July 5, 2027, 1:00 PM.
The rain hadn't stopped, but it had softened into a drizzle that could coax green moss from the stones. The grounds of Liu Village Primary School had become a veritable quagmire.
On the east side of the grounds, near the bare flagpole, a school desk with a broken leg had been propped up with two red bricks to keep it level. The damp surface of the desk was covered in a layer of grayish-white mold, which had been carelessly wiped away with a sleeve, leaving behind dark streaks.
This was the "trading zone" that had spontaneously formed in Liu Village.
There were no shouts of hawkers; even the sound of haggling was kept low, as if they were plotting some shady deal.
A few pathetic items were laid out on the desk: half a pack of soft-box Tashan cigarettes, the tobacco damp and limp; a bottle of fifty-six-proof Five-Star Erguotou, the plastic film on the cap still intact but stained with a few indelible specks of mud; and a bag of Libai laundry detergent that had hardened into a solid block, the words on the packaging blurred—it had been salvaged from a flooded, abandoned car.
The most eye-catching thing was the stack of money.
Red, one-hundred-yuan bills, probably twenty or thirty thousand in total, were pressed down by a smooth river stone to keep them from blowing away.
The money's owner was a young man in his early twenties, carrying what looked like an expensive laptop bag, his glasses clouded with a fog that couldn't be wiped away. He stood by the desk, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, shivering from the cold, but his eyes were fixed stubbornly on every person who passed by.
"Trading for rice," he sniffled, his voice hoarse. "Or canned food. Canned pork would be best, but fruit is fine too."
Aunt Wang clutched a handful of dried long beans she had found in a fellow villager's home, hoping to trade them for some salt. She glanced at the stack of money, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"Young man, that paper's too rough. It'd scratch your ass if you tried to wipe with it." Aunt Wang weighed the beans in her hand, the pods making a soft rustling sound. "Might've been worth something half a month ago. Now, it's not even as absorbent as toilet paper."
A few men squatting nearby let out a low, rumbling laugh—a murky sound, devoid of malice.
The young man's face flushed the color of pig's liver. He pulled his hands from his pockets, intending to grab the money, but his fingers recoiled as they touched the damp, cold bills.
"This is money... When the rescue comes, this will be money!" he muttered, his voice so low only he could hear it.
Yu Molan stood about ten feet away. Rainwater dripped from his messy hair into his collar, as cold as needles of ice. He didn't move, just watched quietly.
He had been observing for the past few days. The monetary system had collapsed faster than the plaster peeling from the school's walls. At first, people had tried to use money to buy crackers. Then, someone traded a gold chain for a few bottles of liquor. By tomorrow, even gold might be left in the mud, ignored by all.
He reached into the inner pocket closest to his body. Inside was a sealed bag containing the last half-bag of salt he had brought from home. This was true hard currency, much harder than that stack of twenty or thirty thousand yuan. It was something that could pull a person back from the brink of death by dehydration.
But he didn't take it out.
Lin Zhixi walked over, holding Xiaoyu's hand.
The sole of Xiaoyu's sneaker was peeling away like a gaping mouth, revealing a sock stained with dark red blood. The long journey had worn blisters on her feet, which had since burst and formed a yellow-black scab, sticking to the sock.
"Dad," Xiaoyu called out, her voice faint and weak.
Lin Zhixi's face was sallow, her eyes sunken. She glanced at the toilet paper on the desk—it was actually two rolls of loose paper, haphazardly tied together with hemp rope, likely scavenged from a mall's public restroom or some similar place. It was crumpled and wrinkled.
"Could we..." Lin Zhixi's voice trembled. She didn't finish, her gaze shifting between Yu Molan and the roll of paper.
Yu Molan understood.
Lin Zhixi's time of the month was approaching. She had only brought two packs of sanitary pads, which clearly wouldn't be enough. In a place like this, covered in mud and without clean water, personal hygiene was a potentially fatal problem, second only to food and drink. If not handled properly, an infection could mean death.
He felt the salt in his pocket, his fingers rubbing the plastic bag for a long moment before he finally shook his head.
"Let's wait. We'll find some when we have time, or trade something else for it."
The salt was life-saving. If anyone suffered from dehydration or diarrhea, this small amount of salt could pull them back from the brink. But toilet paper... she could endure, or use some other rag as a substitute. It was cruel, but a choice had to be made.
The light in Lin Zhixi's eyes dimmed. She said nothing, only pulled Xiaoyu tighter into her embrace. Xiaoyu lowered her head, staring blankly at a dead, flattened earthworm in the mud.
Just then, Ma Shifu pushed through the crowd, clutching a Tecsun radio.
The old man hadn't washed his face in days. A large crust of sleep hung in the corner of his eye, and his eyeballs were shot with red veins. He slammed the radio down on the desk. You are reading on novelping dot com, the official source.
"Batteries! Does anyone have AA batteries?" He pointed at the radio, his finger trembling. "This thing can pick up shortwave! If it has power, we can definitely get news from the north!"
The people around him stared as if he were a fool.
The radio only emitted that maddening "shhh" of static—the world's white noise.
"Even old batteries will do! As long as there's a little charge left..." Ma Shifu's voice was on the verge of tears. He grabbed the sleeve of a man next to him, one of the ones who had laughed the loudest at Xiao Wu. "Brother, you have some, right? I saw you have a flashlight..."
The man impatiently shook him off. "I need that for going to the toilet at night. Give them to you so you can listen to static? What can you hear that'll fill your stomach? Can't you hand-crank it for power? Go on, crank it. It won't kill you."
Ma Shifu's lips trembled. He slowly gathered the radio back into his arms, cradling it as if it were his last breath.
***
The rain let up for a little while when lunch was served.
The cafeteria had long since collapsed, so two large iron woks were set up in the open. The porridge today was thicker than the last few days, and even had a gamy, meaty scent.
The word was that Lao Zhou, the hunter, had shot down two wild pigeons in the woods behind the mountain last night. The meat was chopped into tiny pieces, bone fragments and all, making it impossible to tell what was meat and what was bone.
Everyone was sniffing the air desperately. The meaty aroma, tinged with the smell of earth and blood, made every stomach cramp with hunger.
Yu Molan got three bowls and carefully carried them back to their shack.
Lin Zhixi took them, blew on one, and handed it to Xiaoyu. Ignoring the heat, Xiaoyu scooped up a large mouthful with her tongue, a gulping sound echoing from her throat.
"Slow down, don't choke on a bone," Lin Zhixi said softly, though she couldn't help but swallow a mouthful of saliva herself.
Yu Molan squatted at the entrance of the shack, not drinking his porridge right away. He stared at the murky liquid in his bowl, where a few specks of oil, no larger than the tip of a needle, floated on the surface.
He pulled a damp scrap of newspaper from his pants pocket, something he'd picked up near the latrine yesterday. It hadn't caught when he tried to use it as kindling, and this piece was all that was left.
The date was June 17th, the day the meteor fell.
Only half a line of text was legible: "...experts indicate, the current situation... is within controllable limits, material supplies are sufficient, citizens need not..."
The rest of the words were smeared with mud, a black smudge of ink.
Yu Molan stared at the line, a sudden sense of absurdity washing over him. He crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it under the still-smoking stove.
The flames licked up, and the unfinished words instantly turned to black ash.
***
In the afternoon, a small commotion broke out in the trading zone.
Lao Zhao had arrived. He was a local from Liu Village, in his fifties, usually as silent and unmoving as a rock.
He pulled a plastic bag from his coat. Inside was pristine white rice, about two catties by the look of it. The grains were plump and dry, glowing with an enviable porcelain-white luster in the gloomy light.
A crowd immediately gathered around him, their breathing growing heavy.
"Where'd you get it?" someone asked.
Lao Zhao didn't answer, just placed the bag of rice on the broken desk, wiping his hands on his clothes again and again.
Lao Zhao explained that while he was on watch last night, an Infected had tried to climb over the wall. It was an outsider, carrying a professional-looking hiking backpack. Lao Zhao had brought his hoe down and cracked the man's skull open. This rice was from the dead man's bag. There was also half a bottle of Mineral Water and a folding fruit knife inside.
"Trading for smokes, or liquor," Lao Zhao's voice was muffled. "I need a drink."
"I have money! I'll buy it!" The young man, Wu, squeezed in again, slapping his stack of bills on the table, this time with more force. "Twenty thousand! It's all yours!"
Lao Zhao didn't even glance at the money. His gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes murky but firm. "Smokes, liquor. Nothing else."
In the end, the rice was traded for most of a pack of Tashan cigarettes and a small bottle of essential balm.
Lao Zhao took the cigarettes. His calloused hand trembled as he pulled one out. Not caring if it was damp, he lit it from a fire someone offered.
He took a deep drag.
As smoke billowed from his nostrils, his face, which had been as tight as stone, finally relaxed, taking on a nearly euphoric expression.
"Worth it," Lao Zhao muttered, pushing the rest of the rice toward the person he'd traded with.
Yu Molan stared into Lao Zhao's murky eyes.
***
At dusk, the sky turned as black as the bottom of a pot. It was Yu Molan's turn for night watch.
The north wall was the weakest point in Liu Village's defenses. It used to be the school's low wall, with a drainage ditch running beneath it. He and Lao Zhou, the hunter, squatted in a makeshift shelter at the base of the wall, rainwater streaming down the Plastic Sheet that served as a roof.
Lao Zhou puffed on his Dried Tobacco, the acrid smell strong enough to make one's head ache.
"Did you hear?" Lao Zhou exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "That kid still hasn't given up. Still guarding that pile of money. How stupid can you be?"
"The world's really changed. If your brain doesn't adapt, you won't last long," Yu Molan said in a low voice. He thought of the three hundred thousand yuan in his bank account and the fifteen years left on his mortgage. It all seemed like a joke now.
Lao Zhou grinned, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow by tobacco, looking particularly menacing in the darkness.
Just then, a splash echoed from the ditch. The sound wasn't loud, but in the dead of night, it was piercing.
Lao Zhou shot to his feet as if struck by lightning, his hunting rifle instantly leveled.
"They're here."
Lao Zhou's voice was laced with killing intent.
By the faint moonlight, Yu Molan saw the black water in the ditch churn. Something was climbing out.
It was a "person."
Its body was swollen, its skin bloated to a grayish-white. Its hair was matted with rotten leaves. It was clawing at the brick crevices at the base of the wall with both hands. Its fingernails must have been long gone; its fingertips were a bloody, mangled mess, leaving dark red streaks on the wall.
It lifted its head.
The face was mostly intact, but the eye sockets held only a white film, with no pupils.
*BANG!*
A deafening roar exploded next to his ear.
Lao Zhou had fired.
There was no cinematic scream, just the sound of a rotten watermelon being smashed by a sledgehammer. Black blood and brain matter splattered into the ditch.
The thing's body slumped to the side and fell straight back into the water. It splashed, a few bubbles rose to the surface, and then it sank.
The entire schoolyard stirred to life. A woman's shriek and a child's cry came from the shacks.
"It's nothing! Everyone go back to sleep!" Lao Zhou roared.
He expertly tapped the barrel of his rifle on the ground twice, ejecting the homemade, reloaded shell.
"One shot, one kill. Can't waste them," Lao Zhou muttered. "Bullets are worth more than lives."
Yu Molan stared at the ripples still spreading in the ditch, his palms slick with cold sweat.
This was only the eighteenth day. The long night had just begun.