After days of observation, I realized something: in daylight, especially under the sun, the zombies grew quieter, more subdued. Safer. So I decided to visit the nearest small town.
It was a modest place, not heavily populated. Compared to the cities, it was nothing. The streets bore only scattered bloodstains, no chaos.
I could sense human auras inside the buildings. Glancing at my reflection in a glass door, I checked myself. My eyes were indistinct, but from a distance I looked normal. My clothes were black, hiding stains. My movements were human.
Relief. I could pass as one of them.
The sun rose higher. In the distance, people stirred. On the old street stood my aunt's house. She had two daughters, both away. I could "see" them inside, alive, doors locked. But they were struggling. What could I do? No contact, no help. Everyone was blindfolded, thrown into a den of demons.
Nearby, a small supermarket. Doors locked. Easy enough for me to break in. The guilt was faint, but still there.
I was good at acting quickly while my conscience whispered. Like silently screaming why must a young girl do such bloody things while smashing skulls for crystals.
I carried a barrel of water, two boxes of noodles, two bags of rice. My strength had grown.
The noise of breaking doors made nearby people retreat. Perhaps they would be glad later, seeing the supplies.
I left the goods at my aunt's door. Passing the police station, I felt guilty. A thief.
Would there be guns inside? Likely. Could ordinary citizens use them? Perhaps not. But they weren't complicated.
Inside was silence. My footsteps echoed. I wanted to call out, but no sound came. Only a bloodstained cap in the hall.
I brushed it off, set it on the desk beside an open notebook and pen.
Deeper rooms were locked. I used thought to open one. Precision work, exhausting. I leaned against the door, resting.
Inside, darkness. I could still "see," but fear lingered. Old habits. I needed to train myself.
Real guns. I had never seen them. Even in military training, the rifles were fake. These looked fake too. But they were real.
Three pistols. I took them, with all the bullets. Small, palm-sized, easy to carry. I knew how to load them. Childhood toy guns had taught me.
I carried more water and food, hid the guns among them, left everything at my aunt's door. From a distance, I watched her and my uncle carry them inside, then shut the door.
The sun blazed. I felt no sweat, no heat. Passing cautious people, I smelled their human scent.
Meat. I hadn't eaten it in so long. The smell tempted me. But I resisted. Still, the emptiness gnawed, making me irritable.
Like the mood swings of menstruation, magnified. I wanted to smash, destroy.
I couldn't indulge. The best outlet was killing more zombies, collecting crystals.
Crystals were like elixirs from martial tales, strengthening me. I longed to hoard them. But I never managed. Each time I found one, I absorbed it instantly.
They were meat to me. I was always hungry. Compared to human flesh, I would eat mud if I had to.
The frustration of wanting to save but consuming anyway—it was like working for years and saving nothing. Empty pockets. Painful.
Daylight limited zombies. But I was different. Wisdom overcame instinct.
They didn't flee when I approached. They stayed until I killed them. Like picking mushrooms—find them, take them.
But I wasn't a mushroom girl. I was a hunter. Cold, ruthless. It sounded cooler. More respectful, though they didn't care.
I noticed something: zombies with crystals gave stronger signals. Easier to find.
Convenient. But I treated all alike. One less was one less. Someday, they would all vanish.
Then, perhaps, the world would return. And I would have no purpose.
That was fine. I had lived this long. If this counted as living. No zombies chasing me. I could wander freely. A strange gift.
Carrying two pistols, I felt odd. I tried to walk naturally, not skulking.
No one cared. People glanced, hurried on.
Some familiar faces. Small towns were like that. Everyone connected.
Their expressions were wary, guarded. No friendliness left. I didn't greet them.
The weather was fine. Blue skies. Quiet, eerie, but comforting.
It was July. Vegetables were in season. Families harvested more than they could eat.
Behind my house, my parents worked the field. Eggplants, bitter melon, cucumbers, beans, peppers. My father quick, filling a basket. My mother vigilant, watching.
Others did the same nearby.
I knew the village was safe. Few zombies left. But I respected their caution.
Without electricity, fridges were useless. Preservation meant salt.
Tonight's task: find salt. Shops, supermarkets. Stored in warehouses. Dark, cluttered, airless. I wasn't afraid of searching. Only of surprises. My heart might not bear it.
But my heart no longer beat.
I sat, leaning against the wall, watching my parents in the field. Shadows flickered. It felt like yesterday.
Though born rural, my parents never favored sons. If anything, they favored me. My father especially.
So I rarely worked the fields. I was weak, unskilled.
I had grown used to their labor. But now, watching, I felt sorrow. Perhaps the saying was true: The child longs to care, but the parents are gone.
I watched a while, then went to sleep. Whether I needed it or not, I kept human habits. To feel human.