Unexpected Problems

Although domestic machine gun rounds lacked substantial power, dealing with a dozen zombies at close range was still effortless. To avoid accidental injuries, the machine gunners refrained from continuous fire, relying solely on short bursts to maintain control. In less than half a minute, the site of the explosion was left with nothing but billowing black smoke, scattered bodies, and the nauseating stench of roasted flesh.

After all, this was a war zone governed by military law. Even though the civilian shelter area and the barracks were separated by a wide buffer zone, even dining was divided into two distinct areas. It had been at least three minutes since the explosion; if the PLA’s patrol armored vehicles didn’t arrive soon, how were they any different from the regular police?

At last, Wang Chen’s stiff legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. He no longer cared to maintain a brave, fearless image; he lay flat on his back, clothes soaked in sweat and stained with ash and blood, staring up at the gloomy clouds drifting past, mind utterly blank.

It’s good to be alive!

Moments later, a figure approached Wang Chen, gazing down at the soot-covered young man and said in a deep voice, “You’ve got guts, kid! Interested in joining the army?”

He couldn't very well admit he'd been terrified witless by the rapidly advancing zombies. Wang Chen struggled to sit up, glancing at the man before him—his skin dark as charcoal, obviously over forty—then shook his head, “Sorry, not interested.”

The man took no offense, giving Wang Chen a leaderly pat on the shoulder before crouching to check on the wounded soldier. As he passed Wang Chen, he said offhandedly, “Stay here and wait for the medics. If you change your mind, come find me anytime.”

What an attitude—he must be an officer. But Wang Chen wasn’t familiar with military ranks and couldn’t tell what position this man held. Watching as he moved to the injured soldiers nearby, Wang Chen turned to Li Changhuai, who sat beside him, “How are you?”

“I’m fine, was nearly scared stiff, but not hurt. Why do we have to wait for a checkup? Hey, shouldn’t we eat first?” Li Changhuai grumbled, seeing no one paid him any mind, and focused on the dark-skinned officer, “Look at his stride—he’s got to be a big shot!”

Wang Chen didn’t bother explaining the principle of safety first. Hearing the latter half of Li Changhuai’s comment, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He realized Li Changhuai was not only stubborn but also had no filter; while his words betrayed some envy, the descriptor was clearly derogatory.

“Watch your words—that’s our Battalion Commander Sun, Sun Dahai. He’s a lieutenant colonel.” The wounded soldier lying next to Li Changhuai, waiting for a stretcher, reminded him, apparently noticing his tactlessness but not sounding offended.

“Ah, sorry, sorry, I tend to speak without thinking,” Li Changhuai apologized quickly.

The wounded soldier, after all, had been rescued by the pair, waved it off.

Wang Chen, seeing that the wounded soldier was about his age, noticed how suddenly lethargic the man seemed, as if about to fall asleep, a stark contrast to his earlier energetic state. Realizing something was wrong, Wang Chen waved at the medics tending to the injured, shouting, “Quick, over here, we’ve got a seriously wounded man!”

The nearest medic had just finished bandaging another patient and rushed over with his assistant. Confirming the soldier’s condition was grave, he immediately began emergency treatment. Wang Chen, unable to help, stepped back with Li Changhuai to avoid interfering.

Meanwhile, Battalion Commander Sun had circled the explosion site, assessing the severity. As commander of the reconnaissance battalion, his insight was sharper than most veterans. From a few words exchanged by the machine gunners and wounded, and the lingering smoke, he judged something unusual was afoot. He strode up to Wang Chen, asking directly, “Were you two the only uninjured ones who arrived to help?”

“Yes. Oh, there was another uninjured companion—they were just here…” Wang Chen was confused by Sun’s grave demeanor.

“Medic! Toxicology tests on them, immediately!” Sun called for the medics, instructed a scout to contact command, and ordered another, “Take two men, stay here, find out who else came through after the explosion, locate them, and do toxicology tests! Understood?”

What? Toxicology tests? Poison—what kind of poison? Virus? Wang Chen was dumbfounded, watching Sun board the armored vehicle, still in shock. It wasn’t until the medic drew blood from his arm that he realized he might have been poisoned.

As Wang Chen was isolated, anxiously awaiting test results, a preliminary report on the Harbin pathogen and those involved—so brief it was almost mere statistics—was transmitted along with other reports to the projection screen of the military district commander.

The dossiers of Wang Chen, Hu Chun, Li Changhuai, Cao Baoquan, Sun Dahai, and others were attached as appendices.

The commander picked up his teacup, sipped the now-cold tea, eyes fixed on the report. After a few seconds, he waved off the projection, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes in habitual contemplation. The staff officer beside him dared not breathe, quietly awaiting orders.

Perhaps, as the intelligence department suggested, this was not a terrorist attack.

Any terrorist organization, cult, or mercenary attacking civilians this way must have political motives, expansion ambitions, or at least financial goals. More than forty-eight hours had passed since the Melbourne incident, yet no organization or individual had claimed responsibility. Such a headless, tail-less terrorist attack was unprecedented.

Moreover, the zombie pandemic had swept through more than a dozen countries and regions in just over a week. The initial outbreaks were far apart, with no pattern except that they all occurred in economically developed areas. Within twelve hours of the second wave, every nuclear nation, including China, had withdrawn from the non-proliferation treaty; no group could withstand the nuclear wrath of these states. Even ISIS—more radical than Al-Qaeda—issued a statement denying involvement, unprecedentedly seeking international aid.

Could it be some still-dictatorial small country?

But this country, too, had suffered outbreaks. Given Kim’s territory size, backward epidemic response, and the speed of the outbreak, national extinction was a matter of days. With the population zombified, dictatorship became meaningless. Besides, Kim lacked the capability to deploy pathogens globally.

Could it really be a demon from hell? Staring at the data-laden reports, the commander’s mind conjured unrelated artistic images, which he quickly dismissed. Best to let central command handle it; the priority was to prevent the outbreak from spreading.

---

The special operations and chemical defense battalions lacked experience in investigating contraband and criminal cases. With this in mind, the commander opened his eyes, circled several points on the screen, and ordered, “Contact civil affairs. Never mind, I’ll speak directly with central command soon. Send more security experts to the camp. As for these points, follow the intelligence department’s recommendations.” He glanced at the time, “Summarize these materials—I’ll report to the chairman at fifteen hundred sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” The staff officer saluted and left.

The commander returned his gaze to the military district map. The red blotch marking the epidemic zone seemed stable, but he knew if vaccine development stalled, expansion was only a matter of time.

He hoped the coastal epidemic zones would bring good news.

Lost in such hopes, the commander fell silent.

“Oh my god, scared me to death! Turns out someone threw something into the field kitchen’s fire!” Li Changhuai slapped his thigh, voice loud enough to startle, oblivious to the nurse about to inject him, showing no relief after surviving but rather excessive excitement.

If Li Changhuai knew the commander had recently reviewed their files, he’d be even more thrilled.

“Drugs, stimulants—you’ve said it a dozen times, aren’t you tired?” Wang Chen lounged on his hospital bed, watching Li Changhuai act up, then asked the nurse administering an IV to Zheng Guozong, “Is his reaction normal? Why am I not as hyper?”

“We just gave you a mild sedative. He’ll get it soon, too. People’s constitutions vary; reactions to inhaling poisonous smoke differ. Don’t worry.” Without looking up, the nurse withdrew the needle from Zheng Guozong’s arm, instructing, “Press here, sleep if you’re tired, you’ll be fine when you wake.”

“His heart rate’s high,” the military doctor beside the nurse removed his hand from Li Changhuai’s neck, apparently annoyed, and signaled, “Liu, give him more medication.”

“Oh my god, scared me to death! You have no idea, those zombies were running so fast…”

Zheng Guozong lay back on the bed, asking worriedly, “Doctor, it’s afternoon—will there be food? After what happened, can we still evacuate tonight? Will the drugs make me addicted? Need detox?”

“You won’t go hungry. There’s a thunderstorm expected tonight, so evacuation may be delayed. You only inhaled stimulant and drug smoke, nothing serious.” Even the kindest nurse was irritated by his persistent questioning, checking his pulse and watch, remarking, “Your pulse has slowed—how are you still so talkative?”

“Doctor, he’s just chatty, don’t mind him.”

“Oh my god, people who take drugs are doomed, but these zombies inhaled the smoke and are even more… even more…” Li Changhuai’s eyes rolled, and he collapsed onto the bed, smacking his lips in sleep.

If I were the nurse, I’d knock you out with a shot for peace and quiet, Wang Chen thought, watching the nurse and doctor leave. He still felt uneasy, reached for a cigarette, thought better of it, and withdrew his hand—better wait until the effects of the toxic smoke and sedatives wore off.

Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, and after a day of humid buildup, rain finally poured in torrents. The sky seemed to have burst, raindrops as big as beans drumming on the ground. The deluge was so intense it became indistinguishable from the sound of water splashing, the dusk so deep it felt like night, save for occasional lightning illuminating the horizon.

Harbin’s summer always brought such heavy rains, but this year was different; the rain had been relentless for over a week, showing Wang Chen what a northern monsoon season truly meant. There were rare clear days, but now a zombie outbreak had ruined everything.

Feeling slightly dizzy, Wang Chen passed time chatting idly with Zheng Guozong, mostly listening to his rambling. The sound of chatter, wind and rain, and Li Changhuai’s rhythmic snoring made Wang Chen’s eyelids grow heavy, drifting toward sleep.

Just as he hovered between wakefulness and slumber, the temporary ward door burst open. Hu Qianqian dashed in, exclaiming, “What a downpour! Nearly soaked through! Guess what, we’re here to visit!”

Hu Chun entered behind his daughter, followed by Han Li, then Hui and his two companions. After thanking the soldier who guided them, Hui explained, “The explosion was so loud, and you three didn’t return for ages. We contacted Captain Cao and learned what happened, so we rushed over. Haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“Brought food—it’s self-heating, follow the instructions. Be careful, it gets hot,” Hu Chun placed the meal boxes on the table, dropping his axe on an empty bed as a reminder.

“Oh, Dad, don’t call them patients—Brother Wang looks fine. Hey, Brother Wang, I heard you faced dozens of zombies alone and didn’t flinch?” Hu Qianqian asked, eyes shining with admiration.

Wang Chen hurried to clarify, explaining about the stimulant smoke and fast-running zombies. Then Zheng Guozong, gesticulating and shrieking, recounted the incident, emphasizing his own retreat and Wang Chen’s composure, nearly turning Wang Chen into a hero.

Though they hadn’t known each other long, and might not entrust their lives to one another, they were close enough to be friends. Like Zheng Guozong, Wang Chen found himself candidly sharing embarrassing moments. Seeing everyone gathered, laughing and chatting, Wang Chen’s gloom unexpectedly lifted, as if the wandering zombies outside the airport were no longer a matter of life and death.

Playing cards, chatting—the leisure hours flew by. Out of courtesy, everyone pretended not to notice the subtle intimacy between Zheng Guozong and Hui, for in these times, such affection was no longer news; only its absence was curious. Before they knew it, it was dinnertime; Li Changhuai’s sedative had worn off, leaving him clear-headed, though less excitable. The rain showed no sign of stopping, and lacking sufficient rain gear, they asked the nurse resting outside the ward to fetch disposable raincoats. Li Changhuai wanted to go himself but was rebuffed—non-military personnel weren’t allowed to roam the camp.

Barely had the nurse left when a shrill scream echoed through the ward, startling everyone. Hu Chun reacted instantly, grabbing his axe and saying, “Brother Wang, you guard the ward. Hui, let’s check it out!”

“Alright!” Hui replied, drawing his own axe and following Hu Chun out.

---

Wang Chen guarded the door; Zheng Guozong, Li Changhuai, and Hui’s two companions watched the windows. Han Li and Hu Qianqian promptly hid under the beds. The once relaxed atmosphere vanished, the ward now silent except for the muffled wind and rain.

They feared another zombie outbreak or cult disturbance, but Hu Chun and Hui returned within five minutes, raincoats in hand—improvised protective suits, patched with tape, adequate for keeping dry. “It’s nothing,” Hu Chun explained, sheathing his axe. “The nurse was startled by some rats and toads running across the floor.”

Hui distributed raincoats, adding, “The heavy rain probably flooded the rat holes; now mice and toads are everywhere. Be ready when we leave, especially you ladies—don’t be scared. The sentry said the field kitchen won’t operate tonight due to the rain; it’s self-heating rations for dinner, then back to the quarters.”

“Great, I’m starving,” said Li Changhuai, ever dedicated to food.

The rain finally eased. Toads, driven from their burrows, began croaking, the air thick with humidity. Luckily, Harbin’s latitude meant cool nights even in summer; the damp was not oppressive.

After surviving the midnight transformation and explosive zombie attack, Wang Chen finally lay in his own bed, but sleep eluded him, his mind awash with scattered thoughts.

The military’s arrangements were efficient; those unable to evacuate that night were well accommodated. The midday explosion had been a deterrent—no one would risk clashing with the army now, lest they face harsh military law.

At minimum, anyone causing trouble would face detention or be investigated as a cultist or saboteur.

What could he do in Changchun? His home was gone, his ID lost; he’d need to replace it, then his bank card. But state aid was only temporary—he’d have to find a job eventually. Maybe, after the zombies were cleared, he could join the rebuilding effort in Harbin.

Or perhaps enlist in the army? Alone, it seemed a viable option. The thought brought the image of Battalion Commander Sun to mind—Sun Dahai. He’d ask him tomorrow.

“Hey, hey, everyone up!” Hu Chun’s booming voice sounded at the door.

What now? Just as he was about to sleep! Wang Chen grumbled, sitting up. He didn’t need to ask—the icy sensation on his feet made it clear.

The camp was flooded.

Civilization is far more fragile than people imagine.

Thousands of years ago, the Egyptians built a grand civilization; the pyramids endured the ages, yet their builders became dust in history. Spartans fed their near-invincible legions with the flesh of slaves; centuries later, their city-states vanished, their stories passed down, leaving only a stone as evidence. Qin Shi Huang burned books and buried scholars, earning infamy. Without a world-class tomb to mark his existence, his notoriety would be but a question on a school exam.

Today, concrete, insulation bricks, fire-proof materials, even asphalt seem more lasting than ancient stone. The steel and concrete jungles exemplify modern civilization’s superiority, giving people an unrivaled sense of advancement—as if their creations would withstand time, and even if all humans vanished, the steel jungle would forever stand, telling future intelligent life of their glory.

Is this truly so?

No.

Modern civilization is even more fragile than that of our primitive, stone-age ancestors.

This flood is proof.

The deluge came suddenly, without warning—unless one counted the sudden increase in toads and scurrying rats. From Battalion Commander Sun down to every civilian, no one could fathom how several heavy rains could result in a flood.

Harbin sits on the Songnen Plain, defined by its flatness—the only hills rise more than twenty meters. The city is traversed by the Songhua River, wider than the Yellow River segment through Lanzhou. It sounds intimidating, but the plain allows drainage everywhere; in a century of city-building, floods occurred only three times. The worst was before liberation, soaking half the city, with water never exceeding two meters. Post-liberation floods never reached the city, and since the new millennium, with upstream reservoirs in operation, not a single flood or water disaster occurred—let alone submerging the airport!

Yet, the impossible happened.