Chapter 3 — Queen of the Apocalypse

It's not malice, but a strange, complex emotion - a bit like pity, a bit like sympathy, and a bit of regret like "you're done".

“Normal people go to area C,” he said, “going deep inside, which is the last row of tents.”

My father frowned: "She's coming with us."

"Sir," the soldier laughed, "Area A is an area reserved for S-class, only people with special abilities can enter. According to regulations, family members cannot come along, please understand."

My father still wanted to say something but I stopped him.

“Dad, it's okay, I'll go to area C.”

My mother looked at me, wanting to say it again. My brother bowed his head and said nothing. So I went alone into area C. If area A is a villa area, then area C is a slum area. The tents were crowded together, one tent slept twenty people, and it was difficult to turn over. There is no bed, just a thin, moisture-proof mattress. There was no blanket, just an old, tattered military cotton shirt. The toilet is outdoors, dig a hole and surround it with a plastic tarpaulin and you're done. You have to line up to get water, only twice a day, only a small bottle can be collected each time. I received a moisture-proof mattress and a military cotton shirt and was assigned to a tent number C-17. There were nineteen people in the tent. There were old people, there were children, there were middle-aged women, and there were a few young people my age. Everyone was skinny, everyone was dirty, and there was something indecipherable in their eyes — not despair, but numbness. A woman over forty years old pointed to the innermost corner: "That place is empty, it's mine." I walked over, spread out the anti-humidity cushion and sat down. She glanced at me: "New person? Where's your house?"

“In area A.”

Her eyes paused, somewhat complicated.

“S-level?”

“Yes.”

She didn't speak anymore, turned around, her back was towards me. A young man next to him laughed coldly: "A family member of S class? Then why are you here?" I don't answer. He didn't ask further. The tent became quiet again, only the sound of breathing rising and falling and occasionally a dry cough. That night, I slept very lightly. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a series of muffled cries. It's that aunt. She hugged a seven or eight year old boy, his body was hot and feverish to the point of unconsciousness. She cried and wiped his sweat, muttering: "Tieu Quan, Tieu Quan, wake up, look at me..." The person next to her sighed: "Fever again."

“Does the medical station have medicine?”

"If we have medicine, then it's our turn, right? In Area C, if we wait in line for three days, it's not necessarily our turn."

“That baby…”

"If you make it through, you'll live. If you don't make it, you'll die. It's the end of the world, that's it."

I lay on the ground, listening to those words, suddenly remembering my mother. She lives in area A, living in a single room with a bed and blanket, hot water and electricity. You don't have to worry about getting sick, you don't have to worry about not having medicine, because you're S-level. And I'm here. This is the end of the world. It divides people into three or seven categories. The person with supernatural abilities is the person above. Ordinary people are expendable. Living in area C for half a month, I gradually got used to life here. Every morning, I go to collect food aid - a bowl of thin porridge, half a mantou, a small piece of pickles. At noon, I line up to get water, in the afternoon I go to get supplies - if I'm lucky I get a set of old clothes, if I'm unlucky I get nothing. At night, I returned home and lay down, listening to all kinds of sounds in the tent, gritting my teeth make it through another long night. My parents came to visit me several times. Every time she comes, my mother brings something — a packet of cookies, a bottle of water, a bar of chocolate. My father stood next to me, wanting to say it again. My brother also came once, stood outside the tent, and left without saying a few words. I don't blame them. I know they're busy. S-ranks must participate in base defense missions, must go out to search for supplies, must train, have meetings, and deal with all kinds of flattery. It's just that sometimes I'll think, if I was also an S-class, what would it be like now? But thinking is useless. I'm not. One night half a month later, there was suddenly another child in the tent. Five or six years old, so thin that he was only skin and bones, his face was yellow, but his eyes were very big and bright. He huddled next to the other aunt, shyly looking around. The aunt held him in her arms and softly said: "Don't be afraid, this is Tieu Vu, my grandchild. His parents... are no longer there." No one asked what “no more” meant. In the end of the world, "no more" means death. Tieu Vu is very obedient, does not cry and does not bother, every day he just curls up in the corner of the tent, dazed. Sometimes I give him a little cookie, he accepts it, softly says "thank you", then hugs that piece of cookie, bites little by little, and can eat it all day long. I really like it. Maybe it's because the way his eyes look at me is different from other people's — there's no contempt, no pity, no "you're just a normal person" sympathy as if in the same situation. It just looked at me, then laughed. Those eyes sparkled, just like the eyes of the children I saw on the street before the apocalypse happened. But three days later, those eyes closed. Tieu Vu has a fever. The fever was very high, the little face was red, the lips were chapped, and it was scary hot to the touch.