Chapter 22: A debt must be repaid
Inside the room, the couple leaned against the headboard, looking no different from how they used to during their warm, late-night talks before the apocalypse.
Only now, both of them had wasted away from hunger. They looked like skeletons tightly wrapped in human skin, their cheeks sunken as deeply as their hollow eye sockets. Yet when their cloudy, sluggish eyes fell on the boy, a flash of light stirred within them.
Zeng Like slowly sat up straighter. She kept fussing with the hair behind her ear, but strands slipped loose from her scalp, tangling around her knuckles. Stroking the bed now littered with fallen hair, a flicker of doubt rose in her heart—yet that doubt was quickly smothered by the swelling tide of hunger. She stretched out a withered hand, patting the edge of the bed.
“Wu Heng, come sit with Mom for a while.”
“Wu Heng, come here.” Compared to Zeng Like’s gentle tone, Wu Shiming’s voice was harsh and commanding.
The two of them had switched roles. Before the apocalypse, it had always been Wu Shiming who slapped Wu Heng across the face while speaking in soft tones, whereas Zeng Like had been the sharp-tongued one.
Wu Heng’s gaze turned dark. “Cut the nonsense. Do it.”
“How dare you talk to your elders like that?” Wu Shiming threw off the blanket and staggered toward the boy.
The scraps of flesh left on his face were melting away, dripping like a candle made of human fat burning itself out.
Wu Heng slipped aside to avoid the man’s lunge, at the same time pressing his palm against the back of his neck. With a loud bang, he slammed the man’s head hard against the doorframe.
As the frame shook and Wu Shiming howled, Wu Heng’s eyes stayed cold. He kicked the collapsing body aside.
Wu Shiming, now a heap of rotting flesh oozing yellow fluid, crashed against the window, then slowly dragged himself upright.
Guji, guji, guji, guji.
After several squelching sounds, a few short, thin little arms sprouted from beneath the man’s armpits, clawing frantically in Wu Heng’s direction.
“Ah, Honey, you look so disgusting.”
Still sitting on the bed, Zeng Like suddenly spoke up.
The moment her voice fell, she flipped over and sprang up. Her body suddenly stretched longer, sprawled across the bed like a human-shaped lizard.
“A’Heng, it wasn’t easy for Dad and Mom to raise you. Don’t let us down, okay?”
This was Wu Shiming’s most common line to the boy. Usually, after beating him half to death, he would gently pat Wu Heng’s head and say those very words.
But now, it was Zeng Like who said them.
The two of them had always stood on the same side, with the same goal, only playing different roles.
Wu Heng stepped into the room one pace at a time, lowering his gaze to the woman’s sharpened skull.
“Mom, of course I won’t let you down.”
The woman lifted her head high.
“After I eat you both, I’ll do exactly as you wish—I’ll raise Wuzhi until the day she dies. Will that satisfy you?” Wu Heng’s voice was calm, towering over her.
A tearing rush of air cut past him. Out of the corner of his eye, Wu Heng caught the motion and leapt aside—just as vine-like tendrils shot like arrows toward Wu Shiming, who was charging in.
Wu Shiming twisted his body to evade the strike, the floor beneath him cracking and splintering with a bang, bang as wood chips flew.
But the vine lash gave him no chance to recover; it curled back around in a flash, looping around the man’s neck and tightening.
With a wet pop, one of Wu Shiming’s eyeballs burst free of its socket. He let out a hoarse, monstrous wail—but it wasn’t a cry of pain. It sounded like hunger.
“This is Burmese teak flooring! I spent ages picking it out!” The woman’s attention was fixed only on the floorboards, broken in several places.
The strength of the power she wielded far surpassed Wu Shiming’s.
The ruined flooring enraged her.
Her five fingers elongated and curved, turning into claws that slashed straight toward Wu Heng’s left chest.
In the reflection of his eyes, the woman’s distorted claws loomed closer. He stepped back, shifting his body just enough, then seized her brittle, stiff arm in one grasp.
Zeng Like’s eyes widened as her body was yanked off the bed. With a sudden burst of strength, Wu Heng slammed her hard onto the ground. Several bones in her body cracked audibly.
Without hesitation, Wu Heng pressed the sole of his shoe against her neck. Her body twisted and writhed like an insect with four legs and a human face.
But Wu Heng’s expression was strangely dazed, entirely out of place in the moment.
“Mom, so this is what it feels like to have you under my foot.”
Monster or not, the neck was still soft. Wu Heng bent his knee slightly, adding more pressure, while the other vine at his back continued to constrict.
They were nearly choking, their limbs thrashing madly.
Almost cute, Wu Heng thought, the corners of his lips lifting.
“Wu Heng…” A fleeting clarity flashed across Zeng Like’s eyes. She rested her arm against the boy’s knee and suddenly wept. “Wu Heng, I’m your mother.”
“I know,” Wu Heng said coolly, the pressure of his foot never easing. “Mom wants to eat me, and I want to eat Mom.”
From behind him, a pale, whitish vine stretched forward at last, ready to feed. Its tip brushed against the woman’s brow, rising upright as it searched for the best place to pierce.
Her skin at the brow was still as smooth and fair as it had been before.
For a moment, Wu Heng was lost in thought.
He saw Zeng Like and Wu Shiming from over a decade ago, back when they were young. Outside the delivery room, he heard the cries of his own newborn self.
Wu Shiming’s large hands received him swaddled in cloth. From the newborn’s upward view, Wu Heng could vaguely see his father’s face, flushed red with excitement.
“’Bright as a polished gem, steadfast as a girded sash—such skill and virtue shall be his name.’
I’ve decided—my first child will be called Wu Heng. I hope he grows up brave and kind, clever and capable. Wu Heng… Wu Heng…”
Wu Shiming had lifted him high into the air, surrounded by laughter and cheers—everyone celebrating, filled with anticipation for his arrival.
From childhood until now, Wu Heng had never been so warmly embraced by others.
For a fleeting instant, his tense body relaxed. Just for an instant.
The woman beneath his foot suddenly flipped up, her sharp claws slashing swiftly and deeply across the boy’s throat.
A sharp pain shot from his neck through every fiber of his body.
Puchi.
A line of blood tore open. Wu Heng’s neck was severed, hot blood surging out in an instant.
The world spun before his eyes. His vision turned over and over as his head hit the ground. The vines rustled, retreating quickly back into his body.
With half-lidded eyes, he saw his body topple straight down like a tree trunk stripped of its crown, blood gushing madly from the break.
Staring at the scene before him, the boy’s gaze grew heavy—it was too bloody.
Zeng Like and Wu Shiming dragged themselves to his body, panting hard. Almost at the same time, they both collapsed to their knees before it.
“Wu Heng, my son, my child—wuwu, my child!” Zeng Like pressed her forehead to the floor, tears spilling as she wept, all while frantically lapping at the blood pouring from Wu Heng’s body with her tongue.
Wu Heng closed his eyes.
A scream split the air. From where Wu Heng’s heart should be, two green vines burst forth, each piercing through Zeng Like’s and Wu Shiming’s left chests. The vines hoisted them high, their bodies trembling.
Gudong, gudong. Their forms began to shrivel, their terrified eyes fixed downward—on the body beneath them, the one that should have already been their feast.
From the slowly bleeding wound sprouted tender green shoots. Lifting their tips, they searched around, then followed the trail. The hair-thin sprouts crawled across the river of blood on the floor, found the boy’s discarded head, and drilled inside—slowly dragging it back and rejoining it with the body.
Wu Heng staggered to his feet, his face deathly pale from the massive blood loss.
Zeng Like looked at him and spoke with difficulty. “Wu Heng, I’m your mother.”
But Wu Heng fixed his gaze on her for a long while, then murmured to himself: “An illusion?”
If it wasn’t an illusion, how could he possibly remember what he saw the moment he was born, let alone recall it so clearly?
He raised his hand and twisted Zeng Like’s head right off into his palm. From behind him, green vines surged forward like a swarm of snakes, pouring into her body. In the end, all that remained was the set of loungewear she often wore, drifting lightly onto the floor.
A sharp, unshakable pain rose in the boy’s chest.
Better a clean break than drawn-out agony. Crack. With one neat wrench of a vine, Wu Shiming’s head was snapped clean off.
Wu Heng sat down at the foot of the bed.
He didn’t bother to look at the vines slithering and lashing about the room, letting them act freely as they pleased.
Color gradually returned to his face. His skin grew smooth again, faintly flushed with pink beneath, his lips soft, red, and dewy.
Aside from himself, there was no living thing left in the room. Even the expression on his face and the feelings in his heart seemed to have been devoured by him.
“Brother…”
A small girl’s disbelieving voice came faintly from outside the door. No one knew how long she had been standing there.
She was wearing her pajamas, clutching that ugly, tattered monkey doll, her eyes wide.
“Those… what are those?” She was staring at Wu Heng’s back.
The main vine perched on Wu Heng’s shoulder swayed a little shyly toward Wu Zhi’s spot, as though greeting her.
But Wu Zhi couldn’t see that. All she saw were snake-like plants that had just torn apart two monsters who looked so much like her parents. And once the ghosts were ripped apart—they disappeared. The plants had eaten them!
“It’s me.” Wu Heng looked at her without a flicker of emotion.
“Where are Dad and Mom?” Wu Zhi, satisfied with her brother’s answer for now, clutched her rag doll tighter. Her voice was taut with unease—she hadn’t seen their parents in the bed of the master bedroom.
Wu Heng’s long lashes flickered once, twice. His tone was faint, almost weightless:
“Dad and Mom turned into butterflies and flew away.”
Wu Zhi gasped sharply, tears spilling down her cheeks in heavy streams.
“Oh my God—”
The vines had all withdrawn. The master bedroom was left in shambles, yet whether on the floor or in the air, there lingered no trace of monsters, no scent of blood, nothing at all.
Wu Zhi stood in the doorway sobbing for a long while before her small feet carried her, step by step, to stand before Wu Heng.
He lifted his head to look at her, expression drawn, weary, languid.
“Big brother,” Wu Zhi murmured through her tears.
“Mm?”
She reached out, pressing her little palm against her brother’s cheek.
“Don’t cry, big brother. I won’t turn into a butterfly and fly away. I’ll stay with you always.”
Her hand was warm. At the instant that heat met the chill of his skin, Wu Heng realized—without knowing when it had started—that his face was already wet with tears.
—
They had said they would rest. Yet neither Wu Heng, nor Lin Mengzhi, nor Wu Zhi closed their eyes through the night.
And it wasn’t only they.
Everyone in the building who still clung to luck, who dared hope to survive—none found sleep.
When dawn finally broke, Wu Zhi’s door creaked open. Wu Heng’s voice was cool, steady:
“Pack your toiletries and two sets of clothes. We’re leaving.”
Wu Zhi blinked from her bed. She might not be clever, but she could always read her brother’s face. She didn’t think—she couldn’t think. Instead, she flipped off the bed at once and dragged from her wardrobe a pink-and-white checkered duffel.
Wu Heng stood in the kitchen.
He wanted to know: how could he enter the space within his own heart?
Last time, it had taken a pierced palm to pass through. Did it mean that every time, he would have to drive something through his hand?
But Wu Heng had no pity for others—least of all for himself.
From the cupboard, he took a fruit knife, laid his right palm up against the sink’s edge.
His gaze remained still, untroubled, as he pressed the blade downward. Yet just before the knife’s tip could pierce skin, a flash of white light swept his vision, and he found himself inside the space of his heart.
The leftover serpent flesh from yesterday was stacked neatly along the wall.
Wu Heng had assumed that storing so much meat would leave little room to spare. Yet today, looking around, the available space was larger than he had calculated.
He walked the perimeter once more, then stopped beside that strange little stalk of grass.
Yes. The space had expanded. Not by much, but enough to notice.
Squatting down, Wu Heng measured the plant against the wall with his long fingers. Judging by touch alone, there seemed to be no change at all.
It was the kind of thing he could tell no one.
Wu Zhi was too dim, Lin Mengzhi too guileless, Xie Chongyi far too sharp.
His fingertips brushed the plant’s rough leaves, and a restless itch stirred in his chest.
He rose, absently rubbing his ear, relying only on guesswork. Perhaps the expansion was due to yesterday’s absorption of the mutant cactus’s core?
The poppy that lived in symbiosis with him couldn’t have ceased its growth the moment it took root in his body. It still lived; like any other being, it must have its own stages of development.
Only, unlike humans who required carbohydrates, proteins, vitamins, it seemed to thrive on cores—and only those of its own element, wood.
By the same logic, what it needed to grow was also what he himself needed.
Wu Heng touched his palm, then withdrew from the space, a slab of serpent meat in his grasp.
“Wu Zhi, time to go.” He held the meat in one hand, his already-packed duffel in the other.
Wu Zhi came running out with her own heavy bag strapped to her back, sweat beading her brow. “I’m here, I’m here!”
Wu Heng stood unmoving, studying her.
“Don’t you miss Dad and Mom?”
“Of course I do,” Wu Zhi whispered, her eyes reddening. “But the world outside is full of monsters. If they turned into butterflies and flew away, maybe that’s a blessing. I… I want to become a butterfly too.”
Wu Heng said nothing. He turned and walked out, and Wu Zhi hastened after him.
At the doorway, he flicked the house key into the garbage bin beside the stairwell. The clang of metal rang out sharp; his face stayed calm, though Wu Zhi startled at the sound.
There was no reluctance in him for this home. Every corner of it still bore the marks of his beatings.
Downstairs, Lin Mengzhi had not slept a moment. He had lain stiffly on the floor all night, staring at his grandmother.
Wu Heng brought Wu Zhi inside but didn’t disturb him. He went straight into the kitchen, lit the stove, and began to prepare breakfast.
Unlike the chaos of the bedrooms and sitting room, the kitchen remained clean, almost untouched—as though those who had broken in hadn’t bothered with it.
He lifted the steamer’s lid. Inside, bowls of salted pork belly still sat in perfect order.
A tight sting pricked his eyes. He raised a hand, set one bowl aside, and quietly stored the rest away in the space.
After tidying the kitchen with brisk efficiency, he began to cook.
It wasn’t that he lacked the wit for cookery—he could have made fine dishes with his eyes closed—but before, he had always cooked carelessly, deliberately, to fob off Zeng Like and Wu Shiming. He hadn’t wanted to.
This morning’s meal was the first he had ever made with care, with something close to devotion.
He rinsed the serpent meat, chopped it to a paste: part went into a great pot of congee, part into thin cakes that hissed and crisped in the pan.
Wu Zhi sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. She hadn’t eaten for two days. Last night’s cookies at the bedside had only sharpened her hunger, and now, faced with hot, steaming cakes, she ate one after another.
There were still a few long white radishes left, and half a sack of potatoes. Once she was fed, Wu Heng had her peel and shred them all.
The shredded radish and potatoes were seasoned separately, dipped in batter, and spread into one pancake after another.
Wu Heng followed only his own taste, the flavors he had once preferred. He thought nothing of others, only of what food could be carried easily, what could keep hunger at bay the longest.
When Lin Mengzhi stepped out from the old woman’s room, the smell of food had already drifted through the entire sitting room. In the kitchen, steamed with heat, Wu Heng stood at the stove, spatula in hand, face as cool and detached as stone.
The world had ended scarcely a week ago, yet Wu Heng had already changed beyond recognition. Gone was the shrinking, fragile air about him. Again and again Lin Mengzhi glimpsed the sharp, domineering edge that had once been hidden deep within.
The neighbors used to joke whenever they saw the two together—that Wu Heng’s pliant nature suited him for a cook, that he could fry the same dish a thousand times without complaint.
But Lin Mengzhi knew better. Wu Heng was no patient soul. His temper was bad, his endurance worse.
Only in one matter did he ever show true patience—when it came to tormenting others.
Like the little girl now perched at his feet. In Wu Zhi’s eyes, Zeng Like and Wu Shiming no longer existed. She clung to Wu Heng like a shadow, seeing only him. This, Lin Mengzhi thought grimly, was never what those two had intended.
Wu Heng didn’t cook like a man cooking. With that desolate, disinterested face, he seemed less to be preparing food than performing rites at a grave. To watch him was to feel one’s appetite shrivel.
Lin Mengzhi’s gaze fell on the white bandages wound about Wu Heng’s throat. His features had always been fragile, frail to the point of vanishing; wounded now, he looked like a plant torn from its roots, not long for this world.
Lin Mengzhi glanced down at his own hands. He had been too reckless yesterday. How could he have laid blame on A’Heng?
Those people had only been starving. In times like these, whom could he truly fault?
“What’s the point of making so many pancakes?” Lin Mengzhi leaned against the kitchen door, his tone the same lazy drawl as always, as if nothing had changed.
Wu Heng’s eyes never left the pan. He didn’t so much as turn his head.
“I’m going to find Xie Chongyi,” he said quietly. “Then on to Jingzhou. We’ll need food for the road.”
“Jingzhou? What are we going to Jingzhou for?” Lin Mengzhi asked in puzzlement.
Wu Heng paused.
He couldn’t exactly tell Lin Mengzhi that his plan was to devour Xie Chongyi along the road to Jingzhou—and in the end, he might not even go that far.
“A big city means more opportunities. I want to make something of myself,” Wu Heng replied, borrowing the excuse Xie Chongyi had used the day before.
Lin Mengzhi rubbed his chin. “That’s true enough.”
Without giving it much thought, he added, “The old lady’s gone. Staying here alone isn’t much fun. I’ll go to Jingzhou with you.”
“But why go with Xie Chongyi?” he pressed. “He tried to kill you before—sure, you were almost turning into a zombie at the time, but I bet that guy’s vicious to the core. Traveling with him would be like keeping company with a tiger. I think we could get to Jingzhou on our own.”
Wu Heng shook his head, his tone steady, almost analytical: “It’s more than a thousand kilometers from Hanzhou to Jingzhou. No one knows what we might encounter on the way. Just the two of us? We might not even make it out of Hanzhou City.”
Lin Mengzhi let out a sigh. “That’s true.” Then, after a pause: “But what about your parents? And Wu Zhi? You’re just going to leave them?”
“Yes!” Wu Zhi blurted, startled, a mouthful of pancake in hand. She looked up wide-eyed. “I’ll go with my brother. I’ll come with you!”
“You don’t want your mom and dad anymore?” Lin Mengzhi crouched down, teasing her.
“Mom and Dad turned into butterflies and flew away.”
Lin Mengzhi shook his head—Wu Zhi really was a fool.
“Don’t worry about them. We’ll go our own way.” Wu Heng set the finished pancakes aside to cool and began on another batch.
Only then did Lin Mengzhi realize how empty his stomach felt. He grabbed a stack of already-cooled pancakes and stuffed them into his mouth.
“Not worrying about them works for me,” he said thickly through a mouthful, wholly approving of Wu Heng’s decision. “They were animals anyway.”
Once they all focused on eating, the kitchen filled only with the steady rhythm of chewing and the sizzle from the pan.
Wu Heng’s face flickered in and out of sight within the rising steam, his features blurred, as if he might dissolve into a phantom at any moment. He held a pair of long chopsticks in hand, his slender neck bowed, and his voice drifted down to the two people and the bird crouched below, distant and ethereal, as though carried from some faraway place.
All three lifted their heads to look at him.
“W-what is it?”
Wu Heng’s voice was soft, yet edged with a chill sharp enough to cut.
“For Grandma,” he said, “we still owe her an answer.”
“An… answer…” At the mention of Grandma, Lin Mengzhi’s face went bloodless. His chest constricted, pain stabbing at his heart. His expression twisted. “How do we give her that answer?”
Wu Heng’s gaze remained calm, his lashes shadowing the brief flare—and swift extinguishing—of crimson in his eyes. His lips parted, the words quiet as death itself:
“A debt must be repaid. A life for a life.”