Would it really be like this, so simple and orderly?
Jing Shu shook her head, a small, dismissive motion. The ones who had just robbed food were still riding the high of easy spoils, their bellies full for now. Their stolen grain was not finished yet. They had tasted the primal thrill of getting food easily, without toil. After choking down the government rations they could not swallow, that bland, strange mash, they would return to their old trade and look farther afield for prey, targeting people like her family, a perceived fat sheep with hidden stores.
There was also a group like First Aunt Jing Pan who had stored plenty of grain through foresight or trade, and even a batch of young people who had read too many apocalypse novels and stocked up early, their apartments filled with rice and cans. They were not out of grain yet and had not reached the end of their rope, the true desperation still a distance away.
That meant the robbers would always find something to seize, a target that seemed richer. Add in the manipulation of forces behind the scenes, shadowy interests, and those gangs that killed purely for killing's sake, for sport, and Wu City would only grow more chaotic, the temporary order a thin veneer.
Still, for a city that had been in relentless turmoil for half a month, this news undoubtedly lifted spirits, a flicker of official hope. The group chat instantly erupted with messages, a cascade of notifications.
[Luo Zhu, No. 9]:"I heard that after they start distributing cooked food, each person will get even less water. With days this hot, I don't know if it will be enough to drink."
[Fat Girl, No. 25]: "My relative works for the government. I heard they will have fresh vegetables every day starting tomorrow. I don't know what the rest of us will get."
[Zhu Fan, No. 7]:"Whatever it is, as long as there's food, I'll take it. I'm sick of eating tree bark. I used to turn my nose up at plain white rice. Earth's Dark Days have lasted half a year already. When will the sun return?"
Wang Cuihua sent a voice message, "We plan to bike to Ai Jia at 3 a.m. to line up. Anyone coming along?"
[Feng, No. 3]:"Auntie, take me with you."
Wang Cuihua said, "How many times have I said don't call me Auntie. I will only recognize grandsons, not nephews."
Feng was left speechless again, no reply appearing. Wang Cuihua ended the thread as usual, her digital presence decisive.
Jing Shu's family set out at 4:30 a.m. the next day, the world still deep in predawn blackness. They dropped off Su Lanzhi at work first, the building a dark silhouette, then the two elders, Jing An, Jing Shu, and Wu You'ai continued by car to Ai Jia. They were truly grateful to have bought the seven seat BYD Song Max. The space was huge, allowing them to travel together with their containers.
All the way there, Wu City was pitch black, not a single building light visible. Even the dedicated shuttle buses had stopped running lately, but the dust in the air was quietly lessening, settling. They simply kept the energy car's wheels along the faded curb, navigating by memory and the car's low beams.
The energy car's shattered window had been replaced by Jing An with a rough panel cut from discarded glass, the edges uneven. Jing Shu thought about where she might get bulletproof glass and how to raise the chassis for clearance. The roads would only get worse, more broken. An off road vehicle really was better suited, a future need.
Jing Lai now got up at 3 a.m. daily to catch the government shuttle to work, her schedule brutal, especially busy lately. She had been assigned to the Ai Jia distribution point to help prepare cooked food, a tiring but secure post.
Even Jing Shu had not expected that Third Aunt would, through her connection to Su Lanzhi, enter the system job that in her previous life she had thought so highly of, a coveted position of relative safety.
Wu You'ai, with dark circles under her eyes like smudges of ash, had refused to get up for the supermarket trip initially. "I would rather not eat or drink than leave my bed," she had groaned, buried in blankets.
She was finally defeated by a bowl of steaming tangyuan from Grandma Jing, the sweet rice balls floating in syrup. Wu You'ai loved tangyuan. Jing Shu ate three bowls in a row, the sticky sweetness cloying, and still didn't understand the appeal.
Jing Shu understood how Wu You'ai felt about sleep. She used to love sleeping in, the deep comfort of it. But ever since drinking Spirit Spring regularly she no longer felt drowsy, her body always alert. She couldn't remember what a deep, satisfying sleep felt like. She closed her eyes and fell asleep almost instantly, opened them and it was time to get up. She didn't even dream. The sleep experience was terrible, efficient but empty.
On Monday, May 22, at exactly 5 a.m., after dropping off Su Lanzhi, the family arrived at the Ai Jia supermarket.
The place had changed enormously. Jing An parked the energy car along the road behind a line of other vehicles, mostly bicycles and a few battered cars. Armed with sticks and makeshift weapons, carrying four empty five liter mineral water bottles, they moved into the flow of people shuffling toward the entrance.
Because of the rampant robberies, everyone carried both weapons and bowls or chopsticks. It looked ridiculous, a parade of armed beggars. Against that backdrop, Jing Shu's family, with their clean clothes and focused demeanor, looked like they were out for a casual stroll, drawing a few sidelong glances.
The supermarket was now ringed by newly built high walls of concrete blocks. The entrance had offset channels, zigzagging barriers to prevent a headlong rush like the last deadly attack. Bright floodlights shone over the long, snaking line at the gate, bleaching faces pale.
A row of armed police in dark uniforms stood at the door with guards behind clear plastic shields. Searches and security checks were mandatory, hands patted down. Any weapons had to be stored on a side table piling up with clubs and knives. Jing Shu's family turned back to put their sticks in the car, not wanting to lose them.
At five in the morning, the temperature was 2°C. It was cold, a sharp, dry cold that bit through layers.
Her grandparents both wore thick padded coats and pants, bundled up. Jing Shu wore coral fleece pajamas under a one piece insulated suit and still felt the chill seep in. Even after drinking Spirit Spring for half a year, she still couldn't withstand extreme cold or heat perfectly. She should have brought a hand warmer. Of course, compared to the minus forty degrees to come in deep winter, today was a mere drizzle, a warning.
The people in line wore filthy, heavy clothes, layers crusted with dirt. Their hair was a matted mess with chunks of dirt clinging from months of sweat and dust, never washed.
By Jing Shu's estimate, at least half a year without washing their hair. In her previous life, she had simply shaved it all off rather than breed a nest of lice, a practical, desperate solution.
Each person held a bowl in one hand and a stick in the other like a band of ragged beggars from an old painting. Yet in their eyes you could still see a flicker of hope, a light that hadn't been extinguished, unlike the numb indifference that would settle in ten years later. Everyone clung to the imagination that once the artificial sun was complete, energy problems would be solved, life would inch back.
They cleared security quickly, the police efficient. The former parking lot had been converted into a temporary armed police base, tents and makeshift structures visible behind the walls.
Just then the national anthem began to play from loudspeakers, the familiar, stirring melody cutting through the murmur. A flag raising squad in crisp uniform marched in sharp step and raised the flag on a central pole. Everyone stopped instinctively, many straightening, hands rising in salute or placed over hearts.
Under the dim floodlights in the dark night, Jing Shu watched the red flag rising against the black sky and felt a swelling, complicated pride tighten her chest. Whatever else, during ten years of apocalypse, the Chinese had the largest number of survivors and lived the best, relatively speaking. There were many bad people, selfish and cruel, but many also gave everything for the country, died for the collective.
If she had to sum it up in one line, it would be this: in this life, no regrets to be Chinese. The thought was clear, unbidden.
"There is no sunlight, but we still raise the flag every Monday. Each day at five in the morning we will distribute free food until the artificial sun is completed." The announcement echoed. "The country will not watch its people starve. Everything will get better. We will punish criminals severely. Those with recorded robberies or murders will not receive food. Please think carefully before you act," the loudspeakers repeated, the message on a loop.
This was the gentle policy in the early apocalypse, meant to reduce robbery and murder through this carrot and stick. In the end it would fail, because people didn't cherish what was free, what had no direct cost.
Jing Shu knew that free food wouldn't last long before another, harder reform. Want food? Fine. Then work for it. Or exchange something for it. The rules would tighten.
The old supermarket interior had been emptied of shelves and divided into two sections by temporary partitions.
One was the water distribution area, where people filled containers from a large tank under watchful eyes.
The other had ten former cashier stations turned into meal windows, each with a large pot behind it. Everyone filed through an S shaped path marked by ropes. One ladle per person. Take it and move on. If you had a bowl, use it. If not, use your hand or the front of your clothes as a makeshift scoop.
"What are they serving today?" Grandma Jing asked, peeking ahead on tiptoe, trying to see over shoulders.
"Rice boiled with mushroom," Jing Shu said, her face tightening, a slight grimace of distaste she couldn't suppress.
The heap of unwashed, dark mushroom boiled with rice into a black green, glistening mash sent moldy, earthy fumes through the entire supermarket. It made her stomach turn, a visceral reaction. In her previous life she had eaten it for ten years and had vomited from it more than once, the memory sharp.
Some people, driven by raw hunger, crouched in the corners right after receiving their portion, scarfing it down with their fingers, too hungry to care about the taste or smell.
Others took two hesitant bites, their faces contorting, then tossed the sticky mass onto the floor in disgust. Jing Shu could only sneer inwardly at the waste, a cold observation. "Today's meal is the good stuff," she thought. "In a while it will be maggots boiled with husks. There won't even be rice. Let's see if you regret it then." The memory of worse to come made this moment seem almost quaint.