Humans Are More Dangerous Than Zombies

Darkness, loneliness, slumber.

He felt nothing.

No sense of time, no awareness of his body, nothing at all.

Let me sleep like this, he thought, until death arrives.

But an inexplicable pang of anxiety erupted from within, and a scene surfaced deep in his memory.

The image was blurred, yet the guttural roars, the nauseating stench, the violent waves of revulsion—all accompanied the crimson tableau that crashed into his mind!

Bang! Startled by the memory, Wang Yefei struggled upright from the sofa, not bothering about the overturned coffee table, instinctively clutching his throbbing forehead.

Pain and dizziness assaulted his skull, the bloody and terrifying images vanished, replaced by a single thought.

‘I’m not dead, I’m not dead? Thank God, I’m alive!’

“Dad! Dad! Are you okay? Does your head still hurt?” His son Wang Chen’s voice echoed in his mind, fully awakening his memory.

Oh, right. He’d spent considerable effort restraining his wife, crouched too long, stood up dizzy, tripped near the bookshelf and knocked himself out—what a string of misfortune!

Now fully lucid, Wang Yefei rubbed his head and asked casually, “Xiao Juan…how’s your mother?”

He shouldn’t have asked. Wang Chen opened his mouth but uttered not a word, turned, and rushed to the bathroom to vomit.

No need to ask; his wife couldn’t be saved. Frustrated, Wang Yefei rummaged for a cigarette, lit up, took a few drags, exhaled heavily, and sighed. His eyes reddened—after nearly twenty years of marriage, the loss was unbearable, even for a man of iron.

The vomiting ceased in the bathroom, replaced by suppressed sobbing. Wang Chen’s crying reminded Wang Yefei to steady himself—his wife was gone, but he still had his son. Now was not the time to fall apart. He pitied the boy; after all, Wang Chen had just turned twenty. Encountering such horror and not losing his mind was already commendable. Still, the boy’s resilience wasn’t what his father’s had been at his age. Back then…well, who was he kidding? He was only forty, still in his prime!

Wang Yefei’s gaze lingered on an old but unfaded family portrait. In it, he wore military garb, his face young—not handsome, but with a certain vigor thanks to the green uniform. Xiao Juan held baby Wang Chen, her features softened by motherhood and brimming with happiness. As for Wang Chen, his round black eyes and dimples made him look like a blessed child.

In his youth, Wang Yefei was an unremarkable student, spending his days gaming and playing basketball. Then Xiao Juan, one of the class’s four beauties, unexpectedly pursued him—a toad winning a swan, he felt honored but overwhelmed. Her family strongly opposed the romance, so Wang Yefei enlisted, hoping to forge a future through his military connections. Yet, just before departure, a passionate night left Xiao Juan pregnant. Thus came Wang Chen, and his military career vanished with a downsizing. He spent three years repairing cars, then returned home in shame.

Still, those three years gave him a foothold. He worked as a mechanic, diligently for nearly a decade, eventually co-founding a truck repair shop and becoming half a boss. Life for the family of three changed for the better.

But then, disaster struck—a plague ruined everything.

“Dad, don’t daze off. The cigarette’s burning your fingers.” Wang Chen emerged from the bathroom, wiped his mouth with tissue, and reminded him.

Only then did Wang Yefei notice the heat at his fingertips. He hastily stubbed out the cigarette. Wang Chen sat beside him, drew out two cigarettes, and lit them for both.

“You brat! When did you learn to smoke? Don’t pick up bad habits!” Wang Yefei scolded, but accepted the cigarette and took a few deep drags.

Wang Chen’s delicate features mirrored his mother, but the rest was all Wang Yefei—a bit sharper than his father’s honest exterior, taller thanks to good nutrition, though his build was less robust than his blue-collar dad’s. Still, he was sturdier than most peers.

Wang Chen wasn’t bothered by the scolding. Growing up, his mother had spanked him countless times, but his father? Not once. He exhaled smoke, his mood sinking as he recalled his mother. “Dad, what are we going to do?”

What to do? Wang Yefei had little idea, but as a father and a leader of a few mechanics, he was steadier than his son. He glanced at Wang Chen and declared, “We need a way out. Staying home is a dead end! Your grandparents are with your uncle; if we join them, we’ll have shelter.”

“But grandma’s returned to Shandong…”

“We can’t worry about that now!” Wang Yefei waved impatiently. “When they ask about your mother, what do we say?”

“Well…okay.” Wang Chen nodded. “I’ll follow your lead. How do we get there?”

Saying they’d leave was easy; actually doing it was hard. The streets were crawling with zombies. Was a way out really so simple?

Yes—zombies.

Once, Wang Yefei was the first in his class to beat Resident Evil. Twenty years later, he faced flesh-eating, blood-stained zombies—who would believe it?

The reality was brutal enough to drive anyone mad.

How did the heroes in Resident Evil seek help? Wang Yefei tried to encourage his son, his mind recalling the faded outlines of the game plot. He hadn’t played computer games in years, lately only watching American TV dramas to pass time. StarCraft, Red Alert, Resident Evil, CS, MUDs—those were distant memories.

Food, weapons, armor, communication devices, transport—these needed preparing. And medicine, of course. Wang Yefei managed the outside; Xiao Juan the home. He only had a vague idea of what was available, but gathering supplies now wouldn’t hurt.

Resolved, father and son divided the tasks. Wang Yefei dug out two car radios with built-in receivers from the balcony, dismantled the family power bank, and, using sunlight, prepared a makeshift radio.

They lived on the fourth floor in Harbin’s Daoli District, in an old neighborhood only two stops from the famous Central Avenue. The balcony faced the street, not wide, with another old apartment block opposite; the view wasn’t great. Compared to the chaos and bloodshed of the previous night and morning, the street was much quieter now, with only shambling figures and the lingering stench of smoke and rot. Wang Yefei saw no living souls.

It had been seventeen or eighteen hours since the disturbance at the downstairs eatery. According to his experience from watching state news, the army should be pouring into Harbin for rescue operations by now, or at least planes dropping supplies. Yet the sky was still blue and empty.

No matter—better to focus on the radio.

While Wang Yefei worked, Wang Chen searched for usable items. The plague struck suddenly, so their reserves were thin. There were still dozens of pounds of rice, plenty of water from before the supply shut off, frozen lamb rolls, beef rolls, and dumplings in the fridge, a few fruits to eat soon, lest they spoil. For weapons, the cleaver for chopping ribs was perfect for splitting heads without dulling, and the pipe wrench could make a hole if swung hard.

When the radio finally crackled to life, Wang Chen had finished gathering supplies. They huddled by the radio, smoking, ears strained for any news of the plague.

There was barely any information—just one repeated message: at noon, rescue teams would air-drop the first batch of supplies into the infected zone. Survivors could use the equipment to contact the command center for targeted rescue. Survivors were cautioned to stay safe; the high density of drops meant there was no need to gather in open spaces or light bonfires, lest they attract infected.

The rest were mere precautions, much like those in sci-fi stories and games—absurd, yet chillingly real.

After listening twice, father and son confirmed the news and slumped in relief. Wang Yefei feared a global zombie outbreak, government collapse, society vanished, everyone struggling to survive—then survival would be far harder.

Checking the time, Wang Yefei stood and said, “Son, help me settle your mother.”

Wang Chen hesitated, voice trembling, “Dad, can we…wait a bit? I might need to vomit again.”

“Nonsense! Sooner or later, it has to be done! Get up! You’re a man now!”

“But she’s my mom!” Wang Chen protested, seeing the twisted rage on his father’s face. “She’s suffered enough! I can’t do it! What if the disease can be cured?”

“Who said anything about that?” Wang Yefei, realizing the misunderstanding, shook his head with a bitter smile. “I just want to wrap your mother tightly in the quilt and tie her up. It’s safer, and she won’t hurt herself.”

“Oh, oh, let’s do it then.” Wang Chen quickly got up, helped find bedding, and together they worked. Even though Xiao Juan was petite, as a zombie she had inexplicable strength. They had to be careful not to get bitten or injure her. Sweating and exhausted, they finally secured her to the bed.

The broadcast had said once someone was “thoroughly infected,” it meant physiological death. They both knew tying her up was pointless—a self-delusion. But neither could bring themselves to end the life of such a vital woman.

Steeling himself, Wang Yefei avoided looking at his wife, whose twisted pale face snarled and struggled. He left the bedroom, locked the door, while Wang Chen had already gone to the bathroom to retch.

This couldn’t go on, thought Wang Yefei, walking to the bathroom door. He nearly spoke, then swallowed his words. What could he say? Watching your own mother turn into a zombie—just nausea and vomiting, not madness—was already remarkable.

What a mess!

No need to check the time; the roar of planes overhead signaled the air-drop had arrived. Wang Chen rushed to the balcony, waving and shouting—knowing it wouldn’t earn him special treatment, but needing to shout, as if the horror and nausea of zombie siege would leave him with each cry.

Wang Yefei didn’t stop his son’s venting, nor join him. As a middle-aged man, he was steadier than his twenty-year-old son. He stood behind Wang Chen, guarding against any careless fall from the balcony, observing the street and potential drop zones.

Drawn by the plane’s roar, zombies scattered throughout the city converged on open spaces, like crazed fans at a concert. They stared upward, eyes bloodshot and pupil-less, raising twisted, bloodied hands in vain toward the sky.

White parachutes blossomed in the air, each bearing a gray-green box—the hope of survivors. Wang Yefei scanned for a clear drop, even using his son’s old toy binoculars. As the roar faded, his heart sank. The boxes landing on the streets attracted zombies; retrieving them unscathed was nearly impossible.

Yet a father could never truly despair.

With the street drops out of reach, the only hope was to check the rooftop. Wang Yefei decided, pulled his son inside, and first ensured they ate well. Both donned tracksuits, wrapped tape around shoulders, waist, and legs for extra protection, then layered raincoats for a second defense. Wang Yefei, still uneasy, ignored Wang Chen’s protest and taped a rice cooker liner onto his son’s head—not caring about heatstroke.

Then came the main event. Armed with cleaver and pipe wrench, they crept to the door. Wang Yefei peeked downstairs—no movement. The entrance’s security had long failed, usually left ajar, but it seemed no zombies had entered the stairwell. They cautiously knocked on neighbors’ doors; all were firmly shut. Only then did they proceed upward.

With each floor, they checked that doors were tightly closed—they wanted no surprise zombie attacks. Neither had ever faced zombies up close, and hoped to postpone that moment as long as possible.

Reaching the top floor without incident, they relaxed a little. Wang Chen pushed the rooftop’s wooden door—it squeaked but didn’t budge. Ah, a rusty lock hung on it.

“Don’t panic—break it open!” Wang Yefei deliberately trained his son.

Wang Chen nodded, wiped the sweaty cleaver handle on his clothes, and chopped at the lock. He didn’t dare use full force, fearing noise might attract zombies below.

But the rotten lock didn’t budge.

“Fool! We’re on the seventh floor! What’s there to be afraid of?”

At his father’s rebuke, Wang Chen gritted his teeth, checked the chipped cleaver, and swung hard. Bang! The rusty lock failed; the door creaked open.

Stepping out, the dazzling sunlight stung his eyes, the black asphalt rooftop burned his feet, but Wang Chen ignored it, scanning for zombies, worried the noise had been too loud.

Wang Yefei followed, just about to use binoculars when the familiar white parachute came into view.

So lucky! Even after losing his wife, Wang Yefei felt a thrill—this was deliverance. He hurried to show Wang Chen the parachute, which had landed on the neighboring rooftop. Thank heaven for old building designs—the blocks were less than thirty centimeters apart, practically touching and equally high. Retrieving the box beneath the parachute was almost too easy.

Wang Chen didn’t hesitate, running toward the parachute, his mind fixed on the white canopy and the olive box below—zombies forgotten.

Wang Yefei followed, smiling wryly at his son’s impulsiveness—youth indeed. He’d have to watch over him.

As the parachute drew closer, the olive box clearer, Wang Chen’s heartbeat quickened. The chance for survival was within reach!

Duang! Wang Chen felt something trip his leg and tumbled forward! Wang Yefei, not far behind, hadn’t expected someone to suddenly jump out at the corner. He tried to warn Wang Chen, but it was too late.

An ambush!

Older and more cautious, Wang Yefei hadn’t lost composure at the sight of the parachute and box, but he’d never imagined someone would use the supply drop as bait to attack survivors!

“What are you doing!” Wang Yefei shouted, swinging the pipe wrench at the attacker. The man was prepared, dodged the blow, and tackled Wang Yefei to the ground, punching him.

Duang! Wang Chen, struggling to rise, felt something crash into his head, ears ringing, arms weak, collapsing again.

Dizzy, Wang Chen heard a voice, “Mom! I knocked him down!”

It sounded young—a boy. Wang Chen tried to cry out, “Don’t…don’t hit…I’m alive!”

But it was useless—another blow landed! Right on his head, this time harder. Wang Chen, struggling to rise, collapsed again, still unable to see his attacker.

“Harder, son! Hit the head!” The woman’s voice sounded odd—maybe the dizziness distorted Wang Chen’s hearing.

“Don’t kill me!”

A third blow.

“Mom, the rice cooker on his head is tough—it’s hurting my hand.”

“Stop whining, finish him off, then help your dad!”

Wang Chen realized that if he didn’t fight back soon, another few hits would kill him—and from their words, his father was also in danger! This thought spurred him.

Dare to hurt my dad? I’ll fight to the end!

Ignoring who was behind him, Wang Chen summoned all his strength to roll sideways, trying to escape and catch his breath. Halfway up, the club struck again—glancing off his shoulder and hitting the ground. The woman, thinking he was getting up, kicked Wang Chen hard in the back, knocking him down again. That kick pressed his shoulder onto the club’s middle; with his weight, the boy lost his grip—the club flew loose!

His head spinning, Wang Chen instinctively grabbed at random, dragging the boy down. They grappled on the ground; the boy was fierce, but no match for Wang Chen’s size—over 180 centimeters and 140 pounds. If not for the initial ambush, the boy wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The mother was frantic, wanting to help but unable to find a way in—most women in such moments could only scratch, not punch. Seeing her son wrestling with the stranger and her husband fighting nearby, she circled helplessly, searching for bricks or tiles to strike with. As she turned, someone kicked her calf; she staggered, flailing for balance, felt a step beneath her, and a scream died abruptly.

The scream distracted the man fighting Wang Yefei. Underneath, battered, Wang Yefei seized the opportunity, drove his thumb straight into the man’s eye! The man screamed in agony, clutching his face, and Wang Yefei rolled free, snatched up the pipe wrench, hesitated a moment, then slammed it down on the man’s head!

The boy, oblivious to his mother’s cry, was startled by his father’s scream, turned to see what had happened—giving Wang Chen, now enraged, his chance. Wang Chen headbutted the boy, rice cooker liner and all, into his nose, ignoring the blood and spit, and slammed the boy’s head into the asphalt again and again.