Chương 15: The Radio

The hinges on 601's iron gate had already been sawed through. Gripping the iron grate with both hands, Vince gave it a hard twist and tore it off the frame. He knocked carefully on the inner wooden door and called out softly, "Is anyone home? I'm the vet from downstairs..." The apartment remained dead silent. Looks like nobody's home. Honestly, he had that mutated zombie in 402 to blame for his paranoia. That thing knew how to hide, how to ambush, and kept completely quiet when knocked on.

Now, hearing a zombie groaning inside actually made Vince feel safer. The absolute silence in this apartment just put him on edge. Still, he had already decided to clear all internal threats. Besides, the apartments downstairs had modern security doors that an angle grinder would struggle to breach; he had to start from the top. Pushing the intrusive thoughts from his mind, Vince readied his spear and delivered a heavy kick!

He blasted the wooden door to 601 wide open, immediately pressing his back against the wall next to the frame before carefully peeking inside. Phew... false alarm. The living room's thick curtains were drawn, making it surprisingly dim despite being mid-morning. The coffee table was cluttered with takeout boxes and cigarette butts, and the dusty floor bore a few muddy shoeprints. However, the entryway console table was completely bare.

Keys, an electric scooter helmet, a uniform—the usual everyday items someone would toss by the door—were all missing. Guess it really is empty... Spear at the ready, Vince proceeded inside, methodically clearing every room, wardrobe, and under the beds. Only after confirming there were zero threats did he finally lower his guard.

"Su—!" Stepping back into the stairwell, Vince leaned over the railing and shouted down. The sudden yell instantly riled up the trapped zombies on the fifth floor. Amidst the ensuing cacophony, Claire poked her head out of 402 and looked up the stairwell.

"Wha... what's wrong, Vince? Do you need me to do something?" Seeing Vince call out to her, Claire asked hesitantly. The deafening roars and violent door-battering from the zombies upstairs still made her liver quiver and her knees weak, but if Vince was calling her, it must be important.

"Nothing—both units on the sixth floor are clear! You can keep moving the supplies—!" Vince's voice boomed from the top floor. It sounded like he was shouting on purpose. Didn't he just say we couldn't make loud noises to avoid alerting the zombies? But since he said it was fine, Claire naturally resumed her work—hauling useful loot from 402 down to 301.

It was just that every time she stepped into the hallway, hearing the zombies upstairs slamming against doors, scratching at walls, and howling with those gravelly, feather-choked throats, she couldn't help but jump in fright. She was forced to jog up and down the stairs, trying to minimize her time in the open stairwell.... This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Vince did it on purpose. He deliberately yelled to agitate the zombies in the building.

This was part of his training regimen for Claire: Zombie Desensitization Training. The zombies trapped in their apartments couldn't break through the security doors anyway. Letting them make some noise to spook Claire would eventually force her to grow a thicker skin. Watching her scurrying about so cautiously, Vince almost laughed out loud on the sixth floor. This is good. Desensitize her slowly, so she doesn't panic and freeze up when a real crisis hits.

Seeing Claire back to work, Vince returned to 601 to scavenge for useful supplies. The layout of the building was identical on every floor, just mirrored on opposite sides. It was a very basic floor plan: an 80-square-meter, two-bedroom apartment. The entrance opened into the living room, with the master bedroom straight ahead, the guest room to the side, and the bathroom and kitchen adjacent. The supplies were meager. A few packs of dried noodles, a case of instant noodles, and a case of beer.

The fridge only held a dozen eggs and a few chilled cans of Yanjing Beer. Aside from that, nothing. Not even a bag of rice. Sigh, this delivery guy really just made do with whatever. A family portrait of three sat on the bedroom nightstand. The frame was pristine; it was clearly wiped down often. Vince picked it up. The tall, middle-aged man in the photo was indeed the delivery rider he often saw coming home late at night. The woman and child were presumably his wife and kid...

"Sigh..." The guy had definitely gone out to run deliveries on the first day of the outbreak. Delivery riders constantly moved through highly populated areas. He was almost certainly dead. Vince gently placed the photo frame back where he found it, leaving it as a small memorial. What he found strange was that only the guest bedroom showed signs of habitation. The master bedroom didn't even have a bed; it was just piled high with large cardboard boxes.

The room looked like it hadn't been touched in ages, a thick layer of dust coating the boxes. Vince grabbed a small paring knife from the kitchen and sliced the boxes open one by one. Inside were all sorts of vintage items from a decade or two ago. A treadle sewing machine, a radio, stacks of old books, an old-fashioned thermos, vintage binoculars, candles, and various tin boxes filled with random knick-knacks like nail clippers.

Looking at this stash, then back toward the family portrait in the other room, it was obvious these didn't belong to the delivery rider. These items were at least a decade old; they were likely stored here by the actual landlord. Well, finders keepers. This is my lucky day. Especially that radio! Vince pulled it out from the pile of junk. To his surprise, it had a crank handle on the back—it was a dual-powered model that took both dry-cell batteries and a hand crank!

"Now this is a treasure..." Since it had been sealed in a box, it was completely dust-free. Vince immediately grabbed it and headed back to his own apartment. As soon as he walked through his door, he saw a mountain of supplies from 402 already piled up in the living room—clearly the fruits of Claire's labor. Stepping over the stash, Vince walked to the windowsill and started cranking the handle. The radio was at least ten years old, but it was clearly a high-end model; even the crank was solid metal.

Vince just prayed the internal rechargeable battery hadn't degraded, otherwise, no amount of cranking would bring it to life. Heaven rewards the diligent. After cranking for a bit, it generated enough juice to power on, and the radio's indicator light suddenly flickered to life. Bzzzt... ksssh... But to Vince's disappointment, after cycling through several frequencies, all he got was a wall of static. It wasn't picking up a single signal.

"What's that?" A crisp, feminine voice called out from behind him. Claire had returned. Vince turned around to see her holding a large canvas tote bag stuffed with condiments and fresh vegetables—her latest haul from upstairs. Since she wasn't on combat duty, she had swapped her long pants for a loose, breezy slip dress that barely covered her shorts. The clear weather meant the temperature was steadily rising, and with the door left wide open, the apartment's AC was practically useless.

Hauling supplies up and down the stairs all morning had left Claire drenched in sweat. Stray strands of hair clung messily to her ears and neck. Glistening trails of sweat traced their way down her skin, disappearing into the deep cleavage of her chest. Even the loose-fitting dress couldn't hide her stunning curves—accentuating everything exactly where it should. Most striking were her long, fair legs exposed beneath the hemline: slender yet toned, perfectly shaped.

The beads of sweat tracking down her skin, catching the sunlight to faintly reveal the delicate blue veins beneath, made it impossible for Vince to look away.