Wang Xuemei's plea hung in the digital silence for a moment before she asked again, her desperation clear even in text: "Is anyone selling at a high price? I'll pay. Just sell me a few bottles, please."
Most people in the group chat said they couldn't help, or that they hadn't managed to buy any either. Many were also seeking to purchase, their own messages piling up with urgent emojis, because in the past two days, many had already died from the sudden, vicious outbreak of viral influenza. The disease struck terrifyingly fast: if the fever wasn't controlled on the first night, if treatment wasn't administered in time, it would be too late. If controlled early, it could be managed later, but that window was narrow.
The problem was twofold: the hospitals were hopelessly overcrowded, corridors overflowing, and there were persistent, terrifying rumors that the supply of key medicines was running critically low. Who would dare gamble with their family's lives by waiting too long? The calculus of risk had become brutal.
The Chinese people were, in some ways, quite fragile when it came to crisis. A single stir of trouble, one official announcement, would alert the entire populace, and they would rush to buy up everything in sight with a speed that emptied shelves in hours. So, as soon as the news about the Black Fungus Beetle aired, people had stormed into pharmacies and supermarkets in a frenzy, desperate to clean the shelves. Even with ration limits in place, each person could still legally purchase over a dozen small bottles of floral water or medicated oil. This created an immediate imbalance.
This led to one group, the quick and the lucky, stockpiling first, while another, larger group arrived too late to find anything left but empty racks and despair. Now, with raw material supplies cut off by the global crisis, manufacturers had already stopped production weeks ago. Those who were truly desperate, with a sick child or elderly parent, could only turn to the shadowy scalpers and pay exorbitant, heart-stopping prices.
In her previous life, because of Su Lanzhi's sharp instincts and a timely errand, their family had managed to grab a few bottles from the local pharmacy just before the rush. Later, however, it wasn't only the black fungus beetles that appeared but also all sorts of corpse bugs and other vermin drawn by decay and death. If they hadn't had enough floral water or something stronger back then, many problems, many illnesses, could have been avoided. That was why, in this life, Jing Shu had gone directly to the source. She had bought several full crates of the strongest medicated oil she could find, the kind that made your eyes water. The scent was pungent, long-lasting, and where there was medicated oil, bugs would always keep their distance, repelled by the overwhelming smell.
Wang Qiqi from Building 13 posted again, trying to impose order: "Here's what we'll do. It will still take a few days before the government issues vaccines or eradicates the bugs. Those who bought a dozen bottles probably won't finish them all. Let's sell the extra at three times the original market price. No more. In our group, we don't welcome neighbors who take advantage of others' desperation. I'll start: I'll sell two bottles of floral water at 30 yuan per bottle." It was a significant markup, but not the predatory thousand-percent increases rumored on the black market.
Since Wang Qiqi, the group leader, took the lead, soon enough a few other conscientious neighbors, perhaps feeling guilty or simply prudent, also contributed some extra floral water they could spare.
Jing Shu thought for a moment, her fingers hovering over the screen. She had plenty, but revealing that would be dangerous. A small, reasonable contribution would blend in. She typed: "I'll sell two bottles of medicated oil at 10 yuan per bottle." It was a steal compared to the floral water, and the medicated oil was more effective.
"Thank you to all the generous neighbors. I will record the names of everyone who provided supplies and post them on the community notice board as a public commendation." Wang Qiqi took responsibility for settling the matter, his approach pragmatic. He was gaining not only gratitude from the desperate neighbors but also giving those who contributed a sense of civic virtue, the satisfaction of doing good deeds. His methods were a direct, if localized, copy of the community solidarity rhetoric he had learned from national television.
As for what kind of person Wang Qiqi truly was beneath this organized, civic-minded facade, whether he was genuinely altruistic or building a personal power base, Jing Shu couldn't yet say. She decided she would need to keep observing, to watch his actions when the stakes were even higher.
Even with this small, internal redistribution, most households in the community had managed to get some protective floral water or oil. Yet, some careless or simply unlucky families still suffered infestations of black fungus beetles, the insects finding cracks in defenses. That very night, the awful proof emerged in the chat: entire families came down with the viral influenza, their texts blurry with panic and fever.
Meanwhile, in the insulated world of the villa, Su Lanzhi was engaged in a peaceful, surreal routine. She was watering her favorite apricot tree in the enclosed garden space, humming softly. From time to time, she picked a ripe apricot, cracked it open with a crisp, satisfying snap, and ate the sweet kernel inside. Then she drifted to the climate controlled flowerhouse to nibble on sun warm strawberries, pluck a handful of grapes and a crisp apple to place in a bowl in the living room, ensuring the family always had fresh fruit at hand. She tended the potted fruit plants, used the automatic milking machine to gather fresh milk from their goat, fed the contented pigs and clucking chickens, watered the lush vegetable plots, and scattered feed for the fat fish circling in the pond.
When she really had nothing else to do, she went into the vast walk in cloakroom and reorganized the clothes, shaking her head in continual amazement. She realized her prodigal daughter had truly bought every kind of clothing imaginable, for every conceivable season and situation. For the past few days, every time she went out to the community garden plot (for appearances), she wore a full body protective suit Jing Shu had provided, with a zipper pulled all the way up to the top of her head, two clear plastic panels providing her field of vision. This suit completely prevented any contact with bugs or dust, and it was surprisingly breathable as well.
"These clothes are ridiculously expensive, this prodigal girl," Su Lanzhi muttered to herself, though she was secretly delighted, running a hand over the sleek material. She knew very well how others were living these days, the grime and the smell and the constant fear, yet her own life was even better, more comfortable, than before the Dark Days. This contrast finally solidified a resolve in her heart. She decided she must cherish this, protect it fiercely, never allow anyone, family or neighbor, to break their fragile bubble of happiness, and above all, never let anyone learn the true extent of her family's situation.
By comparing, she had finally realized over these past days that their life was simply too good, so abnormally comfortable it made her anxious, her eyes constantly darting to the covered windows as if expecting envious stares to pierce through.
After the change in work hours, she found herself with more idle time at home, but Jing An was as busy as a dog, the household's chief of operations. Every day, he not only had to unclog water pipes, sweep the glass dome clean of fallen insect bodies, spray repellents along the perimeter, and clean up livestock manure, but also take care of the mounting household waste.
After the city's tap water supply stopped, although they had a large storage tank and the pond, they dared not use water recklessly. Toilets could no longer be flushed with precious water. Jing Shu had bought a large supply of disposable paper based toilet containers and industrial grade clumping cat litter. After each use, they would cover the waste with a scoop of litter, sealing odor and moisture.
At first, Jing An and Su Lanzhi couldn't accept this method, their faces wrinkled in distaste. But after trying it, they found there was no smell, and only one disposal needed per day into a sealed compost bin Jing Shu had set up far from the house. They adapted quickly, another normal overturned.
The only persistent 'problem,' in Su Lanzhi's view, was her daughter's ingrained habit of buying things in impossible bulk. Each time she 'restocked' from the basement, it was a houseful of one category. She wondered, half amused, half exasperated, whether this particular flaw could ever be cured. They now had one entire spare room filled floor to ceiling with toilet containers and another with bags of cat litter, enough to last a large family into the next lifetime.
Recently, Wang Qiqi had organized community labor teams to build several squat style public toilets at the edge of the compound, now already in use. But for urination, most people still used chamber pots or buckets at home. Just like how it had smelled at Jing Shu's uncle's house, odors were inevitable without strict discipline and scarce cleaning supplies.
Still, compared to the alternative, trudging through choking dust, sweltering heat, or freezing cold for several minutes just to use a foul, crowded public toilet, Jing An and Su Lanzhi much preferred their efficient, odorless system at home. It was also easier to clean and infinitely more private.
After finishing all these chores, Jing An would still dutifully drive to the supermarket every day to buy some dried goods and grains, maintaining the appearance of a family struggling but surviving. Since the basement key was with Jing Shu, and she controlled the main stores, it was Jing Shu who cooked each day from the kitchen's 'active' supplies. Jing An and Su Lanzhi only knew she had filled the kitchen refrigerator and bought 'some grain for her livestream cooking experiments.' They didn't know, and Jing Shu didn't elaborate on, how much she had really stored in the boundless Cube Space. It was a protective secrecy.
Su Lanzhi, playing her part, often suggested stockpiling more from the market, since their family, with all their physical work, ate so much. Jing An dutifully queued every day in the limited shopping windows to bring back another bag of rice or beans. He particularly loved cracking sunflower seeds and eating almonds while watching old shows, so he made sure to buy plenty of those, a small personal luxury.
Today, Jing An came back early, his protective suit rustling as he entered the airlock style entry area they'd rigged. He had bad news: "Starting today, all supermarkets and official stores will close for three days for a 'sanitation purge.' From now on, their opening hours will be permanently changed to 19:00 to 21:00, only two hours daily, to avoid the peak heat and reduce the risk of viral spread in crowds."
"This black fungus beetle spreads too easily. It's a nightmare," Su Lanzhi said, helping him out of the dusty suit. "Several young men at my unit caught it, and although they were taken to the hospital in time, the hospitals are now officially refusing non critical patients. First, there is no medicine, and second, there is literally no space, not even on the floor." She threw Jing An's suit into the washing machine for its daily disinfecting cycle.
Every trip outside left them covered in a fine, gray dust. Clothes had to be washed immediately after, or else the grime would rub off onto sofas and beds. That single time they had sat at Jing Shu's uncle's house for just one afternoon, the whole family's clothes were stained dark gray when they got home.
"On the drive today, the windshield was battered by those bugs nonstop, like driving through hail. There are far fewer people walking outside. It's a ghost town. Why not take a leave and stop going to work? Don't other companies already have three days off?" Jing An asked, worried.
"That's impossible. The higher ups sent a directive: unless we die of illness, we must hold on. We are to push through 60 more days, no matter what. They call it 'maintaining economic vitality.'" Su Lanzhi's voice was flat, devoid of hope for the directive.
…
That night, Jing Shu was half asleep, lulled by the hum of the air filtration system, when her phone on the nightstand kept buzzing endlessly, a persistent, angry insect of its own. Her hearing had become sharper since her rebirth, attuned to slight dangers, so she couldn't ignore it. Finally, groggy, she woke up. The glowing digits of her clock read 2:17 a.m. The community group chat had over a dozen unread messages, a rare flurry in the dead of night. Heart sinking, Jing Shu scrolled up through them, her eyes adjusting to the screen's light.
The latest message, sent just minutes ago, was from 'Young Madam I Have a Baby, Building 13': "@everyone, help! Our family of three has all caught the viral influenza. Who has a car and fuel to drive us to the hospital? The emergency hotline isn't just busy, it's fully jammed, I've called a hundred times! My one year old child is already losing consciousness! His skin is burning up!
Please, I beg you! If no one has a car, could someone at least carry my son to see a doctor? I can't carry him far, I'm too weak with fever. No matter how much it costs, I'll pay anything! Just save my child! PLEASE!"