June 19th, 2027. 9:00 AM.
The world outside was still as black as the bottom of a pot that could never be scrubbed clean.
The flame from the stove was no longer a clean blue, but a weak, sickly orange-red, as if it could sputter out at any moment. Yu Molan glanced at the gas meter. The needle was barely moving. The residual pressure in the pipes was almost gone.
"Let's just make do," Lin Zhixi said, ladling out a bowl of lukewarm porridge. The rice grains were still hard in the center. "I tried to collect some rainwater to flush the toilet just now, but it was all black sludge. The sensitive plant on the balcony... its leaves have all rotted into black muck."
Holding his bowl, Yu Molan walked to the entryway and pressed his ear against the door, listening.
There was a commotion in the hallway.
He pulled the door open. A thick, acrid smell hit him in the face.
A dozen or so people were gathered in the first-floor lobby. No lights were on. The emergency lights had long since run out of battery, so everyone stood in the shadows like a group of stone statues in silent mourning. No one was arguing, only the sound of heavy breathing filled the air.
A quick look at will leave you more fulfilled.
In the middle of the crowd, a burly man was grabbing the security guard, Lao Liu, by the collar, his voice trembling violently. "Did you really hear that on your walkie-talkie? Don't you dare make things up just to scare us!"
Lao Liu's face was ashen. He clutched a crackling civilian Walkie-Talkie, tuned to the security team's internal frequency.
"Why would I make this up..." Lao Liu swallowed hard, his eyes darting around. "The guard from Phase Three was just shouting... said his nephew at the meteorological bureau told him. The impact actually happened the night before last. In the Pacific Ocean. He said the seawater was vaporized by thousands of degrees of heat into some... layer... With all the ash, we'll never see the sun again."
"Bullshit!" The man let go, stumbling back two steps, the soles of his shoes screeching on the tile floor. "If something hit, how are we still okay? It was just a tremor, wasn't it?"
"Because it was far away..." came a spectral voice from Old Zhang of Unit 602, who had been silent in the corner. "But the Black Rain is here, isn't it? This isn't rain. It's ash falling from the sky."
The crowd fell into a deathly silence.
Yu Molan said nothing. He had common sense. He knew the destructive power of this "Black Rain" if it was really from an asteroid impact. This wasn't just dirty water you could wash off; it was fallout, laden with vast amounts of dust particulates. Transportation, power grids, precision instruments... all of it would be destroyed.
2:00 PM.
A red heavy-duty truck smashed through the residential community's warped iron gate.
It didn't reverse into a parking spot as usual, but instead came to a brutally abrupt stop by the flowerbed, crushing a row of holly bushes. Its front and windshield were caked with dried black sludge.
There was no announcement over a loudspeaker. Just a worker in a red volunteer vest from the local subdistrict office, his throat too hoarse to shout, desperately banging on a stainless steel basin he held.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
"Get downstairs! Bring your household registration booklet! One person per household! Form a line!"
People from the upper floors began to flood down.
There were no robberies today, not even any line-cutting. In the face of a vast, unknown terror, this habitual obedience had become their only psychological anchor. The line stretched long, the Black Rain pattering with a dull thud on people's raincoats.
It was Yu Molan's turn.
The staffer was a young man with glasses, his lenses fogged over. He held a registration form, half-soaked by the rain.
"Which building, which unit?" "Building 3, Unit 702."
Yu Molan handed over his household registration booklet. The man didn't even look up, just mechanically made a checkmark on the form. "Sign, and give a thumbprint."
The pen was a cheap ballpoint that wouldn't write on the damp paper. Yu Molan pressed down hard, trying to carve his name into it, and tore the paper.
"That's enough, that's enough! Next!"
Yu Molan bent down to pick up the distributed bag of rice.
It felt wrong.
A bag of new rice should be firm and dry. But this one was limp, and he could feel hard clumps inside.
He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and quickly glanced at the back. Production Date: 2023.10.15. Below it, a slightly blurred line of printed text read: "Strategic Reserve-04".
Yu Molan's heart skipped a beat.
If this were an ordinary disaster, they would mobilize local commercial stockpiles. Only when the leadership determined that the national transportation network was completely paralyzed, and that there would be no new grain supplies for years to come, would they open these deep strategic reserves of old grain.
As he passed the truck's cab, he caught a strong, sour, foul smell.
The driver was a man in his fifties with bloodshot eyes. He wasn't looking at the line of people; his hand rested constantly on a heavy red pipe wrench on the passenger seat.
The handle of the wrench was wrapped in rough, anti-slip tape. At its edge was a smear of dried, dark red.
Yu Molan averted his gaze, clutched the bag of old rice tighter, and hurried into the building entrance.
Back home, he deadbolted the door, then dragged a chair over to wedge under the handle.
Lin Zhixi opened the bag, and a musty, stale smell filled the air. "There are so many clumps, and wormholes."
"Pick them out. We'll have to wash the rest several times," Yu Molan said, staring out at the pitch-black curtain of rain. "This is the bottom of the barrel. The fact that they're distributing it means the authorities are still functioning, but this is all they can manage."
Night fell.
The sound of the Black Rain hitting the glass grew heavier, like someone shoveling dirt outside.
The power in the community went out completely. Even the faint glow of the city skyline in the distance had vanished.
Yu Molan sat on the sofa, a boning knife in his hand. In the darkness, his hearing became exceptionally sharp.
Thud!
Suddenly, a heavy, muffled crash echoed from the street below.
Immediately followed by the blare of a car horn.
Beeeeeeeeep—
The sound was sharp, monotonous, and unending.
Yu Molan rushed to the balcony and pulled back a corner of the curtain.
In the red glow of the car's taillights, he could see a black SUV smashed against a lamppost, its front end completely mangled.
The horn blared for a full three minutes.
And for those three minutes, the entire building was as silent as a tomb.
No one opened a window. No one shouted. No one went down to help. The emergency line—the phones had been dead for a while.
Everyone had heard the afternoon's rumors about the "toxic rain" and the "disappearing coastline."
Finally, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of a roadside shop. He wore a raincoat and moved slowly, like a cautious rat.
The figure pulled open the car door. The horn abruptly stopped.
Yu Molan watched as the figure leaned halfway into the driver's side. He was moving, as if searching the driver's body for something.
A few seconds later, the figure pulled back out.
He wasn't carrying a person. He was holding a bulging backpack, with two long items tucked under his arm. He turned, plunged into the curtain of rain, and quickly vanished into a dark alley.
The car door was left wide open. The driver's body was slumped to one side, alone in the Black Rain.
Lin Zhixi stood behind Yu Molan, her hand clutching the corner of his shirt, her nails digging into his flesh.
"He... he's gone?"
Yu Molan let the curtain fall, shutting out the piercing red light.
No police, no ambulance, no good Samaritans.
Only the Black Rain, the old grain, and the silhouette of a casual looter.
He turned and walked to the foyer,, picked up the boning knife, and placed it by his pillow.
"Get some sleep," he said. "Starting tomorrow, don't open the door for anyone."
Proofreader: Peter Pan