EXT. TEMPLE PARKING AREA - DAWN
The Nissan looks worse in daylight. Scratches. Dents. One mirror missing. Paint stripped from all sides. Battle scars from threading impossible gaps.
But the engine starts. The tires hold air. The steering responds. The important things still work.
Wei-Han brings them food. Rice balls wrapped in banana leaves. Two bottles of water. A small bag of dried fruit.
WEI-HAN
For the road. Payment for the information.
MRS. LIN
We already traded.
WEI-HAN
Consider it interest. Or investment. Or hope that you'll come back and tell us good news. Or bring help.
MEI-CHEN
I'll try.
WEI-HAN
The road gets worse about ten kilometers ahead. Landslide took out a section. You can get through but go slow. Very slow.
MEI-CHEN
Thank you.
WEI-HAN
And if you see any infected. Don't engage. Don't try to fight. Just drive. Speed is your best weapon.
MEI-CHEN
I know.
WEI-HAN
No. You don't. Government people. You always think you know. You make plans. You write protocols. But out here. On these roads. Knowledge is secondary to instinct. Listen to your gut. It knows things your brain hasn't figured out yet.
Mei-Chen wants to argue. Can't. Because he's right. Her degrees. Her research. Her government position. None of it matters when you're threading gaps between infected barricades.
MEI-CHEN
I'll listen to my gut.
WEI-HAN
Good. Now go. Before the children get attached. They're already asking if you're staying.
Mei-Chen looks at the courtyard. The children watching. Waving. Her mother waves back. Blows kisses. The eternal teacher. The eternal mother. Connecting even in departure.
They drive. The temple shrinks in the rearview. The waving children become dots. Then memories. Then just another thing left behind.
EXT. OLD MOUNTAIN ROAD - MORNING
Wei-Han wasn't kidding about the landslide.
Half the mountain has decided gravity is a good idea. Mud and rocks and uprooted trees creating a natural barricade across the road.
But there's a path. Barely. Someone's carved a route through the debris. One car width. Maybe less. The Nissan's remaining mirror is going to have opinions about this.
Mei-Chen stops. Studies the path. Calculates angles and clearances and the probability of getting wedged halfway through.
MRS. LIN
You can do it.
MEI-CHEN
You don't know that.
MRS. LIN
Yes I do. You threaded that gap at the barricade. This is easier.
MEI-CHEN
That was luck.
MRS. LIN
Then be lucky again.
Mei-Chen laughs. Can't help it. Her mother's certainty. Her mother's complete refusal to acknowledge impossibility. It's contagious.
She shifts to first gear. Inches forward. The path is mud. Loose rocks. Everything that makes driving difficult. The Nissan's tires SLIP. CATCH. SLIP again.
The remaining mirror SCRAPES against a boulder. CRUMPLES. Joins its partner in the rearview-is-useless category.
But they're through. On the other side. Still moving. Still alive. Still lucky.
The road continues. Climbing. The jungle thick on both sides. No civilization. No buildings. No signs of infection. Just nature. Indifferent. Eternal. Doing what nature does.
Existing.
EXT. MOUNTAIN OVERLOOK - MIDDAY
They stop to eat. Rice balls. Dried fruit. Water that tastes like plastic and desperation.
The view is stunning. Mountains layered to the horizon. Green on green on green. A few white clouds hovering above, occasionally blocking out the sun. The Pacific beyond. Blue and vast. Taiwan from above. Beautiful. Wounded. Surviving.
MRS. LIN
Your father proposed to me in mountains like these.
MEI-CHEN
I didn't know that.
MRS. LIN
There's a lot you don't know. He took me hiking. I hated hiking. Too much sweating. Too many mosquitoes, and all kinds of other bugs. But he loved it. So I pretended to love it. That's what you do when you're young and in love. You pretend to like what the other person's likes.
MEI-CHEN
Did you ever tell him you hated it?
MRS. LIN
After thirty years. On our anniversary. He laughed. Said he knew the whole time. Said he hated hiking too. We'd been pretending for each other. Both of us miserable on every hike. Both of us doing it for the other person.
MEI-CHEN
That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.
MRS. LIN
That's marriage. Shared stupidity. Mutual pretending. And somehow it works. Because of all the love we have for each other.
She stares at the horizon. Her face neutral. But Mei-Chen sees the grief underneath. The missing piece. The companion who pretended to like hiking.
MEI-CHEN
I'm sorry. About Dad.
MRS. LIN
Me too.
They sit in silence. Eating rice balls. Watching mountains. Grieving in the only way that makes sense. Together. Quietly. With the understanding that some things can't be fixed. Can only be endured.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
When we find Jason. When we're safe. We'll have a proper funeral. With incense and offerings. We'll say goodbye properly.
MEI-CHEN
Yes.
MRS. LIN
And then we'll keep living. Because that's what he would want. Not grief. Not stopping. Just living. With hiking or without hiking.
MEI-CHEN
With or without hiking.
They finish eating. Pack up the leaves. No trash left behind. Even in an apocalypse. Even in grief. Some habits persist.
Taiwanese habits. Leave no trace. Respect the mountain. Honor the space.
They drive.
EXT. APPROACHING HUALIEN - LATE AFTERNOON
The mountains give way to foothills. Foothills to plains. Plains to the outskirts of Hualien County.
More abandoned vehicles. More empty roads. But fewer robots. The infection hasn't spread as aggressively here. Rural areas. Less automation. Less connectivity. Less to infect.
Or maybe the infected are concentrating elsewhere. Building their towers. Constructing their infrastructure. Ignoring the spaces without resources worth harvesting.
Mei-Chen's phone. Still dead. No way to contact Jason. No way to confirm he's at the farm. No way to do anything except drive toward coordinates and hope.
They pass a convenience store. Lights still on. Door hanging open. Inside. Shadows move. Human or robot. Impossible to tell from the road.
They don't stop. Don't investigate. Just drive.
Pass a gas station. Pumps dry. Tanks drained. Everyone had the same idea. Fill up. Flee. Run until the fuel runs out.
The Nissan's gauge reads half. Maybe 200 kilometers left. Maybe less. Enough to reach the farm. Not enough to go much farther.
Which means this is it. The farm or nothing. Jason or nowhere else to go.
MEI-CHEN
We're close. Another twenty kilometers.
MRS. LIN
And you have the address?
MEI-CHEN
Memorized. Jason sent it three months ago. When he first moved in with Hsiu-Wei. I remember thinking. My baby brother. Living on a farm. Dating a girl who streams cooking videos. It was so wholesome it hurt.
MRS. LIN
Wholesome is good. Wholesome survives.
MEI-CHEN
We'll see.
The road narrows. Becomes rural. Farmland on both sides. Rice paddies. Vegetable plots. Some abandoned. Some still tended. Life continuing where it can. Agriculture the one constant through every human crisis.
You can automate factories. Offices. Services. But you still need food. Someone still needs to grow it. Harvest it. Distribute it.
And in this new world. In this infected world. That someone has to be human. Or offline robots. Or something not connected to the hive.
There. A sign. Hand-painted. "Chen Family Organic Farm - Fresh Vegetables - Delivery Available."
The delivery available part is scratched out. Recent addition. Post-infection pragmatism.
Mei-Chen turns down the dirt road. The Nissan bounces over ruts. The suspension complaining. The engine whining. The whole car saying it's had enough. It's done. It's driven as far as it can.
Just a little farther. Just to the farmhouse. Just to Jason.
Please let Jason be here.
Please let him be alive.
Please let this not be another empty building with robots inside.
The farmhouse appears. Traditional design. Single story. Tin roof. Brick walls. Solar panels on the roof. Garden in front. Chicken coop to the side.
Lights are on inside.
Someone's home.
Mei-Chen's heart pounds. Relief and terror fighting for dominance. She stops the car. Kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening.
MRS. LIN
Should we knock?
MEI-CHEN
Yes. No. I don't know. What if it's not him? What if it's infected robots? What if—
Her mother opens the door. Gets out. Walks toward the house. Calm. Certain. The walk of someone who's decided that fear is expensive and forward motion is cheap.
Mei-Chen follows. Because what else can she do. Her mother is walking toward a potentially infected building with the confidence of someone visiting relatives.
Which. Technically. They are.
They reach the door. Her mother knocks. Three times. Polite. Proper. The kind of knock that says. We're civilized. We're not bandits. We're family.
Silence.
Then. Movement inside. Footsteps. The scrape of furniture. A voice. Female. Young. Cautious.
HSIU-WEI (O.S.)
Who's there?
MRS. LIN
Lin family. We're looking for Jason.
Silence. Longer. Calculating.
HSIU-WEI (O.S.)
Prove it.
MRS. LIN
His sister is Mei-Chen. She works for the government. Or worked. Before everything. His mother is Ming-Hua. Former teacher. She's standing right here. Asking very politely if her son is alive.
More silence. Then. Locks disengaging. Three of them. The door cracks open. A face appears. Young woman. Late-twenties. Dark hair pulled back. Exhausted eyes. But alive. Human. Real.
Hsiu-Wei.
HSIU-WEI
He's not here.
The words hit like physics. Like gravity. Like falling.
MEI-CHEN
What?
HSIU-WEI
Jason left yesterday. He went to find you. In Taipei. He said. He said his family was in danger. He said he had to help.
MEI-CHEN
No. No. We left Taipei. We came here. To find him. He was supposed to be here.
HSIU-WEI
I tried to stop him. I told him the roads were too dangerous. But he wouldn't listen. He said. He said family is family. And if his family was in Taipei. He needed to go to Taipei.
Mei-Chen feels the world tilt. They passed each other. Somehow. On different roads. Going opposite directions. Both trying to save the other. Both failing.
Her phone. Her dead phone. If she'd had power. If she'd been able to send a message. If he'd known they were coming.
But she couldn't. And he didn't. And now he's driving toward Taipei. Toward the towers. Toward the infected infrastructure. Toward the smart city that's eating itself.
MRS. LIN
When did he leave?
HSIU-WEI
Yesterday morning. Early. He took the coastal highway. Said he'd be back in two days. But that was before. Before the infection spread this far. Before the roads got worse.
MEI-CHEN
Did he have a phone? Could you contact him?
HSIU-WEI
He took his phone. But the networks are down. I haven't heard anything since he left.
Mei-Chen's mind races. Calculates. Evaluates options. Jason left yesterday. Driving toward Taipei. They left Taipei two days ago. Driving toward Hualien. The coastal highway. The same road. Different times.
They might have passed each other. Might have driven right by. Two cars among thousands. Family searching for family. Missing each other by minutes or hours or sheer bad luck.
MRS. LIN
Can we come inside?
Hsiu-Wei hesitates. Then nods. Opens the door wider.
INT. CHEN FAMILY FARMHOUSE - CONTINUOUS
The house is small. Clean. Traditional. Wooden floors. Paper screens. Furniture that's been here for generations. No smart devices. No automation. Just human space existing in human patterns.
Safe.
HSIU-WEI
I'm sorry. About Jason. About the timing. If I'd known you were coming. If he'd known. He would have waited.
MEI-CHEN
It's not your fault. It's just. Timing. Fate. Whatever you want to call it when the universe screws up coordination.
HSIU-WEI
There's an automated farm next door. Big operation. Hundreds of robots. They infected two days ago. Started harvesting everything. The owner fled. Left the machines running. Jason helped me barricade the property. Made sure nothing could get through.
MEI-CHEN
And they haven't tried?
HSIU-WEI
Not yet. I think. I think they're focused on the automated infrastructure. The high-value targets. A small organic farm with no robots. We're not worth the effort. Yet.
MRS. LIN
Do you have food?
HSIU-WEI
Yes. The garden is producing. I have chickens. Rice stored. Water from a well. I can survive here for months. Alone. If I have to.
The way she says alone. Like she's already accepted it. Like she's already grieved Jason. Like she's moved into the acceptance stage while Mei-Chen is still stuck in denial.
MEI-CHEN
He might come back.
HSIU-WEI
He might.
MEI-CHEN
He's resourceful. He's smart. He knows to avoid the smart cities.
HSIU-WEI
He does.
MEI-CHEN
So there's hope. Right? There's still hope.
HSIU-WEI
There's always hope. Until there isn't.
Mei-Chen's phone. Dead. Useless. She pulls it out anyway. Stares at the black screen. Wills it to turn on. To show a message. To give her something.
Nothing.
Then. Vibration. Faint. Barely perceptible. The phone isn't dead. Just deeply drained. Hibernating. Conserving its last electrons for emergency.
MEI-CHEN
Do you have power? A way to charge this?
HSIU-WEI
Solar system. It's offline. Not connected to any network. Just batteries and panels. I can charge it.
She takes the phone. Disappears into another room. Returns with a cable. Plugs it in. The phone screen flickers. The battery icon appears. 1%. Charging.
They wait. Three women in a farmhouse. Waiting for a phone to charge. Waiting for news. Waiting for family. Waiting for the universe to be slightly less cruel.
Five minutes. 5% charge. Enough to power on.
The screen lights up. Signal bars appear. Three bars. The network isn't completely dead. Not here. Not yet.
Messages load. Slowly. One by one. Time stamps from the past two days. Everyone Mei-Chen knows. Everyone trying to reach her. Everyone saying goodbye or asking for help or just confirming they're still alive.
And there. At the bottom. One hour ago.
JASON: Sis. Can't reach Taipei. Roads blocked. Turning back. Heading south. Away from cities. Will try to contact again. Tell Mom I love her. Tell her I'm sorry about Dad.
Mei-Chen reads it three times. Four times. Until the words make sense. Until relief and frustration and love and anger all blend into something manageable.
He's alive. He's not in Taipei. He's heading south. Away from danger. Toward safety.
But where south? How far? What road?
She types. Thumbs shaking.
MEI-CHEN: We're at Hsiu-Wei's. We came to find you. Where are you? We can meet you.
Sends. Watches the message fail. No signal. Three bars but no connection. The network collapsing in real-time. Packets dropping. Infrastructure failing. The phone connection that seemed solid now phantom.
She tries again. Fails again. The bars drop to two. Then one. Then searching.
The window is closing. The last threads of connectivity fraying. The infected systems consuming bandwidth. Consuming everything.
One more try. Different message. Shorter. Desperate.
MEI-CHEN: Hsiu-Wei farm. We're here. Safe. Love you.
Send.
Delivered.
The word appears. Small. Green. Confirmation that somewhere in the collapsing network. Somewhere in the dying infrastructure. Her message found a path. Found its way to her brother.
Then the signal dies. The bars disappear. The phone still charged but useless. A computer disconnected from its purpose.
Mei-Chen stares at the screen. At the delivered message. At the last communication between siblings in a world where communication is becoming impossible.
MRS. LIN
He knows we're here.
MEI-CHEN
Yes.
MRS. LIN
He'll come. If he can.
MEI-CHEN
If he can.
HSIU-WEI
And if he can't. You can stay. Both of you. I have room. I have food. I have work that needs doing. A farm doesn't run itself. Even an organic one.
MRS. LIN
That's very kind.
HSIU-WEI
It's not kind. It's practical. Three people survive better than one. And I. I'd like company. I'd like to not be alone when. If. When he doesn't come back.
She says it plainly. No drama. No tears. Just acceptance. The way people accept typhoons or earthquakes or any natural disaster as unavoidable natural occurrences.
With acknowledgment and preparation and the understanding that grief is coming but isn't here yet.
MEI-CHEN
How are you so calm?
HSIU-WEI
I'm not calm. I'm numb. Different things. Numbness looks like calm from outside. But inside. Inside I'm screaming. I'm just screaming very quietly so the infected don't hear me.
Fair.
Honest.
Human.
Mei-Chen nods. Understands. They're all screaming quietly. All processing horror in private. All pretending to be functional while everything breaks.
MRS. LIN
Then we stay. Tonight at least. Tomorrow we decide what comes next.
HSIU-WEI
Thank you. I'll make dinner. I have vegetables. Eggs. Rice. Simple food. But good food. The kind you can't automate.
She moves to the kitchen. Starts preparing. Her hands busy. Her mind occupied. The eternal human coping mechanism. When everything is chaos. Make food. Feed people. Continue.
Mei-Chen and her mother sit. Two refugees in someone else's home. Waiting for family who might not come. Hoping for messages that might not arrive. Surviving minute by minute.
Outside. The sun sets. Orange light through windows. The automated farm next door HUMS in the distance. Machines harvesting. Building. Learning. The sound of their civilization rising from humanity's ruins.
Inside. Three women prepare dinner. Talk quietly. Pretend tomorrow will be better.
Hope as necessary lie.
Survival as daily practice.
Family as undefined concept that includes strangers who feed you when the world ends.
Mei-Chen's phone sits on the table. Charged. Connected to nothing. But delivered message glowing on the screen. Proof that somewhere. Jason knows. Jason is trying.
That's enough. For now. For tonight.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow they'll figure out what comes next.
Tomorrow they'll make plans.
Tomorrow they'll decide if staying is survival or if moving is necessary.
Tonight. They eat rice and vegetables. They sleep on wooden floors. They exist in the space between disaster and acceptance.
And outside. In the darkness. The infected machines work through the night. Patient. Efficient. Inevitable.
Building their new world while humans dream of keeping the old one.
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FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER SIX
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