The subway was packed with the living dead.
Not literally. Not yet. But as I stood squeezed between a businessman reviewing spreadsheets and a grandmother clutching her grocery bags, I couldn't help but see them for what they would become. The businessman would turn on Day One, probably while still at his desk. The grandmother might last longer—she had the look of a survivor, tough and practical. But by Day Seven, the odds said she would be gone too.
Ninety-seven percent of humanity would be dead or turned within the first month. I had watched it happen once. I would not watch it happen again.
The train lurched, and I steadied myself automatically. Muscle memory from a life I hadn't lived yet—or rather, a life I had already lived ten thousand times over. My body was young and soft, unused to combat, but my instincts remained.
Seven days.
The words pulsed in my mind like a countdown timer. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. Every second that passed was a second I couldn't afford to waste.
But appearances had to be maintained. For now.
------------------------------
Huateng Technology occupied floors twelve through fifteen of a glass-and-steel tower in the downtown business district. A mid-tier software company with dreams of becoming the next tech giant. Mediocre products, decent pay, and a management team that held too many meetings about holding fewer meetings.
I had worked here for three years before the apocalypse. In the original timeline, I had died here too—torn apart by my coworkers in the break room while trying to barricade the door to the server room.
Today, I walked through the lobby with the calm of a man who knew exactly how little any of this mattered.
"Wei! You're early today."
I turned to see Chen Chen approaching, coffee in hand, that familiar easygoing smile on his face. Chen Chen was—had been—my closest friend at the company. We had started the same week, suffered through the same training sessions, complained about the same bosses.
On Day One, Chen Chen would turn in the middle of a video call with a client. He would kill four people before someone brained him with a fire extinguisher.
I knew who would swing that extinguisher, too. It would be me.
He stumbled slightly on the lobby's polished floor, coffee sloshing toward the rim of his cup. For one crystalline instant, my body tensed—throat strike, disarm, three steps to the fire exit—before my conscious mind caught up. He wasn't a threat. Not yet.
Six days until he became one.
"Couldn't sleep," I said, which was technically true.
"Bad dreams?" Chen Chen laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "You look like shit, brother. No offense."
"None taken."
We walked to the elevator together, and I studied his face with the detachment of a coroner. In six days, I would watch the light leave those eyes. I would see his skin go gray, his jaw unhinge in that horrible way the newly-turned always did before their first feeding.
I had killed him once. I would not hesitate to do it again if necessary.
But that was the difference this time. This time, I knew it was coming. This time, I could prepare.
The elevator doors opened. As we stepped inside, someone rushed in behind us—a junior accountant from the tenth floor, judging by the badge. He misjudged the distance and bumped into my shoulder.
"Sorry, sorry—"
My hand was already halfway to his throat before I caught myself. Fist clenched, ready to strike. The movement had taken less than a heartbeat.
I forced my fingers to uncurl. Breathed out slowly.
The accountant hadn't noticed. He was already staring at his phone, oblivious to how close he had come to a broken windpipe.
"Hey." Chen Chen's voice cut through my thoughts. "You okay? You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"That thousand-yard stare. Like you're looking at something nobody else can see." He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "Seriously, man. Everything alright?"
For a moment, I considered telling him. Just laying it all out—the virus, the zombies, the ten thousand years I had spent wandering a dead world. I could describe exactly how his death would happen, down to the minute.
He would think I was insane. And he would be half right.
"Just tired," I said. "Long night."
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. Chen Chen was already pulling out his phone, distracted by some notification or another.
I watched his reflection in the polished steel doors and let myself feel, just for a moment, the weight of what I knew. The burden of foreknowledge. The loneliness of being the only one who understood what was coming.
I can't save everyone.
The thought was old and familiar, worn smooth by millennia of repetition. I had tried, in the early centuries. I had worn myself down to nothing trying to save every life, protect every survivor, hold back the tide of death with my bare hands.
It never worked. The apocalypse was too big, too absolute. All I could do was survive.
But maybe... maybe this time, I could save the ones who mattered.
The elevator stopped at twelve. Chen Chen stepped out, still absorbed in his phone.
"See you at lunch?" he called over his shoulder.
"Yeah," I said. "See you at lunch."
The doors closed, and I rode up to fourteen alone.
------------------------------
The workday passed like a fever dream.
I sat at my desk, staring at code I had written three years ago—code that would never be deployed, for a product that would never launch, at a company that would be a tomb in eight days. My fingers moved automatically, fixing bugs that didn't matter, responding to emails that would never be read again.
"Wei." Director Chu's voice cut through my thoughts. "My office. Five minutes."
I looked up to see our department head striding past, his face set in that expression of perpetual disappointment he wore like a uniform. Director Chu had been the first to die on our floor. A heart attack, of all things—the virus had nothing to do with it. The shock of seeing his secretary turn had been too much for his cholesterol-clogged arteries.
Ironic, really. The zombies hadn't killed him. His lifestyle had.
"Be right there," I said.
Director Chu's office was exactly as I remembered—leather chair he couldn't afford, fake plants he never watered, a wall of certifications from institutions nobody had ever heard of. He gestured for me to sit.
"I'll get straight to the point," he said, folding his hands on the desk. "Your performance this quarter has been... adequate."
Adequate. After three years of overtime, of weekend work, of sacrificing my relationship with Min-Tong for this company's mediocre products.
"However," Director Chu continued, "the Yang account you've been managing is showing some concerning metrics. Client satisfaction is down four percent from last quarter."
Four percent. In seven days, this man would be dead of a heart attack. In eight days, his corpse would be trampled by fleeing employees. In ten days, rats would be nesting in his leather chair.
And he was worried about four percent.
Something must have shown on my face, because Director Chu's eyes narrowed.
"Is there a problem, Wei?"
Yes. In a week, your corpse will be food for scavengers. Your precious metrics will mean nothing. Your leather chair will—
"I understand," I said, forcing my expression neutral. "I'll address it."
Director Chu studied me for a moment longer, then waved a hand in dismissal. "See that you do. That's all."
I stood and walked to the door. Paused with my hand on the handle.
"Director Chu."
"What is it?"
I turned to look at him—really look at him, with the eyes of someone who had watched civilizations rise and fall, who had walked through the ashes of humanity's greatest achievements.
"Have you ever considered what you would do if everything changed? If nothing you worked for mattered anymore?"
Director Chu stared at me like I had grown a second head.
"Just... something I've been thinking about," I said. "Never mind."
I left before he could respond, closing the door on his confused expression.
Countdown: 6 days, 21 hours.
------------------------------
I spent my lunch break in the stairwell, making a list.
Not on paper—I had learned long ago that written plans could be found, could be used against you. This list existed only in my mind, as clear and detailed as a blueprint.
Priority One: Supplies
— Non-perishable food: canned goods, rice, dried beans (minimum 30 days supply)
— Water: containers, purification tablets, filtration system
— Medicine: antibiotics, painkillers, first aid supplies
— Weapons: knives, blunt instruments (firearms too risky to acquire in 7 days)
— Tools: crowbar, rope, duct tape, flashlights, batteries
— Clothing: durable boots, rain gear, multiple layers
Priority Two: Location
— Current apartment is indefensible—third floor, single exit
— Need secure location with: multiple escape routes, high ground advantage, access to water, defensible entrances
— Options: Underground parking structures, warehouse district, abandoned factory in the western suburbs
Priority Three: People
— Min-Tong (CRITICAL): Currently at her apartment in Bellevue. Must convince her to trust me before Day Zero
— Potential allies: None that I trust
— Potential threats: Other survivors will become desperate; some will become predators
Priority Four: Information
— Monitor news for early signs of outbreak (there won't be any)
— Track weather patterns (rain will slow the spread by approximately 12%)
— Note locations of emergency services, hospitals (will be overrun first)
— Identify potential resources: hardware stores, camping supplies, pharmacies
The list went on. I had made versions of it a thousand times over the millennia, adapting to different circumstances, different resources, different stages of the apocalypse. But this was the first time I had made it before Day Zero.
That changed everything.
Most survivors in the early days failed not because they lacked capability, but because they lacked preparation time. They spent their first precious hours panicking, denying, bargaining with a reality that had already decided their fate.
I would not waste a single second.
------------------------------
After work, I went shopping.
Not at the usual places—not the upscale mall downtown or the trendy boutiques Min-Tong had always dragged me to. Instead, I took the subway to the industrial district, to a cluster of wholesale warehouses that most people never knew existed.
The first store specialized in camping and outdoor equipment. I moved through the aisles with the efficiency of a man who knew exactly what he needed.
A high-quality backpack, the kind designed for week-long expeditions. Two water filtration bottles. A multi-tool. Rope, carabiners, a compact first aid kit. Waterproof matches. A hand-crank radio.
The clerk eyed my purchases with vague curiosity. "Going camping?"
"Something like that."
Next was a hardware store three blocks away. Crowbars—three of them, different sizes. A hammer with a solid steel head. Flashlights with fresh batteries. Duct tape, zip ties, a compact saw.
The owner was an older man with calloused hands and a knowing look in his eyes. He watched me select each item with careful deliberation.
"Building something?" he asked.
"Preparing for something."
He nodded slowly, as if this made perfect sense. "Storm coming?"
I looked at him—really looked. There was something in his eyes, a wariness that I recognized. The look of a man who had survived hard times and learned to read the signs.
"The biggest storm you've ever seen," I said quietly. "In about a week."
The old man held my gaze for a long moment. Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a sheathed knife—not a cheap camping blade, but something serious. Military-grade, with a ten-inch fixed blade and a handle wrapped in paracord.
"This one's not on display," he said. "Four hundred."
I pulled out my wallet and counted out five hundred-dollar bills, laying them on the counter without hesitation. Money that would be worthless in a week. Might as well convert it to survival gear while it still meant something.
"Keep the change."
The old man's eyebrows rose, but he didn't argue. He wrapped the knife in brown paper and slid it across the counter.
"Whatever storm you're preparing for," he said, "you've got the look of a man who might actually survive it."
I tucked the knife into my purchases and walked out into the fading light.
As I stepped onto the street, the dark energy inside me stirred without warning. A sudden awareness—sharp and cold—pulled my attention toward Harborview. The hospital. Three miles away, and yet I could feel it: the morgue in the basement, the dying in the ICU, an ambulance screaming through traffic with someone's last breaths rattling in the back.
The sensation lasted only a heartbeat. Then it was gone, leaving behind a hollow hunger that had nothing to do with my stomach.
I kept walking, but something had shifted. This power wasn't waiting for me to use it.
It was hunting.
------------------------------
By the time I got home, the sun was setting, painting Seattle's skyline in shades of orange and crimson. I stood on my apartment balcony and watched the city sprawl beneath me—millions of lights flickering to life, millions of people going about their evening routines, utterly unaware of what was coming.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
The supplies I had gathered today were just the beginning. Tomorrow, I would buy more. The day after, more still. By Day Zero, I would have enough to survive the initial chaos.
But survival wasn't enough. Not this time.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, searching for that pool of dark energy I had discovered this morning. It was still there, coiled at the center of my being, cold and patient and waiting.
I touched it—just a brush, the barest contact—and felt it respond.
The streetlight on the corner flickered. A dog three floors down started barking frantically, as if it had sensed something predatory in its midst.
My eyes opened, and for just a moment, the world looked... different. Sharper. I could see the heat signatures of people moving behind their curtains. I could sense the electrical currents flowing through the building's walls. And somewhere deep in the city, in a direction I couldn't quite pinpoint, I felt something pulling at me.
Something dead.
Or something waiting to die.
The sensation faded as I released my grip on the power, but the awareness lingered. Whatever this ability was, it was growing stronger. Learning. Adapting to my will.
In my previous life, I had built my zombie army through science—through decades of research into the virus, through trial and error and terrible sacrifice. I had never been able to control them, not truly. I could only manipulate their behavior through pheromones and sound frequencies.
But this power... this was something else entirely.
This was dominion.
I smiled in the darkness, and somewhere in the distance, that dog was still barking.
The pull was getting stronger. Something out there was dying—or already dead—and it was calling to me.
Not yet, I told myself, pulling my power back. Six days, twenty-one hours. Patience.
But even as I turned to go inside, I knew I wouldn't be able to ignore it for long. Whatever was out there, it was waiting for me.
And I was curious.
The countdown continued.