043 Everything on television is a lie.

Night had fallen, cloaking the world in darkness.

The Jinbei van finally came to a halt near the supply warehouse, right at the entrance of a small farmhouse. The van’s door blocked the front of the house, and all the windows on the first floor were fitted with security bars. As long as there weren’t any zombies capable of climbing or maniacs driving vehicles into the building, Wang Chen and his companions would be safe inside.

Before night fully settled, Pablo, carrying his battered AK, searched each room to ensure the house was secure. Ma Tian volunteered to climb to the rooftop, where he began sketching a simple map of the surroundings, marking any usable vehicles and the number of wandering zombies he could spot—just in case.

Fang Qiang, of course, was in charge of dinner. To everyone’s delight, the farmhouse’s tap water was still running, and there was no shortage of food or gas. Dried fish and cured meat hung in the kitchen, and with Fang Qiang’s skillful hands, a delicious meal was soon served, making Pablo’s mouth water in anticipation.

The others, however, were left to contend with one last problem.

A mysterious woman.

After Wang Chen had draped his coat over her, she immediately fell into a deep sleep, clinging to Wang Chen like an octopus, refusing to let go. In her sleep, she wept and screamed, reliving nightmares, but she would not wake.

Indeed, when Pablo gently pried from her relaxed right hand a slender weapon—one he’d never seen before, which Wang Chen called a “submachine gun”—and confirmed it was loaded with over a dozen rounds, his opinion of Wang Chen changed. He’d always thought Wang Chen, tall as he was at 1.8 meters, seemed more like a student than an operative, lacking a certain ferocity. But now, Pablo couldn’t help but slap Wang Chen on the shoulder and bestow upon him an English nickname.

Crazywang.

After all, it wasn’t every day you saw someone notice a gun in the hands of a deranged stranger and still have the nerve to approach unarmed, choosing instead to calm her peacefully and defuse the crisis. Pablo had seen plenty of tough guys who resorted to violence, but their glory was always short-lived, often dragging their families and friends into disaster. Only those crazy enough to take risks, yet wise enough to know when to retreat, could survive long in a lawless world. To Pablo, Wang Chen was exactly that kind of man—the kind who could disarm a madwoman without bloodshed.

Wang Chen had no idea that Pablo’s respect for him had grown. He was simply following Yang Xiaohua’s instructions, carefully cleaning the woman’s face and tending to her small wounds. The more intimate injuries and filth were left to Yang Xiaohua, with Joanna assisting.

During this process, the woman’s body was inevitably exposed, but the three attending her paid it no mind. They had seen enough naked bodies to become numb to the sight. Even Wang Chen, a young man in the prime of his life, felt only pity at the wounds that covered the woman in his arms, no stirring of desire.

Her injuries were so severe that anyone who saw them might think it kinder to end her suffering quickly. Especially when Joanna, cleaning her lower body, wrung out an entire basin of blood, and the woman only whimpered in her sleep. As fellow women, Yang Xiaohua and Joanna could hardly bear to look.

Once the woman was thoroughly cleaned, Wang Chen saw that she was quite young, no more than twenty, standing about 1.7 meters tall. She had broad shoulders, wide hips, and a full chest. If not for the typical proportions of her Asian waist causing her legs to seem shorter than those of Western models, she might have resembled one. Her face was too bruised and swollen to judge her looks, but from her thick, naturally arched brows and tightly pressed lips, it was clear she wasn’t the type to fuss over her appearance—more likely a hearty, straightforward woman.

How long would she keep clinging to him? Wang Chen wondered with a touch of helplessness.

He wasn’t being fussy—he was a carrier of the zombie pathogen. True, his strain wasn’t airborne, but if anyone was foolish enough to come into contact with his blood—and even more foolish to ingest it, like that burly Black woman—the consequences would be catastrophic. Wang Chen always avoided getting too close to others, a fact which, to the unaware Pablo and Joanna, appeared as a leader’s reserve, but to those who knew the truth, was his most painful secret.

Perhaps because her body felt cleaner, or because she could no longer hear the groans of zombies, the woman finally released Wang Chen and rolled onto the farmhouse bed, falling into a deep sleep.

“I’ll keep an eye on her. You and Joanna go take a break and eat while your food’s still warm,” Yang Xiaohua said, wiping sweat from her brow as she sat down beside the sleeping woman.

Wang Chen nodded and left the bedroom with Joanna. Fang Qiang had already eaten and gone out to keep watch, leaving Ma Tian and Pablo—two young men unable to communicate—staring at each other in silence. Bored, they dismantled and cleaned their weapons: the battered AK, a Glock, and a Type 79 submachine gun. Ma Tian taught Pablo how to use the Type 79, while Pablo showed Ma Tian how to strip the Glock. As for the AK, it was practically universal—anyone who’d ever handled a gun knew how to use it. Besides, it was wise to keep at least one weapon ready in case of emergencies.

Seeing the two bonding over firearms, Wang Chen didn’t intrude. He quietly began eating, his mind racing with thoughts of how to settle everyone, whether to find a defensible, self-sustaining place in the mountains or continue searching towns for survivors.

His musings were interrupted by Fang Qiang’s low voice over the walkie-talkie: “There’s movement outside!”

Movement meant people. Movement meant zombies. The implications were entirely different.

Upon hearing Fang Qiang, Wang Chen couldn’t help but wonder if having an unconscious woman nearby always meant trouble would follow. He quickly dismissed the thought, along with the last few bites of his meal, and drew his Glock, darting to the window.

Ma Tian reacted just as quickly, switching off the flashlight and hiding it under the coffee table. Pablo, though he didn’t understand Chinese, caught on from their actions, grabbed his AK, and loaded a fresh magazine with an audible click.

They didn’t need Fang Qiang’s explanation from the second floor—the sound of an approaching vehicle grew clearer. It was coming from the supply warehouse. As it neared the farmhouse, the vehicle slowed, but didn’t stop completely. Wang Chen was still puzzling over their intentions when Pablo realized what was happening. He’d seen this maneuver—slowing near a target for a drive-by shooting—too many times before.

“Get down!” he shouted.

No sooner had he spoken than the SUV unleashed a hail of bullets toward the Jinbei van and the farmhouse.

Compared to the firefights Wang Chen and his companions had survived on the island, this was nothing—just two Type 56 submachine guns firing wildly. The shooters had no idea how to control the guns’ fierce recoil, so most of the bullets missed their intended target, riddling the farmhouse’s plastic windows and barely scratching the Jinbei van. Even Fang Qiang, watching from the second floor, was only startled into a cold sweat.

If it weren’t for the fact that handguns were nearly useless against moving vehicles at thirty meters, and their AK was low on ammo, Wang Chen and the others could have returned fire and taught the attackers a harsh lesson.

During those tense seconds of gunfire, Wang Chen realized one thing: If he ever again came across a living person sitting in front of a burning building, surrounded by zombies, he wouldn’t hesitate—no matter who they were or what their circumstances. He’d run as far and as fast as he could. Otherwise, being caught at a “crime scene” with no way to explain himself was a death sentence in this lawless world.

If Wang Chen were the owner of the supply warehouse and found it burned, with a strange van parked outside a nearby farmhouse, he’d open fire without hesitation. No one cared about evidence anymore—zombies wore the judges’ robes now.

When the gunfire finally stopped, the SUV didn’t speed off as expected. Instead, it turned around and slowly drove toward the Jinbei van, its headlights illuminating the farmhouse. The passenger doors opened, and two men got out, taking cover behind the front and back doors, edging closer to the house.

Wang Chen was dumbfounded. Were these attackers really so inexperienced, or had they simply watched too many action movies? He remembered his own training, where his instructor had emphasized that the only parts of a car that could stop a handgun round were the tires and the engine block. Using a car door for cover was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Pablo watched the attackers’ clumsy tactics and almost wanted to test whether his AK could punch through both doors and the men behind them at this range.

Since their enemies were so eager to die, Wang Chen decided not to rush. He steadied his aim on the driver’s half-exposed head from behind the window, picked up the walkie-talkie, and asked, “Fang, are you hurt?”

“No, not a scratch.”

“From your angle upstairs, can you hit the gunman behind the passenger door?”

“Absolutely! I’ve got a clear shot.”

“When you hear my shot, open fire and take him out.”

“Got it, don’t worry!”

“Ma Tian, you take the passenger, I’ll handle the driver.” Then, in English, Wang Chen instructed Pablo, “The AK is too loud. Help us—if we miss anyone, you shoot.”

“OK!” Pablo agreed. The battered AK47 may have looked rough, but it was still their most powerful weapon. There was no need to reveal their full capabilities until they’d assessed the enemy.

By now, the SUV was less than ten meters from the Jinbei van, and only twenty meters from the farmhouse window. Illuminated by the headlights, Wang Chen could clearly see the driver’s head. He took a deep breath, steadied his aim, and fired.

The gunshot was the signal. Ma Tian and Fang Qiang fired less than a half-second later.

The SUV’s engine roared as it lurched into the Jinbei van with a crash before stalling out. The three would-be attackers, who had hoped to use the SUV as a shield, instead painted the interior with their own blood—a fitting testament to their foolishness.

With the farmhouse’s front door blocked, Wang Chen, Fang Qiang, and Pablo exited through a second-floor window, dropping onto the Jinbei van’s roof, then the SUV, and finally the ground.

They split up: Wang Chen checked the vehicles, Fang Qiang cleared the dead, and Pablo gathered up the scattered weapons and ammo.

Wang Chen, shining his flashlight, saw oil dripping from the SUV’s undercarriage and grimaced. So much for quality manufacturing. The Jinbei van’s engine had two bullet holes—an obvious death sentence for the vehicle.

Pablo, on the other hand, was delighted. He’d found at least 200 rounds of ammunition, seven or eight loaded magazines, and two submachine guns—one intact, the other ruined by a .357 Colt Python round stuck in the receiver. Still, with a bit of handiwork, he could merge the salvageable parts and create a functional weapon. The AK series was famously durable—accuracy and rate of fire might suffer, but a catastrophic failure was unlikely.

A quick sweep with the flashlight revealed that they didn’t have time to fix the vehicles and escape. Already, a few zombies were shuffling toward the noise.

It would have been a miracle not to attract zombies with all that commotion!

Without waiting for instructions, Pablo began hauling weapons and ammo into the farmhouse. Fang Qiang called out, “Give me a hand—this one’s still breathing.”

Wang Chen slung a backpack from the back seat over his shoulder and helped Fang Qiang drag the wounded gunman inside.

Ma Tian and Joanna helped Pablo gather the weapons, while Fang Qiang questioned the injured man. He was lucky to be alive—a 9mm round, after passing through a car door, had lost much of its power. He’d been shot in the right shoulder and upper abdomen, wounds that looked survivable, though no one present was a doctor.

There was no need for interrogation. The moment Fang Qiang produced a roll of bandages, the man confessed everything.

As his injuries worsened, his rambling became more confused, his local accent thicker, but before he died, Wang Chen and Fang Qiang pieced together most of the story.

After the zombie outbreak, local government collapsed almost immediately. Survivors banded together for safety, and the law of the jungle prevailed. The man—nicknamed “Bleeder”—was a local ne’er-do-well who’d looted the village supermarket, then armed himself at the police station. He and his friends drove to town, thinking it would be easier to find food, drink, and women. There, they encountered two young men with submachine guns, who quickly took charge, using “Bleeder” as a lackey and assigning others to guard the warehouse.

After the warehouse fire, the two young men decided someone had to pay. They needed to capture survivors or at least bring back photos of corpses as proof for their boss—someone called “Boss Li.” That’s how “Bleeder” ended up in this doomed raid.

Thanks to his rambling Mandarin, Wang Chen and Fang Qiang never did find out what the two leaders’ true goals were, or who “Boss Li” really was. But one thing was clear: anyone who could send out henchmen armed with submachine guns was not to be trifled with. The best course was to flee—immediately, and by night.

Decisiveness was a mark of a good leader, and both Wang Chen and Fang Qiang knew they were in trouble. Still, neither worried too much. The outbreak had only been raging for three days—surely no one could assemble a real criminal gang in so short a time. Even if someone had, they’d still have to reckon with the military and police, at least around the larger cities.

Just two minutes after “Bleeder” died, Wang Chen and Fang Qiang filled in the others. With so few people, there were no objections. After a quick pack-up, Pablo took the lead, Wang Chen carried the unconscious woman, and the group slipped out the back door into the night.

The darkness was deep, the world pitch-black but for the faint glow of the moon, enough to see fifty or seventy meters ahead. Their destination was simple: according to Ma Tian’s earlier map, two residential buildings away lay the village square, where two minibuses used for rural transport were parked. They would take the larger Ford Transit, easily fitting everyone.

As usual, Pablo was tasked with hotwiring the van, while the others made themselves useful. Wang Chen, wielding two military knives, cleared away any stray zombies. Ma Tian and Fang Qiang scavenged sheet metal from a nearby shack to reinforce the van’s windows. Joanna and Yang Xiaohua watched over the still-sleeping woman.

In the end, Pablo was the fastest, Wang Chen close behind, while Ma Tian and Fang Qiang took longest. Pablo couldn’t help but be impressed as he watched Wang Chen dispatch zombies as though welcoming old friends, never appearing nervous, effortlessly driving his knives into skulls. Even when flicking off bits of flesh or bone, he scarcely seemed to break a sweat. Any last remnants of Pablo’s street-bred pride vanished.

After all, what was the use of bulk if you didn’t have this kind of stamina? Pablo might have more raw strength, but in endurance, agility, and coordination, he was no match for Wang Chen, a national-level athlete.

By the time clouds covered the moon, the Ford Transit was ready to go. They started the engine and drove off into the boundless night.

In the darkness, the headlights glimmered faintly, guiding them forward.