Zhangwei stayed on the wall, where he felt closest to his brother, throughout the mourning period. He
braved the violent sand storms and cold nights, spending his time in and out of consciousness. Dehydration
caused delusions and hallucinations, all filled with his brother.
“
See this stone here? When the sun reflects on it, you’ll see the crack in the middle. Don’t ever step on
stones like these. One wrong step and you’ll plummet to your death,” his brother was telling him. It was as if he
was 10 again. His brother was teaching him how to survive the climb up the wall. “Look at that patch of stones.
Can you see the difference between those and the ones we’re stepping on now? These are put here much later
than those. See the crumbling stones there? Those are old stones. They’d fall apart any second. The ones here
would probably last another century or so.” Seeing his distracted expression, his brother scolded, “You have to
remember this. I can’t come here with you all the time anymore. I’m getting married. I’ll have to take care of
my family. You’ll have to come here alone.”
The gentle tone of his brother changed, his voice becoming loud, deep and echoing. Zhangwei gasped
as he woke up, breathing hard and drenched with sweat. The sun was burning on the back of his neck. Each
breath felt like fire in his parched throat, like red-hot knives scraping and burning in his lungs. He gathered his
strength and leaned on the side of the wall, trying to force himself upright. Steadying himself, he started off in a
shaky walk back to his living quarters, on the fourth floor of that lone building in the middle of the desert, one
of the remnants of the previous civilization.
He dragged his weary legs up three flights of stairs and let himself into the room he shared with his
family. Or should he say, his father. He was the only family Zhangwei had left.
His father, at 39 years of age, was one of the oldest people in the tribe. Most died before they reached
25.
That’s why everyone was expected to marry by 15, and produce children before they perish. It was an
effective, mechanical system that Zhangwei despised. He didn’t want to drag innocent children into this harsh,
pain-filled, unfair world. He just felt that it was morally wrong.
The peeling paint on the crumbling plaster walls were comforting and familiar, and all he wanted to do
was to lie down and sleep. He trudged towards the water tank, and saw that it was almost empty. Of course.
With his brother gone and him away, his father could only receive rations for himself. It was a system his father
had developed himself, to ensure the tribe’s survival.
Usable water came from the distilling factory in the basement. Grains and vegetables came from the
greenhouse on the roof. Women wove cloth and mended clothes at home as they looked after children. Others
looked after the livestock. They had cows on the ground floor that produced milk and chickens in coups that lay
eggs.
Feeding these animals cost them a lot of precious food and water, but milk was necessary for younger
children and eggs were the only regular source of protein in the tribe’s mainly vegetarian diet. Occasionally,
when one was able to catch a desert rabbit or a prairie dog, the tribe would be able to have a meal with some
meat. Apart from that, they only ate potatoes and vegetables that they were able to grow from refined soil and
fertilizer derived from organic waste. Like everything else in the tribe, this arrangement was stiff and lifeless.
Zhangwei wet his mouth and throat, temporarily easing the dryness as he lay on the worn sack filled
with sand and fell into dreamless slumber.
Days passed and life was lived as usual. Zhangwei worked in the distilling factory as his father taught
the younger ones about language, history and mathematics on one of the higher floors. His father and he had
grown closer than ever, always dining together and being there for each other. They only had each other left.
5
months later, Zhangwei returned to an empty home. Panicking, he yelled for his father. A neighbor
told him that his father was at the infirmary. Dread spread through his mind as he ran upstairs, a strong sense of
déjà vu coursing through his mind. The patterns on the wall blurring as he ran, tripping on steps he hadn’t
noticed, he rushed to the top floor, where the infirmary lay, and burst into the room the second time this year.
His father was sitting on a chair, surrounded by healers.
“
What’s going on?” Zhangwei questioned. Silent, sad, sympathetic smiles were directed towards him.
“
What is going on?” he asked once more, his words dripping with coldness. He was completely serious and he
demanded an answer.
His father spoke, “My time has come, son.”
Zhangwei was stunned at the calmness of his father. “How long?’ he asked shakily.
“
They’re saying 6 months, but I’m an old man. We never really know.”
Zhangwei was despairing, and an overwhelming sense of grief took over him. His chest felt as it would
fall apart, so he clutched at it, running from the horrifying room, from bad news, from sadness and from death.
He couldn’t – wouldn’t let his father die. He had to find a cure, no matter how far he had to go. Too many