Voices of the Survivors

1 The sky was blood-red. The road beneath was charred and curled, a yellowed aftermath of intense heat. Who's chasing me? I turn, only to see the endless tar road stretching behind. Buildings on either side, like overturned trash cans, lay randomly along the road's edge. Abruptly, I throw off the blanket covering my face, sitting up in a daze. It's happening again. About two months ago, I started having the same recurring dream. Always dreaming of scattered corpses and dismembered limbs. In these dreams, my face, smeared in blood, reflects in the glass windows of shops. My mouth moves in the dream, but I can't hear my own voice. The digital clock by my bed beeps. Seven o'clock sharp. Sighing, I walk into the bathroom. The girl in the mirror looks pale. I've lost count of how many times I've struggled to wake from such nightmares. Ever since I lost my job, restful sleep has become rare. Sleep has turned into something that leaves me drained. Maybe, it's time to see a psychologist... After washing my face with cold water, I prepare to leave the house. The trash at home has piled up for a week. Waking up early today, I can catch the waste sorting schedule. The elevator isn't crowded, just a woman taking her child to school. She has a bruise on her forehead, injuries on her face. Noticing me, she adjusts her mask, turning her head away. I subtly shift my gaze, trying to offer her some comfort, recalling last night's quarrel echoing through the building. Stepping out of the elevator, the waste collection point is just downstairs. The sorting lady chats with a few elderly people doing their morning exercises. Judging by their frequent head shakes, they seem to be gossiping about some resident. I toss the accumulated takeout packaging into the dry waste bin. While sorting the delivery boxes, a low exclamation suddenly rises from the crowd. "Whoa! What Really? Can't be!" "Really. Our daughter was supposed to return this morning. But as soon as the plane landed, she was taken to the hospital for isolation, said it was for a safety check." "Safety check? What kind of check?" "Blood tests, CT scans, ultrasounds... they did everything possible, no clue what's going on." Safety check? Health check? For some reason, my heart starts racing. Suddenly, scenes from my dream flash in my mind. The curled road, chaotic fallen barricades, the blood-red sunset... Seeing me standing there, dazed, the auntie steps forward, taking the trash from my hand: "Oh dear, you look so neat and tidy, why do you only throw out your trash every four or five days?" Ignoring her teasing, I pull out my phone. My social media feed is clean as usual, filled with celebrity gossip and social issues. Strange... Is it a resurgence of the pandemic? I frown and quicken my pace back home. 2 It's just been a few days since Singles' Day, and I've recently restocked my household supplies. Sitting in front of my computer, I browse through product pages. Years ago, a pandemic swept the globe. But as time passed, the virus softened. To this day, it has reached a form of coexistence with humanity. For ordinary citizens like me, long battling the virus, outbreaks in certain areas have become the norm. I access my order history and casually add some snacks, instant noodles, and sausages to my cart. "Beep beep beep," a message from the online shopping platform pops up. "Dear customer, we regret to inform you that all deliveries reaching or passing through Westbrook City are currently suspended." Startled, I'm about to inquire further when customer service posts announcements from various courier companies. They state that, starting from November 16, yesterday, all deliveries to Westbrook City have been halted. What's happening? Is the city being locked down? I sense something is amiss. Even if the pandemic resurges, developments usually occur gradually. Without any related information or news reports about an unidentified virus... How could they suddenly quarantine an entire city? November 17, 12:37 PM. My sense of foreboding deepens: The government's measures don't seem typical of pandemic protocols. I need to prepare. I filter for local stores and begin selecting meticulously. Self-heating rice meals. Packaged instant noodles. Compressed biscuits. The variety of single-serving, self-heating foods is more abundant than I expected, and they seem tasty. I order ten boxes, each containing twelve packets, in two-serving sizes. Marking all orders for courier service cash-on-delivery, I rummage for masks, preparing to head out. The nearest supermarket is about a kilometer from my home. I plan to buy some fresh fruits and vegetables. November's weather has turned chilly. The fallen leaves of the street trees crunch underfoot, not yet swept away. I notice a water station, besieged by customers, from afar. Workers busily load water onto a queue of private cars. "What's going on?" someone asks the store owner. "Q district's water supply stopped. They can't handle the demand with their reserves." "Water supply stopped? I hadn't heard." The owner shrugs: "It's not just water. I heard they'll cut the electricity in a few days. My friend in solar power is swamped with orders." My heart sinks. This is not good news. Judging by the owner's tone, Q district has been without water for a while. Water and electricity are basic necessities. Allowing such a widespread cut-off is unthinkable. Is this related to the pandemic? It doesn't add up... It seems Westbrook City is indeed in trouble. I change my plans. Instead of the supermarket, I head to a nearby market. It's a weekday, and the market is almost deserted. I check my phone for a list of storable vegetables I'd prepared. Potatoes, corn, cauliflower, cabbage, and other cruciferous vegetables. According to the internet, these can last several months if properly stored. After visiting a few stalls, I buy two sacks of potatoes, a sack of corn, and several crates of cauliflower, cabbage, and other vegetables. I order a medium-sized van for delivery, which should arrive shortly. There's a hardware store across the street. I go in and browse. I buy three large water storage containers with taps and lids, a PVC hose, three rolls of tape, four ABS pipes, two transparent rain tarps, a hot glue gun with several boxes of glue sticks, and a home tool kit. While shopping, the van arrives. We load everything in several trips. Heading straight to the supermarket, the day darkens into evening rush hour. Since I don't live in the city center, the traffic isn't too bad. The supermarket has plenty of bottled water. After much deliberation, I buy fifty bottles. Wet and dry wipes, disinfectants, a few boxes each. Some snacks and beverages, and three thermos flasks. I also purchase a vacuum sealer and several boxes of vacuum bags. I leave my contact information and address, and the staff promises delivery tomorrow. Heading out, I find the mall entrance crowded. The once empty streets are now packed with cars. Amidst the chaos, a conflict seems to have erupted. In a chorus of screams, I see two men fighting fiercely. Pushing through the crowd, I jump into the delivery van. "Let's go," I urge, buckling up. My phone buzzes relentlessly in my pocket. Opening it, I see a flurry of messages in various chat groups. I click on a link. The screen shifts to a social media platform. "Westbrook City" is the top trending topic. 3 I guessed right. It seems the pandemic has erupted again. I scroll through the comments. People are sharing rumors about where the outbreak began. Schools, hotels, residential areas, even prisons. There's a myriad of theories, none definitive. November 17, 7:17 PM. Lockdown. It's really happening... After arriving at my apartment complex, I pay the driver a bit extra to help carry everything upstairs. After a day of running around, I finally sit down for dinner, but I don't feel relieved. The government's measures are more severe than I anticipated. I browse aimlessly on a social media platform while eating, drawn to a few posts. One from yesterday afternoon discusses the water stoppage in Q district. After several large-scale cut-offs, the issue finally gains traction online. Someone posts a photo of the sealed Q district water plant. The image is blurry, but you can make out the yellow and black caution tape and white-suited personnel on guard. There are also posts about fortune-telling using the Chinese zodiac. "Rat brings plague, Ox brings water, Tiger brings conflict, Rabbit brings famine. Rabbit years are always years of great hunger, many will die from food shortage this year..." After Westbrook City announced its lockdown, these superstitious posts soared in popularity, inciting immense panic. I read the posts several times before closing the page. "The direction is wrong." I reevaluate my shopping list from today. If water and electricity can't be guaranteed, gas and food supplies will likely be problematic. Winter is approaching. It will get colder, and nights longer. To avoid losing my focus, I compare my purchases with a nutritional chart. I've bought rice and pasta, adding several large bags of oatmeal for grain diversity. For protein, I rely on canned goods and long-lasting frozen meats. Campbell's canned goods, Chef Boyardee canned goods, Del Monte canned goods... they all seem substantial. After buying the cans, I pick up some bacon and ham. I skip fish and seafood. Eggs have a shelf life of only a month or so, not suitable for long-term storage. Milk and yogurt, however, I buy in several cases. I already have enough oil, salt, and spices at home, but I add a bit more, along with some vitamin supplements. For medications, I choose common ones, iodine, and rubbing alcohol. I order 50 more bottles of water. Theoretically, a person needs about 2L of water per day. But accounting for washing and cleaning, I have no idea how long this water will last. Electricity and gas pose a bigger challenge. I hesitantly choose a 6000W solar generator. A complete system, including batteries, inverters, and controllers, compatible with 220V appliances and USB connections. I also buy two butane stoves. Butane canisters are inexpensive, so I purchase several boxes; they're reputed to be better than alcohol stoves. I prepare some outdoor gear as well: two sizable backpacks, three solar flashlights, several batteries, a roll of rope, and two pairs of gloves. After some thought, I also buy vegetable seeds. Lettuce, soybeans, peas, spinach, chilies, ginger, and garlic. These generally have a growth cycle of about a month. I order accompanying gardening tools, potting soil, fertilizer, and planting boxes. To maximize space, I buy several storage racks and boxes. During this period, I often think of stopping this absurd behavior. But then a voice coldly interjects. "You know," it says, "you know what's coming... Just do it... while there's still time..." Do I... really know? Uneasy, I hurriedly clean up after dinner, preparing to rearrange my home to make space for the incoming supplies. I'm not originally from this city. After losing my job, I moved from near the city center in A district to my current house in J district. J district is actually an old part of town, not lacking in amenities. But as Westbrook City's economic center shifted northward, J district has become somewhat suburban. The apartment I rent is over a hundred square meters. Two bedrooms, two living rooms, with a kitchen, a bathroom, and two balconies. The master bedroom and larger balcony face south, while the smaller bedroom and balcony face north. After surveying each room, I decide to gradually clear out the furniture. As I drag the TV cabinet out for the fourth time, the cleaning lady, who's been watching for a while, finally asks: "Moving house late at night?" I nod: "Yes. I don't need these anymore. Will they get in everyone's way here?" She quickly assures me: "Not at all, I'll take care of them. Do you have any other furniture you don't want?" I consider: "Two beds, a sofa set, some cabinets, and tables." The cleaning lady confidently promises to handle it. Perhaps the furniture is worth something, as she's eager to make sure I don't change my mind, quickly bringing a few men to clear it all away. My once slightly cramped home suddenly becomes empty. After cleaning, I disinfect everything with alcohol. "From now on, this is my fortress." Crawling into my warm bed, I think to myself. 4 This time, I don't have nightmares. In a haze, it feels like someone is sitting by my bed. She's flipping through a book, narrating a story slowly: "The geese begin their southward journey, leaves start to yellow, but the sun remains as warm as ever." I can't see her face, but intuitively I feel she's as kind as my grandmother. "If you start feeling happy because of the warmth, it means the weather is getting colder." She fiddles with the page, her figure enveloped in a dim light. "Hunters in the forest must trust their instincts, or they'll miss nature's cues." "When the snow seals the doors, it'll be too late." ... November 18, 7:53 AM. 14th hour of the lockdown. Lying in bed, lost in thought, I receive a call from the supermarket. They inquire about a convenient time for today's delivery. In a residential building, sneaking in so many supplies without notice seems implausible. I had considered fetching them in batches, but with the pandemic's rapid escalation, if anything changes, all these efforts could be for naught. Sometimes, excessive perfectionism can sabotage plans. "Ten o'clock," I respond. At this hour, with most people busy with work or school, I might avoid drawing too much attention. I check the status of my deliveries; almost everything is on its way. Only the water I ordered last night hasn't been dispatched yet. Throughout the day, a steady stream of packages arrives at my door. I carefully disinfect each one before bringing it inside. The fifty water bottles from the supermarket are placed in the smaller bedroom. Arranged ten in a row, three high, in two rows. Against the water bottles, I install two two-meter-long shelves. In both the living room and master bedroom, I set up shelves along the walls for additional storage. The smaller bedroom, being cooler, is designated for perishable items. The canned goods, instant noodles, and compressed dry food are stored in the master bedroom and living room. After categorizing and storing everything, it's five in the afternoon. The solar panels are smaller than I expected. Each is a little over a meter long and half a meter wide, eight in total. There are also four 250ah batteries, storing about 12 kWh of energy. I manage to fit five panels side by side on the retractable clothesline on the balcony. With good weather, they should generate about 7 kWh of electricity per day. I spend some time setting them up and connecting the wires. I'll figure out how to install the remaining three panels later. The next day, strict lockdown measures are implemented throughout the community. I had just finished stocking up on essentials as the lockdown countdown ended. The relief I feel is mixed with apprehension. From the relatively mild measures a few days ago to today's full lockdown, it's been less than 72 hours. The city's entire water supply has been requisitioned as a strategic material for pandemic control. My online orders had been abruptly canceled. The water crisis loomed unresolved, threatening to engulf J district soon. I fetched the water barrels, each towering at 1.5 meters, and meticulously cleaned them. Filled and secured, two found their place on the sunnier south balcony, the third on the north. I glanced over the solar power controller. The panels had eked out less than 2 kWh today, a dismal output under the cloud-covered sky. Westbrook City, with its autumnal clouds and scarce rain, seemed poised to turn water and power into daunting challenges. The evening prior, I had a lengthy call with my parents, I urged them repeatedly to stock up on food, stay indoors, and avoid visiting relatives. Even though Rivervale City is far from here, caution is paramount. Gathering resolve, I turned to tackle the agricultural bounty strewn across my balcony and kitchen. The potato haul was hefty, probably tipping fifty kilograms. Methodically, I scrubbed, peeled, and soaked them in a saline solution before sealing their fate in vacuum-packed solitude. The TV droned on in the background, a chorus of channels relentlessly broadcasting the unfolding crisis in Westbrook City. The stringent measures, once thought ironclad, were faltering, giving way to fresh outbreaks across the cityscape. A recent clip, captured in one of the hot zones and virally shared online, showed two figures in hazmat suits at a checkpoint, one abruptly assaulting the other before the footage cut out. They later surfaced, attributing the altercation to the crushing weight of their duties. This incident was a mere echo of a growing trend in Westbrook City – a surge in violent episodes, fraying the fabric of public order. People seemed to simmer on the brink, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. As I scrolled through the comments, a remark from a healthcare worker snagged my attention. "No unidentified pneumonia cases here," she claimed, "but our surgical wards are bursting at the seams." Stranger still was the notice of her hospital's impending closure, a new directive mandating a single operational hospital per district. In the dire scenario Westbrook City was facing, such a policy seemed less like strategy, more like capitulation. "Unless," a commenter mused, "our current medical arsenal is essentially futile against this foe." Weighed down by these thoughts, I set aside my phone and plunged back into my task. Hours blurred as I labored, the evening giving way to a gentle rain. Outside, the community lay still, save for the occasional shuffle of hazmat-clad figures orchestrating supply runs. By the break of dawn, every piece of produce was processed, stacked high in the secondary bedroom, a testament to my night's labor. My neck, stiff from the relentless posture, ached in quiet protes... 5 The past few days of physical labor took their toll, and today, I woke up with a sore back. The sun had warmed the blankets cozily, tempting me to embrace laziness. It wasn't until the day was well underway that I finally dragged myself out of bed. I turned the tap, but nothing came out. November 19, the third day of the lockdown. The water had stopped. To be precise, it had been cut off since the early hours of the morning. At five, people in the resident group chat were already reporting the issue. The property management claimed they were in touch with the water company, suggesting a possible pipeline damage needing urgent repair, and asked for everyone's understanding. The water cut-off in J district was expected, yet its connection with the current pandemic stage was still unclear to me. I moved my toiletries to the balcony, where the solar panels were steadily generating power. Leaning on the railing, I gazed down. The world was changing too fast, and being a part of it, it was hard to remain unaffected. It was altering my behavior, lifestyle, even my way of thinking in profound ways. Often, I felt a sense of alienation. At this moment, I was like a detached observer, watching from the sidelines. Occasionally, I felt lonely. Though I had been living alone in this city since graduating from college, I found myself increasingly reminiscing about my family and old friends. Every night, I made it a point to call my parents. Rivervale City, where they lived, seemed to be faring better than here. I had stopped trying to persuade them to stock up on supplies. Instead, I had ordered for them what I thought necessary, expecting delivery soon. People in their age group tend to be exceptionally stubborn, especially my parents, who are firm believers in science. If they knew all my preparations were based on a dream, I'd never hear the end of it. Returning to the kitchen, I resumed wrapping up yesterday's tasks. Compared to potatoes, the rest was easier to handle. Corn needed just to be husked before vacuum-packing. Cabbage and Chinese cabbage were processed similarly. Cauliflower required little prep, saving me much time. With all the vegetables processed, the balcony and kitchen finally felt less cramped. Then, I spent a considerable amount of time figuring out how to optimize the solar panels' efficiency. A search on the online shopping platform revealed that most solar panel mounts had a certain angle. But with the limited tools and materials at my disposal, mounting all eight panels at an angle on the balcony was not feasible with just glue. Although my plan for maximizing power generation fell through, it didn't stop me from making other improvements. I reinforced the points where the solar panels met the clothesline with hot glue and protected the exposed wires with waterproof tape. Just then, the doorbell rang. Checking the time, it must be the volunteer responsible for deliveries. "Thank you, just leave it at the door," I called out as I approached. But the ringing persisted. Peering through the peephole, I saw the light flickering erratically. Puzzled, a distorted face suddenly appeared in my line of sight. The eye staring directly at me was nearly engulfed in shadows. Its pupil, shrunken to an almost invisible point, darted around the socket like a trapped fly. ...He's looking inside! I instinctively stepped back. It was Mr. Thompson, the security guard from downstairs... But why did he look like this? Was he still... Mr. Thompson? Little did I know yesterday that this was just the first of our encounters. 6 November 20, 2022. The fourth day of the lockdown. It's happening again... "Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong..." After confirming someone was inside, it became more patient, more persistent. I retreated to the living room, scanning my surroundings. There were no handy weapons in the house. Recalling a hammer in the recently purchased toolbox, I fetched it and gripped it tightly. I had no idea what had happened to Mr. Thompson. Nor why someone in his condition was still involved in delivering supplies. "You must be more careful, more alert..." that voice emerged from the depths of my mind again, "You know... they have already appeared..." What's happening... Why am I having these thoughts... I shook my head, trying to calm myself. Since the outbreak, these voices had been relentlessly pushing me forward. At the same time, strange occurrences kept unfolding. Up to now, not only had the water supply not been restored, but even the cell phone signal was intermittent. And that nightmare that had plagued me for nearly two months had vanished as if it had fulfilled its purpose. Taking a deep breath, I suppressed the unease in my heart. Amid the continuous doorbell rings, I cautiously resumed my unfinished tasks. I spent the afternoon browsing through numerous documents. Two hours before sunset, I finally moved on to the last part of my base setup – cultivating the seeds. I retrieved the seeds from the storage room and counted them. There were 500g packets of spinach, lettuce, thistles, and chili seeds, along with 1000g packets of soybean and pea seeds. I soaked a bit of each of the five types of vegetable seeds in warm water, a method said to enhance germination rates. With the seeds soaking, I surveyed my two balconies: The south balcony, after accommodating two water barrels, still had a sizeable vacant area. I divided it into two using a walkway. The cultivation boxes could be assembled into various sizes. I set up the water storage layer and a separation net, poured in the compressed cultivation soil, loosened it, and mixed in the fertilizer. It took about six bags of cultivation soil for the garden to begin taking shape. The north balcony was smaller, with just enough space for a water barrel and a vertical washing machine. So, I created a narrow seedbed along the outer edge. All seeds were first sown here. Once they grew true leaves, they would be transplanted into the garden on the south balcony. Regarding the rainwater collection system, I bought materials for both balconies but honestly wasn't confident about its success. Setting up both balconies took more time than I anticipated, but it bolstered my confidence – my home was starting to feel like a survival base. It wasn't cozy or pretty, but it was teeming with vitality. A harsh beauty permeated the space. When I returned inside, the doorbell had stopped. Peering through the peephole, Mr. Thompson was nowhere to be seen, leaving only a lonely bag of supplies at the door. I had no intention of opening the door to retrieve it. I knew well that my best course of action now was to maintain silence and observation. 7 In the following days, the internet was patchy. I devoted more time to gathering and sorting information. Only sharpness and vigilance could enhance my chances of survival. In the forest, the line between hunter and prey was thin; lowering the gun meant a change of roles. Clutching my phone, I unknowingly drifted to sleep. First, I heard a commotion, then a loud pounding at the door jarred me awake. The living room was pitch black. I crouched and edged towards the door. Listening to the sounds outside, I fumbled for the hammer on the shoe cabinet. There were about five or six people in the hallway. The motion-sensor light was broken. They were using flashlights, taking turns knocking on three different doors. A middle-aged man, arms crossed, stood silently in the center. The man in the jacket beside him seemed certain: "I'm sure of it. You saw it too, right?" The woman behind him nodded vigorously. Despite the noise, no one responded from inside the apartments. The hallway was filled with their hushed whispers and nothing else. Who were they looking for? I took out my phone and opened the residents' group chat, scrolling through the history. "So much water could be donated for everyone's use. In hard times, we should help each other!" Another fist pounded on the door, startling me, nearly making me drop my phone. So it was about this. My tension skyrocketed. I had indeed stockpiled a significant amount of drinking water. But how much would I need to distribute to over ninety households in the building? And for how many days would it suffice? Sometimes, less is more. More than the water, I feared exposing the extent of my food supplies during distribution. I pressed my lips together, staying silent. As long as the other residents remained uncooperative, they couldn't pinpoint me. After some discussion, the group moved to apartment 901's door. This time, the only woman in the group, who I recognized as the cleaning lady from downstairs, knocked. She coaxed in a gentle tone: "Sweetheart, I know you. We didn't want to disturb you so late, but these are exceptional times. We're all neighbors, after all. Please help us." "I'm quite familiar with the resident of 903, and 902 just moved out a few days ago. You're the only one left on this floor. We'll need each other's support in the days to come..." She was about to add more when the door of 901 opened. My heart clenched. I couldn't see the scene due to the crowded hallway, only hearing a young woman's voice. Despite facing such a crowd, her tone was unflustered. "I mean... could you folks check the time before dropping by?" "And I don't understand what you're talking about. I'll call the police if you don't leave." The group was taken aback. "We were just discussing with you, miss. You can't be so selfish. The vegetables you eat, aren't they delivered by us?" "Everyone should contribute to the community. Didn't your teacher teach you that?" One man, about to act out in anger, was promptly held back by the others. "Alright, I need to sleep now," the girl dismissed their chatter, "Good night, everyone." She closed the door before they could respond. The man, still fuming, seemed intent on banging the door again, but the others, more rational, persuaded him to leave. The hallway fell silent once more. Back in bed, I stared at the ceiling, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, tossing and turning until dawn. After a sleepless night, I made a decision. November 22, 6:23 AM, the sixth day of the lockdown. I knocked on the door of apartment 901.