The gasoline was reserved for powering the villa's generator and the BYD Song, a careful allocation of finite resources. The RV could be modified and fitted with batteries to handle flat terrain, while diesel would be saved for when the RV needed to climb mountains or cross deserts where more power was required, the raw torque necessary to conquer geology. The solar systems at home and on the RV should be enough for daily electrical needs during migrations, a self sufficient loop of photons converted to comfort.
Currently, the country's diesel reserves were still abundant, but in a few years they would dwindle, siphoned away by necessity and decay, so it was better to switch early. It would definitely come in handy during future migrations, a hidden advantage.
The RV modification also required a lot of materials, but Jing Shu only collected what she came across for now, not pushing too hard. Once the RV arrived, she planned to carefully study it and turn it into the most comfortable and safest RV for the apocalypse, a mobile fortress tailored to her needs.
In addition to preparing two black smoked pigs, the meat dark and glossy with rendered fat, Jing Shu also packed jars of preserved vegetables made last year: pickled mustard stems, soy pickled cucumbers, salted vegetables, kimchi, and sauerkraut, one jar each. The glass containers clinked together softly in the crate.
Although Yang Yang had said to bring out the best food, Jing Shu wasn't foolish. She didn't bring the spicy beef jerky, spicy rabbit cubes, or lamb legs. Those would be far too eye catching, a beacon of excess.
Instead, she prepared ten jin (roughly 5 kilograms) of dried wood ear mushrooms, dried shiitake mushrooms, and vermicelli noodles from her aunt's house. Naturally, to pair with the dishes, she thoughtfully included two jin (about 1 kilogram) of doubanjiang, the chili bean paste a deep, fermented red.
In the past half month, Jing Shu's Cube Space had accumulated thousands of jin (500 plus kilograms) of daylily flowers and radishes. She sun dried a batch every day, spreading them on bamboo mats that baked in the yard. However, daylily flowers needed to be boiled before drying to remove toxins and couldn't be eaten raw, a necessary step of preparation.
She packed half a sack of dried daylily flowers and radish strips, the contents rustling like dry leaves.
Once radishes were cut into strips and air dried, they were chewy like jerky with an excellent texture. The radishes from the Cube Space were sweet and flavorful, perfect as either a dish or a staple, their concentrated sugars a burst of energy.
For staples, Jing Shu stir fried a bag of rice, the grains toasted golden, and packed two large sacks of stacked sesame oil naan, enough to feed six men for weeks.
Previously, she had built two large clay stoves next to the villa's boiler room, their domed shapes rising from the ground. She had always wanted to make roasted meat and tandoor style lamb, but after one attempt, the aroma carried too far, a scent that traveled for blocks, so she never made it again.
Now, making sesame oil naan was a good idea, and it also added some snacks to her stores, a practical use for the stoves.
Naan was similar to other flatbreads like guokui or pancakes, ideal for marching, combat, or traveling. Hot naan was chewy, cold naan was crispy, and even after a long time, it wouldn't spoil, its simple ingredients preserving it.
Pairing naan with pickled vegetables was irresistible, much like mantou with Lao Gan Ma chili sauce. The flavor was heavenly, a combination of sour, spicy, and carb.
Soaking naan in milk tea or soy milk until soft was another delight. The rich broth like taste, enhanced by the fragrance of sesame, was delicious, a small luxury.
To achieve this texture, eggs had to be added to the dough. The edges of the dough circles needed to be thick and the centers thin. Only then would the naan come out soft on the edges and crisp in the center, the perfect contrast.
After shaping the dough and sprinkling sesame seeds, the naan was slapped onto the scorching hot clay stove walls. The large, narrow mouthed stove cooked the naan evenly through its high temperature walls, the heat radiating inward.
With both stoves going, more than 30 naan could be baked at once. One batch was for Yang Yang, and one was for Jing Shu. For her own stash, she often added chopped scallions, onions, raisins, or rose essence to create different flavors, experimenting within the confines of her pantry.
Jing Shu stored all the freshly baked naan in her Cube Space. Now she could enjoy steaming hot naan anytime, pulling one out as if from a just fired oven. Smacking her lips, she ate a few pieces of sesame oil naan as she baked, the warm bread a cook's prerogative.
Day after day of cooking kept Jing Shu busy until Yang Yang returned. When she brought out so much food, the group who came along stared wide eyed. None of them expected that Jing Shu's household could still produce such a bounty, the stacks of naan and jars of pickles a startling display of normalcy.
"How is that? Didn't let you down, did I? I hope you won't let me down either." Jing Shu's voice was calm, but her gaze was direct.
Her gaze seemed to say, "I have given you the best. You had better bring me back what I want." The unspoken contract hung in the air between the crates of supplies.
Meanwhile, she had also prepared medicine. In addition to regular supplies, she had created her own secret hemostatic agent: essentially disinfectant water infused with two drops of Spirit Spring, the liquid holding a faint, barely perceptible shimmer.
"Here, this is it. Just spray it once each time. There is enough for about ten uses. Spray it directly on the wound. Don't waste it. One spray will stop the bleeding and prevent infection." Jing Shu solemnly handed it over, the small plastic spray bottle looking insignificant in her palm, completely unconcerned that the bottle weighed more than the liquid inside.
"..."
Yang Yang accepted it as if he had received a treasure, his hands cupping it carefully, but when he saw the tiny amount of liquid sloshing at the bottom, he frowned, his eyebrows knitting together.
"Are you seriously not messing with me? You're telling me this tiny bit of liquid won't evaporate? You didn't just toss in a few drops of water, and I will end up with an empty bottle halfway through the trip? I guess I will have to keep it in a cooler the entire time." His voice was a mix of skepticism and hope.
"Relax. I'm counting on you to bring back my RV. Why would I trick you?" Jing Shu said, amused at Yang Yang's constipated expression. She waved them off, a brief gesture of dismissal, wishing their mission success so that she could join them next time and gather more supplies, the thought already taking root.
In the following days, a major event occurred. During dinner one night, the entire family gathered around the television watching the news, the blue glow flickering on their faces. Only Jing Shu sat there, focused on eating naan with one hand and gnawing on a lamb leg with the other, the rich meat juices glistening.
The extreme heatwave that began at the end of May had pushed tropical temperatures to 60 degrees Celsius. The country had issued a migration order. The first group from Hainan had started relocating half a month ago, but no one expected that death would still claim so many lives, the numbers scrolling at the bottom of the screen.
Out of the first three million people relocated, all of China's trains had been mobilized for the evacuation. However, many succumbed during the journey, with more than 10,000 dying daily due to the lack of medical care, the cars becoming rolling tombs.
Once they arrived, the northeastern climate and different dietary habits claimed even more lives, with tens of thousands dying every day. In just two weeks, more than half the evacuees were gone, and even those who had reached the northeast continued to fall ill, their bodies unable to adapt.
"Experts say that the extreme temperature difference has disrupted people's immune systems. Going from 60 degrees Celsius heat to below freezing has caused widespread illness. The sudden environmental shift affects over 60 percent of the population." The news anchor's voice was grave.
"The government has suspended this migration. In Hainan, over 10,000 people are suffering heatstroke every day, and emergency plans are being enacted.
Starting June 20, train services will resume nationwide, but each route will run once every two days." The announcement felt both like a concession and a new form of rationing.
The country now faced a dilemma. If people were relocated, they couldn't handle the drastically different climate, and illness meant certain death. If they weren't relocated, the unbearable 60 degree Celsius heat made the region uninhabitable, a slow bake.
The staggering death toll shocked the entire nation and terrified the public, a cold dread seeping through the heat.
Grandma Jing sighed, the sound heavy in the room. "I'm old anyway. I would rather grow old and die here than wander around like this." Her hands knotted in her lap.
"The government didn't expect this either," Jing An added, his voice trying to find reason in the tragedy.
Grandpa Jing slammed the table, the dishes jumping. "What is the point of experts if they can't predict this? Who will take responsibility for all these deaths?" His face was flushed with anger.
So, the arguments between Jing An and Grandpa Jing began again after a few days of peace, the tension snapping back. Jing Shu knew she had to start changing her grandparents' mindset. If the time for migration came, their refusal could cause serious trouble, a rift in their survival plan. She stopped chewing, the taste of lamb turning to ash in her mouth.