C1 A Father and Son Walk

Two figures, one tall and one short, walked alone on a broad road, moving with caution as if a single misstep might trigger a landmine. They tread in areas cleared by the wind, careful to avoid leaving footprints on the dust-laden pavement.

They occasionally passed abandoned cars strewn across the road, their dusty exteriors obscuring any hint of their original colors. The uniform rust, like mossy patches of gray-brown, bore witness to the years they had been left untouched. The gas tanks, once more valuable than gold—a comparison that now seemed inappropriate since gold had become as commonplace as stone—were all pried open and empty.

Some vehicles had shattered windows, and a few were crumpled together in collision, silent testament to the chaos that once reigned. Buildings on either side of the road stood derelict, their storefront signs tattered and trees displaying a wilted yellow that suggested autumn, despite it being summer.

Not a soul or moving object was in sight. The occasional gust of wind would kick up whirls of dust and scatter dry leaves, emphasizing the desolation of this forgotten urban corner.

The larger figure halted, and the smaller one followed suit, stopping between two wrecked cars that provided a makeshift shelter and a clear view for surveillance. When they stood still, they seemed to vanish into the surroundings.

Their attire blended seamlessly with the environment: both wore gray overalls and masks, each carrying a deflated gray backpack. In this world of gray, from the monotonous hues all around to the overcast sky, it felt perpetually like dawn or dusk.

The adult glanced down at the automatic mechanical watch on his wrist—it was noon. He then shifted his gaze to the nuclear radiation meter on his arm, noting the normal reading. These habitual, almost subconscious checks brought him a sense of relief, akin to a dieter reassured by controlled weight.

His attention then turned to the small figure before him. Through the mask, a pair of large eyes blinked back at him with understanding but no words. The adult asked softly, "Son, are you hungry?"

The child, barely reaching his father's waist, blinked his big eyes above the mask and nodded knowingly.

He fished a compressed biscuit from the work pocket over his chest, carefully unwrapped it, and lifted the edge of his son's face mask to stuff a large bite into the boy's mouth, taking a small bite for himself before meticulously rewrapping it and tucking it back into his pocket. This was their daily ration—if they didn't find anything else today.

Chewing thoughtfully on the slightly moldy biscuit, he allowed it to mix thoroughly with his saliva before it trickled down his throat and dissolved in his stomach... The sense of satisfaction it brought was one of the few joys he had left in life.

Surveying the cluster of gray buildings before him, he debated whether to venture into the unfamiliar district to scavenge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of several moving black dots. Reacting as if facing a formidable enemy, he pressed his son down and, like a pair of well-trained soldiers, they rolled into the underbelly of a derelict car.

Lying side by side, the tension in the father's eyes contrasted with the excitement shining in the little one's—this seemed like an exhilarating game to the child.

But this was no game.

Those black dots couldn't be other Excavators like them; only those who brazenly roamed in groups without any cover could be...

Excavators seldom traveled in pairs, let alone as father and son, to avoid disputes over insufficient findings.

In a world starved of food, human bonds had grown as indifferent as water—a poor comparison, really, since clean water was now far more precious than any kinship.

Once, the four natural elements—air, sunlight, water, and soil—taken for granted by humanity, had become invaluable treasures.

He shot his son a stern look and slowly drew a gleaming black pistol from his right pant pocket. With practiced ease, he cocked the hammer and chambered a round, readying it for immediate action.

Though bullets were a rare commodity, life was priceless.

The gun was a vintage pistol, its magazine loaded with eight hollow-point bullets designed to rip through flesh and bone, inflicting massive trauma.

This pistol and its eight hollow-point bullets were his most prized possessions, enough to sustain him and his son for half a year.

He had scrimped and saved for over a year, trading bit by bit on the black market for each precious bullet.

Should they ever run out, a multipurpose military knife was still strapped to his right calf—the final safeguard for him and his son.

As he finished his combat preparations, several pairs of hesitant, bare feet came into view beneath the car. The word "hesitant" didn't quite capture their gait, but it was the best he could find to describe the way "they" moved—though "they" were no longer human, strictly speaking, they once were.

Bare feet aimlessly shuffled past the two wrecked vehicles, so close he could make out the clusters of blisters on their legs—watery, egg-white like vesicles that were both terrifying and revolting, accompanied by a faint, sickening stench.

His son was clearly terrified, huddling close to his father without daring to close his eyes. His father had instilled in him the need to confront danger head-on, not to hide from it like an ostrich with its head in the sand.

He had no choice but to train his seven-year-old son this way, a regimen that had begun two years prior. In this harsh world, his expression of paternal love was almost cruel in its necessity.

Father and son, like prey spotted by a hunter, huddled under the car, eyes wide, breath held, too afraid to move. The cold gun in his hand offered little comfort as he was reminded of a prediction by a great scientist from the last century about the future of humanity.

This scientist, dedicated to unraveling the ultimate secrets of the universe, had once said, "I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." He realized how wrong the scientist had been. The weapons of the Fourth World War were not sticks and stones, but teeth and tongues.

Even though he had witnessed such horrors numerous times, to the point where his eyes had grown numb, the thought of those bloody teeth and tongues still sent shivers down his spine.