Anran was lying comfortably on the sofa in her room.
Bad news: she was out of a job.
Good news: the company gave her 10n+11, enough for her to take a long break.
Bad news: the weather was getting colder and colder.
Good news: she owned the apartment she lived in. Although it was on a high floor, it had plenty of heating.
Thinking of this, An Ran felt completely at ease. She took out her phone and started ordering takeout: a serving of grilled cold noodles, shredded chicken with pork, and grilled meat. But when she saw the delivery fee, she was taken aback—it was 50? That didn’t add up; she remembered ordering the same amount half a month ago without paying a delivery fee.
She messaged the restaurant’s customer service: “Why is the delivery fee 30?”
The owner replied quickly: “The platform raised it these past couple of days, saying it’s too cold.”
Whether it was the office building where she used to work or the residential complex where she works now, An Ran’s buildings all had heating from the garage all the way up to her floor. Her car had heating too, so she really hadn’t felt the cold.
“Why not give it a try?” An Ran thought to herself as she opened the window. The very next second, she slammed the window shut, darted back under the covers, and didn’t recover for a good while.
She glanced at the thermometer hanging on the wall: minus 5 degrees. An Ran was taken aback—it had never been that cold before.
She checked the recent temperature records. Although the temperatures had fluctuated, the low had dropped from 5 degrees to minus 25 degrees.
She also came across a news story about a mutated pig. The pig’s body was covered in gray spots, and its mouth had grown many sharp teeth.
“Kind of like a zombie?” An Ran thought. There weren’t many comments in the comments section; clearly, no one had taken it seriously.
She ordered takeout and, while she was at it, sent the photo to the restaurant owner. She asked, “Hey, I order from you all the time—your pork doesn’t look like that, does it?”
Fearing she might lose business, the owner quickly replied, “No way—we only use high-quality pork.”
Anran then forwarded the news article to the owner and asked, “Do you know where that pig farm is? I’d like to find out more about the situation.”
The owner, eager to keep her as a big customer, replied quickly: “It’s at San’en Rock. I’ll send you the address via WeChat.”
San’en Rock—wasn’t that the place she’d visited last month? She’d even eaten at a local farmhouse restaurant there, and it seemed like she’d had pork.
“Wow, could it be that the meat I ate back then was this kind?”
Feeling a bit queasy, An Ran added the seller on WeChat, pretending to be a buyer looking for a bargain. From the seller’s rambling logic, she picked up a clue: “The pigs have already bitten people. You can take them for free.”
An Ran glanced at the English label: “Contaminated.” She immediately dialed 110 to report it. Then, during a video call with the butcher shop owner, she noticed a man hiding in the corner—his face covered in gray spots like a pig’s, baring sharp fangs, and staring at her as if she were prey.
When the man saw An Ran looking at him, he opened his mouth and lunged at the phone—then the connection cut off.
An Ran took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart, dialed 110 again, and took the opportunity to alert the owner of the food delivery shop.
She then found a few more delivery shops and placed orders at each one. She sent the news article and details of what had just happened to them, waiting for the owners’ replies.
As an orphan with social anxiety, she worked as a designer, traveling daily across the city and to some neighboring counties for design projects, putting in over ten hours a day. Consequently, she had no friends in Rao Hai, so food delivery platforms were a good option for quickly gathering information.
Soon, the owner of the first restaurant replied: “That scared the hell out of me! I just messaged them on WeChat, but no one answered. I hope they’re not dead. I’ve already called the police.”
Then messages came in from the second and third restaurants. An Ran opened her computer, reading through them while taking notes: There were indeed confirmed cases—such as the restaurant owner in neighboring Yangchun City and a chef at another barbecue joint in this city—though some were animal cases as well. However, all were treated as infectious diseases and were being treated in hospitals; no one had actually called the police.
An Ran sighed. That barbecue joint was a favorite among local residents—she’d ordered from there herself, since the food really was delicious.
She didn’t know the name of the restaurant in Yangchun City—she hoped it wasn’t the one she’d visited on her business trip.
For her own safety, she couldn’t accept any more food deliveries; all she could do was wait for the authorities. Just then, An Ran saw a notification pop up on her elevator app: “Visitor at the door. Open the door?”
An Ran lived on the 18th floor. Access to the elevator required either the app or fingerprint authentication, and the elevator would only stop at her floor. If there was a visitor, the resident had to approve it via the app.
Anran opened the app. On the screen was a delivery guy looking down. She tapped “Approve,” lamenting what a shame it was that she wouldn’t get to eat all that delicious food, then clipped the other end of the door chain into place before opening the door.
The elevator doors opened, and the delivery guy stepped out. There was something unsettling about the way he walked—like a mechanical doll with a rusty spring: slow, jerky, and occasionally with twisted, awkward movements.
There even seemed to be a whiff of rust coming from the red delivery backpack on his back.
The hallway light flickered, and the man looked up.
The gray spots on his face were exactly the same as those on the man she’d seen during their WeChat video call earlier!!
Anran froze. A cold draft blew in from the window behind her that hadn’t been closed properly, snapping her fully back to reality. She pressed the emergency number 110 on her phone.
Then, in as gentle a voice as she could manage, she said, “Put the food on the floor.”
The delivery guy looked down and seemed to make a grunting sound, but he still set the food down.
This person probably wasn’t that severely infected—he still had his wits about him.
With that thought, An Ran relaxed a little. She said thank you and was about to close the door, but as she approached it, she noticed the delivery guy’s backpack: the base color was yellow! And the red—it was blood dripping down the backpack!
An Ran quickly ran forward to shut the door, but the person outside was faster, charging toward the gap in the door.
However, his limbs were completely uncoordinated, and he was tripped by the metal threshold at the doorway, his body twisting into a bizarre, twisted shape. He fell to the ground.
An Ran kicked him aside and quickly shut and locked the door. A hoarse howl erupted from outside.
The police officer on the phone asked, “Are you okay?”
An Ran took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and deliberately stammered, “I’m fine. That food delivery guy seemed to have a sudden episode—he’s mentally ill and tried to bite me. He’s still howling. Also, he has gray spots on his face; it feels really creepy.”
After taking her statement, the officer said, “Give me your address. We’ll be there right away. Keep the door locked, and try to let your neighbors know not to go outside.”
An Ran didn’t want to interact with her neighbors, but since this was a matter of life and death, she had no choice but to ask the police how to respond. She then copied and pasted their instructions one by one to the restaurant. She also posted the message in the building’s resident group chat, and all 37 owners on the 20th floor received the message.
The building had two units per stairwell. The reason there weren’t 40 owners was that floors 19 and 20 had been purchased by a single person, though An Ran had never met him.
In the owners’ group chat, only the resident of Unit 15-1 replied: “Did you call the police?”
“Yes,” An Ran replied.
The resident on the 15th floor quickly asked, “Does that person have gray spots on his face?”
Since this was a private message, it meant he knew there was something wrong with the gray spots and couldn’t discuss it publicly.
Was he trying to help? Or…? An Ran didn’t dare take a chance, so she replied vaguely: “A tattoo? I think so.”
The other person is typing…
Stop
The other person is typing…
Stop
Three minutes later, the resident on the 15th floor replied:
“Is it a tattoo? Then hide somewhere safe—like in the bathroom—and aim the pepper spray at it.”
“What if it isn’t?” An Ran quickly asked in return.
An Ran saw “Typing…” appear in the chat window… After a moment, the typing stopped, and no new message appeared.
The person on the 15th floor was using “it.” It seemed he knew something but didn’t want the police to find out.
Then, An Ran heard the sound of the elevator doors opening.