The Zombies Are Coming, I'm Lying Low at Home
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Fu Erdie is a freelance illustrator living a quiet, ordinary life in a second-tier Chinese city with her dog, Mozhi. Supported by her family, she works from home in a sixteenth-floor apartment. On a sweltering June evening, the atmosphere shifts abruptly when strange noises and a car accident signal the onset of a zombie outbreak. Panic spreads through the city as people transform into aggressive, flesh-eating monsters. Fu Erdie’s best friend, Zhao Xiaolu, calls in distress, but Fu Erdie is trapped by the chaos outside. When an elderly zombie attacks her in the hallway, she is forced to kill it in self-defense, an act that leaves her traumatized but alive.

Initially, Fu Erdie attempts to contact her family, but her relatives, including her uncles and parents in another city, are unable or unwilling to risk rescue missions. Realizing she is abandoned, she decides to bunker down in her apartment, which has ample supplies of instant noodles, rice, and water. For the first few weeks, she survives in isolation, watching the city descend into chaos from her balcony. She observes survivors trying to escape, many failing and becoming zombies themselves. Fu Erdie’s physical and mental state deteriorates as she grapples with loneliness, fear, and the guilt of surviving while others perish. She also discovers that her potted plants have mutated, growing rapidly and developing the ability to decompose organic waste and purify the air.

A critical turning point occurs when an ability user, a man with mutated claws, breaches her apartment. He intends to steal her resources and harm her. Fu Erdie fights back, resulting in a brutal struggle where she sustains severe injuries, including a dislocated shoulder and broken ribs. In a desperate act of survival, she kills the attacker by biting his throat. Following the fight, she falls into a coma. During her unconscious state, her mutated plants and the apartment itself seem to heal her wounds and consume the intruder’s body, leaving no trace behind. When she awakens four days later, she discovers her apartment has gained self-repairing properties, sealing cracks and cleaning itself automatically.

Now protected by her mutated home, Fu Erdie enjoys a period of relative safety. However, the psychological scars remain. She suffers from nightmares and hallucinations, haunted by the violence she witnessed and endured. The temporary restoration of communication networks reveals that the world is in disarray, with safe havens established far away. Her parents promise to come for her, but Fu Erdie refuses to be a burden, knowing the journey is too dangerous. As her supplies begin to dwindle and the power fails, she faces the reality that her sanctuary is temporary. The story ends with Fu Erdie standing in the rain, desperately hoping to mutate and gain powers to protect herself, signaling her transition from a passive victim to an active survivor ready to face the new world.

Novel Items

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Tool
Used by Ling Yu to patch the roof while Ling Zixiao hands him tools.
Daily Necessity
A 1000ml shampoo bottle that slips from Fu Erdie's hand during her shower, creating a loud crash that she initially mistakes for the sound of a car accident outside.
Medicine
Sprayed by Fu Erdie on her dog after the dog was kicked by the zombified old man. She was not sure if it would help.
Item
A camera installed at the supermarket entrance the day before the incident. It had no power and was not functioning. Lin Feng bluffedly claimed it was recording to scare off the extortionist renovation worker, who believed it and fled.
Storage Device
Held by Shen Shirou as 'evidence' against Shen Qingci at the board meeting. It was supposed to play a deepfake video from Shen Qingci's wedding day, but instead played an audio recording exposing Shen Shirou's conspiracy with Wang Shunfa.
Household Item
Taken away by Han Jing from the Wang family house to sell for Han Yue's medical expenses.
Latest Release
DateGroupRelease
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c30
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c29
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c28
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c27
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c26
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c25
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2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c23
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c22
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c21
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c20
2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c19

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The dialogue in this section is deceptively simple but absolutely perfect for Fu Erdie's character. Let me start with her internal monologue, which is where the real voice lives: "Effort doesn't guarantee success, but giving up is easy." That's it. That's the whole philosophy. Two sentences that capture the entire mood of someone who has survived the apocalypse and is now questioning whether survival was worth the effort. Then there's the exchange with the apartment itself — well, not the apartment speaking, but Fu Erdie speaking to it: "I'm not going to kill myself. Why would I do that?" The apartment doesn't respond. The window won't open. Is the apartment protecting her? Is it just a malfunctioning window? The ambiguity is delicious. And the Zhang Dongxuan interaction at the end is pure comedic gold: "If we can't finish it, we'll just feed it to the little plants. No problem." "But they're already full from eating zombies!" "…It's fine, not a big deal." This is Fu Erdie at her most casual — overproducing food, plants eating zombies, and she's just like, whatever, we'll feed them more. The ellipsis before "It's fine, not a big deal" is doing so much work. She knows it's absurd. She knows Zhang Dongxuan is worried. But she's also genuinely relieved now, and that relief makes her careless in the best way. The narrative voice throughout is also worth praising — it's observational, dryly humorous, never overwrought. When Fu Erdie thinks "Was this Plants vs. Zombies playing out in her building? A real-life version!" it's the kind of self-aware joke that makes the narration feel like a friend telling you a story, not a narrator lecturing you. And the author's decision to end the chapter with the wounded survivor being watched creates this perfect tonal shift — from cozy domesticity to creeping unease, all without a single line of dialogue.
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There's a line in here that Fu Erdie thinks to herself: "When God closes a door, He opens a window, was this what it meant?!" And I think this is the thematic key to the entire passage. Let me unpack it. Fu Erdie has been defined by her lack of abilities. In a world where power users dominate, she's ordinary. She can't fight mutated zombies. She can't survive alone. Her initial response is resignation — lying in bed, listening to static, accepting that one more corpse won't matter. This is the theme of powerlessness in a world that rewards the powerful. But the plants — they're also powerless in the traditional sense. They can't leave their rooms. They can't fight with weapons or abilities. And yet they adapt. They grow roots that function like vines. They coordinate. They build a defense system. The pothos becomes a leader. The succulent becomes a predator. The gardenia becomes a scout. They find purpose through connection and adaptation. The recurring motif of roots is fascinating here. Roots are underground, hidden, patient. They grow slowly in one direction toward something. The cucumber and tomato's roots reach for each other despite being enemies. The plants' roots reach downward toward food. Fu Erdie's roots — metaphorically — reach upward toward hope. The image of roots spreading like vines, burrowing through walls, connecting the building from top to bottom, is a symbol of interconnectedness. No plant survives alone. No person survives alone. And then there's the temperature. The building becomes cooler, the smell fades, the environment improves. The plants are literally transforming their world. This is the deeper message: adaptation isn't about becoming powerful in the way the world values power. It's about finding your own way to survive and in doing so, transforming everything around you.
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Okay so I need to talk about the cucumber and tomato because this is the funniest and most unhinged relationship dynamic I've ever encountered in a post-apocalyptic novel. Fu Erdie literally separated them to opposite ends of the floor because they kept fighting, right? Diagonally opposite. And yet they SENSE each other and creep toward one another like some kind of botanical hate-marathon. But here's the thing that made me actually laugh out loud — they don't just fight. They EAT each other. The text says normal plants use secret corrosive fluid to digest food, but the cucumber and tomato? They stab, shred, tear apart, stage a crime scene, then digest the remains. This is not a rivalry. This is a murder-suicide pact that never ends. And Fu Erdie's reaction? She just watches. She's like, yeah, this is my life now. The tomato eating the cucumber is shocking enough, but the cucumber eating the tomato with the room splattered in blood nearly gives Zhang Dongxuan a heart attack and Fu Erdie is just over there like, have you seen the succulent on the second floor? That thing is wrapping zombies in agate-like cocoons. The bar has been lowered so far it's in the basement. Then there's the dog, who I genuinely love. It patrols Building 7, kills zombies, drags bodies to the succulent's roots, comes back, shakes off its fur, jumps on Fu Erdie's bed. It's the most responsible member of this household by far. Meanwhile Zhang Dongxuan is the one cooking millet porridge every day as her rent, and Fu Erdie is just... lying around. But not in a lazy way, in a way that makes you wonder if she's found peace or if she's completely checked out. Their dynamic is so understated — she tells Zhang Dongxuan not to overwork herself, eats the porridge, and that's it. No grand declarations. Just two people surviving together in a building that's slowly becoming a jungle.
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There's a scene in here that I can't stop thinking about. Fu Erdie is lying in the hallway, bleeding, and the mutated plants are literally surrounding her. The pothos leaves cover her wounds, the millet roots are reaching toward her, and her own blood is turning into white light that gets absorbed by the apartment. This is such a specific, weird, beautiful image—it's like something out of a Studio Ghibli film if Miyazaki directed an apocalypse novel. The building itself has become a living organism, and Fu Erdie is at its center, not as a ruler but as something more like a heart or a seed. And the dream sequence! The blackness, the butterfly, the little child version of herself running and falling and running again—that's not just a cool hallucination, that's the story visualizing her entire relationship with hope. The butterfly is always just out of reach. But here's the thing: she keeps chasing it anyway. Even in the dream, even when she finally understands it might never be hers, the annoyance she feels at the end—'How annoying, wasn't it?'—that's not resignation. That's defiance. The worldbuilding here isn't about describing ruins or zombies, it's about showing us a world where life finds impossible ways to persist, and the most powerful force isn't a superpower or a weapon, it's a house that refuses to let its person die.
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I need to be honest — I had to put this book down for a second after reading Fu Erdie's rooftop scene. Like, actual second. I just sat there processing what I'd read. The whole chapter builds this incredible tension of resignation. Fu Erdie is lying on her bed, listening to static on the radio, thinking about how effort doesn't guarantee success but giving up is easy. She's considering opening the window and leaning out, not because she wants to jump but because she's so bored and numb that death has become a theoretical option. The window won't even open — the apartment literally won't let her. And she smiles and says, I'm not going to kill myself, why would I do that? But it reads like she's trying to convince herself. Then she sees the plants. All of them, stretching downward like roots finding their way to the first floor, using Unit 8-8 as a rest stop, the cucumber and tomato still fighting while inching closer together. And something clicks. A sliver of light broke through her gloom, then widened, shattering the darkness. She realizes the plants can do what she can't — they can fight. She doesn't have abilities, but she's loved by so many, blessed by the heavens. And then she runs. From the 16th floor to the 24th, pushes open the rooftop door, stands under the 35-degree breeze, and screams silently with her mouth open. The dandelion fluff drifts around her feet. This moment hit me so hard because it's not about power or abilities — it's about finding meaning when you've convinced yourself there is none. The fact that her salvation comes from PLANTS, of all things, makes it even more beautiful. She's not a chosen one. She's just someone who learned to look around and realize she wasn't alone.
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For most of these chapters, the conflict is internal — Fu Erdie vs. her own apathy. And that's actually more compelling than any zombie fight because we've seen her at her lowest. The stakes feel real because they're not about saving the world, they're about whether one person can find a reason to keep getting out of bed. But then the author introduces the wounded survivor and everything shifts. Let me walk through how this works. First, we get this moment of pure comfort — Fu Erdie is luring zombies from Building 6, the plants are fed, the temperature is perfect, she's sketching plants on the rooftop with cherries beside her. Life is good. Then: a car blowout at the neighborhood entrance. A bloodied figure crawls out. Fails to start other cars. Enters the gates. Doesn't come to Building 7. Fu Erdie doesn't pay attention. Fast forward to November. She moves to Building 5. First day is smooth. Second day, she feels watched. Not by a zombie — the text explicitly says an ordinary zombie's gaze wouldn't trigger this level of danger. She stops going out. Spends days observing from home. The reader is left with this terrifying question: who is watching her, and what do they want? The genius here is that the author doesn't give us answers. We know the survivor was severely wounded and survived in a building full of zombies. That makes them either incredibly capable or incredibly lucky. Both possibilities are threatening. And Fu Erdie's response — not fear, but caution — is perfectly in character. Even with her plants now providing defense, she's smart enough to know that a skilled ability user who can survive among zombies is a different kind of threat entirely. The stakes have escalated from internal (will I find purpose?) to external (will someone come for what I've built?). And the chapter ends on this note of suspended tension — Fu Erdie isn't afraid, she says, because she can hide. But we know she won't hide forever. The comfort is over. The real conflict is just beginning.
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