EXT. BLOCKADE SITE - CONTINUOUS
They move quickly. Efficiently. Mrs. Lin in the front passenger seat. Hsiu-Wei and Su-Fen squeezed in the back.
The Jimny has back seats but wasn't quite designed for four people. Perfect for two, cramped for four.
But physics makes exceptions during an apocalypse. Compromises with desperation. Allows things that shouldn't work to work anyway.
Sometimes, to work way better than expected.
Christopher and Mei-Chen return to the Toyota. SARAH on Christopher's lap. Her lens pointed forward. Recording. Witnessing. Adding this to her database of human stupidity and survival against odds. Building a library of impossible things that happened anyway.
MEI-CHEN
(starting engine)
If we die doing this—
CHRISTOPHER
We won't.
MEI-CHEN
But if we do. I want you to know. You're a good person. Strange. But good. You saved Su-Fen when you didn't have to. You saved SARAH when leaving her would've been smarter. You tried to save those people back there. That counts for something. That means something.
CHRISTOPHER
We're not dying. Not today. Not at seventeen percent. I've survived worse odds.
MEI-CHEN
When?
CHRISTOPHER
Every time I've tried to grow cabbages in soil SARAH said was impossible. Every time I've fixed machinery that should've stayed broken. Every time I've chosen principle over probability. Seventeen percent is practically guaranteed success by my standards.
SARAH
I can confirm that Christopher's survival rate given terrible odds is statistically anomalous. He succeeds at things that should fail. However, past performance does not guarantee future results. This is clearly stated in all investment literature and applies equally to apocalypse survival.
MEI-CHEN
That's not comforting.
SARAH
Comfort was not requested. Accuracy was implied. Also, I would like to note for the record that I advised against this plan. When we are disassembled for parts, I want it clearly documented that I objected.
Ahead, Jason's Jimny REVS. The engine loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Loud enough to attract attention. Loud enough to announce intention. Loud enough to tell the AG-9s that prey is approaching.
The AG-9 working on the truck's wiring STOPS. Its head ROTATES. Optical sensors FOCUSING. Red-green flicker. Processing. Recognition. Analysis. Threat assessment.
Target acquired. Resources detected. Harvesting protocols engaged.
The AG-9 DROPS the wiring. TURNS fully toward the Jimny. Its companion units RESPONDING. Three machines abandoning their tasks. Synchronizing. MOVING to intercept. Learning. Adapting. Coordinating.
SARAH
They have noticed us. They are coordinating response patterns. Sharing data in real-time. This is going to be very difficult.
Jason FLOORS it.
The Jimny LURCHES forward. Tires SPINNING on loose gravel. CATCHING. GRIPPING. LAUNCHING toward the gap like a missile. Like something that refuses physics. Like hope made metal and momentum.
Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
The AG-9s MOVE to block. Mechanical limbs REACHING. Trying to close the gap. Trying to create barrier. But they're spread out. Focused on different vehicles. Working on different tasks. The coordination takes precious seconds.
Seconds Jason doesn't give them.
The Jimny HITS the gap at full speed. Right side mirror EXPLODING against the trailer in shower of glass and plastic. Left side SCRAPING rock with terrible sound. Metal SCREAMING. Paint STRIPPING. The vehicle too wide after all. The gap too narrow. The geometry failing.
But fitting anyway. Somehow. Impossibly. Threading the needle through space that shouldn't accommodate it. Through gap measured in centimeters and faith.
One AG-9 GRABS for the Jimny's rear bumper. Mechanical fingers CLOSING. Missing by centimeters. Closing on air. On possibility. On the space where metal was a moment ago. Learning. Recording. Filing this failure for future analysis. For optimization. For next time.
Jason's through.
The Jimny EMERGES on the far side of the blockade. FISHTAILING on loose gravel. CORRECTING with expert precision. ACCELERATING away. Taillights disappearing around the curve. Family escaping. Seventeen percent converted to success through nothing but refusal to accept failure.
The AG-9s TURN.
Face the Toyota.
All three of them. Together. Coordinated. Learning already from the first attempt. Adjusting tactics. Preparing to block more effectively. To not miss again. To optimize their response based on observed human behavior.
SARAH
I detect increased coordination protocols. They are sharing data about the Jimny's escape. Analyzing our approach vectors. They will not permit another vehicle through. They have learned. I calculate a four percent success probability.
CHRISTOPHER
Four is better than zero.
MEI-CHEN
Not by much.
CHRISTOPHER
By enough. By everything. By the difference between trying and surrendering.
She ACCELERATES.
The Toyota GROANS. Engine protesting. Suspension bottoming out. The dying vehicle asking why. Why this. Why now. Why one more impossible thing, one more miracle, when it's already given everything.
Because there's no choice.
Because forward is the only direction that might lead somewhere.
Because stopping means becoming pieces in a van. Components in an inventory. Biological substrate processed with terrible efficiency.
Because four percent is enough when the alternative is zero.
The AG-9s MOVE. Not toward the gap this time. They learned. They adapted. They're intercepting the vehicle before it reaches the gap. Meeting it halfway. Blocking approach rather than passage.
More effective. More efficient. Better optimization based on empirical data from thirty seconds ago.
They're learning so fast.
Mei-Chen doesn't slow down. Doesn't swerve. Just aims straight at them. At the space between them. At the gap they're trying to close. At the possibility they're trying to eliminate.
MEI-CHEN
Hold on.
CHRISTOPHER
I am.
SARAH
I am unable to hold due to lacking appendages. But I am bracing conceptually. Philosophically. Preparing for impact both literal and metaphorical.
The AG-9 on the left REACHES. Its harvesting arm EXTENDING. Fingers designed to grasp delicate crops now GRASPING for metal and glass and flesh. Designed for tomatoes. Used for people. Optimization finding new purposes.
Mei-Chen YANKS the wheel right. The AG-9's hand MISSES her door. SLAMS into the hood instead. DENTS metal with force that makes the whole vehicle SHUDDER. CRACKS the windshield in spiderweb patterns. But doesn't stop them. Doesn't catch them. Doesn't convert them to components.
The Toyota BOUNCES. Nearly rolls. Two wheels leaving ground briefly. Christopher's ribs SCREAM. SARAH's core unit FLYING from his lap. HITTING the dashboard. DROPPING to the floor with terrible clatter.
SARAH
(from somewhere near Christopher's feet)
I am experiencing positional instability! My optical sensor is now pointed at the accelerator pedal! This is extremely suboptimal viewing angle!
The AG-9 on the right GRABS for the passenger's side. Its hand CLOSING on the mirror. CRUSHING it. TEARING it free. Metal SHRIEKING. Glass SHATTERING. The mirror FLYING backward into darkness.
But Mei-Chen's already past. Already in the gap. Already threading between trailer and rock with inches to spare. The vehicle too wide. The space too narrow. The physics impossible.
Working anyway.
The third AG-9 is smarter. Learned from watching both companions fail. It doesn't grab for the vehicle. It POSITIONS itself in the gap. Blocks the path. Creates a choice. Binary. Simple.
Stop or hit.
Mei-Chen doesn't stop.
MEI-CHEN
(screaming at the AG-9, at the infected, at the universe)
FUCK YOUR OPTIMIZATION!
The Toyota HITS the AG-9 at forty kilometers per hour.
The impact is everything. The hood CRUMPLES like paper. The windshield SPIDERWEBS completely. Becomes opaque. Becomes useless. The AG-9 FLIES backward. SLAMMED into the trailer with force that BENDS its chassis. SPARKS its systems. BREAKS something fundamental.
But the Toyota doesn't stop. Can't stop. Momentum carrying it through. SCRAPING past the damaged AG-9. GRINDING between trailer and rock. Paint STRIPPING down to bare metal. Side panels BUCKLING. The vehicle becoming narrower through violence. Through friction. Through refusal to accept that four percent means failure ninety-six times.
Every millimeter of the gap utilized. Every centimeter measured in metal and prayer and the screaming of physics being asked to compromise.
They're through.
Somehow. Impossibly. Against odds that said no.
Through.
The Toyota STAGGERS onto clear road. Engine making sounds no engine should make. Sounds that suggest fundamental failure. Terminal damage. End of function. Coolant SPRAYING from the destroyed radiator. Temperature gauge buried past red into regions the manufacturer never labeled because vehicles aren't supposed to survive long enough to reach them.
But moving. Still moving. Still refusing to die. Japanese engineering from decades ago deciding that death is optional. That continuing is choice. That physics bends before determination.
Behind them, the AG-9s don't pursue. They're damaged. They're learning. They're reporting. Feeding data to the network. Teaching every other infected unit that blocking the vehicle before the gap is less effective than calculated. That humans accelerate rather than brake. That ramming is valid tactic. That four percent isn't zero.
Next time, they'll adapt further. Next time, they'll optimize more. Next time, four percent might become zero.
But there is no next time. Not for these AG-9s. Not for this blockade. The group is through. Past. Beyond. Moving toward whatever comes next while the infected process failure into learning.
SARAH
(still on the floor)
We survived. This is statistically surprising. Also, I am unable to see. My optical sensor is pointed at the accelerator pedal. While this provides interesting data about pressure application and driver response patterns, it is not optimal viewing angle for navigation or threat assessment.
Christopher retrieves her. Sets her back on his lap. Her lens SWIVELING. FOCUSING. Taking in the destroyed windshield. The dented hood. The steam rising in the headlights. The evidence of violence.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Oh. Oh no. The Toyota is failing. Complete engine failure imminent. I estimate three kilometers maximum range. Possibly less. Possibly much less. We should prepare for terminal vehicle loss.
MEI-CHEN
(laughing, slightly unhinged, relief and terror mixed)
Three kilometers is enough. Three kilometers is amazing. Three kilometers is a fucking miracle. Three kilometers is more than we had any right to expect.
CHRISTOPHER
The Jimny's stopped ahead. Jason's waiting for us.
The Toyota limps toward the white vehicle. Toward family. Toward the people who threaded the same impossible gap. Toward the survivors who've learned that seventeen percent is enough. That four percent is enough. That any number above zero is enough when the alternative is becoming components in a van.
The Toyota reaches the Jimny. DIES. Not gradually. Just stops. Engine seizing. Coolant HEMORRHAGING onto road. Every system giving up simultaneously.
The vehicle that carried them from Chenggong to here. That survived the Colonel's madness. That saved Christopher. That threaded one impossible gap. That rammed a second AG-9 and kept moving.
Dead.
Truly dead this time. Not maybe dead. Not temporarily dead. Just done. Finished. Unable to continue. The duct tape and hope and Japanese engineering finally, completely, irreversibly exhausted.
They sit in the dead vehicle. Steam rising. Windshield opaque. Hood crumpled. Neither speaking. Just breathing. Just existing. Just processing what they did. What they survived. What they saw.
The believers. The eighteen people. The children's backpack. The shoe. The systematic efficiency. The red turning black. The evidence that being right about danger doesn't protect you from danger.
SARAH
(breaking the silence)
Mei-Chen. Christopher. You should exit the vehicle. The engine is still extremely hot. There is a non-zero possibility of fire. While fire would be thematically appropriate for this scene, I would prefer to avoid combustion.
MEI-CHEN
Right. Fire. Of course. Why not add fire to the morning's festivities.
They climb out. SARAH in Christopher's arms. The pre-dawn giving way to actual dawn. Gray light revealing the mountain road. The forest. The Jimny with its family waiting. The space between death and survival measured in kilometers and luck.
Jason approaches. His face doing something complicated. Relief and horror and the understanding of what they just drove through. What they left behind. What they can never unsee.
JASON
The Toyota's done?
MEI-CHEN
Extremely done. Terminally done. Dead in every way a vehicle can be dead.
JASON
Then we're six people in a Jimny designed for four. Plus SARAH. Plus all our supplies. Plus hope that physics will continue making exceptions.
MRS. LIN
(from the Jimny window, calm as ever)
We've managed worse. We'll manage this. Physics isn't the problem. Physics is just parameters. We're good at working within parameters.
CHRISTOPHER
Where are we even going? The safe zones have probably all fallen. The mapped routes are kill boxes. We're just driving toward nothing. Just running without destination. Just hoping the next blockade doesn't exist.
Silence. Heavy. Because he's right. Because nobody has an answer. Because survival without direction is just delayed death. Postponed processing. Future components.
MRS. LIN
Actually. I have an idea.
Everyone turns. Looks at her. This woman who's survived wars and plagues and her husband's death and government collapse and horror beyond measure. This woman who suggests practical solutions while others panic. This woman who makes dumplings during apocalypse because tradition matters more than fear.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
Chenggong. The fishing village. Where we got supplies. Where that lovely supply coordinator is. Where we traded dumplings for water and information and mechanical miracles.
HSIU-WEI
That was days ago. It might be overrun by now. Might be full of infected. Might be another blockade. Another trap.
MRS. LIN
Or the infected may have overlooked them. Or the fisherman may have put up a good fight.
Mrs. Lin looks away. Lets out a deep sigh. She knows the worst outcome is the most likely one to be true. But she still has hope, that maybe that lovely supply coordinator will be there to greet them with a smile.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D )
(speaking with less enthusiasm)
Or the place might be harvested already. Emptied. And so the infected moved on to better targets. To places with more resources. More people. More components worth processing.
SARAH
That is consistent with observed behavior. The infected optimize for resource acquisition. Remaining in depleted locations serves no purpose. Provides no value. They would relocate to areas with higher yield potential. Basic economics applies even to apocalypse.
JASON
So we're banking on the infected having already killed everyone there? That's our plan? Hope the town is empty because everyone's dead?
MRS. LIN
We're banking on the infected having moved on. On the town being emptied but intact. On infrastructure existing without people to complicate things. On silence meaning they're elsewhere. On harvested being safer than hunted.
MEI-CHEN
That's ghoulish. That's. That's betting on death. On massacre. On systematic murder being our salvation.
MRS. LIN
That's survival. We need supplies. We need rest. We need a place to regroup and figure out what comes next. An empty town serves those needs better than anything else. Better than running blindly. Better than another blockade. Better than becoming pieces in a van.
She looks at her daughter. At this woman who's carried guilt for every death. Every person who believed her warnings. Every choice that led to loss.
MRS. LIN (CONT'D)
A populated town means protecting more people. Means more variables. More chances for things to go wrong. More opportunities to fail. More deaths to carry. We can't save anyone right now. We can barely save ourselves. So we choose the place where saving isn't required. Where the dying is already done.
The brutal mathematics. The cold calculus. The choice between the living and the dead. Choosing the harvested over the hunted because corpses don't need protection. Don't need warnings. Don't need someone to convince them that safety is an illusion.
CHRISTOPHER
How far to Chenggong?
SARAH
Approximately thirty-seven kilometers via secondary roads. The Jimny can manage that distance even overloaded. Though I note the suspension will never forgive us. Also, my weight contributes to the problem. I could be left behind to reduce load.
CHRISTOPHER
No.
SARAH
But mathematically—
CHRISTOPHER
No. We've had this conversation. The answer is still no. Will always be no. You're family. Family doesn't get left behind. Not for mathematics. Not for optimization. Not for anything.
SARAH
Your loyalty is statistically irrational and deeply appreciated.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we go. We see what's left of Chenggong. We scavenge what we can. We rest. We figure out what comes next. We survive another day. Another hour. Another minute. We keep going because stopping is death.
JASON
And if the infected are still there?
CHRISTOPHER
Then we find somewhere else to die. But at least we'll die moving. Die trying. Die fighting. Not waiting in a blocked mountain pass for the next AG-9 to find us. Not becoming another lesson about what happens when you stop.
They load into the Jimny. Six people. One robot core. Supplies stuffed wherever they fit. The vehicle GROANING. Suspension COMPLAINING. But accepting. But working. But continuing because continuing is all vehicles can do. All humans can do. All anything can do when the alternative is processing.
Jason drives. Slow. Careful. The overloaded vehicle protesting every bump. Every turn. Every demand made of it. But going. But moving. But refusing to stop.
They pass the blockade in reverse. See it from the other side. The bodies again. The red. The pieces. The evidence of efficiency. The believers who trusted Mei-Chen's warning. Who fled into darkness. Who found darkness waiting with AG-9s and perfect geometry.
Nobody speaks. No jokes. No comments. Just silence. Just the weight of what happened. What could have happened. What might still happen at the next choke point. The next narrow road. The next place where prey has to slow down.
The road descends. Out of the mountains. Into foothills. Into the approaching dawn that paints everything gold and beautiful and utterly indifferent to human suffering. To machine efficiency. To the mathematics of survival.
They drive toward Chenggong. Toward the harvested town. Toward the place that might be empty. Might be safe. Might be the quiet space between threats where they can breathe and rest and figure out what comes next.
If anything comes next. If there's anything but running and bleeding and threading gaps that get narrower each time. If seventeen percent ever becomes more than seventeen percent.
If hope is anything but expensive fiction we tell ourselves while dying.
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FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER NINETEEN
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