AUS Chapter 53: Will I See Liu Jiang?

Almost the second after his voice fell, I was thrown out of the simulation. The force was so great that I fell backward onto the ground.

It was exactly like the first time I was kicked out of the simulation.

I struggled to prop myself up from the floor and quickly discovered that there was a reason the Attendant had kicked me out so abruptly.

Because less than a meter above my head hung the fluorescent light tube from the office ceiling. It had originally been intact, providing full illumination until the storm yesterday. The storm had swept through the city, shattering the staircase windows, and the light fixture was exposed along with the ceiling panels.

Before starting the simulation, I had stepped on a stool and moved it to the top of a cabinet on the side. I never expected that with the gentle breeze and the slight swaying of the building, it had slowly slid off the cabinet. If I had been two minutes later, it would have landed directly on my head.

The tube wasn’t heavy, and the injury wouldn’t have been fatal, but the residual glass shards and potential wound infection would have corroded me, steadily pushing me toward death.

The consequences were indeed unthinkable.

I found a pair of pliers, first shut off the main power switch for the room’s lighting, and then dismantled the light fixture.

Holding the fluorescent tube that had accompanied me for half of this apocalypse, I felt a sense of almost absurd sadness.

This room would gradually fall into ruin over time. The façade of humanity that I and other humans had so carefully maintained would also eventually shatter. Everything, like this light tube, would be plucked away by the hand of nature.

I mulled this over, then decided not to indulge in pointless sentimentality.

I put the light tube down and stood amidst the still-flickering servers, pondering what else I could do.

It’s like a time paradox.

I live in a hopeless reality, yet in a virtual one, I chew over the past again and again, enjoying an illusory happiness I never truly had.

I admit, the days I’ve spent in the As Usual Project have made me happy, happy from the bottom of my heart. Before that, it seemed I could never be genuinely, truly, and effortlessly happy.

But when the happiness ends and the party is over, I stand in the wreckage and realize that the happiness I’m in is developing toward the future at an unstoppable pace. Yet I can only search for ways to mend the future in the illusory past, or perhaps, find a possibility of reliving past happiness in a broken future.

Neither of these sounds like a good choice.

The Attendant admitted it; he said I would see Liu Jiang in the end.

But in what way would I see him?

Would he come to this broken, dilapidated reality and wander through the apocalypse with me?

It sounds a little romantic, just like those post-apocalyptic road trip movies we used to watch—free, vast, dreamlike.

—And yet, living hand-to-mouth.

If I went to all this trouble just to make him suffer with me, then I’d rather not.

This isn’t a sci-fi movie. I don’t have superpowers. The reason for his disappearance—regardless of whether it was due to some supernatural force—I don’t think I can change the fact that this world is about to perish.

What should I do?

I don’t even know what that “what should I do” is aimed at, but I’m a mess right now. I want to rest, to just lie down and give up.

Standing in the office, which was as dejected as I was, my ears suddenly caught a different sound.

It was very distant, seemed to have a melody, somewhat like the violin I heard in the subway last night, but its resonance was longer, more lingering.

Standing still, I initially thought it was the sound of the wind blowing through the building’s remains, but I soon realized this was not a sound produced by nature.

It was a guitar!

It was the sound of a guitar being played, and it was very close, or at least not too far, somewhere I could find.

There’s someone here.

And he—is no one else.

Because I’ve heard this song before. It was a classic oldie playing at a concert we went to together once—the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”

He loved this song. He even sang it a cappella in the subway station after the concert ended.

In fact, it wasn’t just that one time. He had a limited-edition vinyl of that song in his room, and he’d even bought the cassette tape specifically. He had played it for me on his guitar, from his fumbling beginnings to skilled proficiency. He was bad at all his school subjects, but his English pronunciation was the most standard, because he wanted to sing those few lines of lyrics clearly.

I remember the melody of that song, remember its lyrics that seem meaningless at first listen, and I remember how he looked when he played the guitar.

He’s here.

I immediately pushed open the office door. The music swirled between the floors, growing clearer.

I rushed out at once, charging to the shattered window to pinpoint the direction of the sound.

I was in the city’s central business district—or at least it was before the apocalypse. It was surrounded by skyscrapers, and the buildings within my sight still maintained a temporarily intact form. The glass was broken, and the sound of the wind seeped out from all directions.

The music was coming from downstairs.

Right in this building!

I immediately retreated back inside and turned to run downstairs.

Last night’s storm had triggered the fire sprinklers in the stairwell for one last act of self-preservation. The steps were a mess of water and dust. In some places, the water was quite deep, and as my work boots stepped in, I nearly stumbled.

Steadying myself, I tried to determine the direction. The sound of running water mixed with the hollow echo of the wind. I felt like a rat searching for its companion in a sewer.

Further down.

I continued to stumble my way down. Darkness and light alternated at my side. I couldn’t tell where I was or what floor I was on. I had never felt that my office building was this tall, twisting and winding like an endless tunnel.

Down and down, a bottomless descent, but he was getting closer—I could hear the sound getting closer!

Panting, I stopped on a landing, lifted my face, and looked up. This was the second floor.

Standing in the emergency exit, I saw the second-floor’s open platform with its floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky was clearer after the storm; there was light. I stood in the shadows as the light climbed forward tentatively, touching the soles of my shoes.

The very moment my feet landed at the entrance to the second floor, the sound stopped abruptly.

I was certain he was here. I could even feel the tremor in my chest from the final strum.

But the second-floor platform was empty.

Facing the brilliant sunlight, my chest heaved violently. I couldn’t open my eyes, and my feet felt as if they were chiseled into the ground, unable to move an inch.

The sky was blue. For a moment, I thought I was back in Liancheng, back to that carefree but unknowingly fearful summer where I only felt bored.

Coming back to my senses, I saw the damaged sign of the building across the street.

All the glass on the second floor had been shattered, which was why I could see the distant sky so clearly. There was still standing water on the floor that had flowed in from the corridor. The surface of the water was calm, rippling slightly in the breeze from the window.

In the silence, I heard a single strum.

I whipped my head around toward the sound. Huddled to the side of the stairwell exit was a figure.

The figure hadn’t noticed me. She was sitting on the concrete edge of an indoor planter, holding something. Just as she was about to get up and leave, I spoke, interrupting her movement.

My breathing had just steadied, but my voice was still hoarse. I asked, “Was there anyone else here just now?”

The figure was startled by me, scrambling to her feet and turning to look at me.

It was the young woman from the front desk.

“No one else,” she replied, shaking her head. Then she asked, “Teacher Yang, why are you still here?”

Why am I still here.

For a moment, I didn’t understand what she was asking and replied vaguely, “I heard someone playing the guitar. I thought it was—”

The girl was holding a ukulele. Looking a bit embarrassed, she lowered her head and explained, “I’ll be evacuating with the troops in two days. I wanted to come and say goodbye to this company—I’m sorry, is this kind of behavior really childish?”

She had already been at this company for three years.

Before the apocalypse, I knew nothing about her. I only spent time in the lobby twice a day: once when I swiped in, and once when I swiped out. I never noticed the daily changes in front desk staff and security, and I thought I would never need to.

After the apocalypse, as one of the first people to return to the office building, we finally had some interaction.

She had tested her way in from a remote region.

The company I saw as a necessary path, the position I saw as a stepping stone, was, in her eyes, the experience of a dream come true.

A few months ago, during the Lunar New Year, those of us who stayed at the company held a small celebration in the cafeteria. The way she talked about her dreams in front of the fire reminded me of someone, someone who had supported me through the apocalypse to this day, who gave me hope yet also made me despair.

Standing opposite me, the young woman hugged her ukulele tightly. 

“I was just playing an old song. I might not be very good at it. I’ve been practicing for a long time. I wanted to perform it at the company’s annual party…”

I nodded and told her, “I like this song a lot too.”

But in my memory, only one other person liked such an old song. So, I had naturally assumed that the person playing a guitar amidst the ruins would be him.

Then, belatedly, I understood what she meant when she asked, “Why are you still here.”

I said, “I—I don’t want to leave here for the time being.”

She was stunned for a moment, then subconsciously asked, “Why?”

I had always told people directly that I wasn’t leaving, but I never thought about how to explain why. I fell silent. My hesitation made the young woman panic first, and she quickly explained.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—it’s good that you have your own plans!” She stood her ground. 

“But you must, you must take care.”

In normal times, “take care” is just a polite phrase that no one thinks deeply about. In the apocalypse, it has become the most precious blessing, representing humanity’s most fundamental desire.

I want to live well too.

I nodded, trying to think of how to reply to express my gratitude, but in the end, I didn’t say anything.

I looked up at her and saw the clarity in her eyes gradually turn to confusion, then to astonishment. I felt myself falling backward but had no strength to resist.

Until my shoulders hit the ground, everything around me tipped over toward me in slow motion. Then I realized I had fainted.

Since yesterday’s storm, I had been running a low-grade fever, but I didn’t care. Just like in the past, I thought I could just tough it out.

Moreover, I had ignored the fact that I had barely slept a wink all night, ignored the days of reversed sleep schedules and missed meals.

So, it was only natural that I collapsed.

Just like every time before exiting the As Usual Project, I fell backward, into a sea of darkness.