Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 56: The Breakfast Of Champions

I sat at the breakfast table with a bowl of cereal in front of me.

The bowl was bigger and way more full than I would normally eat, but I would put up with a sore tummy if it meant proving my point. I had taken the box out of the pantry... because I would be fucked if I was touching the supplies in my space when there was still food inside the house, and I had filled it to the rim with cornflakes and milk.

So much so that the cereal was falling over the rim...

Letting out a contented sigh, I smiled as the spoon scraped against the ceramic bowl as I lifted another bite to my mouth.

Just to add a bit more of a dramatic flare, my knife was stabbed into the table beside the bowl.

The blade had gone in clean and the handle standing upright at a slight angle. The wood around it had splintered just enough to show the force I’d used. It sat there, visible, deliberate. And very much a warning to anyone stupid enough to fuck with me before I had at least three cups of coffee...

Or an energy drink.

I continued to eat slowly as more of the ’survivors’ filed into the kitchen, looking for their own meals.

The kitchen was full of movement as they opened cabinets, pulled out food, and talked to each other even as they gave me the side eye.

I didn’t bother to look back at them, I just kept eating.

Just outside the kitchen, almost in perfect view of where I was sitting was the living room. It was quieter than it had been yesterday, but not empty.

Zhenlan, Chenghai, Lingyun, and Yuche were all sitting on the couch. They were close together—closer than usual as Zhenlan’s shoulder pressed against Chenghai’s and Lingyun sat forward with his elbows on his knees. Yuche was at the far end, his posture upright but tense.

They were talking to each other, their voices low enough that I couldn’t make out the words from where I sat.

But their eyes kept moving.

Zhenlan’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, then back to the others. Chenghai’s head turned slightly every few seconds, tracking movement near the hallway. Lingyun’s hands were clasped together, his knuckles white, and his eyes shifted constantly—toward the stairs, the front door, the survivors moving through the space.

Yuche watched everything without moving his head much. His eyes did the work.

Not one of them looked relaxed.

The poor babies.

I took another bite of cereal and chewed slowly when a loud noise came from upstairs.

Footsteps—heavy, multiple people moving at once. Then dragging. Something being pulled across the floor, scraping against wood. The sound was uneven, like whatever they were moving was awkward and heavy.

I looked up toward the ceiling.

The footsteps moved toward the stairs.

Then down.

Several men appeared at the top of the staircase—three of the gangsters I’d seen before, plus two others not wearing Hawaiian shirts. They were carrying two or three crates each stacked in their arms, the kind with handles on the sides, made of dark plastic.

And the stuff that wasn’t in the crates? Weapons.

Guns were visible on top of the crates and tucked under arms. Different types—handguns, rifles, something that looked like a shotgun. The metal caught the light as they descended, step by step, their movements careful under the weight.

The room shifted as the conversations in the kitchen slowed. The woman by the sink stopped mid-bite, her eyes tracking the men coming down the stairs. The two men by the fridge turned to look, the one holding the juice carton lowering it slowly.

The gangsters reached the bottom of the stairs and moved into the living room, setting the crates down on the floor near the coffee table with heavy thuds. The weapons clinked against each other as they adjusted the loads.

Scar Face—the man from my bedroom doorway earlier—straightened up and looked around the room. His eyes swept over the survivors in the kitchen, then landed on the couch where the four men sat.

He smiled.

"Lookie what we found," he announced, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Looks like someone was getting ready for war."

He reached down and picked up one of the handguns, turning it over in his hand like he was inspecting it.

"Don’t worry," he added, his tone mocking as he looked at Zhenlan and Chenghai. "We’ll keep them real safe for you."

The survivors in the kitchen moved closer. Interest sharpened in the room as their eyes tracked the weapons, their hands hovered near pockets or sides, like people were calculating, considering.

On the couch, the four men didn’t move.

Zhenlan’s eyes were on the crates. Chenghai’s jaw was tight, his breathing shallow. Lingyun’s hands stayed clasped together, his knuckles still white. Yuche’s gaze moved from the guns to Scar Face, then back to the guns.

None of them said anything.

None of them stood up.

They just watched.

I rolled my eyes. If I had known that there was more weapons, I would have taken them before anyone had found them.

Seriously, were we really arming the squatters now?

I kept eating, the spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl as I scooped up another bite. I chewed slowly, deliberately, and swallowed before I spoke.

"And here I was thinking you were all about gun safety," I sneered as I looked directly at Chenghai. "Why aren’t those locked behind two or three locks? Seriously man... think of the children."

Scar Face’s head turned toward me.

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He looked at me sitting at the table, then at the bowl in front of me, then at the knife stabbed into the wood beside it.

I took another bite of cereal.

"You got something to say?" he demanded, his voice turning rough.

I shrugged and kept chewing. "Just seems stupid," I said after I swallowed. "Leaving guns out like that. Someone could get hurt."

My tone didn’t change. I wasn’t defending anyone. I wasn’t escalating. I was just pointing out the obvious.

Scar Face’s smile tightened. He looked back at the crates, then at the other gangsters standing nearby. One of them—a younger guy with a shaved head—picked up a rifle and turned it over in his hands, testing the weight.

The squatters were now salivating, each one more desperate then the next to get their hands on the weapons. It actually spoke to just how tight of a control Scar Face had on them that they didn’t try to swarm him.

On the couch, the four men still hadn’t moved. Their eyes tracked everything—the guns, the survivors, the gangsters—but they stayed seated, close together, tense.

One of the survivors near the kitchen—a man in his forties with a graying beard—glanced toward the table where I sat.

His eyes landed on the knife.

I met his gaze and took another bite of cereal.

He looked away.

No one touched the knife.

I kept eating, the spoon scraping against the bowl. The cereal was getting soggy now, the flakes soft and heavy with milk, but I didn’t stop. I lifted another spoonful to my mouth and chewed slowly.

The gangsters were still standing near the crates. Scar Face had set the handgun back down and was talking to one of the others, his voice low. The survivors were still moving closer, their eyes on the weapons, their interest clear.

The room was full of motion, full of tension, full of people calculating their next move.

I swallowed and reached for another bite.

Let them keep the weapons if it made them feel safer.

I always got what I wanted at the end of the day.