When the World Ends, She Begins novel Chapter 32

The tension in the air was suffocating.

"Maybe we should check the 15th floor first ... " someone muttered.

Go for the easy target—that was the unspoken rule now.

"You're right," another man said, eyes lighting up. "Whoever lives up there hasn't stepped outside in weeks. They've gotta be sitting on a stockpile big enough to feed all of us."

The crowd surged with sudden energy, like starving dogs catching a scent.

Just minutes ago their voices were weak, hollow from days without food. Now, it was as if adrenaline alone had filled their stomachs.

"Fifteenth floor! Get the food!"

"No more starving tonight!"

Even inside her apartment, Natalie could hear their shouts echoing up the stairwell.

Her brow creased. These people weren't thinking straight anymore—they were desperate.

Still, as long as they weren't storming her door, she couldn't care less. If they tried? She'd show them exactly why she was not to be messed with.

In her past life, Natalie remembered this same mob heading for the 15th floor. She hadn't joined them back then—dragging Braxton and his sister out to scavenge instead.

Partly because she still had a conscience and couldn't stomach ganging up on neighbors.

Partly because she knew the math: one family's pantry could never feed an entire building. Better to take her chances in the wasteland than fight like vultures over scraps.

When she came back that day with a few bags of pasta, the halls were eerily quiet again.

Although she didn't know what had happened, the mother and son from the 15th floor didn't leave their apartment until the very end of the heat wave, and they walked out in perfect health.

Clearly, the mob had failed.

While Natalie drifted through her memories, the crowd had already reached the 15th floor.

As expected, the steel security gate over the stairwell was locked. A few strong young men rushed forward with crowbars, wrenching it open after several loud pries.

Owen was the first to step up to Unit 1501. Putting on a polite face, he knocked.

"Hey there, we're your neighbors from downstairs."

No answer.

He knocked again. "Harold, are you home? I'm the building manager—I'd like to talk."

A calm male voice answered from inside. "Sorry, it's not convenient to open the door. Whatever it is, just say it."

Owen glanced back at the crowd.

Everyone's hair was like straw, faces sunken, eyes burning with hunger.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, uh ... Everyone's out of food. We were hoping to borrow a little from you."

Harold's reply was firm. "Sorry, I can't help you. We don't have much left ourselves."

Harold was a diehard prepper, a survivalist who knew all the rules of living through the end of the world: being soft gets you killed out here.

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