July 22, 2027, 3:00 PM.
The thirty-fifth day since the disaster.
The number of people on the Liu Village School playground had swelled to over ninety in the last ten days.
These new faces hadn't flooded in all at once, but had seeped in, accumulating bit by bit. A family of three one day, two single men the next. At first, people would warily ask, "Where are you from?" and even check for signs of illness. Later, even Lao Lian couldn't be bothered to ask.
As long as you weren't coughing so hard you could barely walk, as long as there was still a flicker of life in your eyes, you could find a patch of mud on the edge of the playground that hadn't yet flooded, drop the woven plastic sack that held all your worldly possessions, and call it settling down.
Most of the newcomers were from nearby villages.
They dragged themselves over, family by family, their bags limp, their shoulders so gaunt they looked like clothes hangers. A layer of unwashable gray-black clung to their faces. It wasn't dirt; it was the color of sleeping rough for too long, a stain pickled by wind, rain, smoke, and fear.
Everything they had to trade for their lives was carried on their backs— half a bag of weevil-infested cornmeal, a few bottles of cheap liquor, a homemade shotgun that could still fire, or a few passbooks for fixed deposits, crumpled soft but never discarded.
Wads of cash were sewn into their underclothes, pressed against their chests, soaked with body heat and sweat, yet slowly turning into worthless paper.
The original shelters had long since become inadequate.
A dozen more makeshift hovels had sprung up on the open ground of the playground. A few bamboo poles haphazardly propped up a multicolored plastic sheet, with tattered burlap sacks salvaged from the ruins spread underneath. When the wind blew, the shelters swayed, the plastic flapping with a sharp crackle. When the rain weighed down, their fragile frames would sag. In the middle of the night, someone would inevitably crawl out, cursing, to re-tie the broken ropes in the rain.
The water in Beigou had receded some, but left behind a thick layer of oily black mud.
It was mud with bodies rotting in it.
A thick, earthy stench mixed with the foul smell of decay hung heavy in the air, refusing to dissipate. A little sun made the smell even worse, like a rotten lotus pond or an old septic tank. The flies were noticeably more numerous. Great green-headed flies clung to the tarps in sheets, a dense, buzzing layer that grated on the nerves.
The gruel in the pot grew thinner by the day.
The few boxes of instant noodles and oil brought back from the County Town had barely lasted half a month and were now gone. Every day at mealtime, Aunt Wang stood before the large iron pot at the edge of the playground, gripping a long-handled ladle, her face dark and grim.
When the gruel was stirred, you could see the bottom of the pot clearly.
The iron ladle scraped across the bottom, leaving circular marks but failing to bring up much of the solids that had settled there.
Aunt Wang's hand was light, the ladle unsteady as she lifted it. She didn't dare scoop too much herself.
No one rushed her.
But over ninety pairs of eyes were fixed on that ladle, as if it were a judge's gavel.
The conflict began the moment the gruel was served.
During the midday queue, a newcomer squeezed forward, cutting in front of Lao Zhao. His wife stood nearby, holding a two or three-year-old child who was whimpering from hunger, its lips as white as paper, too weak to even cry.
When it was their turn, Aunt Wang's hand trembled almost imperceptibly.
That scoop was clearly deeper than the others. The bottom of the ladle touched the pot, bringing up a few pieces of dried sweet potato from the bottom.
The gruel landed in the bowl with a heavier sound, a soft *plop*.
The wife immediately said, "Thank you, Auntie! Thank you!"
Her voice was bright, with a fawning tremor that carried across half the playground.
Someone at the back of the line immediately muttered, "The newcomers get more? We guys on night watch don't even get that."
The voice wasn't loud, but it was like a drop of cold water in a pan of hot oil.
Lao Zhao was third.
When it was his turn, Aunt Wang's scoop was very shallow, skimming a ladleful of watery broth from the surface. The ladle scraped against the side of the pot with a hollow clang.
Lao Zhao didn't say a word.
He just stared at the pot, his cloudy eyes unblinking. The gruel poured into his bowl was so thin you could see the bottom, even reflecting the gray light of the sky above.
After the line dispersed, Lao Zhao carried his bowl back to his shelter. He stopped at the entrance, then suddenly smashed the bowl on the ground.
*CRASH—!!*
Porcelain shards exploded, splashing thin gruel everywhere.
The sound was sharp, carrying clearly across half the playground in the dead quiet of the afternoon.
Everyone stopped sipping their gruel and looked toward Lao Zhao. But no one spoke. In that silence, though, there was a new scent of gunpowder.
In the afternoon, a dispute broke out in the trading area.
The young man who was always clutching his money had pulled out his wad of hundred-yuan bills again. The corners of the bills were curled and the colors had darkened, as if they'd been soaked and then dried, carrying a musty smell.
This time he didn't want to trade for food. He just wanted a pack of cigarettes.
"I'm desperate," he said in a low voice, his hands trembling. "I just want a smoke."
No one paid him any mind.
An old man squatting nearby mending a shoe sneered without looking up. "Save it for kindling. Saves on firewood. That's about all that stuff's good for these days."
The young man's face turned beet red, and his voice rose. "Sooner or later, the country will recover! This money will be a lifeline then! You'll regret not taking it!"
His words were like a stick, poking viciously at a hornet's nest submerged in water.
Ma Shifu pushed through the crowd, clutching a dead old radio. His eyes were red and bloodshot, like a madman's. "Recover? A military truck drove past the gate a few days ago and didn't even tap its brakes. You still expect them to recover anything?"
The young man yelled hoarsely, "The broadcast said the north is rebuilding! It was the central broadcast!"
Lao Zhou leaned against a shelter pole, smoking the last of a cigarette butt. He exhaled slowly, the smoke obscuring his face. "The broadcast also said food reserves were plentiful. You seen any reserves? You seen those blue flags?"
The young man choked, a gurgling sound coming from his throat.
The money trembled in his hand before he finally stuffed it back into his tattered backpack. He squatted down in the mud, buried his head in his knees, and said nothing.
The real rift opened up that night.
Lao Lian called the handful of people in charge into a relatively intact classroom on the first floor of the school building for a meeting. An oil lamp sat on the teacher's desk. Its wick was short and it gave off a lot of smoke, quickly filling the room with a choking smell.
The window was open. When the wind blew, the flame flickered wildly, sending several black shadows dancing violently on the walls.
Yu Molan was there too.
His skill as a driver made him an indispensable technical asset to the group.
Lao Lian spread open a crumpled ledger, his rough fingers pressing down on the page.
"This is everything we have left. Less than fifty jin of cornmeal, three boxes of instant noodles, two barrels of oil. With over ninety mouths to feed, even if we only have thin gruel every meal, we can last ten days at most."
The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound the sputtering of the oil lamp.
Xiao Wu was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. "Go to the County Town again?"
Lao Zhou shook his head, toying with his shotgun. "We cleaned out the County Town last time. If we go again, we'll have to go farther—to the city, or try our luck at the granaries to the south." This chapter is updated first at novelping dot com.
"But the roads are full of... those things," said Lao Sun, who was in charge of logistics and a bit timid. "And the roads are in such bad shape, it's a question if the car can even get through."
Lao Lian didn't respond, looking instead to Yu Molan. "Can the car still run?"
"It can," Yu Molan's voice was steady. "There's just enough fuel for one round trip."
Lao Sun grew anxious, his voice rising.
"We have people, and we still have land! We can dig up the playground, plant everything we can on the back hill—sweet potatoes, wild vegetables, whatever grows fast. We can survive! We just have to get through this..."
Lao Zhou cut him off with a cold laugh. "Survive? One downpour of Black Rain and everything in the ground rots. Survive on what? Your words?"
Lao Sun's face flushed. "Farming is still better than running out there to die! Lao Zhao almost lost his leg last time!"
The room fell frighteningly silent.
Lao Lian tapped the desk, his voice heavy. "Let's vote. Raise your hand if you agree to go out and find food."
Four hands slowly went up.
Lao Zhou, Xiao Wu, Yu Molan, and Lao Zheng, who was in charge of security.
Lao Lian didn't raise his hand.
But he stared at the ledger for a while, and his voice dropped, as if making a concession. "Four to two. We go."
As the meeting broke up, Lao Sun was the last to leave.
He leaned on the doorframe and looked back at the others in the room, his eyes full of disappointment.
"You're leading everyone to their deaths."
Lao Lian didn't turn around. He just silently blew out the oil lamp.
In the middle of the night, there was a stir on the playground.
Yu Molan, not sleeping soundly, heard the noise and lifted a corner of his plastic sheet. By the faint moonlight, he saw Lao Sun and his family of three pulling their simple cart, heading for the side gate.
Xiao Wu was on watch.
Xiao Wu held his spear, blocking their path for a moment. He asked in a low voice, "Really going?"
Lao Sun nodded without a word and tried to press a half-full bag of dried sweet potatoes into Xiao Wu's hands.
Xiao Wu didn't take it. He stepped aside to let them pass.
The iron gate was pulled open a crack, letting in a gust of wind, rain, and cold air. The family slipped out and was quickly swallowed by the pitch-black night, their footsteps drowned out by the rain.
The next morning, there were seven fewer people in Liu Village.
Besides Lao Sun's family, two other families had left with them.
No one mentioned it. An unspoken understanding hung in the silence.
The morning gruel was cooked as usual—the same watery broth you could see your reflection in.
Yu Molan sat at the entrance of his shelter, took out his dulled axe, and found a relatively flat stone. He began to sharpen the blade.
*Shhh—shhh—*
This time, he sharpened it very slowly.
And with great patience.
Because he knew that the next time he went out, the axe would have to taste blood again.