On the Flight from Famine, I Survived with Her Name on My Back

The eleventh year of the Da Qian reign. Spring famine.

Heaven has gone blind. Guanzhong has suffered three years of drought, and the cracked earth is wide enough to fit a fist.

Even the stray dogs by the roadside are so hungry they gnaw on their own legs, stopping only when they reach the bone.

War has broken out again in the north. The government troops and the rebel bandits are both beasts. They take the last grain, leaving not even tree bark in their wake.

Those cursed officials at court have opened soup kitchens, but the soup contains more sand than rice. One mouthful could break your teeth.

Everyone has fled, heading south, east, anywhere they've heard there might still be a bite to eat.

The main roads are packed with people, families in tow, blundering around like headless flies.

Some have diarrhea so bad they keep going right in their pants, stinking so badly even dogs avoid them.

The dead are tossed by the roadside, while the living keep walking. No one knows where they're going; they only know that stopping means death.

Along the way, some boil human flesh and share it, calling it "life-saving meat"; others abandon their own parents halfway down the road, cursing, "You old bastards are just a burden."

Snow falls for seven days, piling up to ankle height along the main road.

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.