The Day without Food

My name is William Lowell, and today a "big shot" came to our house. She is my brother Jesse Lowell's newlywed wife, Heather Jones. She just came back from abroad less than six months ago and keeps going on about "how things are overseas." In the morning, my mom was tidying up the winter cabbages in the kitchen when Heather Jones passed by and frowned. "Mom, why are these still piled up here?" Her tone was clearly full of disdain. My mom was momentarily startled and said, "These are stored for winter. Vegetables get expensive in winter, so this saves a lot of money." Heather Jones sneered, "What era are we living in, still hoarding this slum food? Aren't you worried about getting diarrhea from eating that?" My mom's expression immediately darkened, but she didn't argue back. Heather Jones ignored my mom's expression and picked up her phone to make a call. Before long, the sound of the movers came from downstairs. My brother and I ran outside to see Heather directing the workers as they loaded things onto the truck. Those were my mom's stockpiled cabbages and potatoes, along with thousands of pounds of rice and flour Dad had bought ahead of time, plus cured meats and sausages. "Heather, what are you doing?" my brother snapped, rushing forward to grab her. Heather shrugged off his hand. "These things just take up space. Throw them out and be done with it." "This is the family's grain for the whole winter!" My dad rushed over, his voice shaking. But Heather Jones didn't care at all. "Relax, I'll handle the food from now on. I promise everything will be imported, top quality stuff." No matter how much we tried to reason with her, she wouldn't listen. The workers made trip after trip, and in the end, three fully loaded trucks of supplies were all hauled to the landfill. My mom stood there, tears streaming uncontrollably. Even worse, Heather Jones set her sights on the family cellar. That cellar was originally meant for storing grain and pickled vegetables—dry and well-ventilated. She hired a renovation crew and spent the entire afternoon turning the cellar into what she called a "princess room." Pink wallpaper, a soft carpet, and a huge princess bed. She stood by the cellar door, proudly showing us, "Look, isn't this so comfortable? From now on, I'll be living here." My dad was so angry he didn't even eat dinner—he just sat alone on the balcony, smoking. My brother tried to reason with Heather Jones, but she shot back that he "didn't understand aesthetics." It was past ten at night, and I was lying in my room, scrolling through my phone. Suddenly, a piercing scream came from outside the window. My heart clenched as I walked to the window and looked down. I saw someone downstairs frantically biting another person, who collapsed to the ground, blood pouring out. Then, more screams echoed. The street was in complete chaos—people running, others chasing, and some knocking people down to bite them. "Zombies!" These two words flashed through my mind instantly. I rushed out of the room, shouting, "Dad! Mom! Jesse! Close the door—there are zombies outside!" The whole family scrambled to the door and locked the front door tight. Looking through the peephole, the outside was already in chaos. Our neighbor Helga was banging on our door like a madwoman. "Open up! Hurry, open up! Save me!" Behind her, a blood-covered zombie was right on her heels. We didn't dare open the door; we could only watch helplessly as Helga was knocked down by the zombie. The screams came through the crack in the door, sending chills down our spines. Heather Jones looked pale and collapsed to the floor, muttering, "How could this happen... How could there be zombies..." I looked at her and remembered the grain that had been thrown away, feeling a chill run through me. No grain, no safe shelter—how are we supposed to survive?