The Stockpile
"Steak, I only eat it rare, blue rare, to be precise. The moment the first ray of sunlight hits the carcass—that's when it's ready." — Ethan Cross
Early morning.
In the farmyard, a team of butchers was busy hauling raw meat. What was unusual, though, was the sight of countless cans of bright red blood alongside the meat blocks.
Under the clear morning sun, the glass jars shone with a crimson hue, looking like aged Cabernet Sauvignon.
"Hey, Mike, what's gotten into Mr. Cross? He had a perfectly good ranch running, why did he decide to slaughter all ten thousand head of livestock?" a butcher asked curiously.
Another worker chimed in.
"Seriously! And what does he need all that blood plasma for? It feels like something out of a cult ritual."
Mike, the foreman, was just as baffled but didn't want to lose face.
"Don't ask so many questions about the boss's business. Just get back to work. Cross's affairs are above our paygrade."
"Uh… got it."
The workers quickly resumed their tasks. They wore medical masks, white gloves, and even had their hair neatly tucked under hairnets.
Mike gave a final, firm reminder.
"Everyone make sure you keep things sanitary. If he finds a single hair in the meat, Mr. Cross won't pay us. You know how particular he is."
"Understood, Mike, relax," the workers responded in unison.
However, they quickly began to whisper among themselves.
"Man, did you hear? I think Mr. Cross is a few cards short of a full deck."
"Why? He seems fine to me. What's the weird part?"
"He's got massive OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). Hates anything dirty, and he never shakes anyone's hand."
"Oh, that explains it! I was wondering why he…"
"Ahem! Drop it."
"…"
A timely cough from one of the men cut short their discussion.
A young man was walking towards them from the distance, tall and athletic, clad in a pristine, stain-free Ralph Lauren button-down.
His fair face featured sculpted, delicate features, like a work of Greek art. He was incredibly handsome.
Though he approached bathed in the warm light of the sunrise, his narrow eyes held a profound sense of indifference and detachment.
Foreman Mike rushed over.
"Mr. Cross, the fifteen hundred head of cattle, three thousand pigs, and ten thousand-plus chickens have all been processed."
"Good."
Ethan Cross nodded, his gaze sweeping over the shrink-wrapped fresh meat and the jars of deep crimson blood. He seemed satisfied.
"Go get your pay."
"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure doing business with you."
Mike grinned and instinctively extended his hand for a handshake.
Ethan stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the offered hand.
Mike instantly remembered, a flush creeping onto his face. It was an unwritten rule: Ethan's intense germophobia meant he absolutely would not tolerate physical contact.
"Well, Mr. Cross, we'll be heading out now. Hope to work with you again soon."
Mike offered a sheepish smile, quickly retracting his hand.
Soon after, he and the crew left the farm, speeding away in their beat-up Dodge Caravan.
Ethan watched them go.
He walked up to the piles of raw meat and the crates of blood, and with a sweeping motion of his hand, they vanished into thin air.
Of course, the hoard hadn't actually disappeared.
They had simply been pulled into Ethan's personal storage space.
This spatial dimension was 1000 meters in length, width, and height. Time inside was completely static—whatever he put in came out exactly the same, with no degradation or change.
He could do this because Ethan was a Reborn.
He had returned to the world just two weeks before the apocalypse.
And with him came the inexplicable storage space.
The horror of the last life remained vividly etched in his memory: the roaming hordes of zombies, the proliferation of mutated monsters, and the desperate scarcity of resources. People would kill for a single Twinkie or a bottle of clean water.
They would betray friends and family, completely shedding any pretense of decency or humanity.
Most people reborn before the end of the world would focus on stockpiling basic supplies: canned goods, bottled water, survival gear. But Ethan was focused solely on raw meat and fresh blood.
Because… he was about to become a zombie.
Blood and flesh were absolutely vital to a zombie. More than just food, consuming flesh allowed a zombie to absorb energy, grow stronger, and eventually evolve into an Alpha-Zombie.
The growth rate of a zombie with a constant, massive supply of raw meat was frighteningly exponential.
In short, blood and flesh were the fount of zombie evolution.
The limit of Ethan's power depended entirely on how much he could eat!
Just then, his cell phone rang. It was his supermarket assistant, Chloe.
"Boss, the ten thousand crates of frozen Ribeye steaks, the thousand orders of Buffalo Wings, and the ten tons of spare ribs have all arrived."
"Okay. Tell all the major suppliers to place new, continuous orders." Ethan instructed.
"Wait, more orders?" Chloe's voice was laced with surprise. "But… Boss, we've pretty much drained our working capital. We can't even cover the deposits right now."
"I'll handle the money. You just keep ordering."
"Alright, if you say so." Chloe agreed reluctantly.
But she was completely bewildered. Why keep ordering when they were broke? What was he doing? Was it really the 'End of Days'?
Ethan Cross owned a ranch, a chain of supermarkets, and two Bunker-ready properties. These assets were bought with the inheritance from his parents.
His parents had died in a car accident when he was too young to remember, and he hadn't even attended the funeral.
He was shuffled through the foster care system until he was of legal age to inherit their estate.
From there, he gradually built up his empire.
Despite his extensive holdings, Ethan had very little liquid cash.
His most valuable assets were currently tucked away in his spatial dimension.
"The apocalypse starts in ten days. I need to get some cash flow going to keep the supplies coming."
As Ethan was contemplating his next move, he saw a gleaming Cadillac Escalade and a battered Dodge Caravan pull up on the road outside the ranch.
The Dodge Caravan was packed with a few local thugs, their hair dyed various outlandish colors.
Most people would cringe at the sight of them, but a faint smirk touched Ethan's lips.
"Just in time. The walking ATM has arrived…"
The Cadillac Escalade rolled to a stop, and a middle-aged man stepped out, dressed in a casual suit, sporting a thick gold chain, and clutching a Gucci leather briefcase under his arm. He walked with an overly confident swagger.
This was Victor Stone, the famous real estate developer from Silver Lake. He had long coveted Ethan's ranch land, believing it was the perfect spot to build luxury Condos and make a massive profit.
But Ethan had been stubbornly unwilling to sell, no matter the offer.
Since charm hadn't worked, Victor had decided to try intimidation.
He brought his posse of low-level muscle to put pressure on Ethan.
"Cross, my man! Look who it is!"
Victor strode into the yard. His bodyguards shambled in behind him, their chests and arms covered in elaborate Old School tattoos, certainly giving off a palpable sense of menace.
But Ethan remained unfazed.
"Hello, Mr. Stone."
"Ethan, you know why I'm here. Have you made up your mind about the land?"
Victor cut straight to the chase, his tone still polite. He intended to be gracious first, then turn up the heat.
But Ethan unexpectedly nodded.
"Yes, I have. I'll sell it to you, at the price you previously offered."
"What?"
Victor was visibly shocked. He clearly hadn't anticipated Ethan actually agreeing.
Even the thugs behind him exchanged bewildered glances.
Did we read the wrong script?
"You… you really agree?" Victor asked, completely disbelieving, needing to confirm it.
Ethan nodded again.
"Yes. I don't want my little piece of property to delay Mr. Stone from making his fortune."
"Hahahaha! Fantastic!"
Victor was suddenly ecstatic. He mentally praised the young man: A smart kid. Knows how to recognize an opportunity...
"Ethan, let's sign the contract right now."
He pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. He'd prepared this contract weeks ago and carried it everywhere. Today, it was finally put to use.
Ethan agreed, sat down in the yard, pulled out a Montblanc pen, and began signing page after page.
The ranch land was substantial, selling for a staggering one hundred and twenty million dollars at market price.
Still, Victor couldn't shake the suddenness of the event. He asked,
"Ethan, what happened with the ranch? What made you suddenly decide to sell it?"
"I need the cash." Ethan replied without looking up.
"Need the cash, you say?"
Victor's eyes narrowed. The reason was entirely logical. Besides real estate, he ran a profitable side business: Loan Sharking.
His crew wasn't cheap to keep around.
A lightbulb flashed over his head—another business opportunity.
"Ethan, are you still short on funds? Maybe… your Victor can help you out?"
"Oh?"
Ethan paused his pen stroke, slowly looking up at Victor's face. Suddenly, Victor's jowly, tough-guy look seemed strangely handsome and endearing.
The end of the world was coming, and this man was not only buying his property but offering to loan him money, too.
He was nothing less than a saint on Earth.
Wipes away a tear…