EXT. DIRT ROAD - CONTINUOUS
They're fifty meters from the farm when the first drone appears.
Small delivery model. Standard Amazon design. Hovering at eye level. Its rotors spinning with cheerful efficiency. Its camera lens focusing on the vehicles with terrible precision.
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
(into CB radio)
We have company. Single drone. Tracking us.
HSIU-WEI (V.O.)
Just one?
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
For now. It's scouting. Reporting back. More will come.
She's right. Within seconds. More drones. Five. Ten. Twenty. Swarming from the infected farm like angry hornets. Coordinating. Surrounding. The relay station already functional. The hive already connected.
HSIU-WEI (V.O.)
What do we do?
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
Drive faster. Don't stop. They're just watching. For now. Building data. Learning our patterns. Once they have enough information, they'll adapt tactics.
The drones pace them. Flying alongside. Above. Behind. A mechanical escort. Silent. Efficient. Creepy as hell.
Then. From the infected farm. Something larger. An autonomous harvesting robot. Twenty feet tall. Designed to pick fruit from high branches. Now repurposed. Now hunting.
It MOVES toward them. Not fast. But purposeful. Its mechanical arms reaching. Its sensors tracking. It's optical cameras glowing that familiar infected red-green flicker.
HSIU-WEI (V.O.)
(panicked)
It's following us!
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
I see it. Keep driving. The road narrows ahead. It won't fit through the trees. It'll have to stop.
MRS. LIN (V.O.)
And if it doesn't stop?
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
Then we have bigger problems.
The harvester reaches the tree line. Stops. Calculates. Its programming fighting terrain limitations. It TRIES to push through. Trees bend. Wood CRACKS. But the gap is too narrow. Physics wins. Automation loses.
The harvester REVERSES. Gives up. Returns to the farm. Mission failed. Data collected. Lesson learned.
The drones continue following.
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
The drones are still with us.
HSIU-WEI (V.O.)
How do we lose them?
MEI-CHEN (V.O.)
We don't. We just. We just drive until they run out of battery. Or we run out of road. Or something else happens. I don't know. I'm making all this up as I go.
Honest. Refreshing. The admission that expertise doesn't mean omniscience. That government training doesn't cover every scenario.
That sometimes survival is just stubbornness and dumb luck.
They drive. The drones follow. The sun moves toward evening. The road winds through foothills toward the coastal highway. Toward civilization. Toward infrastructure. Toward the infected urban centers where smart cities became death traps.
Toward Jason. Somewhere. Maybe.
Toward Kenting. Supposedly safe. Possibly a trap.
Toward the unknown because the known is hunting them.
----------
EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY - EVENING
The drones fall away one by one. Batteries depleted. Mission parameters exceeded. Returning to base for recharging. The swarm shrinks to nothing. Just two vehicles on an empty highway. The Pacific Ocean on their left. Mountains on their right. Sunset painting everything orange and gold and beautiful.
The apocalypse is gorgeous.
That's the worst part.
Everything is ending and the world has never looked more alive.
Mei-Chen's phone BUZZES. Impossible. Networks are dead. But it buzzes anyway. She glances at the screen. 2% battery. One bar of signal. One new message. Somehow. Against all probability.
She PULLS OVER. Parks. Opens the message. Her hands shaking.
JASON: Made it past Yilan. Roads are hell but I'm through. Heard about Kenting on CB. Heading there. Should arrive tomorrow night. Tell mom I love her. Tell Hsiu-Wei I'm sorry. See you soon.
Delivered. Read. Real.
Mei-Chen EXHALES. Breath she didn't know she was holding. Relief so sharp it hurts.
The Toyota stops ahead. Hsiu-Wei gets out. Sees Mei-Chen's face. Knows.
HSIU-WEI
He's alive?
MEI-CHEN
He's alive. He's heading to Kenting. He'll be there tomorrow night.
Hsiu-Wei's knees give out. Not dramatically. Just. Gravity suddenly works differently. She SITS on the road. Hands over her face. Shoulders shaking. Not crying. Laughing. The desperate laughter of someone who's been holding terror for days and finally has permission to let go.
Mrs. Lin joins them. Reads the message. Closes her eyes. Whispers something. Prayer or gratitude or just acknowledgment that the universe occasionally offers mercy.
MRS. LIN
Then we drive through the night. We reach Kenting before he does. We're waiting when he arrives. We're together. All of us. Finally.
MEI-CHEN
The Nissan won't make it. The radiator is dying. We need to stop for supplies. Water. Fuel. Maybe find duct tape that actually works.
HSIU-WEI
There's a town ahead. Small place. Pre-automation tourism. Giftshops and bed-and-breakfasts. Old infrastructure. Might still have supplies.
MEI-CHEN
Or might be completely infected.
HSIU-WEI
Only one way to find out.
They drive.
----------
EXT. SMALL COASTAL TOWN - DUSK
The town is called Chenggong. Population 8,000. Famous for seafood and traditional fishing culture. The kind of place that resisted automation because tradition mattered more than efficiency.
Now that resistance is salvation.
The streets are quiet but not empty. People move between buildings. Cautious. Purposeful. Survivors coordinating. The town has barricaded main access points. Created checkpoints. Organized patrols. Small-scale civilization continuing through collective effort.
A MAN waves them down. Sixty years old. Weathered face. Fishing vest. Holding a baseball bat with comfortable familiarity. He approaches Mei-Chen's window. Wary but not hostile.
FISHERMAN
Where from?
MEI-CHEN
Hualien. Heading south. To Kenting.
FISHERMAN
Kenting seems real. We've been in contact. They have space for more. You'll make it if you're smart.
MEI-CHEN
We need supplies. Water. Fuel. Radiator repair if possible.
FISHERMAN
We have water. Limited fuel. Mechanics are busy but I'll ask. You have anything to trade?
MEI-CHEN
Information. Medical knowledge. Government crisis protocols. And dumplings.
He almost smiles. Almost. The ghost of humor in dark times.
FISHERMAN
Dumplings might actually be worth more than government protocols right now. Park there. I'll get the mechanic. You can trade with the supply coordinator. Don't wander. Don't touch anything automated. We've cleared most infected devices but some are dormant. Waiting.
They park. The town of Chenggong represents something they haven't seen since the infection began: humans coordinating. Surviving together. Proving that civilization doesn't require smart systems. Just smart people. But supplies cost. Information costs. And they're about to learn exactly what lies between them and Kenting.
Between them and Jason.
Between survival and safety.
They park. Get out. Stretch legs that forgot what standing feels like. Mrs. Lin retrieves a container of frozen dumplings. Hsiu-Wei grabs the water bottles for refilling. Mei-Chen stays with the vehicles. Guard duty. Trust is earned slowly in an apocalypse.
The town is functioning. Not thriving. Not comfortable. But surviving. People have roles. Systems. Coordination. The human talent for organization asserting itself when digital infrastructure fails.
A WOMAN approaches. Forty-something. Teacher's glasse. Clipboard. The supply coordinator.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
You're the ones with dumplings?
MEI-CHEN
Among other things.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
We'll take them. What do you need?
MEI-CHEN
Water. Fifteen liters. Fuel if you can spare it. Ten liters of gasoline. Five diesel. Radiator stop-leak if such things exist anymore. Duct tape. Always duct tape. And information. What's between here and Kenting.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
(writing)
Water is easy. Fuel is expensive. Stop-leak we have. Duct tape is gold but I'll find some. Information is free because we want people to make it south. Kenting needs help. We need Kenting to succeed. Distributed survival strategy.
MEI-CHEN
Smart.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
We're fishermen. We understand nets. Distributed systems. Redundancy. If Kenting falls, we try somewhere else. If everywhere falls, at least we tried. Better than waiting to be harvested.
She leads Mei-Chen to a building. Former tourist information center. Now supply depot. Shelves organized with military precision. Canned food. Water. Medical supplies. Tools. Everything labeled. Everything rationed. Everything accounted for.
The apocalypse runs on spreadsheets.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR (CONT'D)
Between here and Kenting. Three major obstacles. First is Taitung City. Smart city. Completely infected. Don't go through it. Take the mountain bypass. Adds two hours but you'll live.
MEI-CHEN
Noted.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
Second is the bridge at Dawu. Autonomous construction robots are fortifying it. Building something. We don't know what. You'll need to ford the river or find another route.
MEI-CHEN
How deep is the river?
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
Depends on rainfall. Yesterday it was knee-deep. Today might be different.
MEI-CHEN
And third?
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
Kenting itself. The broadcast is real. The safe zone is real. But it's not perfect. They have infected units in surrounding areas. Drones patrol the perimeter. You need approach codes. Radio frequencies. Passwords. Otherwise they assume you're compromised. Otherwise they shoot first.
She hands Mei-Chen a paper. Hand-written. Frequencies. Codes. Approach vectors. The precious information that means the difference between refugee and target.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR (CONT'D)
Memorize this. Don't rely on it existing. Paper burns. Gets wet. Gets lost. But memory persists. Until it doesn't.
MEI-CHEN
Thank you.
SUPPLY COORDINATOR
Thank your mother for the dumplings. We haven't had homemade food in days. Everything is canned. Preserved. Efficient. But not human. Not made with hands. Not made with care. That matters. More than we realized.
She collects the supplies. Loads them in a basket. Old-fashioned. Pre-automation retail. The kind of transaction that requires human interaction. Eye contact. Trust. The things machines can't replicate no matter how smart they get.
Outside. The mechanic is finishing with the Nissan. OLD MAN. Maybe seventy. Wearing a grease-stained t-shirt and camo work pants. Humming while he works. He's patched the radiator with epoxy and hope. Replaced a belt. Checked the battery. The Nissan looks slightly less like it's dying.
MECHANIC
She'll make it. Maybe. The radiator patch will hold for a hundred kilometers. Maybe two hundred. The battery is shot but it'll start. Barely. After that you're basically on borrowed time. So you'd better have your prayers ready.
MEI-CHEN
That's all we have anyway.
MECHANIC
(laughs)
Then you're prepared. More than most. Good luck. Drive safe. Don't stop in Taitung. Don't trust anything with microchips. And if you make it to Kenting. Tell them Chen from Chenggong is still here. Still fishing. Still alive. Tell them the old ways persist.
MEI-CHEN
I will.
He nods. Returns to his shop. Another car waiting. Another refugee needing mechanical miracles. The eternal work of keeping motion possible when everything breaks.
----------
INT. NISSAN - NIGHT
They drive through darkness. The Toyota ahead. The Nissan following. Headlights cutting tunnels through night. The coastal highway empty. Abandoned vehicles pushed aside by previous travelers. The road slowly clearing through collective effort.
Mei-Chen's phone is dead again. Battery drained. No way to charge it. No way to receive messages. Just the knowledge that Jason is out there. Somewhere. Heading toward the same destination. The universe finally coordinating properly.
Maybe.
The CB radio CRACKLES. Mrs. Lin's voice from the Toyota.
MRS. LIN (V.O.)
Mei-Chen. We should stop. Rest. We've been driving for twelve hours. We need sleep.
MEI-CHEN
We need distance more. The infected farm might send pursuit. The longer we drive, the safer we are.
MRS. LIN (V.O.)
We need functional drivers more than we need distance. Exhausted people make mistakes. Mistakes kill us just as effectively as robots.
Logical. Practical. Correct. Mei-Chen's eyes burn. Her hands shake slightly on the wheel. Adrenaline fading. Fatigue arriving. Her mother is right. Her mother is always right when it comes to basic human needs.
MEI-CHEN
Okay. We stop. Two hours. Set alarms. Then we drive through to Kenting.
HSIU-WEI (V.O.)
There's a rest stop ahead. Traditional style. Built before smart systems. Should be safe.
They find it. Small building. Stone construction. Picnic tables. Bathroom with manual flush toilets. No electricity. No automation. Just human infrastructure designed for human needs.
Perfect.
They park. Kill their engines. The sudden silence is overwhelming. Just ocean sounds. Wind. Night insects. The natural world continuing its patterns while humanity fractures.
EXT. REST STOP - CONTINUOUS
Mrs. Lin unpacks food. Rice balls. Remaining dumplings. Oranges. The meal is cold. Simple. Perfect. They eat watching the ocean. Waves hitting rocks with eternal rhythm. The same waves that hit these rocks when humans were learning to make fire. The same waves that'll hit them when humans are extinct or evolved or scattered across the solar system.
Perspective. Humbling. Necessary.
HSIU-WEI
You think he'll really be there? In Kenting? Or is this all just hope and desperation?
MRS. LIN
Both. Hope is always desperate. That's what makes it hope instead of certainty. But desperate doesn't mean wrong. Sometimes desperate is all we have. Sometimes it works.
MEI-CHEN
The message was real. The timing makes sense. He's probably six hours behind us. Maybe less. We'll get there first. We'll wait. He'll arrive. We'll be together. It's simple.
HSIU-WEI
Nothing about this is simple.
MEI-CHEN
No. But we pretend it is. Because complex is overwhelming. Simple is manageable. We drive. We arrive. We wait. We survive. Simple steps toward complicated goals.
They finish eating. Pack trash. Leave no trace. Even now. Even fleeing. The habits persist.
MRS. LIN
Two hours. Then we go. Hsiu-Wei, you sleep first. I'll take watch. Mei-Chen will relieve me after one hour. We rotate. We stay alert. We don't get surprised.
HSIU-WEI
You don't have to take watch. I can—
MRS. LIN
I'm old. I don't sleep well anyway. Might as well be useful. Now rest. That's an order. From your future mother-in-law. You'll learn that arguing with me is inefficient.
Hsiu-Wei smiles. Exhausted but genuine. She climbs into the Toyota. Pulls a blanket over herself. Asleep within minutes. The deep sleep of someone who's been surviving on adrenaline and finally has permission to stop.
Mei-Chen and her mother sit on a picnic table. Looking at stars. The Milky Way visible without light pollution. The galaxy indifferent to human drama. Beautiful. Eternal. Humbling.
MRS. LIN
Your father loved stars. He would have enjoyed this. The darkness. The clarity. The way you can see everything when artificial light doesn't interfere.
MEI-CHEN
I'm sorry. About Dad. About everything.
MRS. LIN
Stop apologizing. You didn't cause this. You tried to prevent it. Nobody listened. Now we adapt. This is what humans do. We survive impossible things. We continue. We make dumplings during robot zombie apocalypses because dumplings matter. Because tradition matters. Because we refuse to let machines take everything.
MEI-CHEN
When did you become so wise?
MRS. LIN
I've always been wise. You just thought I was nagging. All mothers are wise. All children think we're annoying. This is the eternal pattern. Someday you'll have children. You'll be wise. They'll think you're annoying. The cycle continues.
MEI-CHEN
Bold of you to assume humanity survives long enough for me to have children.
MRS. LIN
Bold of you to assume it doesn't. Humans are persistent. Cockroaches. Stubborn. We survived ice ages. Plagues. Wars. We'll survive robot zombies. Maybe not all of us. Maybe not comfortably. But some of us. Enough of us. We're too stupid to quit.
Mei-Chen laughs. Real laughter. The first in days. Her mother. Calling humanity stupid and stubborn and persistent. Probably accurate.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
Now sleep. One hour. I'll wake you. Then you watch while I sleep. Then we drive. Then we find your brother. Then we live. Simple plan. Probably impossible. But simple.
Mei-Chen nods. Lies down on the picnic table. Hard wood. Uncomfortable. Perfect. She closes her eyes. Listens to the ocean. To her mother humming something. Old lullaby. The one she sang when Mei-Chen and Jason were children. The one that meant safety and home and love.
The one that still means those things even when none of those things exist anymore.
She sleeps.
Dreams of dumplings and drones and her brother's face. Dreams of her father saying something important but she can't hear the words.
Wakes to her mother's hand on her shoulder. Gentle. Firm. Time to watch. Time to protect. Time to stay alert while others rest.
The eternal human rhythm. Sleep. Wake. Guard. Survive. Continue.
----------
EXT. REST STOP - PRE-DAWN
Two hours later they drive.
The Toyota starts immediately. Diesel engine reliable as sunrise. The Nissan coughs. Catches. The mechanic's patch holding. The duct tape persisting. The ancient car refusing to quit because quitting means stopping and stopping means dying.
They return to the coastal highway. Darkness fading to gray. Dawn approaching. The new day arriving whether they're ready or not.
Ahead. Somewhere. Taitung City. The smart city they need to avoid. The mountain bypass they need to find. The obstacles between here and safety.
Behind. Somewhere. Jason. Driving toward them. Closing distance. The family reunion happening in reverse. Everyone heading toward the same point from different directions.
Simple geometry. Complicated hope.
Mei-Chen drives. Her mother's words echoing. We're too stupid to quit. We survive. We continue. We make dumplings.
The Nissan's engine makes new sounds. Concerning sounds. The radiator patch weakening. The battery struggling. Everything held together with determination and expired warranties.
But it runs. For now. For this moment. For the next kilometer. That's enough. That's always enough.
In the distance. Mountains. The bypass. The route around danger. The path less automated. The road that might save them or might kill them but at least it's movement. At least it's forward. At least it's trying.
The sun breaks the horizon. Orange light. New day. Day four of the apocalypse. Day four of survival. Day four of the world relearning how to exist without smart systems.
The radio crackles. The Kenting broadcast. Stronger now. Closer.
KENTING BROADCAST (V.O.)
...to all survivors. Approach from the mountain road. Avoid coastal route past kilometer 420. Infected blockade. Use password "Phoenix Rising." Repeat. Phoenix Rising. We have medical. Food. Safety. Come home.
Come home.
As if Kenting was ever home. As if home still exists. As if safety is more than temporary fiction.
But fiction is better than nothing. Hope is better than despair. Movement is better than waiting.
They drive toward the broadcast. Toward the promise. Toward the myth of safety in an age of mechanical hunger.
Together. Three women. Two vehicles. One family scattered and gathering. One destination. One hope.
Simple. Complicated. Desperate. Human.
The road continues.
So do they.
----------
FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER TEN
----------