The night fog hadn't lifted yet, and the microscope's light shone on Chen Hao's face, reflecting a layer of oily sweat. He stared at the screen; the newly tagged parasite was slowly wriggling, like a black sesame seed stuck in the seam of a feather, but a little slower than yesterday.
"Dead?" he asked.
“Not completely dead.” Nana stood beside her, the mechanical arm hovering above the control panel. “The movement frequency has decreased by 62 percent, and some individuals have shown a curling-up reaction—this is a precursor to neural inhibition.”
Chen Hao breathed a sigh of relief, then tightened his belt: "That means he's still alive and can still transmit the virus."
He removed his protective mask and tossed it onto the workbench with a "thud." The bottle of concentrated garlic extract beside him was half empty, the label peeling off at one corner from being soaked in sweat. He remembered that he had doubled the dosage last night, spraying the area in front of the chicken coop like a braised food stall, but this morning the monitor still showed insects circling the fogged area, moving with surprising agility.
"They've learned to walk in an S-shape." He rubbed his eyes. "Last time they were dodging, this time they're circling, will they line up and salute next?"
Nana didn't respond. The holographic projection popped up automatically. On the heat map, red dots were densely distributed at the edge of the old chicken area, while a new activity signal appeared on the feather root of the antibody chicken in the corner of the inner coop.
“Three hours and seven minutes,” she said. “The isolation buffer zone failed.”
Chen Hao stood up, his legs a little numb, and he steadied himself by holding onto the corner of the table. "Alright, if we can't win in chemical warfare, we'll build the Great Wall instead."
He turned and walked to the materials shelf, pulling out several composite wood planks, their edges damp but the structure still relatively intact. The plastic supports were salvaged from a scrapped drone and could barely be used as crossbeams. He carried a stack of them out and placed them on the ground with a dull thud.
"It's a double-layered structure. The inner enclosure is for raising baby chickens, while the outer enclosure is for them to roam freely." He gestured as he spoke. "There's a path in the middle, some lime sprinkled on it, and a UV lamp installed. Anyone who dares to wander off will be roasted into a crispy, salt-and-pepper crust on the spot."
Nana accessed the building database, and a 3D model was quickly generated: the interior was sealed and reinforced, the ventilation openings were rerouted, an independent drainage system was installed in the outer area, and a one-way valve was installed in the buffer zone.
“Theoretically, it’s feasible,” she said. “However, the current materials have a load-bearing limit of 70 kilograms per square meter. What if there are strong winds or snow accumulation…”
“We don’t even have snow here, where would the snow come from?” Chen Hao interrupted. “Let’s wait out the rain for a couple of days. If it really collapses, I’ll just hold it up with my head.”
He shouldered his tool bag and headed outside, his boots making a "plop" sound as they stepped on the wet ground. It was just dawn, the air thick and stuffy like a steamer, and the ground outside the chicken coop still bore the grayish stains of the spray from the previous night's operation.
Construction began on the east side. He first dismantled the old fence, nailed on wooden planks to make partitions, and then used plastic frames to build the framework. Halfway through tightening the screws, the electric wrench ran out of power, so he simply switched to manual, tightening them round and round until his arms ached as if someone had secretly poured cement into them.
Nana stood on high ground, her shoulder light on, casting a white beam onto the seam beside her hand. "3.2 degrees to the left," she warned, "It will affect the overall seal."
"Okay." Chen Hao wiped the sweat from his face. "Could you please stop reporting data all the time? It's like you're a proctor."
"I'm just offering this as a reference."
“But every time I hear you say the word ‘deviation,’ I feel like handing in my paper.”
He gritted his teeth and tightened the last bolt, then slapped the new wall panel, making two solid "thump-thump" sounds. "It's done. It's a bit ugly, but at least it's a place to live."
The two worked in shifts. Chen Hao was responsible for assembly and welding, while Nana used an optical lens to scan the structure for stability and also served as a nighttime light. Occasionally, she would short-circuit, causing the robotic arm to tremble slightly, but it would recover quickly.
"Are you about to run out of battery?" Chen Hao glanced at her.
“The system is functioning normally,” she said. “It’s just that rainwater seeped into the joint lubrication grooves, causing a 0.3-second delay in response.”
"Oh." He nodded. "Then you're like a broken electric fan that's still stubbornly trying to stay afloat."
At four in the morning, the main structure was completed. Chen Hao, exhausted, sat directly on the muddy ground, leaning against the wall and panting. Nana initiated the migration procedure, guiding the antibody-bearing chickens through the disinfection channel into the inner shed. As each chicken passed by, the ultraviolet light automatically flashed once, turning the mud on its feet blue.
"They've all gone inside." He looked at the monitor. "The five sick ones were moved too, hopefully to avoid infection."
“The quarantine protocol has been activated,” Nana said. “The buffer zone is spraying mist periodically, and the air filtration system is running continuously.”
Just as Chen Hao was about to say, "Finally, I can take a break," the alarm went off.
A piercing buzz shattered the morning silence, and the surveillance camera panned to the corner of the inner shed—the chick that had pecked at his shoelaces was now showing signs of life, its back feathers trembling slightly. A magnified image revealed a parasite slowly crawling, its body glistening with oil, as if it had just taken a bath.
"How did it get in?" Chen Hao suddenly stood up.
"Preliminary assessment," Nana quickly analyzed, "The eggs were attached to the bottom of the chicken's feet and were not completely removed during the disinfection process. The individuals currently do not have the ability to fly, so the mode of transmission is still contact transfer."
Chen Hao immediately rushed over to turn off the vents and checked all the sealing strips on the interfaces. "Next time a chicken comes in, let it soak its feet before it enters the room."
He returned to the control room, opened his portable terminal, and swiped to bring up the traditional Chinese medicine classics module. The page loaded incredibly slowly, like an ox pulling a cart, but he wasn't in a hurry, flipping through the pages one by one.
"Artemisia annua?" he read aloud. "The one used to treat malaria?"
"Traditional records show that its extract has an inhibitory effect on a variety of ectoparasites." Nana's modeling and deduction show that "the safe dosage is three grams of dry powder mixed with feed daily for five consecutive days, and the expected kill rate can reach more than 70%."
“Let’s give it a try,” he said. “We’ve been using garlic all this time anyway, might as well try something different.”
He rummaged through the inventory and found half a bag of artemisia powder, which was yellowish in color and smelled slightly bitter. The mixing machine started humming, and after the medicine and feed were mixed evenly, it was sent into the inner shed through an automatic feeder.
The first antibody-treated chicken tilted its head, looked at the feed trough, pecked at it, then looked up and glared at the camera, as if protesting the food reform.
"Take it or leave it," Chen Hao said to the screen. "If you don't want to eat it, fine, but don't cry if you go bald."
Time passed slowly. At noon, Nana pulled up the microscopic sample comparison images. The newly collected insects showed a significant slowdown in movement, with some individuals curled up and motionless, and their cell membranes beginning to rupture.
“It works,” she said.
"I knew the things our ancestors knew were reliable." Chen Hao grinned. "What high technology? In the end, it all comes down to a handful of grass."
He crouched back down in front of the microscope, pressed his eye to the eyepiece, and adjusted the focus. In the center of the image, a parasite twitched a few times and then remained completely still. He stared at it for ten seconds, confirming that it was no longer moving.
"Finally, it's under control," he said softly, taking off his mask. His face was covered in dust and sweat, but his eyes were bright.
He stood up and walked towards the feed mixing machine to prepare the dosage for tomorrow. The machine started up, and the powder slowly flowed into the mixing chamber.
Nana stood beside the control panel, the robotic arm continuously recording the data stream, the optical lens flickering slightly, projecting tomorrow's temperature control and drug administration plan.
Chen Hao reached out and pressed a button, and a prompt appeared on the screen: [Dosage confirmed, tomorrow's feeding amount: 3.0 grams/animal].
He nodded and was about to speak when he suddenly heard a splashing sound coming from the inner room.
The surveillance footage switched to the chick that was first infected, which was standing by the feed trough with its wings slightly open and half a piece of artemisia leaf in its beak. Suddenly, it tilted its head back and swallowed it.
Then it turned around, faced the camera, and made a cooing sound.
Chen Hao was stunned.
It cooed again and its tail wagged gently.
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