I released the talk button. Dead silence from Lao Zhao. He probably thought I'd snapped. Gone completely mad.
*Mad?* Maybe. Get shoved into hell by the ones you trusted most and claw your way back? Who wouldn't be?
I swung the scooter around, heading back to the delivery depot. The bloody sunset chased me like a curse.
The depot was empty when I arrived, the other couriers still out hustling. I shoved a pile of papers off the cluttered desk against the wall. From a deep drawer, I pulled out a crumpled city map, spreading it flat with a thump.
Twisted the cap off a red marker. Ink pooled, vivid as fresh blood.
The tip hovered over the map, trembling. Not fear. *Anticipation*. A dammed-up tide of pure, destructive fury surging through my veins. My eyes scanned the familiar grid of streets, buildings.
*Ping.*
A tiny notification sound. A thunderclap in the silent station.
I froze.
The phone screen lit up on its own. A delivery app alert blazed across it:
> **[Scarlet 1987 Limited Edition Lipstick] Delivered! Signed by: Lin Wei.**
> **Delivery Location: Shunda Auto Repair Warehouse, 127 Dongfeng Road, West District.**
*Delivered?!*
*Now?!* That wasn't right!
An icy wave of pure dread shot from my soles to my skull, colder than zombie teeth ripping my throat. My head snapped up, eyes locked on that glaring address on the screen.
West District… Abandoned repair shop… *Now?!*
My mind *whited out*. An image slammed into me, sharp, brutal, laden with the cold stench of rust and thick blood:
A massive, rust-scabbed roll-up door hung crooked, open just a sliver. A narrow, dark gap. Wind whistled through it, a low, mournful moan. Deep inside the warehouse, piled high with rotting tires and greasy machine parts, the light was thick, stagnant.
A dog.
Skin stretched taut over bones, fur matted black and filthy, caked with dark, unidentifiable muck. It crouched low, a long, unnatural tongue lolling crimson. It lapped, intently, methodically, at a patch on the concrete floor – a small, sticky puddle of something dark red, almost black. Half-dried blood. Stretchy strands clung to its rough tongue.
The lapping stopped.
The dog froze. Alerted. Its head jerked up. Filmy, vacant eyes fixed directly on *me* – on the direction I was "seeing" from.
Deep within those eyes, two pinpricks of light glowed. Not natural. Not right. A sickly, pulsing, *unholy* crimson red.
Like embers from hell itself.
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