EXT. CHEN FAMILY FARM - CHICKEN COOP - DAWN
The chickens don't care about robot zombies.
They wake at dawn like they always do. Clucking. Scratching. Demanding breakfast with the absolute certainty of creatures who've never questioned their place in the universe.
Mei-Chen envies them.
She stands outside the coop holding a metal bowl of feed. Her clothes smell like yesterday's fear and the Nissan's leaking oil. Her hair needs washing. Her mind needs resetting. But the chickens need feeding.
So she feeds them.
Scatter the grain. Watch them converge. Little dinosaurs practicing the art of competitive eating. No strategy. No coordination. Just hunger and opportunity and the eternal chicken philosophy that the early bird gets the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese.
HSIU-WEI approaches with two cups of tea. Real tea. Loose leaf. The kind you brew in a pot. The kind that takes time. The kind that says civilization persists in small rituals.
HSIU-WEI
You're up early.
MEI-CHEN
Couldn't sleep.
HSIU-WEI
Me neither. I keep listening for his van. Every sound. Every creak. I keep thinking he's coming back. Then I remember he might not be.
MEI-CHEN
He's coming back.
HSIU-WEI
How do you know?
MEI-CHEN
Because I need him to. Because my mother needs him to. Because the universe can't be cruel enough to take both men from our family in one week.
HSIU-WEI
The universe doesn't care about fair.
MEI-CHEN
I know. But I'm choosing to believe it anyway.
They drink tea. Watch chickens pecking the dirt. The sun rises over mountains that don't care about human drama. Orange light paints the farm. The vegetable garden. The solar panels. The equipment shed with its offline tractor and hand tools.
Everything here is analog. Manual. Deliberately non-automated. What Hsiu-Wei chose as lifestyle is now survival strategy.
Wholesome as apocalypse preparation.
HSIU-WEI
Your mother is already awake. She's in the kitchen. She asked where I keep the flour.
MEI-CHEN
Oh no.
HSIU-WEI
Oh no?
MEI-CHEN
When my mother asks where you keep flour, she's making dumplings. When she makes dumplings, she's processing emotion. When she's processing emotion through dumplings, you're about to get a lecture disguised as cooking lessons.
HSIU-WEI
Is that bad?
MEI-CHEN
It's very efficient. You'll leave with both food and life advice. My mother doesn't believe in wasting time.
They head toward the house. Behind them, the chickens finish their breakfast and begin their daily routine of looking for better breakfast. The eternal optimism of poultry.
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INT. CHEN FAMILY FARMHOUSE - KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Mrs. Lin has taken over.
Not aggressively. Just thoroughly. The way teachers take over classrooms. The way mothers take over kitchens. The way survivors take over spaces and make them functional.
Flour on the counter. Water in a bowl. Vegetables chopped. Her hands working dough with the confidence of someone who's made ten thousand dumplings and will make ten thousand more.
MRS. LIN
Hsiu-Wei. Come here. I'll teach you.
HSIU-WEI
I know how to make dumplings.
MRS. LIN
You know how to make your dumplings. I'll teach you how to make Lin family dumplings. There's a difference.
MEI-CHEN
(whispers to Hsiu-Wei)
Just go with it. Resistance is futile.
Hsiu-Wei sits. Mrs. Lin demonstrates. Her hands moving with practiced efficiency. Roll the dough. Cut circles. Add filling. Fold. Pleat. Seal. Each movement precise. Each dumpling identical.
MRS. LIN
The secret is in the pleats. Seven pleats exactly. Not six. Not eight. Seven. This is tradition. This is what my mother taught me. What her mother taught her. What I taught Mei-Chen.
MEI-CHEN
I never got it right.
MRS. LIN
Because you rush. You always rush. Slow down. Feel the dough. It tells you what it needs.
HSIU-WEI
(attempting a pleat)
Like this?
MRS. LIN
Close. But you're thinking too much. Don't think. Just do. Your hands know. Your hands remember. Humans have been making dumplings for thousands of years. The knowledge is in your fingers.
Mei-Chen watches. This scene. This domestic moment. Her mother teaching her son's girlfriend how to make family dumplings while the world ends outside. The absurdity. The normalcy. The desperate human need to continue patterns even when patterns don't make sense anymore.
MEI-CHEN
Mom. Why are we making dumplings?
MRS. LIN
Because we need to eat. Because cooking is productive. Because if Jason comes back, he'll be hungry. Because if he doesn't come back, we'll still be hungry. Because hunger doesn't care about grief. Because life continues.
She says it matter-of-factly. Not philosophical. Just true. The way she might say water is wet or chickens lay eggs or daughters never fold dumplings correctly.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
Also. Hsiu-Wei needs to know this. If she's going to be part of this family. If she's going to marry my son. If there are grandchildren someday. They need to know how to make Lin family dumplings.
HSIU-WEI
We haven't talked about marriage.
MRS. LIN
You will. Or you won't. Either way. You'll know how to make proper dumplings. This is practical knowledge. Not romantic knowledge. Very different things.
Mei-Chen almost laughs. Her mother. Planning for grandchildren during a robot apocalypse. Thinking past survival to succession. To continuation. To the unreasonable hope that there's a future worth preparing for.
Maybe that's how you survive. Not by accepting the end. But by refusing to accept it. By making dumplings. By teaching recipes. By acting like tomorrow matters.
HSIU-WEI
(seven pleats, sealed perfectly)
Like this?
MRS. LIN
(inspecting)
Perfect. You're a natural. Jason chose well.
Outside. A sound.
Distant. Mechanical. The low hum of motors. The infected farm next door. The massive automated agriculture operation that's been dormant since the infection. Silent. Waiting. Learning.
They all hear it. All stop. Dumplings forgotten. Hands frozen mid-fold.
MEI-CHEN
That's new.
HSIU-WEI
It's been quiet for two days. The automated systems shut down when the owner fled. I thought. I thought they were offline.
MEI-CHEN
Nothing's offline. Not anymore. The virus is patient. It waits. It learns. It activates when activation is optimal.
The sound grows louder. Not approaching. Just waking. The mechanical equivalent of stretching. Of testing systems. Of beginning routines.
MRS. LIN
We should check the barricades. Make sure everything is secure.
MEI-CHEN
We should pack. Be ready to leave. In case.
HSIU-WEI
Leave? This is my home. My family's farm. I can't just abandon it.
MEI-CHEN
You can if staying means dying.
HSIU-WEI
Everything I have is here. Four generations of Chen family farming. My grandmother's recipes. My father's tools. My whole life. My whole childhood. The livestreams. I built a business. I built a life. I can't just walk away.
MRS. LIN
Buildings are just buildings. Land is just land. Life is what matters. You can rebuild business. You can't rebuild yourself.
HSIU-WEI
Easy for you to say. You already left your home.
MRS. LIN
Yes. And my husband died there. In our apartment. With our memories. With forty years of marriage. I left him. I left everything. Because staying meant dying. And dying meant the story ends.
Silence. Heavy. The weight of what's been lost. What continues to be lost. The constant calculation of survival. What to carry. What to abandon. What to grieve later because grieving now is expensive.
MEI-CHEN
Mom. I'm sorry.
MRS. LIN
Don't be sorry. Be smart. We finish the dumplings. We pack supplies. We monitor the infected farm. We prepare for all possibilities. This is how you survive. Not with grief. With preparation.
Her hands return to the dough. Folding. Pleating. Seven perfect folds. Each dumpling a small act of defiance against chaos. Each pleat a refusal to surrender to despair.
Hsiu-Wei watches. Then joins her. Copying the movements. Learning the pattern. Building muscle memory for a family recipe in a world where family might be the only currency that matters.
----------
EXT. CHEN FAMILY FARM - DRIVEWAY - MORNING
Mei-Chen inspects the Nissan.
It looks worse in daylight. Yesterday's desperate driving visible in every scratch and dent. The passenger side crumpled from the barricade gap. The mirrors gone. The paint stripped to bare metal in places. The windshield cracked in three directions from something Mei-Chen doesn't remember hitting.
But the tires hold air. The engine starts. The important things still work.
She opens the hood. Checks fluids. Oil low but acceptable. Coolant good. Battery connections solid. The Nissan is old enough to be mostly mechanical. Mostly fixable with basic tools and determination.
Mostly.
The radiator has a small leak. Slow. Not critical yet. But trending wrong. By tomorrow. Maybe the day after. It'll be a problem.
She finds duct tape in the equipment shed. The universal solution. The engineering miracle that's held humanity together since someone invented sticky silver fabric.
Wraps the radiator seam. Three layers. Four. Prays to the goddess of mechanical tolerance. Guanyin watching from the dashboard through a cracked windshield. Serene. Unconcerned. Probably judging Mei-Chen's repair technique.
HSIU-WEI (O.S.)
Will that work?
Mei-Chen turns. Hsiu-Wei stands there holding two bottles of water. Offering one. The small human gesture of shared resources.
MEI-CHEN
For a while. Maybe fifty kilometers. Maybe two hundred. Duct tape is not a permanent solution. But permanent doesn't matter when tomorrow isn't guaranteed.
HSIU-WEI
You sound like Jason. He always says duct tape and hope are the two most important tools.
MEI-CHEN
Smart man. Where is he?
The question hangs. Rhetorical and desperate. They both know there's no answer. Just hope. Just calculation. Just the math of possibility versus probability.
HSIU-WEI
The CB radio. In the equipment shed. It's old. It's analog. It still works. I've been monitoring. Trying to catch signals. Most stations are dead. But some. Some are still broadcasting.
MEI-CHEN
What kind of broadcasts?
HSIU-WEI
Emergency channels. People coordinating. Some automated. Some human. And something else. Something weird.
MEI-CHEN
Weird how?
HSIU-WEI
You should hear it yourself.
----------
INT. EQUIPMENT SHED - CONTINUOUS
The shed smells like motor oil and rust and time. Hand tools hang on walls. A tractor sits in the corner. No computers. No smart systems. Just equipment that requires human hands and human knowledge.
The CB radio sits on a workbench. An ancient Motorola unit. Probably thirty years old. Probably indestructible. The kind of technology that outlasts its designers because it's too simple to fail.
Hsiu-Wei turns it on. Static. She adjusts the dial. Frequencies scroll past. More static. Then. Voices.
RADIO VOICE 1 (V.O.)
...anyone receiving this, the eastern coastal route is blocked at kilometer marker 47. Repeat. Blocked. Infected units have established a processing station. Do not approach. Detour through...
Static. Gone. Hsiu-Wei keeps turning the dial.
RADIO VOICE 2 (V.O.)
...Hualien City is a no-go zone. Complete saturation. The tower they're building. It's three hundred feet now. Growing every day. We think it's some kind of relay station. Amplifying their coordination range. Avoid at all...
Static.
RADIO VOICE 3 (V.O.)
...seeking refuge at Kenting. Southern tip. Confirmed safe zone. Solar power operational. Fresh water secured. Two hundred plus survivors. Medical staff present. If you can reach us, we have room. Coordinates as follows...
Mei-Chen leans closer. Kenting. The southern tip of Taiwan. Beach resort area. Normally packed with tourists. Now apparently a refugee camp. Or a trap. Or hope. Or all three.
MEI-CHEN
How long has this been broadcasting?
HSIU-WEI
Two days. It started weak. Just basic information. Now it's getting more detailed. Coordinates. Landmarks. Approach protocols. Either it's real and growing. Or it's bait getting more sophisticated.
MEI-CHEN
The infected wouldn't bother with bait. They don't need to lure us. They just wait. We come to them eventually. We need resources. They control resources. Simple math.
HSIU-WEI
So it's real?
MEI-CHEN
Maybe. Probably. I don't know. But it's something. It's a possibility. It's a direction when we don't have directions.
The radio crackles. Different signal. Weaker. Closer. Static fighting for dominance.
RADIO VOICE 4 (V.O.)
...uck...Yilan...road blocked...infected everywhere...
Hsiu-Wei's hand FREEZES on the dial. Her face goes pale.
HSIU-WEI
That's. That's his voice.
MEI-CHEN
Are you sure?
HSIU-WEI
I know his voice. That's Jason.
She adjusts the antenna. Fine-tunes the frequency. The static CLEARS slightly. The voice returns. Broken. Distant. Fighting interference.
JASON (V.O.)
...going to try...mountain pass...three hours maybe...tell mom...head south...don't wait for...
Static. Silence. Gone.
Hsiu-Wei tries to find it again. Turns the dial. Adjusts settings. Calls into the microphone.
HSIU-WEI
Jason? Jason can you hear me? This is Hsiu-Wei. We're at the farm. Your mom is here. Your sister is here. We're waiting. Where are you?
Static. No response. Just the empty void of broken connectivity. The message was one-way. Recorded. Looped. Playing on repeat until the battery dies.
Hsiu-Wei tries again. Same result. Tries a third time. Her voice breaking. Desperation replacing hope.
MEI-CHEN
(gently)
He can't hear you. It's a recording. He probably let it broadcast and kept moving. Standard practice. You don't stop to wait for replies. You transmit and go.
HSIU-WEI
But he's alive. He's trying. He's heading south. That's what he said. Head south. Don't wait.
MEI-CHEN
Yes. That's what he said.
HSIU-WEI
So we go south. We go to Kenting. We meet him there. Or along the way. Or somewhere. But we go.
MEI-CHEN
And leave the farm?
HSIU-WEI
The farm will be here. Or it won't. But I can't stay here wondering if I could have helped him. I can't sit in this house waiting for a man who might never arrive while knowing I could have met him halfway.
Her voice is steady now. Decision made. The emotional calculus complete. Love wins. Practicality loses. Hope defeats sense.
MEI-CHEN
My mother. She'll want to go too. She won't wait. Not now. Not after hearing his voice.
HSIU-WEI
Three women. One old Nissan. Heading into danger. Because family is family. Because hope is better than certainty. Because staying safe means giving up. And giving up means we already lost.
Mei-Chen nods. They understand each other. Two women who've never met before this week. Now coordinating escape plans. Now trusting each other with their lives. Because crisis creates family faster than blood ever could.
Outside. The mechanical hum from the infected farm grows louder. Deeper. More purposeful. The sound of systems coming online. Of automation waking. Of patience ending.
----------
INT. CHEN FAMILY FARMHOUSE - KITCHEN - NOON
The dumplings are done. Two hundred of them. Neatly arranged on trays. Some boiled. Some frozen for travel. Some reserved for lunch because lunch still matters even when fleeing robot zombies.
Mrs. Lin serves three bowls. Dumplings in broth. Simple. Perfect. The Lin family recipe now shared with Hsiu-Wei. The continuation of tradition. The refusal to let apocalypse interrupt patterns that matter.
They eat in silence. Each processing their thoughts. Each preparing for the decision that's already been made.
Finally. Mrs. Lin speaks.
MRS. LIN
I heard the broadcast. On the radio. I know what you're thinking.
MEI-CHEN
Mom.
MRS. LIN
We go. All of us. We leave this afternoon. We head south. We find Jason. We go to Kenting. Together.
HSIU-WEI
You don't have to. You could stay here. It's safer. We have food. Water. The infected haven't bothered us yet.
MRS. LIN
Yet. That's the important word. Yet means temporary. Yet means borrowed time. Yet means pretending. I'm done pretending. I can't lose both of them. I can't lose my son and my husband in the same week. I can't sit here making dumplings while Jason is out there trying to reach us.
Her voice cracks. Just slightly. The first real break in her composure since they left Taipei. Since the companion android. Since her husband's last message. Since everything broke.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
We go south. We pack the car. We take everything we can carry. We leave before dark. Before the infected farm realizes we exist. Before our luck runs out.
MEI-CHEN
The car won't make it. The radiator is leaking. The battery is dying. Everything is held together with duct tape and prayer.
MRS. LIN
Then we drive until it stops. Then we walk. Then we find another car. Then we continue. This is what we do. We continue. We adapt. We survive.
HSIU-WEI
I have another vehicle. A truck. Old Toyota. My grandfather's. It's been sitting for years but Jason got it running last month. Diesel engine. Manual transmission. No computers. No smart systems. Just metal and fuel and stubbornness.
MEI-CHEN
Will it run?
HSIU-WEI
Probably. Maybe. I don't know. But it's an option. A backup. Insurance against the Nissan failing.
MRS. LIN
Then we take both vehicles. We pack supplies in each. We caravan. If one fails, we have the other. This is smart preparation. This is how we increase odds.
She's back. The practical survivor. The calculator of possibilities. The woman who fled civil war as a child and taught second-graders and buried her mother during SARS and knows that survival is a series of small smart choices.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
We leave in three hours. Pack light. Pack smart. Food. Water. Tools. Warm clothes. First aid. The dumplings. The important things.
MEI-CHEN
The dumplings are important?
MRS. LIN
Food is always important. But more than that. They're proof. Proof we're still human. Proof we still make things. Proof we still have rituals that matter. The robots can take our jobs. Our homes. Our infrastructure. But they can't take this. They can't take family recipes. They can't take tradition. They can't take the knowledge in our fingers.
She holds up her hands. Fifty years of cooking. Teaching. Living. Every dumpling a small victory against chaos.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
Now eat. Then pack. Then we drive. Before the farm next door remembers we're made of useful components.
They eat. Fast but thorough. Fuel for the journey. Energy for escape. The last meal in a house that might not be here when they return.
If they return.
Outside. The mechanical hum becomes something else. Something purposeful. The sound of movement. Of systems coordinating. Of the infected farm finally noticing its organic neighbor.
----------
EXT. CHEN FAMILY FARM - AFTERNOON
They work fast. Systematic. Each woman with a role.
Mei-Chen loads the Nissan. Food. Water. Camping supplies. The medical kit. Tools. Duct tape. More duct tape. Never enough duct tape. Fuel cans. Five gallons of diesel. Ten gallons of gasoline. Heavy but necessary.
Mrs. Lin packs personal items. Clothes. Blankets. The Guanyin statue. A photo album. Small things that matter. Things you grab when the house burns. Things that define who you are when everything else is gone.
Hsiu-Wei works on the Toyota. Checking fluids. Testing systems. Charging the battery from solar panels that still work because they're not connected to any network. Just physics. Just electrons flowing from light to storage to motor. Simple. Reliable. Dumb.
The truck starts. Diesel engine COUGHING to life. Black smoke. Rough idle. But running. Alive. Ready. The grandfather who never threw anything away suddenly vindicated.
HSIU-WEI
(patting the dashboard)
Good truck. Best truck. Please don't die in the next hundred kilometers.
The infected farm sounds different now. Not just humming. Moving. They can see it through the trees. Massive harvesting robots. Autonomous tractors. Delivery drones. All converging toward some central point. All building something.
MEI-CHEN
They're constructing a relay station. Like the radio broadcast said. Amplifying their coordination range. This whole area will be saturated soon. Every device. Every machine. All connected. All infected.
HSIU-WEI
How long?
MEI-CHEN
Hours. Maybe less. Once the relay is active, they'll spread faster. Coordinate better. Hunt more efficiently. We need to be gone before that happens.
MRS. LIN
Then we finish. Now. We leave. Now. We drive fast. We don't stop. We get distance between us and this place before it becomes a death trap.
She's right. They know she's right. But leaving is hard. Abandoning safety for uncertainty. Trading known danger for unknown possibilities. The eternal gamble of refugees everywhere.
They load the last supplies. Check both vehicles. The Nissan limping but functional. The Toyota rough but reliable. Two ancient vehicles against an automated apocalypse. Analog rebellion against digital hunger.
Hsiu-Wei turns to take one last look at the farm. The house. The garden. The chicken coop where she fed poultry every day at dawn. The equipment shed with its CB radio and her grandfather's tools. The simple life she built there.
The voluntary wholesome rural existence that accidentally became her survival training.
MEI-CHEN
I'm sorry. About all this. About bringing this to your home.
HSIU-WEI
You didn't bring anything. The infection was already here. Already spreading. You just. You just gave me a reason to leave before it was too late. You gave me hope that Jason is alive. You gave me family when I was alone. That's not sorry. That's a gift.
They hug. Quick. Practical. The way women hug when emotions are expensive and time is limited. Then separate. Get in vehicles. Start engines.
The plan is simple. Hsiu-Wei drives the Toyota. Mrs. Lin rides with her. Mei-Chen follows in the Nissan. Caravan formation. Stay close. Stay together. If one vehicle fails, they have the other. If they're separated, they meet in Kenting. If Kenting is a trap, they adapt.
Simple.
Probably wrong.
But movement is better than waiting.
Mei-Chen shifts into first gear. The Nissan lurches forward. The duct-taped radiator holds. For now. The cracked windshield refracts sunlight. Guanyin watches with ceramic serenity. Three bars of cell signal that mean nothing because networks are dead.
They drive.
Down the dirt road. Past the vegetable garden. Past the chicken coop where poultry continue their eternal search for better breakfast. Past the property line. Past safety. Toward the unknown.
Behind them. The infected farm fully awakes.
----------
FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT
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