Madwoman No. 045 Sheng Qingru

Wang Chen stared in utter shock at the body of the villainous leader, whose name he never even had the chance to learn, slumped in the car with at least five or six bullet wounds, killed at close range by the sleepwalking woman before he could utter any last words. He was completely speechless.

Honestly, Wang Chen had originally been coordinating with Pablo. Using Pablo’s marksmanship and his own distracting maneuvers, the plan was to scatter this group of obviously inexperienced, trigger-happy armed civilians. They were on the verge of success, about to intercept the so-called Boss Li, ready to kill or capture as they wished—when suddenly, out of nowhere, this human whirlwind had appeared, mowing them all down in one burst.

With everyone dead, all was lost: vehicles, weapons, supplies, even the potential to recruit manpower. There was no way they could chase down the scattered civilians in the dark; those who ran might turn back and, seeing their leader brutally gunned down, be driven to desperation. Even a rabbit will bite when cornered. If Wang Chen were to chase after them, rifle in hand, it could easily trigger a fight to the death. Facing off at close range with their rifles? No matter how fearless he was, that would be suicide.

Apart from cursing furiously in his mind, Wang Chen had to force himself to appear calm on the surface. Who knew if the sleepwalking woman’s mind had really cleared up? After all, she’d just fired a submachine gun, completely unfazed, without even bothering to put on pants in front of all those men. Clearly, something was off.

As Wang Chen was contemplating how to tactfully suggest she put on some pants, the woman slung her Type 79 over her shoulder and walked up to the car, pulling open the door. She let the dying Boss Li, blood bubbling at his lips and barely breathing, fall out onto the ground, then reached to undo his belt and strip off his trousers.

Seeing this, Wang Chen breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least she knew to cover herself—so maybe her mental state wasn’t as bad as he feared. By this time, Pablo had crouched and run over, weapon ready. Confirming that the armed civilians had dispersed and the area was safe, he couldn’t help but clap Wang Chen on the shoulder and ask, “Dead? Who did it?”

Wang Chen jerked his chin at the sleepwalking woman. Pablo looked equally puzzled. “Her? How did she get a gun?”

“No idea… Wait—watch out!”

In the darkness, a sudden stream of fire raced toward the car!

Wang Chen instantly realized that the woman’s stray bullets had ruptured the gas tank, and gasoline was now flowing toward the still-burning fire, setting the car ablaze. Shouting, he rushed forward, grabbing the woman by the waist and hoisting her up, sprinting away. Pablo was just as quick, and the three of them had barely made it a few steps before the gasoline in the tank ignited, and, in that confined space, there could be only one outcome.

Boom!

Now the scene finally had the makings of a blockbuster movie—except neither Wang Chen nor Pablo looked anything like movie heroes as they tumbled, battered and muddy, onto the roadside. Pablo managed a swift roll to his feet, but Wang Chen, weighed down by the woman, landed hard on his back, seeing stars. After a few seconds, the unscathed woman hauled him up off the ground.

“My name is Sheng Qingru,” the woman introduced herself, her tone flat, as if surviving an explosion hadn’t fazed her in the slightest.

“Ah? Oh, I’m Wang Chen, and this is Pablo, from South America.”

Sheng Qingru tightened her makeshift belt, checked her empty Type 79, and tilted her head thoughtfully. “You’re a good man. If you ever need a woman for relief, you can come to me anytime, anywhere.”

This woman was definitely not right in the head.

Wang Chen was sure of it.

Pablo, not understanding Chinese, saw Wang Chen’s strange expression and pressed, “What did she say?”

“She said that if Mr. Wang ever wants, he can come to her anytime…”

Sheng Qingru’s English was far more fluent than Wang Chen’s.

“Hey! Hey! Got it, got it, let’s talk about it later!” Wang Chen interjected, nearly wishing he could tattoo the word ‘awkward’ on his forehead.

At that moment, Ma Tian, Fang Qiang, Yang Xiaohua, Joanna, and Ellie came running up from behind, cutting off Pablo’s further questions. The three women were unharmed, but Ma Tian and Fang Qiang had not been so lucky. When Li Baozhu had ordered the shooting, they’d been at the wheel and in the passenger seat respectively. From two hundred meters away, hundreds of bullets had struck their van, three hitting the front: one punctured the radiator without penetrating, while the other two were “accepted” by Ma Tian and Fang Qiang. Ma Tian’s thigh was grazed by a stray bullet, ironically reopening a wound he’d just recovered from after saving Zhang Fu on the island—a classic case of insult added to injury. Fang Qiang’s arm had a chunk of flesh bitten off by a bullet, but it wasn’t serious after bandaging and didn’t affect his driving.

That explained why only Wang Chen and Pablo had returned fire, and why Sheng Qingru, awakened by gunfire, had been able to grab the Type 79 and rush ahead without being stopped—the three women were busy disinfecting and stitching up Ma Tian and Fang Qiang, with no time to worry about Sheng Qingru, who was supposed to be asleep.

After everyone’s identities were reintroduced, Wang Chen didn’t dwell on Sheng Qingru’s outrageous remarks. Time was tight, especially now that Boss Li was dead and his men scattered—no one could say whether another “Boss Li’s father” might show up for revenge. The smartest move was to get out while they could.

Luckily, the fleeing gunmen had abandoned all their vehicles around the area, and some in their panic had even left behind their weapons and ammo. Who knew how they’d survive if they ran into stray zombies? By the light of the burning car, everyone quickly gathered weapons and ammunition. The armored cash transport van was large, sturdy, and still full of fuel. As Fang Qiang put it, not using it after getting shot would be a waste.

They turned north, with Fang Qiang driving. Before heading to the military camp, they decided to check the security department’s supply depot—at least to get some official gear to prove their identity. But that was a matter for daylight. For now, they needed a relatively safe place to rest.

After all, it had been thirty hours since they’d left the research vessel. No one had slept well in the lifeboat, and after landing, it had been one thing after another. Now, finally able to sit in a relatively safe vehicle, everyone except the still-driving Fang Qiang was soon asleep in the back. Even Yang Xiaohua, navigating from the passenger seat, was yawning non-stop. If not for the desire to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Boss Li, they would have collapsed to sleep on the spot—everyone but Sheng Qingru.

They pushed on for about an hour. Guided by the map on the laptop, they stopped the armored van on the edge of a secluded shelterbelt, dozens of kilometers outside the county town. Fang Qiang let Yang Xiaohua sleep, woke the other men, and together they covered the van with advertising tarps taken from the roadside, making it look like a pile of junk. Wang Chen and Ma Tian stayed on watch while the others crawled back inside to sleep.

At dawn, Fang Qiang, feeling a bit rested, woke the others, who were still yawning with exhaustion, and started the van toward the county. With daylight, more survivors were out and about, and the van ran into two groups of road bandits, waving semi-automatic rifles and shouting for them to stop for “inspection” or pay a toll.

With society collapsed and the economy in ruins, the precious metals, banknotes, jewels, and antiques that people once fought over had become worthless trash. Now, the only things worth fighting for were food, medicine, and fresh water—anything essential to survival and capable of being stored long-term.

Wang Chen and his group ignored the bandits’ demands, opening the firing ports to spray half a burst outside and scare the gunmen into submission. Fang Qiang floored the accelerator, smashing through the barricades.

As the red sun rose, the van cruised onto the county’s main road. Shops lined both sides of the street, and so did the bodies—more and more of them, while not a single living soul could be seen. This was no surprise: any survivor with sense would avoid towns packed with corpses, knowing it would soon become a zombie paradise. While scavenging for supplies would be easier here, so would being killed and eaten by the undead.

With no living people around, there was no trouble. Fang Qiang maneuvered the van around a corner just in time to spot the large sign for the Rural Credit Cooperative across the street. The door was half smashed, revealing a dark, gaping lobby.

“Same plan—I’ll scout ahead with Pablo. Everyone else stays in the van. Sheng Qingru, since Ma Tian’s leg is injured and he can’t climb, I’m afraid you’ll have to go up on the roof and keep watch,” Wang Chen said, moving to Xiaohua’s side and glancing at the notes. “That’s it?”

“Yes. Go in, turn right, end of the corridor, there’s an office marked ‘People’s Armed Forces Department.’”

“Why would the Armed Forces Department have an office in a credit union?”

“How should I know? It’s just a basic supply point for the National Security Bureau in a small county. It’s not like the higher-level ones that are super secret. Oh, and the entry code is today’s date reversed, minus the dynamic number… let me check, today’s dynamic number is… okay, the code is 88299011.”

Wang Chen nodded, slinging his rifle, and led the way out of the van, signaling Pablo to follow. They advanced down the empty corridor, checking each room to make sure the locks were intact or that no one was inside, before reaching the office at the end.

The door was half open—a bad sign. Wang Chen approached cautiously, pushing the door open and slipping inside. The office was empty, a half-finished cup of tea left on the desk, as if someone had left in a hurry. At the inner room’s security door, the electronic lock was still engaged. Wang Chen relaxed slightly and entered the code.

Beep.

The lock opened.

He tucked his Glock into his waistband, gripped the door with both hands, and pulled it open—only to face the last thing anyone expected.

The muzzle of a gun!

A dark, gaping barrel pointing straight at his forehead!

Wang Chen, lacking any real special forces training, couldn’t pull off a disarming move—he reacted like any ordinary person: he staggered back, trying to dodge.

Pablo, right behind him and blocked by Wang Chen’s body, had no time to react. Seeing Wang Chen stumble toward him, he instinctively reached out to steady him—

Bang!

In the confined space, staring down the barrel as the gun fired, Wang Chen felt a surge of heat and weakness below—he nearly wet himself from fear. He didn’t even have time to wonder if he was dead or alive. Using Pablo’s push, he surged forward instead of retreating, tackling the shooter around the waist and shoving him into the room.

As Wang Chen bent forward, Pablo realized someone was inside and firing at them! Seeing Wang Chen locked in a life-or-death struggle, Pablo’s eyes went bloodshot. With no time to aim, he reversed his rifle and smashed the butt into the distorted, screeching man’s face.

The sickening crunch of breaking nasal bones and the thud of skull against wall rang out together. Pablo hit again, sending an eyeball popping from its socket, and again, reducing skull and eye alike to a pulp in a brutal display. Fueled by the terror of the two gunshots, Pablo didn’t stop, pounding down seven or eight times in less than ten seconds, turning the man’s head into a bloody mess—while the rifle itself remained undamaged.

Once he was sure the man was dead and the small inner room held no one else, Wang Chen, slumped against the wall, looked relatively unharmed. Pablo, fighting off ringing in his ears, sank to the floor, finally letting out a breath—he’d been holding it since the attack started.

Wang Chen didn’t feel much better. As Pablo bashed the man’s head in, Wang Chen had come to his senses, but after two shots fired so close to his ear, all he could hear was a violent buzzing, his mind momentarily dazed. When Pablo finished, Wang Chen wiped his stinging, damp forehead and realized some of his scalp had been grazed and was bleeding. But a more urgent physical need soon took precedence…

No time to ask if Pablo was hurt, Wang Chen staggered into the outer office, not caring where the bathroom was. He stopped at an official’s desk, loosened his belt, and started to relieve the bladder pressure brought on by extreme terror.

As the tension eased, he faintly heard someone shouting his name through the ringing in his ears, asking if he was alright—voices coming from the hallway.

It seemed to be Sheng Qingru.

“We’re fine! Don’t—don’t come in—” Wang Chen called out, fumbling to finish as quickly as possible, but, as anyone knows, nature doesn’t always obey. So when Sheng Qingru poked her head in, she was greeted by the sight of Wang Chen hurriedly turning away, a bright yellow arc splashing across the desk and knocking a few papers to the floor.

Mortifying.

His face, as pale as death a moment before, now turned crimson. Wang Chen, gritting his teeth against his discomfort, quickly did up his pants and forced a smile that was worse than a grimace.

Sheng Qingru, unconcerned by any of this, confirmed that Wang Chen’s wound was superficial, Pablo was fine, and the faceless attacker was dead. She began radioing the van to report, but midway through broke into laughter, pounding the wall and weeping with mirth.

She really is crazy, Wang Chen thought, but outwardly he forced a nonchalant attitude, heading back inside to check the supplies. Otherwise, the others would probably tease him for getting scared half to death, and he’d never live it down.

Still, Sheng Qingru’s laughter had dissolved the tension. As for the identity of the dead man—by the time they’d finished loading the supplies, they still hadn’t figured it out. Wang Chen only remembered the dark muzzle; Pablo, who’d seen the man’s face, guessed he was probably a deranged supply officer, locking himself in and shooting at anyone who opened the door.

Thinking it over, Pablo’s theory made sense. Only a madman would grip his gun so tightly while firing, causing the barrel to tremble and the shot to stray just enough to graze Wang Chen’s scalp, sparing his life.

If it had been a normal person firing, Wang Chen—and Pablo—would both be dead.

Still, surviving such danger brings its own rewards. Even a basic supply depot for the National Security Bureau held enough pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles, body armor, uniforms, low-charge grenades, and first-aid kits for a four-person tactical team.

Of course, to actually function as a squad, they’d need more training. Even with all this gear, without a real military instructor, they’d be little more than a ragtag imitation—fine for bullying armed civilians, but against real soldiers, they’d be easy prey.

Fortunately, Wang Chen had some military training and knew how to handle standard weapons. Fang Qiang and Ma Tian were ex-military, and even Yang Xiaohua had gone through basic training, so they didn’t embarrass themselves in front of Pablo—a hardened fighter who’d seen more guns than he could remember.

When the van finally reached the nearest PLA outpost on the edge of the SH quarantine zone, the so-called “architectural marvel” of the epidemic barrier was already visible in the distance.

The entire camp was built alongside the special barrier. From Wang Chen’s vantage point, no soldiers were visible on patrol, but the sporadic gunfire made it clear that the army was still actively clearing zombies. No matter how dire the new epidemic, any zombie within range would be shot on sight.

Before the van had even stopped, Wang Chen and Fang Qiang—seated in the front—had already made quite the impression on the base guards.

It was inevitable: “Clothes make the man.” Dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear with black helmets distinct from the regular army, they looked anything but friendly. The driver carried a silenced submachine gun, while the passenger had an automatic rifle resembling a Type 95 but with noticeable differences—enough to put the guards on high alert and prompt them to call for the base’s highest-ranking officer.

At the tightly closed main gate, Wang Chen called up to the sentry tower: “We’re MSS special operations. We need to rest at your camp—please open the gate.”

“Sorry, never heard of it,” the sentry replied, leaving Wang Chen helpless—he didn’t even have the energy to complain. MSS might be on par with the CIA, but nowhere near as famous. If he claimed to be CIA, the guards would probably recognize it—and open fire on the spot.

“What about the National Security Bureau?”

“Sorry, never heard of that either. But I’ve notified the highest-ranking officer in the camp. Please wait.”

“The highest-ranking officer?” Fang Qiang muttered, “That means the military structure’s fallen apart—they’re just going by rank now, probably lost a lot of men to the outbreak.”

Wang Chen nodded slightly.

The wait was shorter than they expected. The side gate opened, and a soldier in a gas mask strode out, exuding a fierce air despite his concealed features, followed by two armed soldiers with military police armbands.

The officer marched straight up to Wang Chen, sizing him up without ceremony or courtesies, then extended a hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Zhang Kaifeng, Communications Regiment.”

“MSS Special Operations—Wang Chen. This is my colleague, Fang Qiang.”

Glancing at Fang Qiang’s bandaged neck and Wang Chen’s makeshift “bandage” on his forehead, Lieutenant Colonel Zhang asked directly, “Are all those in the van your colleagues? Has anyone been bitten by a zombie?”