The celebration in Cinder Town, that wild, drenching symphony of pure, unfiltered joy, did not so much conclude as exhaust itself. It lasted deep into the encroaching Wasteland night, a fire that burned through every last reserve of energy in the settlement's collective body. Only when the final, hoarse whoop had been shouted, the last clumsy, water-slick dance had faltered, did the festivities sputter and die. The townsfolk, every one of them looking as if they'd been pulled from a lake, trudged back to their hovels and lean-tos, their clothes clinging, their hair dripping. They collapsed into sleep with the profound, boneless satisfaction of the truly spent, and it was a safe bet that their dreams that night were punctuated by smiles, not the usual whimpers of fear or hunger.
Throughout the long, watery afternoon and evening, the rhythm had never broken: the scrape of the bucket on the stone lip of the well, the swooshas it plunged, the grunt of effort hauling it up, brimming and impossibly heavy. Fifty buckets. A hundred. Three hundred. Lost count. A small lake had been transferred from the deep, cool dark below to the hot, dusty world above. And each time someone—John, Old Gimpy, a daring child—had taken Lord Michael's now-sacrificial mobile phone, switched on its blindingly anachronistic torch, and peered down the shaft, the result was the same. A hundred meters below, a perfect, shimmering circle of obsidian, catching the light. The water level had not dropped a finger's width. It was a miracle that replenished itself. The final, lingering ghost of doubt—that this was a finite gift, a fleeting accident—was laid to rest. Cinder Town had water. Not a ration. Not a prize. A presence.
"Blast it, what's the time?" Michael muttered, shaking his waterlogged phone as if violence could revive it. The screen was a dark, blank eye. The euphoria of the day had, in its final act, claimed a casualty. The loss, however, felt trivial, a fair trade. The practicalities of lordship, delayed by revelry, now reasserted themselves. The Isuzu, a behemoth of potential, still sat by the gate, untapped.
He rallied his inner circle—a bedraggled, grinning, and utterly spent group. Even the female attendants, who had borne the brunt of the celebratory soaking and now moved with a new, conscious awareness of their damp clothing, were pressed into service. The unloading became a lazy, companionable ritual under the emerging stars.
As crates and sacks passed from truck to strongroom, Michael's mind, lubricated by success, began spinning new threads of ambition. "The other three wells," he announced, his voice cutting through the tired silence. "They keep digging. Until they strike wet stone or I say stop. I want water, not wishes." Nods all around. "And this bucket brigade is charming, but inefficient. Old Gimpy—the generator in the back. Tomorrow, you and whoever you need get that pump from the store room hooked up. I want to hear that diesel groan and see water fly."
Abundant water was a catalyst, not a conclusion. The nods from his followers were vigorous; they saw a leader planning for surplus, for security. What they couldn't see was the older, deeper yearning taking root in Michael's heart: the siren song of the land. The Chinese peasant's soul, buried under layers of sales targets and urban grime, was stirring. The soil here is rubbish,it reasoned, but it's soil.Rice and wheat were fantasies. But potatoes? Hardy maize? Desert melons? They had a chance. Clear the scrub, till the earth, let it breathe. A few tons of compound fertilizer from his world—applied not as a precious commodity, but as a baseline amendment—would work wonders in half a year. Then, seeds. Not the feeble, irradiated things scavenged here, but robust, drought-resistant, high-yield varieties from a world that took full bellies for granted. A thousand acres. Maybe two. The math was beautiful. Self-sufficiency. No more living shipment-to-shipment. His role would evolve from provisioner to… governor.
The plan, of course, had a thousand holes. The memory of the toxic rain was a fresh warning. Crops were vulnerable. But here, his identity as 'A-Biao' the agricultural salesman ceased to be a cover story and became a superpower. A greenhouse,the solution presented itself with perfect clarity. Vast sheets of UV-stabilized polyethylene from the Ruinuo Agricultural Supply catalogue. Simple steel frames. Open the sides for ventilation, seal them tight when the sickly clouds gathered. Manage the runoff. It was so obvious it was brilliant. And the best part? He could get it all on credit. Wholesale. His sales quota, that monolithic, despair-inducing number, now looked like a stepping stone. He'd fill it with an order for a post-apocalyptic farming collective. The commission would be real money in his old world. The fantasy unfolded: top salesman, respect from his bosses, financial stability… a life. It was petty, perhaps, compared to ruling a town, but the desire to shove success in the faces of those who'd looked down on him was a potent, lingering motivator.
"My Lord? Any other… instructions?" The voice, John's, thick with fatigue and a hint of hopeful expectation, jerked Michael back to the present. The truck was empty. His people stood in a ragged semicircle, their job done, their bodies demanding either rest or reward.
"Right!" Michael said, blinking. "The water tower. On the roof. Get it scrubbed until it shines. Next time, I bring pipes. Then, we'll have taps. Running water." He saw the concept land, sparking imaginations. "And the crew from the halted well—they don't get a holiday. They start on the ditch. Beyond the wall. Five meters deep, three wide. Take the spoil and build the wall higher. As we discussed."
Dismissal hung in the air. Then Michael yanked open the passenger door of the Isuzu. The cab was stuffed not with bulk goods, but with treasures: the medical hoard, snacks, luxuries. His mood was too expansive for austerity. "A little something for the hard workers," he declared, pulling out cardboard boxes. He distributed the bounty: one packet of 'Kang Shuaifu' instant noodles (best-by date a fond memory), one tea-stained egg, one packet of 'Wei-You' strips per person. It was a king's feast. He had no doubt they knew how to prepare the noodles; he'd felt their collective, tutorial gaze on his back a hundred times.
The men shuffled off, their weariness forgotten, clutching their prizes. Michael turned. "Lynda. Faye. A moment." He reached into the depths of the footwell and emerged with two plastic-wrapped bundles. He held them up. The cheap, synthetic fabric of the 'high-quality replica JK uniforms' shimmered garishly in the starlight. "For my most esteemed attendants. A gift. For after you've… properly bathed. I expect a viewing." He grinned, a flash of white in the dark. "You do know what twin tails are, yes?"
The girls took the garments, their fingers tracing the unfamiliar pleats and collars. The cheapness was irrelevant; it was new, it was from Him, it was pretty. Faye, however, hesitated. She looked from the uniform to Michael, her vulpine face suddenly serious. "My Lord… the medicines you brought. Were there… any for… the backside affliction?"
The question hit Michael with the physical force of a small hammer. "The… backside…?" The words felt clumsy. "You mean… piles? Haemorrhoids? Why do you…?" Dread, cold and unspeakable, began to pool in his stomach.
Faye nodded, a picture of earnest practicality. "Of course. It's very common. All of us girls have it, more or less."
All of us girls have it.
The statement, delivered with the casualness of a weather report, did not just douse Michael's burgeoning, JK-uniform-related fantasies; it dropped them into the Arctic Ocean. A psychic shudder, profound and visceral, racked him. The logistics of intimacy in the Wasteland had just acquired a new, horrifying, and clinically specific dimension. It shouldn't matter, it's a medical thing, don't be shallow,one part of his brain argued feebly. The rest of his consciousness recoiled in a primal, unassailable NOPE.
Don't push me,he thought wildly, a silent scream into the void of his own crumbling expectations. I'm a man on the edge. I have a tank. I will do something drastic.
With a hand that trembled slightly, he fumbled in a box and retrieved a small, red-and-yellow tube. He pressed it into Faye's hand as if disposing of a live grenade. "Here. 'Mayinglong Musk Haemorrhoid Ointment.' For… your collective… comfort."
Lynda, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis she had just witnessed, tilted her head. "And after we wash, and change, Master? You still wish to see?"
Michael took a deep, steadying breath of the night air, trying to purge the mental images. The path of the righteous lord was fraught with unexpected hurdles. "Naturally," he said, his voice a masterpiece of strained normality. He then produced two new toothbrushes and a tube of paste, placing them in their hands with exaggerated solemnity. "But first, hygiene. Use these. When you bathe. Scrub thoroughly. And from now on… make it a habit." He fixed them with a look that mixed command with a faint, desperate plea. "A good lord insists on dental hygiene for his staff. It's… important. Very, very important. Now, off you go. And remember… brush."