I had said before—I wasn't fit to meet anyone now. But nothing came out, and my feet, which had been ready to leave as fast as possible, stopped. I waited a moment. Maybe it really was just a rat. I decided to keep searching.
After rummaging for a while, I found plenty of things. But I only took a few bags of salt, a box of lighters, some dried tofu, and black fungus. That was enough to fill my backpack to the brim.
I also found a huge bag of flour—twenty kilograms. I couldn't bear to leave it. I strapped it onto the back seat of my scooter. Solid. In fact, I could fit another bag. My scooter had carried my cousin before, so it could handle the weight.
So I dragged out another bag. This time, I saw clearly the source of the rustling sound—a figure. I didn't know what category they belonged to anymore. Becoming like this wasn't their choice. Maybe it wasn't mine either.
He might have wanted to leave, but hid because I was there. When I carried out the first bag of flour, he thought I was gone. When I came back, we collided.
For the first time, I looked closely. His skin was bluish-purple, his eyes clouded gray-white, his movements stiff and clumsy. I was still better off than him.
He stood there staring at me. I stared back. Awkward silence.
I'm not social, but I have basic manners. Normally, I'd smile politely even at strangers. But now, it didn't seem necessary. As I debated whether to smile, testing my facial muscles, he turned away, retreating back into his corner.
I felt relieved—no need to struggle with social anxiety. But also sad—social anxiety had no cure, not even a chance for rescue.
I loaded my things, strapped on my full backpack, and rode off on my scooter. I knew I'd likely never return. I didn't look back. There was no road back anyway.
This was the moment for tragic background music—for wind in my hair, a heroic silhouette. But with a bulging backpack, my silhouette wasn't heroic. And besides, I was hungry.
Hungry again. Not surprising. Even if I grew three heads and six arms, I wouldn't be surprised. Ugly, maybe. Sorry, Nezha—no offense. You look great with three heads and six arms.
From the roadside came a stench—fishy, unmistakable. But mixed with it was a strange sweetness. Sweetness like a hook, pulling through my nose, catching my stomach, my heart.
I wanted to eat.
The thought surged like a tidal wave, overwhelming me instantly, dragging me into a deep sea. Wrapped tight, sinking deeper and deeper.
Darkness below. But not death.
For the first time, I cursed my scooter. Too slow. But I couldn't abandon it—it carried too much. I parked it, didn't even pull the key.
I carried heavy loads, but felt no weight. My senses were gone. All my focus was on that sweet, fishy smell. My reason fought temptation.
Stones can't stop a flood. But stones remain stones, even if swept away.
I forced my hand away from scraps on the ground, picked up a dead fish nearby, teeth marks still visible. This was a fish shop. I'd bought fish here before—fresh ones that still twitched in the pot.
This fish wasn't fresh. But who cared? Food was food. I wasn't picky. Even before, I ate dead fish—killed before cooking.
I never knew I liked fish so much. I couldn't taste it now. Maybe that was good. Otherwise, it would just taste foul.
There were still fish in the tanks. Alive, but weak, some belly-up. Easier to catch. If they were lively like before, I'd only watch them swim.
Pandas spend half their day eating, consuming up to 40% of their body weight. I looked at the empty tanks. Would I ever have that privilege? And where?
Pandas eat a lot, and excrete a lot. Me? I didn't know. But I realized—I hadn't brought paper.
Forget the embarrassment. I needed to wash my hands. The tank water was dirty, fishy. I'd smelled it before when buying fish. I found a faucet. Water flowed. No soap. Fine. Better than sticky scales everywhere.
I rinsed and rubbed. My hands stayed pale, sickly. Maybe my circulation was too slow. What did I look like now? I wasn't curious. I hadn't looked in the mirror when I left.
I set off again. Strangely, I felt a surge of ambition. As if none of this mattered. I would reach my destination. Then it would all be a dream. Either I'd wake, or the dream would end. I accepted that. I even hoped for it.
After a while, I met someone. A real person.
She ran out from between two houses, waving, trying to suppress her excitement but still loud enough for me to hear. "Please, take me with you! I need to get to Maoping. My boyfriend is there."
Maoping. I knew it. I'd pass through. But I didn't stop. My scooter couldn't carry three. And I smelled it—human scent. Not body odor. Something else.
Maybe because my stomach was full, I wasn't nervous. My scooter felt fast enough this time. I sped past.
"Damn you! Hope the zombies bite you!"
I sneered. Foul-mouthed, malicious people never get help. And zombies? I didn't like that word.
In the mirror, I saw two men drag her back into a house. She struggled. And not far away—they appeared.
Again, I cursed my scooter's speed. If it had a spirit, would it curse me back? Roll its eyes?
Cars passed occasionally. Fast, never stopping. One slowed, window down. Greedy eyes stared—at me, my scooter, my supplies.
I wasn't afraid. Fear was rare now. I used to fear ghosts. Not anymore. I feared they feared me.
He stared a while. But didn't follow. Only when I was out of sight did I realize—without law or morality, human ugliness magnifies. This wasn't society anymore. Not like three days ago.
Be careful. Be cautious. Guard against everyone. I told myself. Then thought—maybe I was the one to guard against.
Almost home. One more turn. But there's a feeling—homesickness mixed with dread. My scooter slowed. Not from lack of power. I stopped at the last bend.
A bus had crashed off the road, tilted in the field. I didn't want to be seen. I rode to the far side.
Just stopped, and I heard sounds inside. My first instinct—leave. But where? I looked around. If possible, I'd stay. It was close, hidden.
Shadows moved inside. No voices. I calmed. Looked closer. Fewer than ten people. If they could still be called people.
They saw me. But didn't rush out. Instead, they backed away, keeping distance.
A bus isn't big. I had stopped at the middle. They split evenly—front and back. Two clusters. Staring. Silent.
Being stared at like that made me tense. Like morning shift handovers—reading notes while everyone watched. Social anxiety makes that unbearable.
I stayed tense. They didn't move. Statues. Breathing unnecessary. Maybe truly unnecessary.
After a long time, I began to realize…