18 Floors Above the Apocalypse novel Chapter 592

Stella had had enough. She pulled Bran aside to a quiet corner and let him have it. “Can you think before you speak? Five days and nights without sleep? I’d be dead by now. And could you at least try to sound a bit more sophisticated? You’re making me sound like a snake oil salesman or some sketchy pyramid scheme operator.”

Bran shrugged off her criticism, “Sis, you’re just too pampered with your fancy dinners to understand the struggles of regular folks. That’s why you’re all about depth and nuance.”

“What are you even talking about?” Stella fumed. Had he lost his grip on reality, or had she lost her edge?

Bran, who wouldn’t touch a meal that wasn’t five-star, wore diamond-studded flip-flops, and thought nothing of splurging millions in a single night out with models, had the nerve to call her out of touch?

Oh, the irony. Just yesterday, she had hustled for a meager paycheck, enduring his scolding and finger-pointing.

Sorry, but Bran, a man who thought he’d seen it all, had no recollection of any hardworking sister.

Facing Stella’s irritation, Bran was not only unafraid but also brimming with confidence. “Sis, we’re targeting the grassroots market here. We need to be relatable and grab their attention. Philosophy and poetry won’t cut it. A simple gesture like handing out a baked potato would have a bigger impact. As long as the treatment works and they benefit, who cares about the hype? You focus on healing, I’ll handle the rest...”

Stella felt mortified. “...”

Bran, tired of playing it safe, teased her, “C’mon, sis, I remember you used to have thicker skin. What’s with the sudden shyness? Shine with confidence!”

“Get lost.”

He assured her with a thump on his chest, “You just concentrate on the healing. Leave the rest to me. Don’t worry about a thing.”

But it all felt so... low class.

Whatever. If the reputation tanks someday, she hadn’t said a word—it was all Bran.

Suddenly, Stella’s confidence surged, and she let him do his thing.

Tacky, perhaps, but effective nonetheless.

Stella’s returning patients were overflowing with gratitude.

She responded with polite modesty, “No thanks needed. Just doing my job.”

Despite her best efforts, several severely allergic patients passed away—a grim reminder that not everyone had kin to mourn them in these end times.

The hospital took charge, cremating and laying the deceased to rest in a manner befitting the somber circumstances.

The moth plague raged for seven days, each day a battle. As their numbers dwindled to none, caution was still the order of the day. Public service announcements reminded everyone to wash their food thoroughly and avoid touching their eyes. Those who could afford it embarked on major cleaning sprees.

The delicate balance of the ecosystem was shattered. Resources were drained, desalination systems overworked, military mobilized.

Stella’s losses were significant. The crops needed treatment, and even with adrenaline and meds, she lost a third of her livestock.

But Poppy couldn’t bear to waste the fallen poultry. She cleaned and cooked one to see if it was safe.

The itching farmhands volunteered to taste test, quipping, “If we’re gonna hit the road, might as well not do it on an empty stomach!”

Meat was a rare luxury for them, many hadn’t tasted it in over a decade. And in the end, no one died from the trial.

Poppy sought Stella’s advice on what to do with the rest of the deceased poultry.

Stella, ever generous, declared, “Cook them all. It’ll be a bonus meal for the staff.”

For a week, everyone feasted on poultry prepared every way imaginable, sparking envy throughout the community.

As the plague subsided, those who survived found themselves weakened and vulnerable. The farms lay neglected, the crops unharvested. Only after the chemicals had dissipated could they resume work.

Stella’s maternal instincts kicked in, urging her to nourish her charges back to health with hearty meals.