Chapter 39: Preparing for a Rainy Day

Late summer was giving way to early autumn. The air hung heavy with the scent of ripe rice, the sea teemed with crabs and fish, yet the water had begun to cool. Still, the afternoon hours offered a brief window to enjoy the sea’s pleasures, a taste of its beauty. Unfortunately, the threat of the zombie pathogen loomed over everything. Rumors spread incessantly—corpses, or worse, still-active zombies, might drift ashore on the tide from infected zones. As a result, coastal tourism had come to a complete halt. Beaches lay deserted, and every vessel entering port was subject to rigorous inspection.

There were exceptions, of course. On this empty beach stood a solitary, garishly large parasol, shading two lounge chairs arranged side by side. Reclining on one was a man of indeterminate age, his physique impressive, dark sunglasses masking his eyes. Behind him, beyond the sand, loomed several unfinished and derelict buildings—abandoned shells with no windows or doors, though otherwise structurally complete. Dozens of construction workers moved in and out like ants, seemingly reinforcing the basic framework. Strangely, the man had a gas mask at his side—a detail suggesting either eccentricity or outright madness.

A gentle sea breeze stirred as a woman approached the parasol, clad in a swimsuit and wrapped in a towel. She stood beside the man, gauging the width of the spare lounge chair and glancing at her own ample waistline. With a resigned sigh, she spread her towel on the sand and eased herself down, striking a sunbather’s pose.

After a while, the man—downwind—could stand it no longer. He removed his sunglasses, revealing a face creased with worry and exhaustion. This was Zhang Han, the interrogation specialist, currently on leave after completing an assignment. He was quite unable to bear the woman’s body odor and muttered, “Are you doing this on purpose? On a day this hot, are you really going to make me wear the gas mask?”

“Come now. I came all this way in a swimsuit, and you don’t even give me a second glance? After all, this is our first meeting since the quarantine zone,” she replied, her tone teasing. This was Yu Jia, a computer expert whose luck had held—she’d come through quarantine uninfected, and even lost some weight in the process. Still, with her frame well over two hundred pounds, the loss was negligible. As for her infamous odor, it had not improved in the least.

“Just tell me—what brings you out of the ‘old house’ to find me?” Zhang Han asked quietly, his expression unmoved. Though they’d been comrades in the quarantine zone, in truth, they belonged to different departments—he to Interrogation, she to Technical. Their relationship was not close.

Yu Jia rubbed her stomach, her earlier levity vanishing. Her voice turned cold. “You’re aware of the nationwide rearmament of the militia, aren’t you?”

Zhang Han shot her a look that said, “Obviously.” This was old news, celebrated on state television for a week now.

“They’re also distributing manuals and tools for reloading ammunition, making improvised explosives, and weapons manufacture. Do you know about those details?”

“I know.” Zhang Han’s expression remained unchanged. The rearmament had already caused social unrest—many local officials opposed it, some even requesting police protection under the pretext of ‘threats from criminals.’

That civil servants should fear the common people having guns—he found it chilling.

Yu Jia saw that Zhang Han’s face remained as dour as ever and decided to stop beating around the bush. She was a computer expert, not a negotiator. “I’ll be blunt. We’re interested in the project behind you.”

That caught Zhang Han’s attention. He sat up and fixed her with a direct gaze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t we go for a swim instead?”

Said to another woman, such words might have carried a different implication, but Yu Jia was well aware of her own limitations. She ignored the awkward phrasing, nodded, and with a pained smile, struggled to her feet. “I understand your caution. I swear I’m not wired. These days, anyone who knows the inside story is making backup plans. Your Interrogation division may have dirt on a lot of people, but our Technical division has its own stash of secret resources, doesn’t it? Working together, we’ll make faster progress. Time isn’t money now—it’s life itself.”

At the mention of “inside story,” Zhang Han remained wary and silent. He strode toward the sea, unwilling to say more. His current project was little more than a private slush fund for a select few—if word got out, higher-ups would be furious, rival departments envious, and those left out would rebel. Everyone involved would be in trouble.

Yu Jia pursed her lips and trudged after him. Her body fat made wading through the surf a challenge, and by the time the water reached her waist, she simply lay back, as if to prove she wore no recording devices. Rising from the waves, she called to Zhang Han, “I’m here to discuss details. The big picture is for our superiors to settle. I expect you’ll hear from them soon.”

True enough, Zhang Han’s special phone vibrated in his swim trunks. He checked the message and nodded. “The boss has messaged. All right—let’s talk details.”

Yu Jia, with a look that said, “Told you so,” pointed back toward the derelict buildings. “Those shells were designed for over five thousand residents—after halving, nearly three thousand. Your Interrogation crew, even counting families, barely reaches a thousand. Give us half the quota.”

“Five hundred, maximum. The plumbing is incomplete—there’s drainage, but no running water. With our current desalination unit, we can supply drinking water for two thousand two hundred people a day, but that’s it. Wastewater could pollute our supply. So, five hundred.”

“We’ll provide heavy weapons. I’ll recite the list—don’t ask how Technical got them. Range, firepower, ammo—you’ll be satisfied.”

“Six hundred and fifty.”

“We’ll supply solar power, and, if needed, information about micro-nuclear reactors. We can have people retrieve them. Energy won’t be an issue.”

“No. We’ve considered micro-reactors—they’re unstable, less reliable than submarine reactors. Without the original designers, it’s like living next to a nuclear bomb every day. No.”

Yu Jia splashed water over herself. “You think we haven’t thought of that? We’ve reserved thirty-seven slots for the maintenance crew. And here’s news you haven’t heard: two weeks ago, the top brass secretly expanded the micro-reactor production line. They struck a deal with Russia for technical cooperation, got the specs and key components a week ago, and are now producing two per day, each under ten cubic meters and five tons, gas-heated, with a thirty-year lifespan.”

Zhang Han didn’t bother to question how Technical had learned such secrets. If Yu Jia mentioned it, it was credible. Reliable energy would ease survival. He did some quick thinking. “If you can get one, your quota rises to eight hundred.”

“Give me fifty more—those aren’t for Technical.” Yu Jia hesitated, then confessed, “A few days ago, the Field Ops division lost over a dozen agents, including two top-tier operatives. We need to provide for their families.”

“Come on—how many top-tier agents are there? That’s like the CIA losing enough for a whole row of stars…” He realized from her expression that she was serious. “All right, that’s only right… Wait! Field Ops families? Yu Jia, how many departments are getting involved in this?”

Yu Jia retreated a few steps, waving her hands. “Not many. Interrogation, Technical here, plus some Field Ops families. Internal Security has its own plans, and Equipment will take care of some of their own. The heavy weapons I mentioned—those are from Equipment.”

Zhang Han rolled his eyes. His headache grew. It seemed every sly fox in the upper ranks was involved—probably even State Security and the Secrecy Bureau. And he, the on-site operator, left in the dark. What began as a small-scale contingency for a couple of departments had now ballooned into a major operation, with him leading the charge. If the anticipated disaster didn’t materialize and the scheme was exposed, he and his colleagues would be ruined.

Sensing his unease, Yu Jia tried to reassure him. “You were chosen because you survived the quarantine zone, you know the details, you’re thorough. Our boss promises, whatever happens, neither you nor your family will be harmed. Zhang Han, brother—don’t back out now, or we’re all finished.”

Zhang Han’s expression shifted several times before he finally sighed and headed toward the beach, grumbling, “They made it clear: pick a site, supervise, fill in engineering gaps, prioritize epidemic defense, and—above all—no electronic or written records, only verbal communication. Officially, the buildings are for Interrogation Division training. But it’s only been days, and look how big this has gotten!”

“What choice do we have? The outbreak is worse than anyone imagined.” Yu Jia walked alongside him, also sighing. “Look at the military—counteroffensive, all-out defense, focused defense—so many slogans, but in reality, they’ve been forced to retreat. You can’t blame them; they face the front lines, take the casualties. If the epidemic is contained, all’s well—but what if it isn’t?”

“What if, indeed…” Zhang Han bit his lip, unwilling to continue. He didn’t have the clearance to know the true nature of the pathogen, but as a security professional, he knew rumors rarely arose without cause.

Yu Jia let the topic drop and changed the subject. “Brother Zhang, you know how it is—senior leaders never communicate directly. Introduce me to this abandoned complex, so I can report back.”

This was a reasonable request, and Zhang Han obliged, pointing out details. The complex had originally been slated for a seaside resort catering to the middle class—people who’d spend half the year here. But the location was less than ideal: three sides backed by steep hills, one side facing the sea, battered by humid summer winds. Anyone with sense could see that living here would mean constant damp and mildew—hence the odd topography, the result of centuries of wind erosion.

The developer, desperate for funds, tried to pre-sell the project, painting it as a paradise. But no one was fooled. Tour groups would arrive, take one look, and leave with a laugh.

Unable to repay loans, the developer fled, the bank couldn’t auction it off, and so it became the derelict mess it is now—a failed resort, but, in the eyes of certain people, a perfect refuge.

With mountains on three sides and the sea on the fourth, the narrowest access point was a ten-meter-wide, fifty-meter-long pass blasted through the ridge. Steep rock walls, five to seven meters high, flanked the road. With a heavy machine gun in place, you could mow down any zombies that approached.

Zhang Han’s design went further. He had the workers bore into the rocks, reinforce them with rebar and concrete, and construct arch-shaped bunkers strong enough for heavy trucks to pass overhead. Rolling iron gates, fitted with firing ports, could be closed to seal off the pass. He installed two such barriers, and had the outer slopes blasted or coated in cement to prevent climbing, ensuring the entire complex was landlocked once the gates were shut.

Meanwhile, he had the buildings sealed. With their frameworks complete but no doors or windows, he ordered the openings covered with foam panels and aluminum profiles, then sealed with caulk; the exterior was coated with cement and galvanized steel, finished with anti-rust paint. Inside, a central ventilation system of plastic ducts was installed; with proper filters at the intake and everyone wearing masks indoors (and full protective suits outdoors), the risk of infection would be minimized.

As for the seaward side, Zhang Han’s main concern was human treachery. As an interrogation expert, he knew the darkness of the human heart. Retreating to an island was too risky—someone powerful and ruthless could wipe you out. So he chose this defensible spot on land, without neglecting seaward defenses. But defending the sea isn’t easy—you need long-range, high-volume firepower. That’s why, when Yu Jia offered heavy weapons, he immediately increased her quota.

“Over there—all the materials are stockpiled, even enough for repairs. In two days, we’ll finish. If the workers have to evacuate, our own people can carry on. I’m just an interrogator—I’ve done what I can. If you see anything I’ve missed, tell me. This is about safety—no room for error.”

Lives were at stake.

But what about the laborers in those buildings? The townsfolk working and studying? The farmers in their fields?

Were their lives worth any less?

As these questions surfaced in Zhang Han’s mind, he forced them aside. He had neither the power nor the right to dwell on them.

When Yu Jia left, dusk had settled. Zhang Han handed over to his colleague from Interrogation, reminded him to be vigilant overnight, and then drove back to town with his two junior coworkers.

Both were under thirty—new recruits to Interrogation, and, by now, familiar with the general outline of the project. Sensing Zhang Han’s mood, neither pressed for details about the obese woman who’d visited. One of them asked, “Brother Zhang, when do your wife and kid arrive?”

“Around noon tomorrow. What about your families?”

“Wu’s parents are coming tomorrow afternoon. As for me, you know my situation—on my own. I called my brother yesterday, but he wants nothing to do with me. We’ve been estranged since our mother died eight years ago. I’m no longer family to him.”

Zhang Han knew his colleague—a red-blooded scion of the old guard—was the product of bitter family strife. Incompetent in many ways, often griping about injustice, but at least self-aware: he knew what to say, kept his mouth shut when needed, recognized whom to respect, and always got the job done.

Otherwise, Zhang Han would never have chosen him as his aide.

As they chatted idly, Zhang Han steered the SUV onto a nameless village road. The headlights illuminated a concrete block in the road, rebar jutting out at odd angles—too high for the SUV to clear. A sedan was parked at the roadside, two people waving, evidently stymied by the block and hoping for help.

This wasn’t the only road to town. Zhang Han had no intention of getting out to move the block. Out of courtesy, he rolled down the window and called, “Headed to town too? Don’t bother. The road crew will handle it tomorrow. Take the detour.”

He hadn’t expected both figures to suddenly draw Type 56 semi-automatic rifles, shouting in unison, “Don’t move! This is a robbery!”

At the same moment, two more men rose from the roadside ditches, similarly armed. One, either nervous or deliberate, fired at the SUV.

As the shot rang out, Zhang Han reacted instantly—clutching the clutch, shifting into reverse, flooring the accelerator. The SUV leapt backward as he drew his sidearm and fired repeatedly out the window at the robbers.

His colleague in the passenger seat was slower to react—by the time he fumbled with his gun, the SUV had already reversed five or six meters. Wu in the back seat was quicker, getting his pistol out before Zhang Han and shooting one of the ambushers on the left—the unlucky youth fell without a sound, clutching his unfired rifle.

The firefight was over in five seconds.

Zhang Han, though a specialist in interrogation, was no novice with firearms. Annual live-fire assessments were mandatory in the security service; shooting while reversing was child’s play to him. Even his slowest colleague had taken lives before—none of them hesitated to kill.

They switched off the headlights and quickly took cover, confirming there were no more attackers. Zhang Han ordered Wu to contact the local police, while the red-blooded colleague helped him clear the scene.

By the light of the SUV, they opened the sedan’s trunk and freed a terrified couple—hostages, their pants soaked with fear. They confiscated four rifles, each fitted with triangular bayonets, and were shocked to see the robbers’ faces in the glare.

They were all just boys—none older than eighteen or nineteen, one perhaps only fifteen.

No need for explanations: emboldened by the militia’s new firearms, these reckless youths had gotten their hands on semi-automatics and played at being highwaymen.

Now, having failed in their robbery, they’d paid with their lives.

Zhang Han felt worse than ever. What a mess! Lax regulation after arming the populace, teenagers holding up roads with rifles! The zombie plague hadn’t yet swept through, but society was already unraveling.

As the night deepened, the three men waited for the police, each lost in grim, silent thought.