"I close my eyes, and the world ceases to exist."

The burning sensation in his stomach jolted Zhang Xiaoqiang awake. Clutching his abdomen, he sat up, squinting into the void, his mind vacillating between dream and reality. Intense hunger twisted his intestines, bringing back all sensations: the stench of dead rats in the house, the dim and ominous sky outside the window, and the eerie crunch of broken glass under the feet of the variously shaped zombies roaming the streets below.

Reaching for the half-empty pack of instant noodles on the bedside table, Zhang Xiaoqiang opened it and took a deep sniff, the aroma sparking saliva production and momentarily masking even the foul odors in the air. He crushed the noodles, savoring each morsel with deliberate slowness until the last grain vanished from his mouth. Carefully cutting open the packet with scissors, he licked clean every crumb adhering to its inner walls before washing it all down with bottled water. Emptying the bottle, he rose from the bed and stood by the window, observing the zombies mindlessly wandering the streets, calculating how long his remaining food would last—a train of thought that inevitably led him back half a month.

Zhang Xiaoqiang, a middle-aged recluse, had lost both parents to cancer, while his sister had married and moved away, leaving him alone in the family home. After a falling out with his superiors at work, he had resigned and returned home, only to fail in a restaurant venture with friends in Wuhan. Unwilling to seek new employment, he had whiled away his days online, sustained by rental income from the family property. Monthly trips to collect rent and restock supplies had kept him content, his weight ballooning to around 170 pounds as he led a simple, unassuming life.

Now, at 34 in the year 2012, amidst widespread doomsday prophecies circulating online, Zhang Xiaoqiang remained indifferent, dismissing them as baseless hysteria. After all, hadn't the world survived the supposed Y2K apocalypse in 1999? But when wildfires erupted across Japan's Mount Fuji in March followed by similar incidents worldwide over the ensuing months, panic gripped the populace, fueled by a deluge of rumors. Though government officials and experts rushed to reassure the public, attributing the events to natural phenomena, it wasn't until June that the earth began to calm: earthquakes subsided, volcanoes lay dormant, economies stabilized, and pork prices dropped. Websites peddling doomsday scenarios were shuttered, and life returned to a semblance of normalcy. Yet Zhang Xiaoqiang remained resigned to his fate, continuing to drift through life.

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December 21, 2012 came and went uneventfully, silencing the doomsday forums. Only a few clueless individuals grumbled about their surplus stockpiles of rice and cabbage, some having bought thousands of kilograms. Even compressed biscuits saw a price hike.

Then, on December 24, news broke of small meteorite clusters crashing into the Pacific Ocean, causing no significant economic damage. But it was at 9 a.m. on December 31, 2012, that the world changed.

Zhang Xiaoqiang, having stayed up all night, finally succumbed to sleep, closing all doors and windows to shut out the odd scent pervading the air. After a hot shower and a liberal spritz of expired perfume left by his sister as air freshener, he crawled under the covers and fell into a deep slumber. Awakening at 9 p.m., he ate a light meal, then turned to his computer, only to find most online novels hadn't been updated. Irritated, he delved into old books until something seemed amiss—an observation compounded by the absence of the usual traffic noise outside his window. Curious, he peered outside, only to witness a horrific sight that left him trembling in fear.

Under the streetlights, several figures huddled together, seemingly engaged in an unspeakable act. Zhang Xiaoqiang wiped his glasses clean and squinted, realizing they were consuming something. The chill of the floor beneath his bare feet reminded him of his vulnerability, and he hurriedly donned slippers before cleaning the neglected window. Looking out again, he saw one of the figures seated on the ground, illuminated by the streetlight, tearing into a human heart.

Overwhelmed, Zhang Xiaoqiang sank to his knees, his mind reeling with revulsion. Rushing to the bathroom, he retched until there was nothing left but bitterness. It took him a while to compose himself, wiping away tears and rinsing his mouth before sitting on the floor, haunted by visions of apocalyptic horror straight out of the movies he'd watched: Biohazard, Dawn of the Dead, and the like.

After half an hour, he felt somewhat calmer, returning to the window for another look. The group outside had grown larger, and more figures emerged from the darkness. In the dim light, they appeared even more sinister, sending shivers down his spine and filling him with dread.

Suddenly remembering the police, he grabbed his phone, but panic clouded his mind, and he couldn't recall the emergency numbers. Frustrated, he dialed 110, then 120, to no avail. Attempting to reach friends and relatives yielded similar results—either no answer or a busy tone. Desperation clawed at him as he watched the crowd outside, realizing with horror that they were all infected. He didn't know if he was too.

Alive meant hope, he reminded himself. But the fear of being devoured by those turned into zombies gnawed at him, conjuring gruesome images of his own demise. Lighting a cigarette to steady his nerves, he pondered his next move. Venturing outside was out of the question; the zombies awaited, hungry for fresh flesh. So, he sat before his computer, contemplating his options.