Chapter 3

Three days until the outbreak.

The morning mist had barely lifted, cold dew seeping through my cut-resistant gloves.

I crouched in the brush two hundred meters from the farm's perimeter, securing the final strand of ultra-fine military tripwire to a tree root. The other end connected to several empty tin cans stuffed with gravel, their surfaces coated in matte paint, perfectly hidden in the dead grass.

My father approached from the other side, giving the main line a tug. The subtle pull triggered a cascade of sharp, metallic clinks.

"The sound carries clearly—you'll hear even a stray cat step on this at night." My father brushed the dirt off his hands, his eyes gleaming with approval.

I nodded, straightening up and rubbing my aching lower back. The past life had taught me a brutal lesson: high walls and deep moats were essential, but sealing yourself inside them was a trap. Once a zombie horde reached critical mass, no wall could withstand endless pressure. Taking control of the surrounding intel was the real lifeline.

Over the next four hours, I drove the off-road vehicle on a comprehensive survey within a three-kilometer radius.

A large-scale military topographic map was spread across the passenger seat. I marked every dirt road, dried-up creek bed, and even abandoned factory that could lead to the farm—all in red ink. Where hordes might gather, which routes could serve as emergency escape buffers—the defensive network was taking shape in my mind as a precise, layered grid.

By noon, I drove back to the farm. As I pulled into the yard, I saw Lena's pickup pulling in, its suspension groaning under the weight.

She pushed the door open, her eyes bloodshot but her expression feverishly triumphant.

"Three pharmacies, two private clinics—cleaned out." Lena swung open the tailgate, revealing boxes packed with medical symbols. "I used the 'private hospital shortfall' excuse and scored maximum doses of epinephrine, morphine, medical gauze, and full surgical kits."

She paused, lowering her voice, and dragged two black duffel bags from under the passenger seat: "Before I left, I found an old pharma rep contact and settled a cash deal off the books. This is all broad-spectrum antibiotics and potent antivirals."

Looking at those supplies—currency that could buy a fortress in the apocalypse—I gripped Lena's shoulder firmly. She met my gaze with a steady nod, then turned to haul everything into the tool shed.

The farm was running like a well-oiled machine.

In the greenhouse, my mother was transplanting the last tomato seedling into the soil. Rows of herbs and lettuce seedlings lined the bench beside her. She'd even salvaged three old bathtubs from the spare rooms and rigged them under the eaves as a simple rainwater filtration system.

A faint hum came from the basement—my father was settling the diesel generator into place. To prevent the mechanical noise from attracting trouble in the dead silence of the apocalypse, he'd built a fully enclosed soundproof chamber with thick acoustic foam and fire-retardant panels.

Just as we were putting the finishing touches on everything, a rhythmic knock came at the front gate.

My nerves tightened. I strode to the porch. Through the iron bars, old Dr. Howard stood outside, holding a freshly cleaned wild rabbit.

"Saw you folks running around like crazy these past few days. Bagged this rabbit this morning—figured you could use the meat." Howard handed the rabbit over, but his gaze swept discreetly over the newly reinforced steel window panels in the yard.

"Much appreciated, Doc." I took the rabbit; the blood scent was faint, the dressing professional.

Howard didn't leave right away. He pulled out his pipe, packed it with tobacco, and lowered his voice: "The town's been feeling off lately. The news is suppressing it, but military convoys on the northbound highway are three times more frequent than usual. You young folks have your ears to the ground—catch any wind?"

I looked at this man, a doctor for over forty years. His sharp instincts and rich medical experience would be an invaluable resource in the coming collapse.

I paused for a moment, stepped forward, and met his gaze through the bars: "Dr. Howard, if that 'wind' really does blow, the regular meds in your clinic won't last long."

Howard's hand, holding the pipe, hesitated.

"If that time comes, you'll need a lot of antibiotics, painkillers, and clean gauze." My tone was steady, brooking no doubt. "We've got some surplus here. When the time comes, you can trade your anesthetics and surgical tools for them."

Howard's cloudy old eyes sharpened. He stared at me for a full ten seconds—no "why," no challenge.

"I understand." He exhaled a stream of smoke, tucked the pipe back into his pocket, and nodded slightly. "The medicine cabinet key stays on me."

Watching his hunched but steady retreat, I let out a long breath. A vital lifeline and information bridge had just been established on the eve of the apocalypse.

At three in the afternoon, I changed into a nondescript gray jacket and drove alone into the city.

The streets were still bustling, neon lights starting to flicker in the dusk. I parked in an underground garage two blocks from my mother-in-law's apartment, then walked to her building.

Avoiding the cameras, I slipped a well-disguised "Community Emergency Supply Notice" into the apartment's metal mailbox.

The instructions were clear: a 24-hour self-storage locker in the basement of the nearby supermarket.

Inside that locker, I'd placed a sturdy canvas bag containing a few cans of military rations near their expiration date, two bottles of water, and a micro-beacon transmitter hidden in the lining.

That beacon had been specially modified. It emitted no audible sound, but instead pulsed a low-frequency electronic signal. Military research from the past life showed that this specific frequency was fatally attractive to early-stage infected. It wouldn't trigger a full-scale stampede—but like boiling a frog in warm water, it would slowly, steadily draw every straggler within two kilometers toward the signal source.

Fifteen minutes later, sitting in the shadows of a scrapped van on the corner, I watched Carol and Derek hurry out of the apartment building and head straight for the locker.

After retrieving the heavy canvas bag, their faces lit up with barely concealed glee.

Not long after, Derek appeared on the fifth-floor balcony. He'd clearly rummaged through the deceptive military packaging—and lost his mind with excitement. He actually waved his arms at the empty street below and shouted recklessly: "Hey! Got any more?! Toss down some ammo!"

Watching his greedy face on the balcony, I rolled up the window expressionlessly and started the engine.

They had no idea that what they'd clutched so eagerly to their chests wasn't a lifeline at all.

It was a death compass, about to guide the horde straight to them.

The city's noise faded behind me. In the rearview mirror, that luxury apartment building gleamed gold in the setting sun.

Since you loved shoving others out as shields in your past life—enjoy being devoured by the darkness you carried home with your own hands.