July 1st, 2027. 8:00 PM.
On the grounds of Liu Village School, a few incandescent bulbs, wired to a car battery, were glowing.
The voltage was unstable. The light was dim and murky, the filaments trembling violently inside the glass, emitting a sputtering hiss of a struggling current. These small halos of light, like soap bubbles about to pop, barely illuminated the clearing in the center. Darkness crept in from all sides, swallowing the surrounding school buildings whole.
The aftershock during the day hadn't been strong, but it was enough to make one's heart pound in their chest.
No one dared to go back inside the buildings.
A shocking fissure had split the outer wall of the main school building, tearing from a second-floor windowsill all the way down to the foundation, gaping like a monstrous mouth. The pale gray cement skin curled back, revealing the scarlet brick flesh within.
A red-and-white plastic caution tape was stretched across the entrance, already sagging. Taped to it was a sheet of A4 paper, held by clear tape, with two words written on it: 'UNSAFE BUILDING'.
When the wind blew, the paper slapped against the wall—*pat, pat*—as if dealing a series of slaps to the face.
Everyone had been herded onto the school grounds.
The rain had just stopped, and the air was so humid you could practically wring water from your lungs. Makeshift shelters lined the running track in a row. Their bamboo frames looked ready to collapse, and the blue-and-white striped tarps covering them were soft and sodden with rainwater.
The straw beneath the shelters had long been soaked through by the dampness of the earth, wet enough to drip if you squeezed it. Lying on it, a damp chill, like countless little ice-cold snakes, would slither up your spine.
Yu Molan’s family shelter was in the easternmost corner.
A quick look at will leave you more fulfilled.
It was against the perimeter wall, remote, but had the advantage of being quiet. The plastic sheet serving as a door flap was only half-drawn, leaving a gap for air. Lin Zhixi was curled up on her side on the straw, clutching Xiaoyu tightly in her arms. The old quilt they had carried from home was draped over them. The quilt cover was completely damp, with a sticky, greasy feel to it.
Xiaoyu was asleep, but not soundly. Her breathing was heavy, a wheeze whistling in her nasal passages as she fought for every breath against her congested airways.
Earlier that day, Aunt Wang had given them a bowl of wild vegetable soup with a few potato slices floating in it, so thin they were translucent. Xiaoyu had drunk half the bowl. Her fever had subsided a little, but she was still coughing.
Yu Molan sat cross-legged at the entrance of the shelter, his back against a cold bamboo pole. A fine layer of condensation had formed on the bamboo, soaking his back with a bone-deep chill.
He was idly turning his unsharpened Swiss Army knife in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over the back of the blade until the skin grew hot.
His gaze was unfocused, fixed on the flickering fire in the center of the grounds.
The fire was small, a few damp twigs struggling to stay lit. The smoke was thick, pressed down by the low atmospheric pressure, unable to disperse. Lao Lian and a few other core members sat around the fire, their voices drifting over intermittently on the cold, damp air.
“…the breach to the north…”
“…not much ammo left, have to conserve it…”
“…those ones are done for, better to… sooner rather than later…”
Lao Zhou, the one with the hunting rifle, sat casually, the barrel resting across his knees. He spat into the fire from time to time. Xiao Wu, who carried a spear, was scraping its tip with a dark whetstone. *Shhh—shhh—* The sound was monotonous.
A violent coughing fit erupted from the next shelter.
The man's surname was Yan. He used to be a construction worker, but now he was so thin he was unrecognizable, his cheekbones jutting out alarmingly. He was trying to suppress his coughs, forcing them back into his chest in a series of muffled hacks. His wife patted his back while frantically covering their two children's ears, terrified the noise would attract something it shouldn't.
In it were three bowls of corn porridge, so thin you could see your reflection, with a few lonely strands of pickled vegetables floating on top. She placed the basin on a wooden plank at the shelter's entrance, her movements as quiet as a thief's.
"Lao Lian sent this," Aunt Wang whispered. "There's work tomorrow morning. All the men need to lend a hand."
Yu Molan took the basin. The heat of the metal seared his fingers, and for a fleeting moment, the sensation left him dazed.
"What kind of work?"
Aunt Wang jutted her chin toward the north, her eyes evasive. "Clearing the ditch. The drainage ditch up north is blocked. A few… of *them*… floated over last night. They need to be taken out and burned."
Yu Molan's fingers unconsciously picked at the rim of the basin. "Got it."
Before she left, Aunt Wang glanced around, then quickly pulled a fist-sized boiled potato from her apron pocket. It was wrinkled and still warm from her body heat. She shoved it into Lin Zhixi's hand.
"For the child. Don't let anyone see."
The porridge cooled quickly.
Without hesitation, Yu Molan tilted his head back and downed his bowl in a few gulps. The warm, watery porridge slid down his esophagus, briefly washing away the icy shard of cold in his stomach.
He pushed the remaining two bowls to Lin Zhixi. She only drank half of one, then took the thickest bowl, along with the potato, and began to feed it bit by bit to a drowsy Xiaoyu.
Ten o'clock sharp.
The bulbs wired to the car battery went out.
The last of the artificial light vanished. The world plunged into absolute darkness, leaving only the faint red glow of embers in the fire, clinging desperately to life.
Lao Lian and his group dispersed. The sound of their footsteps squelching through the mud grew faint and distant.
The silence in the shelter was unnerving.
"Molan." Lin Zhixi's voice was as soft as a sigh in his ear.
"Yeah."
"Tomorrow… are you going?"
"I have to." Yu Molan stared at some empty point in the darkness. "Everyone's doing it. If I don't, we'll have to leave."
Lin Zhixi said no more. In the darkness, she reached out, fumbled for the corner of the quilt, and tucked it in tighter, wrapping Xiaoyu into a cocoon.
In the middle of the night, sounds began to drift from the direction of the north gate.
First, a few extremely hushed words, as if confirming positions. Then, the sound of a shovel slicing into mud—*squelch*, then again, a dull thud.
Someone took a sharp breath, followed by a dry heave that was forcefully swallowed back down.
After that came the sound of something burning.
The fire seemed to grow larger. The crackle and pop of rendering fat came in waves. An indescribable, acrid stench drifted into the shelter on the wind—the smell of protein and rotting flesh carbonizing at high temperatures, both fragrant and foul. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Lin Zhixi was awake now, too.
She didn't move, only reached out and gripped Yu Molan's hand with all her might. Her palm was slick with cold sweat.
In the pitch-black darkness, the two of them listened as the cremation began, and as it ended. Only when the digging stopped and the fire died down, leaving nothing but that lingering, scorched smell in the air, did her hand slowly release its grip.
5:30 in the morning.
The sky was just beginning to lighten to a lifeless, fish-belly gray.
Aunt Wang's voice sounded from outside the shelter. Though she was deliberately keeping it low, it was still jarring in the dead silence of the morning.
"Master Yu, you up? Lao Lian wants the men to gather at Beigou. Bring your tools."
Yu Molan pushed himself up. His spine, stiff from the night, gave a sharp crack. He said nothing, just tucked the fire axe into the back of his waistband, then picked up a meter-long pickaxe handle from the side of the shelter, testing its weight in his hand.
Lin Zhixi was already sitting up. Wordlessly, she helped him zip up his jacket, pulling the zipper all the way to the top to cover his neck.
"Be careful."
About a dozen men had already gathered on the grounds.
Everyone's face was as ashen and defeated as the sky. Lao Lian stood at the front, with Lao Zhou shouldering his rifle and Xiao Wu gripping his spear. Their cold, hard eyes scanned the group of makeshift laborers.
"Beigou is completely blocked," Lao Lian began, his voice hoarse. "Five more floated down last night. They're from upstream, not ours. The job is to clear them out, burn them, and bury them. Don't want the smell attracting the living."
Everyone knew exactly what kind of 'living' he meant.
"Finish the job, and everyone gets an extra bowl of thick porridge. With cured sausage."
That was the real incentive.
A flicker of light finally appeared in the men's eyes.
The group moved toward the north gate.
Lao Lian led the way. Just before they reached the large, rust-stained iron gate, he glanced back at Yu Molan and lowered his voice. "You're new. Stick with Lao Zhao's group. Don't try to be a hero, and don't look too closely."
The iron gate was pushed open a crack, its rusted-shut hinges letting out a grating screech that set one's teeth on edge.
Outside was a two-meter-wide drainage ditch.
The black water was waist-deep, its surface covered with floating trash and rotting leaves. And amidst the debris, several pale, human-shaped forms bobbed in the morning light, snagged on branches, sometimes sinking, sometimes rising.
A gust of wind sent the thick, foul stench rushing up to assault their faces.
In the ditch, one of the shapes slowly turned with the current, revealing half of a bloated, decayed face.
"Fuck."
Yu Molan muttered, then clenched his jaw and became the first to step into the black, icy sludge.