Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 51: No One Coming To Help

Zhou Chenghai stood in the kitchen doorway doing math he didn’t want to finish.

The refrigerator was half-empty and the cabinets showed visible gaps where most of the canned goods had been. The bread was down to two loaves. The rice that started at twenty kilograms when the survivors arrived, was now closer to twelve.

The numbers weren’t good.

At the current rate of consumption—accounting for twenty-three survivors plus the five of them—the visible food stores would last maybe three days. Four if they really stretched it. Only one or two if the consumption accelerated.

And it was accelerating.

He’d watched it happen over the past six hours. The survivors weren’t rationing. They were eating like the supplies were infinite, like there was a grocery store down the street they could visit tomorrow.

Breakfast had been excessive. Multiple people making eggs, toast, using butter and jam without measuring portions. Lunch was even worse—sandwiches with thick layers of meat and cheese, bags of chips opened and half-finished, fruit taken and left partially eaten on counters.

Now it was early evening, and they were at it again.

Three survivors in the kitchen making what looked like a full dinner spread. One was frying something on the stove—meat, from the smell of it, probably the last of the pork. Another was opening a new bag of rice despite the pot from lunch still sitting on the counter with leftovers. The third was pulling vegetables from the refrigerator with casual ease.

Qiao Ren, one of the three men in the Hawaiian-shirts that seemed to be in charge, stood near the archway. He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching the food preparation with supervisory attention that made it clear this was happening under his authority.

Chenghai’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t sustainable.

At this rate, they’d be out of food before the week ended. And then what? The streets weren’t safe, there were still zombies in the streets and outside, their moans could be heard in the dead of night when everything else was silent.

Hell, the supply chains probably had collapsed, although there was only warning on the news that groceries would be limited per person per day.

That meant that whatever they had now was all they were going to have unless someone went outside.

He stepped into the kitchen, his posture shifting to controlled readiness.

"We need to ration all the food," Chenghai announced, his voice carrying flat authority. "The food won’t last if we keep consuming at this rate."

The three survivors currently cooking paused briefly, their attention shifting to Qiao Ren rather than to Chenghai.

Qiao Ren didn’t move. He just stood there, leaning against the counter, his expression unchanged. Not defiant, not aggressive, just completely unbothered.

"Did you hear me?" Chenghai demanded, his tone dropping lower. "We need to be careful about consumption. What you’re making right now is three times what we should be using for one meal."

Qiao Ren straightened slowly, his movements casual and unhurried, and turned to face Chenghai directly. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at him, his expression suggesting he’d heard the instruction and had decided it didn’t apply to him.

"Put the food back," Chenghai continued, taking a step forward. "We’ll establish proper portions and meal schedules. Everyone eats, but we do it sustainably."

Qiao Ren smiled. Not friendly, not mocking, just a small expression that suggested he’d made a decision and was comfortable with whatever came next.

Then he moved.

The punch came fast, professional, aimed at Chenghai’s jaw with precision that suggested some type of training.

But Chenghai had been expecting it.

His hand came up, blocking cleanly before redirecting the force. He countered immediately, his fist driving toward Qiao Ren’s ribs with as brutal of force as the first punch.

The blow landed solid—not full power, but enough to make a point. Qiao Ren grunted, his body shifting with the impact, but he didn’t back down.

He came back harder.

The second punch was faster, better aimed, carrying real intent. Chenghai blocked again but felt the force vibrate through his forearm. This wasn’t posturing. This was a real fight.

They traded blows—Chenghai using his training to maintain distance and control, Qiao Ren pressing forward with aggressive confidence. Chenghai landed another strike, this one to Qiao Ren’s shoulder, forcing him back half a step.

For a moment, Chenghai had the advantage. His breathing was controlled, his stance solid, his movements efficient.

Then one of the other survivors stepped in.

Not obviously, not with announcement, just a subtle shift in position that put Chenghai between two opponents instead of facing one. The second man didn’t throw a punch immediately—he just moved into Chenghai’s peripheral vision, creating a tactical problem that divided his attention.

Qiao Ren capitalized instantly.

The next punch came from a different angle, exploiting the split-second distraction. It caught Chenghai in the ribs, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs and disrupt his balance.

Chenghai tried to recover, tried to reset his stance and create distance, but Qiao Ren was already pressing the advantage. Another strike, then another, each one landing with increasing force as Chenghai’s defense started breaking down under sustained pressure.

He blocked what he could, absorbed what he couldn’t avoid, but the math was simple: two against one, both opponents fresh while he was already breathing hard.

The final blow came clean and precise—a straight punch to the jaw that connected with impact that didn’t need follow-up.

Chenghai’s head snapped back. His knees buckled. He dropped hard, his body hitting the floor with the heavy, graceless weight of someone who’d lost consciousness before the fall finished.

Then silence.

Complete, absolute silence that lasted maybe three seconds.

Then the survivors went back to making dinner like nothing had happened.

-----

Jian Yuche had watched the entire thing from his position near the living room doorway.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t intervened. Hadn’t said anything. He’d just stood there with his posture relaxed and his expression neutral, cataloging every detail.

He watched as Chenghai lay on the floor, unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. No one moved to help him. No one checked if he was injured. No one even acknowledged that something significant had just happened.

The survivor who’d been frying meat returned to the stove, adjusting the heat. The one making rice scooped it into bowls. The third pulled plates from the cabinet, stepping around Chenghai’s outstretched arm to reach the counter.

His foot came within inches of Chenghai’s hand, close enough that he had to adjust his path slightly, but he didn’t look down. He just stepped around the obstacle and continued what he’d been doing.

Qiao Ren returned to his position against the counter, his expression unchanged, like knocking out the head of security was just a minor interruption in an otherwise ordinary evening.

Across the room, Han Wei appeared in the opposite doorway, his scarred face carefully neutral as he observed the scene. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look concerned. He just watched, his attention moving from Chenghai’s unconscious form to the survivors continuing their meal preparation to Yuche’s position by the living room.

Behind Han Wei, Lu Chen stood with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp. He met Yuche’s eyes across the space—a brief moment of direct contact that communicated everything without words.

Neither of them intervened. Neither of them said anything. They just watched, waiting to see if anyone else would respond, if this would escalate or settle naturally into the new hierarchy they were establishing.

Yuche’s expression didn’t change. He just held the scarred man’s gaze for that brief moment, acknowledging the message without responding to it, then let his attention drift back to the scene unfolding in the main hall.

Behind him, in the kitchen, Chenghai lay unconscious on the floor.

And no one was coming to help him.