C13 The Supermarket

Horace and his son continued their walk through the bustling barter area, where people were busily coming and going, some calling out to attract attention to the array of items laid out before them.

Most visitors were quiet, thoughtfully pausing when something caught their eye to engage in haggling or to offer up their tickets in exchange. The variety of items up for trade was vast, including an assortment of toys and books.

Security guards weaved through the crowd, ensuring order was maintained.

Horace decided not to trade for anything else that day. Glancing at the time, he realized it was nearing noon. "Son, what are you in the mood to eat today?"

This was their customary treat after a day of scavenging the wasteland—after trading for essential supplies at the black market, they'd indulge in a little feast to reward themselves.

Frank, ever so sensible, replied, "Dad, anything's fine. We should save our tickets."

Horace felt a pang of guilt. His son, so young, was already thinking frugally about their day-to-day life. Should he be proud or saddened by this?

He affectionately ruffled his son's hair. "Come on! Today, I'm treating you to dumplings with pork and chives!"

Indeed, in this city, one could still enjoy uncontaminated vegetables and fresh meat.

Despite the nuclear winter hindering most outdoor vegetable growth, and rendering those that did grow inedible, survivors had ingeniously developed light greenhouses. Using indoor lighting for photosynthesis, they managed to cultivate a modest supply of vegetables.

Likewise, indoor farms allowed for the raising of pigs and chickens, albeit at a higher cost, making these items particularly precious.

Hand in hand, the pair ascended the stairs.

As they passed the second floor, the familiar din of the miners' exchange area reached their ears—miners always had endless tales of their daring exploits.

But the father and son were headed to the third floor, where the atmosphere shifted markedly.

An inclined moving walkway carried them upwards, with only a few survivors aboard. Each stood tall and proud, a testament to their privilege, for the third floor was a consumer's haven, dedicated solely to spending.

Where there are people, there is consumption; where there are desires, even in the bleakest of places, there will be means to fulfill them.

The third floor catered to all the survivors' wants, offering a one-stop destination for dining, drinking, and entertainment.

Frank slipped his hand from his father's grasp and eagerly scampered up the escalator.

When the nuclear explosion occurred, he was only four years old, and his memories of the once-thriving civilization had long since blurred. Yet, the escalator before him stirred faint recollections from the depths of his mind.

"Son, take it easy," Horace cautioned as he followed Frank onto the escalator, allowing his son to indulge in this rare moment of childlike wonder.

A tantalizing scent wafted through the air, making his mouth water uncontrollably. It was the unmistakable aroma of real rice, a fragrance from his memories. It had been two years since they'd last cooked rice at home.

The cost of cultivating rice indoors was prohibitively expensive, and the rice available on the black market was all old stock from before the explosion, dwindling with each portion consumed and fetching exorbitant prices.

Thus, whenever Horace chanced upon some rice, he could hardly bring himself to eat it, opting instead to trade it on the black market for other essential survival supplies.

He harbored a dream that he kept secret from everyone, including Frank. His plan was to amass enough supplies and wait until his son turned ten, old enough to be a help rather than a hindrance. Then, they would leave their desolate hometown behind and venture out to explore the world beyond.

The world was vast, and even a futureless nuclear world was preferable to withering away in this city of ruins. Besides, whispers among the survivors spoke of a distant haven, a pure land untouched by nuclear fallout.

Three years remained, a span that seemed both distant and fleeting. After all, the last three years had flown by in the blink of an eye.

The restaurant was situated at the third-floor entrance, with a central corridor flanked by private rooms of various sizes.

The layout was thoughtfully designed, ensuring patrons were well-fed and quenched before engaging in other forms of entertainment.

In the past, father and son would feast on a hearty bowl of Clear Broth Noodle Soup, sprinkled with a dash of green onions and accompanied by a couple of vegetable leaves.

Horace would content himself with a symbolic few forkfuls and sips of the broth, considering himself satisfied.

Frank, on the other hand, would not rest until he had licked his bowl clean.

Thankfully, they were seated in a small, private room for two, away from prying eyes.

Even if they had been seen, there was no shame in it. They hadn't stolen or robbed anyone. Who could fault them for their less-than-graceful dining manners?

Today, Horace had spent all his remaining money, and it was just enough to afford a plate of leek and meat dumplings and a small bowl of rice.

The plate held twenty dumplings, plenty to satisfy his son's hunger.

The rice portion was meager, with no side dishes to accompany it. He savored each grain, embodying the adage, "One never knows the value of food on the plate, each grain is earned through hard work."

Yet, the dumpling soup, fragrant with leeks, was truly delectable. After just two sips, he was so tempted that he nearly swallowed his tongue.

"Uh—" Frank burped loudly, his face contorted as if he were about to burst, and pushed the last three dumplings towards his father, saying, "Dad, you eat them. Don't let them go to waste."

Horace, watching his son grow up day by day, felt a lump in his throat and nearly choked back tears as he ate the three remaining dumplings.

Muffled sounds of revelry and dice games seeped through from the large private room next door. He couldn't fathom who could afford such luxury—a single meal there could sustain a survivor for half a year.

Wherever there are people, the divide between rich and poor persists.

After leaving the private room, father and son couldn't retrace their steps; they had to keep moving forward to the automatic escalator at the other end of the third floor.

This design, reminiscent of pre-nuclear supermarkets, guided customers through the entire store, entering one way and exiting another.

After all, Shadow was once a grand supermarket.

With bellies full and minds wandering to other desires, they passed the restaurant and entered the red-light district.

It was both the oldest and the newest of trades, seemingly existing since the dawn of humanity and likely to persist until its demise.

The red lights flickered along the corridor, casting a glow on the alluring faces behind the glass windows, each vying for attention with seductive poses.

Frank, though no stranger to such spectacles, felt a bit overwhelmed after his meal. He clung to his father's hand, wary of being lured away by the enticing women.

Horace, fighting the unease in his heart, quickly ushered his son Frank through the crowded space as if they were escaping something.

He didn't truly despise the women; what he loathed was his inability to dissociate them from the persistent nightmares that haunted him.

He understood that their actions were driven by the need to survive, and their bodies were their sole capital.

Indeed, after the nuclear blast, the city still housed nearly a million people. But three years on, so many had perished—fallen to nuclear zombies, to starvation, to disease, to utter despair...

The vast majority were gone. The two hundred thousand who remained had each found their own path to survival.

No one was in a position to judge. For the sake of survival, anything could be traded away, provided it belonged to the individual or was earned through their own efforts.

Horace might have been the only man among the survivors who had never engaged with their trade.

This was the stark reality. Given the uncertainty of life, men seized any opportunity to transact with the women of the red-light district, even pushing their young boys to experience intimacy early, lest they be devoured by nuclear zombies and die with what they called life's regrets.

What they didn't realize was that Horace's profound aversion to women stemmed from the deepest regret of his life.