The sound began at midnight, a deep, rhythmic thumping that vibrated through the floorboards of Liu Er’s hut. It wasn't the frantic scratching of the weasels or the distant wailing of the wind. This was the sound of earth being torn and stone being crushed. It was a heavy, wet thudding, like a giant treading through deep mud. Liu Er, who had been sitting in the center of the room with his machete, crawled to the small window he had partially unboarded. He moved aside the damp rags he had used to plug the gaps and pressed his face to the glass.
Outside, the yellow fog had settled into a low, knee-high carpet. The moon was a sickly, pale disc, providing just enough light to see the impossible.
At the edge of the village, the horizon was moving. The boundary between the scorched plains and
