We cannot remain here for long.

The attic of the station’s office building was one open space, presumably intended as a staff activity center, but after years of neglect, it had degenerated into a storeroom cluttered with old furniture and broken tables. The floor bore obvious bloodstains and drag marks, and the air was thick with an indescribable stench—closer, perhaps, to the pungency of raw meat. Wang Chen called out twice, but no one answered. He gripped his pistol and, side by side with Li Zhanghuai, stepped cautiously into the attic.

Hu Chun, after all, was with his child, so there was probably nothing to worry about there. But Li Zhanghuai was another matter. He looked honest enough, but appearances could be deceiving—who could say if he too believed in some cult? At a time like this, Wang Chen dared not risk exposing his back.

Li Zhanghuai, however, harbored no such suspicions. His survival through the zombie hordes to this station was due as much to luck as to his stolid, single-minded nature and the sturdy physique honed by years of masonry work. Scheming was simply beyond this bricklayer’s reach.

They followed the bloodstains and found, behind a row of bookcases, a small partitioned space. Li Zhanghuai glanced in, his stomach heaving. He turned and threw up. His trowel had dispatched at least seven or eight zombies, brains and all, but nothing had prepared him for such gore.

Compared to Li Zhanghuai, Wang Chen, with blood on his own hands, was steadier—only retching twice. That raw meat smell alone was enough to put him off eating for days. He found himself with a grudging respect for Old Lady Hui—over sixty and still strong enough to dismember a body.

That’s right—dismemberment. Most likely, Old Lady Hui had used the tools from the repair shop to thoroughly cut a young man into a dozen pieces, packing them into several plastic cleaning buckets. Whether by macabre intent or coincidence, the man’s head had been placed atop one of the buckets, propped up by his own thigh. His lips were parted, half-lidded eyes fixed on the floor in a ghastly, unseeing stare.

Forcing himself to look away from those lifeless, half-open eyes, Wang Chen finally noticed another figure in the corner—a young woman, perhaps twenty, petite, barely over five feet tall. Her wrists, ankles, and mouth were bound with tape. She wore a blue-white dress, stained and scuffed with blood, and between her legs were dried traces of waste. Up close, the reek was overpowering.

Her hair was cropped short, and the tape distorted her features, making it impossible to tell if she was pretty or plain, but her eyes left an impression—dull, vacant, utterly devoid of life. If not for the occasional blink, Wang Chen would have taken her for a corpse.

There was no need for words. Regaining their composure, Wang Chen and Li Zhanghuai lifted her out of the partition and began tearing away the tape, unwilling to free her while surrounded by buckets of body parts.

The tape was tight, and as they worked, some of her skin was inevitably exposed. Yet the woman showed no reaction, letting them move her as they wished. Judging by her state, even if they’d intended her harm, she might not have resisted.

“Is she in shock?” Li Zhanghuai asked, yanking the tape from her ankles and spreading her legs in the process, but she remained motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Wang Chen said nothing, carefully peeling the tape from her face, trying not to hurt her. Freed, she showed traces of beauty—willowy brows, almond eyes, pale lips, a slightly broad jaw that marred her looks, but otherwise, she’d be considered quite attractive.

He motioned for Li Zhanghuai to help him lift her. “Can you walk?” Wang Chen asked gently.

She remained mute, lost in her stupor.

Taking her hand, Wang Chen led her toward the third-floor landing. She followed, dazed, without resistance. Both men sighed in unison.

“Maybe she’s possessed by phlegm,” Li Zhanghuai muttered, recalling an old village superstition. “A few good slaps should wake her up. Let me try!” Unlike Wang Chen, he had no patience for delicacy. In a world swarming with flesh-eating zombies, being catatonic was a death sentence. Better to try a rough cure.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Three sharp slaps, and though Li Zhanghuai held back, her cheeks swelled and reddened, but she gave no sign of life.

“Forget it. She’s broken. Let’s take her down to the second floor for Hu Chun to look at. He’s at least an athlete, maybe he can help.”

“Hu Chun? He’s a wrestler, not a doctor.”

“Desperate times, right? An athlete knows more about the body than we do.”

“True enough.”

They carried the woman downstairs. In the corridor, Hu Qianqian was wandering listlessly, while Hu Chun sat at the doorway, idly fiddling with a kitchen knife. Seeing them approach, he pocketed the knife and frowned at the silent woman. “What happened?”

Wang Chen, avoiding Qianqian, led the woman to the door and recounted what they’d found in the attic, with Li Zhanghuai adding details. Hu Chun’s throat made a guttural sound and his eyes widened. “Old Lady Hui did this?”

“The woman’s in shock, not talking. We can’t be sure if the blood in those buckets matches what Hui used, but we’ve found no other remains,” Wang Chen said. “Strictly speaking, Hui only admitted to writing the blood message. Unless a forensic test confirms the blood is from that poor guy in the attic, we don’t have enough to charge her. We can’t even be sure she did the dismemberment, let alone the killing.”

“Who would believe a sixty-year-old woman could commit murder, dismember a body, and tie up a victim as a reserve?”

As they spoke, Wang Chen suddenly felt lighter. Instinctively, he reached for his vest pocket. Empty. He wasn’t a trained soldier, and his mind was elsewhere, but it dawned on him—someone had taken his pistol.

Hu Chun caught the woman’s movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw her reach toward Wang Chen’s waist, not realizing she was grabbing the gun. He only had time to shout, “You—”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The deafening gunfire in the corridor drowned out Hu Chun’s words. Over thirty, Hu Chun reacted faster than the others; at the first shot, he dove over Qianqian, shielding his daughter with his body.

When the shots stopped, Wang Chen, who had dropped and covered his ears, shook his head to clear the ringing and checked that he was still alive. Before he could react, Li Zhanghuai, recovering as well, kicked the woman—still squeezing the trigger—against the wall. “Are you trying to get us killed?!”

But someone was even more enraged. Wang Chen barely had time to stop the panicked Li Zhanghuai before Hu Chun, having ensured his daughter’s safety, stood with a cold face. Something snapped in his mind. Principles like “never hit a woman” could go to hell.

He kicked aside the pistol, then, ignoring her diminutive frame, landed a heavy punch square on the woman’s temple. She collapsed without a sound, sliding several feet along the floor. Clearly, Hu Chun had pulled no punches.

Wang Chen and Li Zhanghuai were stunned, the same thought flashing through their minds.

Did he kill her?

No; Hu Chun hadn’t killed her. The dazed woman had killed the mad old lady.

Checking her pulse, they found she was only unconscious. Turning back to Old Lady Hui, they discovered she was dead beyond question. After grabbing Wang Chen’s pistol, the woman had fired wildly into Hui, hitting her twice—once in the stomach, and, bizarrely, once at the crown of her head, possibly a ricochet, which blew out her brains, leaving blood and tissue pouring from her nose, mouth, and chin, covering her upper body.

“What do we do now? She’s dead… really dead…” Li Zhanghuai squatted, clutching his head. By his simple logic, he hadn’t been present for Hui’s earlier crime, but he’d witnessed the woman kill Hui. How could he explain that?

The two men stared at each other, lost for words. Wang Chen coughed apologetically. “It’s my fault. I let her get the gun too easily.”

“Forget it. None of us are gun experts. Who’d expect her to snap like that? But you really shouldn’t have kept a cocked pistol in your vest—could have gone off by accident,” Hu Chun replied, waving it off. “So, what now?”

They glanced at the now-locked “blood-letter room,” at a loss.

It was Qianqian who broke the silence. Though frightened by the gunfire, she showed more courage than her father expected—perhaps trauma forced her to grow up fast. She didn’t dare look at Hui’s corpse but was concerned about the woman who’d been struck by her father.

“Dad, Brother Wang, come look—this lady’s hands are covered in blood!”

“How did her hands get like this from shooting? The webbing’s split.”

“My police friend said that’s called ‘slide bite.’ If you grip a gun wrong, the slide cuts your hand.”

“Li, give me a hand—let’s carry her to the first floor. I have bandages and medicine in my pack,” Wang Chen said.

Hu Chun had hit hard—maybe given her a concussion. The woman was unresponsive as they moved her downstairs and set her against the wall.

Wang Chen, not bothering to explain to the useless group in the car wash, fetched the first aid kit and, following the instructions, cleaned and dressed the woman’s wounds, though his efforts were clumsy. The pain roused her. Groggy, she saw a figure tending her and, with a burst of strength, clung to Wang Chen, wailing.

Her cries were heart-wrenching, so loud that Wang Chen pressed her mouth to his shoulder to muffle the sound. As she pressed against him, he blushed with embarrassment—young, full of vigor, and it was summer, his trousers thin. He could only arch his back awkwardly and pat her gently. “It’s all right, all right, you’re safe now.”

Gradually, she calmed, sobbing hoarsely: “Those two bastards… right in front of me… they… they…” Her words faltered, and she wept again. Wang Chen kept patting her back, hoping she would recover.

Eventually, as his embarrassment faded, the woman, between sobs, revealed the truth—just as Wang Chen had suspected. She was Han Li, in her early twenties, and with her boyfriend, Liu Xudong, sold high-end clothing at the nearby Zhuozhan Mall. After the outbreak, they contacted the rescue center and found the station, being among the first civilians to arrive. But upon arrival, Old Lady Hui and a man in his fifties attacked them, tied them up, and left them in the attic. Liu Xudong managed to break free, attacked their guard, stabbed him, but was killed in the struggle. Han Li watched as Hui and the man dismembered her boyfriend, carried buckets of blood downstairs, and abandoned her upstairs in shock.

The rest, Wang Chen and the others already knew. When victim meets tormentor, vengeance is inevitable.

“Tell me, when your boyfriend stabbed the guard, was it here?” Hu Chun pointed to his own right abdomen.

Han Li nodded.

“That matches up,” Hu Chun explained to Wang Chen. “The bus driver who died last night had a wound there. He said it was a bite, but it was probably a knife wound causing internal bleeding.”

“Understood. I’ll record it.” Wang Chen relayed the situation to the operator, who responded, “The military is still holding Wanggang Airport—no plans to clear the city yet. You’ll have to decide for yourselves, but you can contact us for help anytime.” Operator 3148 hung up, checked the time, logged a brief report, and went to the break room.

Light music played in the rest area, but it did little to lift the heavy mood. 3148 had no appetite and picked up a glass of juice, ignoring the main courses, staring blankly from a plastic chair. Kidnapping, dismemberment, bloodletting, a blood-letter room, a wild shooting—any one of these would be hard for a woman her age to bear, especially when the survivor was another young woman. At some point, 3794 sat across from her with a tray, and after speaking twice without response, waved a hand in front of her eyes to draw her back.

“What are you thinking? You look out of it.”

“Oh? I’m just thinking about that last call—from Aijian Station.”

“What about it? Did someone try to kill themselves?” 3794 sighed. “We just had one like that—who took the call? Froze on the spot. Why make us listen in on a suicide—what were they thinking…”

“No, it’s not like that—it was a cult murder,” 3148 explained, knowing 3794’s imagination ran wild. “A cult, huh? In troubled times, monsters crawl out. Report it and it’s not our problem. Want some more fruit? You look too worn out to work.” Without waiting for a reply, 3794 went for fruit.

Maybe I really am too sensitive, 3148 thought. It’s just a job—if I can’t handle it, how can I help anyone? Do your best and let fate decide. Watching her colleague’s retreating figure, she smiled wryly.

Wang Chen had no idea his report had touched the operator’s nerves. Hanging up, he summarized her advice. But during the call, he’d made up his mind.

This station was no longer tenable. With so many people and so much chaos, if zombies broke in, everyone would save themselves. As the saying goes, you don’t need to outrun the bear—just the other runners. At that point, a pistol would be useless; he might even be thrown out as bait. He’d killed before and wasn’t afraid of dying, but he had no intention of dying for the sake of these callous survivors.

Better to find an excuse to leave early and rescue his father. But how to say it?

After two days of crisis, Wang Chen knew that without the law, you could only trust blood relatives. Still, going alone was a death sentence.

“I’ll definitely take my daughter to the airport,” said Hu Chun without hesitation. His only goal was to reunite his family as soon as possible.

“Same here,” said Li Zhanghuai. “This place just feels wrong. No human warmth.” He was disgusted by the cowardice of the other survivors and would rather trust Wang Chen and Hu Chun.

Han Li said nothing, just nodded slightly. Still traumatized, she instinctively clung to the safety of those who’d saved her.

Noticing the others’ eyes on him, Wang Chen steeled himself and spoke plainly. “Before we go to the airport, I want to look for my father. He risked his life to save me—drew the zombies into the building. I don’t know if he’s alive…”

“No way. It’s too dangerous,” Hu Chun cut him off. He’d guessed Wang Chen had something on his mind and was firm. “We’re all straightforward people, so let me be blunt. Life is precious. You’re willing to risk your life for your father—I respect that and will help if I can. But you want us to risk four lives for one, without even knowing if he’s alive—is that right?”

His words cut deep, but they were true. Wang Chen opened his mouth, then sighed in defeat, spirit deflated.

Of course. Even if they were willing, even if his father was alive, no one would agree to risk so many lives. And Hu Chun’s daughter was only thirteen, seven years younger than Wang Chen—how could he ask a father to risk her for his sake?

Hu Chun knew he’d been harsh, but there was no choice. His bottom line was confirmation that Wang Chen’s father was alive; otherwise, he wouldn’t risk it. It wasn’t about heroics, just rationality.

Besides, he thought Wang Chen a good kid. He shouldn’t be trapped by loss, or he’d be ruined—like that wrestling prodigy who, after a single defeat, lost his chance at the Olympics because he couldn’t let go.

An athlete could retire after a breakdown. In a zombie siege, losing your head meant death.

Watching Wang Chen’s dejected figure, Hu Chun added, “We can find a car and circle your building. If your father’s alive, he’ll signal us. That’s reasonable, right?” He glanced at Han Li and Li Zhanghuai.

Just a short detour—neither objected.

Wang Chen’s eyes lit up, and he nodded gratefully to his companions.