July 9th, 2027. 4:30 in the morning.
Dawn had not yet broken.
The rain had just stopped. The air, damp and cold as if pumped from a walk-in freezer, clung stickily to his face. With every breath, he could feel the moisture gathering and fermenting in his lungs.
Yu Molan carried an empty pack on his back. Tucked into his belt was a fire axe with a chipped blade, and his right hand gripped a half-meter length of galvanized iron pipe. One end of the pipe was slightly deformed and flecked with patches of rust that hadn't flaked off—marks left from smashing locks before.
He followed behind Lao Zhou, moving like a cat about to prowl the night, and slipped through a gap in the side gate of Liu Village, a space only wide enough for one person.
The iron gate clicked shut behind them. The sound of the lock was soft, but it struck Yu Molan's heart like a heavy blow.
He glanced back instinctively.
Liu Village was still asleep. The sports field was pitch-black. In the shantytown area, the plastic sheets swayed gently in the damp wind like hunched phantoms. No one came to see them off, and no one dared to watch. Everyone knew that looking at a time like this would only make their hearts pound with greater anxiety.
The black Volkswagen was parked in a patch of overgrown weeds about fifty meters from the school gate.
Lao Zhao and Xiao Wu had pushed it there bit by bit last night, not daring to start the engine. The two front tires had been patched, the patches still new, their surfaces caked with damp yellow mud. The gas tank was filled with a mix of fuel siphoned from several scrapped cars—murky, black, and acrid-smelling. But as long as it could ignite, nothing else mattered.
Yu Molan slid into the driver's seat. The seat beneath him was damp, cold, and hard. He closed the door, not daring to use force, just pulling it gently shut. The cabin was filled with a mixed odor of musty old leather, stale cigarette smoke, and low-grade gasoline.
He inserted the key and turned it.
*Cough... cough cough...*
The starter motor let out a series of dry, rasping coughs, like a dying old man gasping for breath.
Once, twice.
On the fourth try, the engine finally, reluctantly, turned over. The exhaust pipe spat out a thick cloud of black smoke. The car's body shuddered violently, then settled into a low rumble.
"Go," Lao Zhou said in a low voice from the passenger seat.
Yu Molan didn't dare to wait. He shifted into first gear, released the clutch, and hit the gas. The car lunged forward, its tires spinning twice on the slick grass before finding purchase.
He kept the speed very low, almost letting the car coast at an idle.
Lao Zhou's shotgun lay across his lap, muzzle pointing down. His index finger rested outside the trigger guard, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
In the back seat, Xiao Wu and Lao Zhao were squeezed together. No one spoke. Only the unhealthy, low growl of the engine echoed inside the car.
The County Town was twenty-eight kilometers away.
A journey that took only half an hour before the disaster was now like a waterlogged, rotten appendix: soft, collapsed, and liable to rupture at any moment.
The National Highway was a continuous sheet of floodwater.
Whenever a wheel sank into a pothole, muddy water would slap against the car door with a *splash*, sending up black waves as high as a man. They had only driven five kilometers, and the chassis had already scraped bottom three times.
*Clang!*
A dull thud came from under the car, making the soles of Yu Molan's feet tingle.
"Slow down," Lao Zhao said in a muffled voice from the back, his tone laced with tension. "This car is old. The suspension can't take this kind of abuse."
Yu Molan nodded without a word, just easing up on the accelerator.
The sky slowly turned to gray.
The villages along the road were all empty. Houses had collapsed into unrecognizable shapes; some were just half a wall, as if a giant beast had taken a bite out of them. Courtyards were overgrown with weeds, all submerged in black water. In the fields, the shadows of a few Infected could be seen shambling about.
They moved extremely slowly, like broken pendulums, mechanically repeating some meaningless motion.
As the Santana passed, one of the Infected raised its head.
Its face was covered in bloated, dead skin. Two murky eyeballs stared at the car for a moment. It didn't chase, nor did it cry out. It just slowly lowered its head and resumed its swaying.
This indifference was more unsettling than anything.
As they reached the outskirts of the County Town, the roadblocks became more frequent.
Concrete barriers, metal sawhorses, and faded yellow caution tape, soaked and discolored by the rain, were piled haphazardly in the middle of the road. It looked as if someone had hastily set up a defensive line, then just as hastily fled for their life.
A wooden sign stood by the roadside. The rain had washed away most of the writing, leaving only the words "Temporary Checkpoint" barely legible.
The County Town was quiet.
Quiet as a massive graveyard.
The main road was packed with stationary cars, like a dead river of steel. Most of their windows were smashed, their interiors empty. The rolling shutters of the shops on both sides were either pulled all the way down or had been pried halfway open, revealing dark, gaping mouths.
A strange smell permeated the air. It wasn't just the stench of corpses, but more like a mixture of strong disinfectant and fermenting mold—the kind of smell left behind when many people have died, the area hastily sprayed with chemicals, but never truly cleaned.
"Looks like they sealed the city and then suddenly abandoned it," Lao Zhou said in a hushed voice.
Yu Molan didn't reply. He slowed the car to ten kilometers per hour, practically crawling forward. The headlights swept across a utility pole by the road, illuminating several A4 sheets plastered to it. The rain had washed them out, leaving only a few red words: "ATTENTION... QUARANTINE..."
First stop: the SinoPetro gas station on the east side of town.
A corner of the canopy had collapsed, exposing its rebar skeleton. Several gas nozzles were scattered on the ground, their black rubber hoses soaking like dead snakes in a mixture of oil and water.
Xiao Wu jumped out of the car, swung the crowbar, and began to smash it. *Clang, clang.* The sound of metal on metal carried far in the empty station, making their hearts pound.
After about the tenth strike, the lock broke.
A thick smell of gasoline billowed out, making them choke and cough.
There was still some left.
The four men divided the labor with lightning speed. Lao Zhou climbed onto the intact half of the canopy to stand guard, his shotgun loaded. Yu Molan and Xiao Wu were in charge of siphoning the fuel, while Lao Zhao handled the barrels.
One by one, the plastic barrels were filled, the murky surface of the fuel sloshing inside.
As they were filling the third barrel, Yu Molan caught a flicker of movement from a distant street corner in his peripheral vision.
He didn't look up, but his movements slowed noticeably, his entire body tensing in an instant.
The shadow paused for a moment, then, apparently not having noticed them, retreated back out of sight.
A false alarm.
Second stop: the Dajiale Supermarket.
This was the largest supermarket in the county. The tempered glass of the main entrance was completely shattered. The rolling shutter had been forcibly bent in half and was stuck halfway up. A large section of the ground near the entrance had collapsed, forming a pool of black water.
Inside, it was pitch-black. The beams of their flashlights only illuminated the dust motes floating in the air.
The front of the store had long been looted clean.
The shelves were toppled like dominoes. In the canned goods aisle, not even a scrap of tin was left. The floor was covered in crushed biscuit crumbs, soggy cardboard boxes, and price tags.
"To the back warehouse," Yu Molan said in a low voice.
The men hugged the wall as they felt their way deeper inside. The security door to the back warehouse was still there, and surprisingly, the lock was intact. Xiao Wu was an old hand at breaking locks; he snapped the bolt in a couple of tries.
As the door opened, a gust of relatively dry, cool air washed over them.
It was the smell of a place not yet completely soaked through.
The lights were out; they could only rely on their flashlights, waving them around.
The warehouse was a mess, looking as if it had been abandoned before the inventory could even be sorted. Boxes of goods were piled together, some collapsed, others still neatly stacked.
"There's stuff here!" Xiao Wu's voice was filled with suppressed excitement.
They practically lunged for it at the same time.
They started with the most valuable items: instant noodles, mineral water, and barrels of peanut oil.
They dragged the boxes out one by one, keeping their footsteps quiet. The car was parked right outside the back door. When they opened the trunk, the space seemed exceptionally small.
The first box of instant noodles was a tight squeeze.
The second had to be put in on its side.
By the third box, the trunk lid was already having trouble closing.
"Fuck," Lao Zhao cursed, pressing down hard on the lid.
"Take out the back seat," Lao Zhou decided instantly.
The back seat was already covered with a plastic sheet, and they ripped half of it away in a few moves. They shoved cases of mineral water inside, quickly filling every gap.
The peanut oil went in last. As soon as the case of 5-liter jugs was shoved in, the car's body sank noticeably, squeezing a ring of black mud from around the tires.
But there was still more in the warehouse.
In a corner were two unopened boxes of Braised Beef Noodles. Next to them was a row of drinks that, though water-damaged, were on a higher shelf. Deeper inside, they could faintly make out several large bundles of toilet paper.
"Get more," Yu Molan said.
Lao Zhou glanced at the car, then back at the warehouse, his brow furrowed deeply.
"There's no more room. Any more and the chassis will be scraping the ground."
"We can tie it. Tie it to the roof," Yu Molan said, gritting his teeth.
It was risky. A high center of gravity would make the car prone to flipping, and it would be too conspicuous. But the supplies were right there. Leaving them would be a criminal waste.
Lao Zhao was already untying some rope. There wasn't enough plastic cord, so they used packing straps they found in the warehouse. Together, they heaved the last two boxes of instant noodles onto the roof.
The sheet metal of the roof made a soft *thunk* and dented inward.
"Easy!" Xiao Wu hissed.
They pressed the boxes down, wrapped the straps around them three times, then threaded them through the car doors and tied them tight. Yu Molan gave a hard tug; the boxes didn't budge.
"A few more cases of water?" Lao Zhao asked, his eyes filled with greed.
Yu Molan glanced at the rear tires, which were already nearly flattened. Find the original chapter at g.com.
"No more. Any more and the axle will definitely break."
No one argued, but everyone's gaze lingered for a few seconds on the remaining supplies. That was life, right there.
"Let's go," Lao Zhou said, turning. "Now."
Just as they finished loading and were about to leave, Lao Zhao suddenly held up a finger.
"Shh."
There were footsteps outside. Dragging, wet, heavy. *Splish, splosh,* stepping through the water.
Yu Molan immediately switched off his flashlight.
Darkness pressed in like a tide. The four men stood pressed against the cold wall, holding their breath.
The footsteps stopped at the supermarket's back door.
In the faint, fading light, they could see the figure of someone in a security guard's uniform. Its clothes were soaked and stuck to its body. It stood with its head bowed, its nose twitching violently as it tried to parse the lingering human scent in the air.
It stood there for a full minute.
Finally, seeming not to have smelled anything, it slowly turned and, dragging its heavy feet, walked away step by step.
Only when the footsteps had completely faded did Lao Zhou give the low command: "Go."
When the car started, the chassis let out a heartbreaking scrape.
Yu Molan pressed the accelerator very lightly, afraid the boxes on the roof would make any extra noise. In the rearview mirror, the pitch-black supermarket was slowly left behind.
He didn't look back again.
The third stop was a pharmacy.
The rolling shutter of a chain pharmacy in the town center was halfway down; you could duck under it to get in. The inside looked like it had been hit by a tornado. The counters were all overturned, and medicine bottles were rolling on the floor, most of them crushed.
Yu Molan only took what was still in complete boxes. Anti-inflammatories, painkillers, cold medicine. They didn't take up much space, but they were hard currency.
By the time they came out, it was nearly noon.
The return trip was even harder than the journey out. The overloaded Volkswagen was like a clumsy old ox, struggling through a mire.
They got stuck twice.
The second time they had to push the car, Lao Zhao's foot slipped, and his knee slammed hard against a rock buried in the mud. Blood immediately gushed out, staining his pant leg.
No one spoke, and there was no time for bandages. They tore off a sleeve, tied it around the wound, and kept pushing.
As they neared Liu Village, the rain started again, a moderate downpour.
Raindrops hammered on the cardboard boxes on the roof with a dull thud. The boxes were nearly soaked through, revealing the colorful instant noodle packets inside. The headlights swept across the fields by the road, illuminating the shadows of several Infected shambling in the rain—far more than there had been on their way out.
It was already four in the afternoon when they passed through the iron gate.
The moment the gate opened, there was a stir from the sports field. Aunt Wang was the first to run over, her eyes shining with a frightening intensity. "How much did you bring back?"
Lao Zhou jumped out of the car and patted the jam-packed back seat, a weary smile on his face.
"Enough for half a month."
No one cheered. But in that instant, everyone let out a low, long sigh of relief. The rope that had been tightening around their necks had finally loosened, just a little.
Lao Lian came over to take inventory and record it in the ledger.
The four men received their reward: a barrel of oil and a case of instant noodles each.
Yu Molan slung the case of noodles onto his back. The weight settled on his shoulders, but it made him feel incredibly grounded.
When he returned to their shelter, Lin Zhixi and Xiaoyu were already waiting at the entrance. Xiaoyu rushed over, threw her arms around his leg, and buried her face in his mud-splattered pants. "Papa!"
Yu Molan crouched down and stroked her head with a large hand stained with grease and black mud.
Lin Zhixi didn't ask any questions. She only said, "It's good that you're back."
That evening, the congee was noticeably thicker, and fresh oil had been added. The long-absent fragrance lingered in the shelter.
Yu Molan drank his congee in large gulps, listening to Lao Zhao groaning about his knee in the next shelter, to the static crackling from Ma Shifu's broken radio, and to the raindrops drumming against the plastic sheet.
The County Town wasn't so terrible.
But next time, they would definitely have to go farther.
The taste of cured meat and instant noodle seasoning lingered in his mouth.
That taste would be enough to keep them going for a while longer.