18 Floors Above the Apocalypse novel Chapter 336

The haze was a killer, claiming lives with its suffocating grip. Stella fretted over the potential difficulty in selling her house amidst this chaos. She decided to pay a visit to the local real estate center for advice.

Upon arrival, she handed the receptionist—a cheery young lady—half a packet of cinnamon gum, which seemed to make the woman's day. Suddenly, everything was on the table for discussion.

"Your place is in a prime spot," the receptionist beamed, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. "I'd say you could list it for triple the current value. And if anyone's looking to buy, I'll be sure to put in a good word for you."

Triple the value? In the wake of a virus that had toppled so many, Stella had expected the opposite—a buyer's market.

Reading Stella's puzzled expression, the receptionist smiled. "You must be out of the loop. Our little town of Griffith is blessed, you see. We've got survivors flocking here from all over, desperate for a safe haven. Houses here are selling like hotcakes."

Stella was taken aback. She was no hermit; the radio was a constant in her daily routine.

"Griffith was the first to send out disaster warnings, and we've donated more antiviral meds than anyone else. Plus, we're sister cities with Swan Hill, but our real estate is way cheaper. If that's not a stroke of divine favor, I don't know what is."

The receptionist's pride in her hometown of Griffith was palpable. "Living here means a higher chance of survival. Many who left for official shelters have returned."

Stella realized that the receptionist was doing her a solid, based on the goodwill of the half-pack of gum. Others weren't so savvy, undercutting their own sales, oblivious to the value they were giving away.

Sensing an opportunity, Stella handed over the rest of her gum. "You're a lifesaver."

"Don't mention it," the receptionist grinned, her smile reaching her eyes. "Now, when the house sells, do you want credits or goods? Credits are flexible for spending, but if you need specific supplies, you can make a request now."

Stella pondered, "What kind of goods are available?"

The receptionist handed her the latest list of available items.

Truth be told, Stella didn't need any supplies, and credits didn't appeal to her either. She checked the list several times before settling on seeds and books.

Thanks to the relentless efforts of the local Agricultural Institute, a variety of heirloom seeds had been salvaged—rice, vegetables, even exotic herbs—all precious commodities in these apocalyptic times.

Stella chose varieties she didn't already have.

Books were a surprise on the list. It seemed the authorities were trading with survivors for their books, refurbishing them, and selling them to those in need. But who would trade their precious supplies for books when daily survival was uncertain?

This worked in Stella's favor. She selected books on physics, mathematics, chemistry, technology, and biology—academic research across the board, along with magazines, novels, and even collections of calligraphy.

The prices were reasonable, and Stella, armed with a pen, eagerly marked her choices. Once her house sold, she could indulge her intellectual appetite.

The receptionist was flabbergasted. Was Stella nuts? Wanting seeds was one thing, but books? What use were they if not kindling? Owning a house sure made you eccentric.

After finalizing the paperwork, Stella drove to the research institute. The fog was so thick she could barely see five meters ahead. She proceeded at a snail's pace, thinking wistfully that a scooter would've been faster.

Thankfully, Griffith and Swan Hill were close neighbors. Even at a snail's pace, she'd get there.

The institute was thankfully not as crowded as before. After a quick registration at the familiar gate, she was allowed in.

Skipping pleasantries with Dr. Garcia and Collin, she went straight to check on Hugh. Pushing open the door, she nearly jumped at the sight of him. "Hugh, what in the world happened to you?"

The once portly man was now gaunt, his life force seemingly drained by a succubus, his face a patchwork of bruises. It was clear that love—or the lack of it—had taken its toll.

Seeing him barely stirring, Stella said, "If you're still alive, give me a sign."