Chapter 117: The Closed Country

Song Yinuo ended the call only after Zeyu promised to answer when she contacted him the following day.

The ordinary city disappeared from the communications wall like it had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

In its place, Jingwei restored the international restrictions surrounding their country. Closed airports, suspended ports and sealed land crossings formed a boundary more complete than any physical wall.

Zeyu remained seated with his phone in one hand.

His family was safe.

He had spent the last several days avoiding thoughts of them because every possibility ended with someone dying beyond his reach. Discovering that they were eating takeout in an overseas hotel should have removed that fear.

Instead, the image of his younger sister standing on the balcony remained sharper than the maps in front of him.

People were still walking dogs somewhere.

The thought felt obscene.

Zeyu looked across the room at Zhiyi.

She sat beside Hanchuan with the blanket from the movie still covering her legs. Her expression hadn’t changed when she saw the foreign streets.

She had observed the open restaurants, moderate temperature and moving traffic as though they were additional pieces of information rather than proof that their apocalypse had borders.

"Did you know?" Zeyu asked suddenly. He placed his phone on the table and turned fully toward her. "Did you know the Heat might only affect our country?"

Zhiyi shook her head. "There was a 38.6 percent probability that the first Heat would remain geographically concentrated, but it didn’t factor into our preparations. By the time we entered the shelter, we couldn’t leave it."

The precision of the answer made Zeyu frown. "You calculated the possibility but never mentioned it?"

"It didn’t change what we needed to do," Zhiyi explained. She indicated the sealed borders on the wall. "We couldn’t identify which countries would remain safe before the Heat began. Leaving without a confirmed destination would have reduced our survival probability."

Even if they had selected the correct country, relocation would have required moving their people, vehicles and supplies across an international border before they possessed evidence justifying the decision.

Zhiyi’s memories couldn’t tell them where the safe region began. In her first life, national communications had failed quickly, and foreign broadcasts had disappeared from the shelters within the first several weeks.

She remembered the temperature outside their doors.

She remembered the dead.

She did not remember the weather on the other side of the planet.

Shichen studied the international temperature map Jingwei had opened.

Most neighboring countries remained within seasonal ranges, while their own territory appeared beneath a mass of red and black warnings. "Does this mean the Flood and Freeze may also be regional?"

Zhiyi shifted her attention to him. "Possibly. I don’t have enough information to calculate reliable boundaries."

In their previous lives, they had experienced each disaster as though it consumed the world because nothing existed beyond the area they could reach.

The Flood had submerged cities, erased roads and forced survivors toward the remaining high ground. The Freeze had sealed everything beneath ice.

Whether people drank coffee in another country while they drowned had never mattered much.

Qinghe moved closer to the map. "If the rest of the world remains functional, they could send aid."

Jingwei expanded the foreign government statements issued since the national emergency.

Dozens of countries had promised financial assistance, medical equipment, food and technical support. Several military transport aircraft had departed before being recalled when Yunzhou’s primary runways closed.

Cargo ships waited beyond their territorial waters for permission to approach ports where loading systems no longer functioned. Trucks carrying bottled water and medical supplies had stopped at neighboring borders because the roads inside the country could not support their weight.

Aid existed.

But it was the delivery of that aid that had become the problem.

"The government may establish protected corridors later," Jingwei said as he reviewed the foreign commitments. "If the roads survive and the borders reopen for cargo, supplies could enter without allowing people to leave."

Hanchuan looked at the promises covering the wall. "We assume nothing will arrive until it is inside one of our properties."

His friends no longer objected to the standard.

Money, food and equipment outside the country couldn’t keep them alive if no one could deliver it.

A warehouse beyond the border was no more useful than Jinhai’s supplies would have been if Hanchuan had opened the door.

Zeyu picked up his phone and accessed the Song family’s international accounts.

His father had enough money outside the country to support them indefinitely under ordinary conditions. Their hotel, however, had only guaranteed the suites for another twelve days. Thousands of wealthy families who had escaped before the borders closed were now competing for long-term housing.

That was a problem Zeyu could solve.

He contacted Song Motors’ international property division and reviewed every residence owned by the company.

Most were executive apartments intended for short business trips. One property contained six serviced units in the same building, with secure parking and access to the foreign branch headquarters.

Zeyu reserved all six.

Jingwei glanced at the confirmation as it appeared on the shared wall. "Your parents need six apartments?"

"No," Zeyu replied while extending the reservation for one year. "They need one. My father needs the other five unavailable so he doesn’t acquire neighbors who want to discuss business while the country burns."

The comment sounded like him, but none of the others missed how carefully he verified the reservation before closing it.

He arranged local legal assistance, visa extensions and access to the company’s overseas medical insurance. His father could have completed every task himself by morning, but that wasn’t the point.

Zeyu needed to do something for them.

Tang Meixiu had spent three days calling a son she believed might already be safe. Now that she knew he wasn’t, no amount of money could allow her to reverse the flight that had saved the rest of the family.

The international news continued beside Zeyu’s work.

Foreign commentators questioned whether the closed borders violated humanitarian obligations. Politicians defended the restrictions as temporary precautions. Online arguments accused the affected country of exaggerating its casualty estimates, while other users demanded that foreign governments accept children and medical evacuees.

None of those people had to decide which runway could withstand the heat or how to transport thousands of survivors through roads filled with abandoned vehicles.

Their opinions required nothing from them.

Zhiyi watched casualty projections rise beneath footage of public shelters. "The border closures will remain."

Zeyu paused over the housing documents. "For four years?"

"I don’t know," Zhiyi answered. She didn’t soften the uncertainty because doing so would make it less useful. "But countries that remain unaffected will have no incentive to accept a population fleeing disasters they don’t understand."

Fear would close the borders first.

Resources would keep them closed.

Their country contained hundreds of millions of people. No neighboring government could admit even a small percentage without destabilizing its own housing, food and medical systems.

The longer the Heat continued, the less anyone outside would view them as travelers temporarily requiring assistance.

They would become refugees no one wanted.

Zeyu completed the final authorization and sent the property information to his mother. Her response arrived immediately.

You answered this one. Miracles are still occurring.

The message pulled a brief laugh from him.

He created a daily video call reminder for the same time each evening and included every member of his family. When the calendar requested an end date, he hesitated.

One week reflected his father’s confidence that the borders would reopen.

Four years reflected what Zhiyi remembered.

Not knowing the right answer, Zeyu selected no end date.

The calendar accepted the decision and carried the daily call forward through months and years he wasn’t prepared to discuss with his family.

Across the communications wall, their country remained sealed beneath lethal heat while the rest of the world continued through an ordinary evening.

Tomorrow, his mother would ask when he was joining them.

Unfortunately, he still had no answer that he was willing to give.