Ammunition Depot 067-2

Beneath the setting sun, the Taihang Mountains resembled a mighty dragon soaring abruptly from the horizon. The slanting rays traced an orange-red outline along its jagged spine, amplifying its grandeur and majesty. As the sun slowly sank, the dragon’s shadow gradually swallowed the fading light, as if at any moment it would rise to the heavens and engulf the sun entirely.

The road ahead twisted and turned through rugged terrain, the flat ground diminishing, causing the zombies to gather in increasing numbers, forming a relentless horde on the highway.

This journey was not just taxing for Wang Chen; everyone could clearly feel the growing threat the zombies posed to their vehicles. In the past, when encountering scattered zombies along the way, they could simply detour around or smash through a few without much trouble. Now, with dozens, even hundreds, converging on the highway, even an armored vehicle plowing straight through would be impeded and delayed by the relentless swarm. The fallen zombies became a gruesome human barrier. To prevent the vehicle from stalling, Wang Chen had to continuously downshift, lowering the armored car’s gear. His options were either to break through before stopping or be forced to halt and be surrounded by the undead, wasting precious ammunition to clear a path before moving again. The clearing had to be swift; otherwise, the gunfire would attract more zombies from all directions, and if they couldn’t clear faster than the hordes gathered, the outcome would be disastrous.

Fortunately, the infantry radar on the armored vehicle remained operational. When signals became too dense, Dai Jian remotely transmitted the radar data to Yang Xiaohua, who cross-referenced it with satellite imagery to identify safer routes and sent the information back, allowing the convoy to alter course and avoid the densest zombie clusters.

Throughout the journey, Wang Chen felt as if he were back in Harbin. While he remained composed, the civilians—many never having seen a sea of zombies before—were terrified. Even a few scattered zombies made them hesitant to approach alone; confronting dozens left them pale and trembling. Nearly everyone had resolved that unless a mission demanded it, no one would willingly leave the base again—it was simply too frightening.

After winding and stopping intermittently, by the time the two vehicles reached the military camp’s outskirts, the moon was high, playing hide-and-seek behind drifting clouds. Darkness pressed in all around, the air cold and sharp. From time to time, faint groans and distant howls echoed, directionless and unsettling. Anyone with even moderate intelligence knew the wisest course was to stay inside the vehicles until dawn. But Wang Chen had no luxury to wait. If they delayed until morning, the camp’s leader, Tian, might rise with heavy prisoners and confront the peninsula base head-on—while their formidable armored vehicle remained outside, absent. That would spell disaster.

Even if revenge were sought afterward for the camp ravaged by war, the dead could not be brought back. What use would that be?

Parking the vehicles near the ammunition depot’s closest gate, Wang Chen used a night vision scope obtained from the National Treasure Bureau supply point to pick off scattered zombies with controlled bursts from his Type CS-II submachine gun. Thanks to the silencer, the gunfire remained muffled, but the sheer number of zombies was overwhelming. Without Ren Wanrong’s uncanny marksmanship and with the night vision scope crudely taped to the weapon, it took three full magazines to clear the perimeter. Then, Wang Chen climbed over the armored vehicle’s roof, opened the gate, and guided the two trucks inside.

Following the map, the convoy skirted the main camp area, circling half the perimeter fence to reach the rear mountain’s ammunition depot. Military-uniformed zombies lurked along the way; those too close were silenced by Ma Tian’s suppressed submachine gun, while distant ones were ignored.

Passing a slope with a sharp right-angle turn, the convoy finally arrived at the parking lot before the depot entrance. Wang Chen maneuvered the armored vehicle aside, allowing the Iveco truck to pass through. He then reversed the armored car to block most of the lane at the slope’s crest, while the returning Iveco positioned its front to seal the remaining gap—ensuring no zombies could approach the depot via the road.

With this makeshift barricade in place, and a height difference between the parking lot and slope ranging from one and a half to over six meters, the few lingering zombies on the lot posed no immediate threat across the expansive area.

After unloading six personnel, Wang Chen and Ma Tian, illuminated by the vehicle’s headlights, headed straight to the depot’s iron gate. Ma Tian glanced around, puzzled. “Strange, there’s no keyhole on this door.”

Wang Chen was equally baffled. They had prepared a hand-held drill and crowbar, but without a keyhole, there was no point of entry. He tried jabbing the crowbar into the door’s seam and rattled the intercom on the iron gate—no power, no response. The gate was perfectly sealed against the mountain rock, a clear military-grade construction with no chance of prying it open.

If only they had a cutting torch. But where to find such a tool on short notice? Even if found, none of them knew how to use it. Was this trip all for nothing? It was frustrating beyond measure.

“Hey, you there—Shu Chang, yes, you. Take two others and search the zombies on the parking lot for any clues to open this door,” Wang Chen called, unwilling to give up. Gathering the others, he proposed, “Let’s brainstorm and figure out how to get this door open.”

The civilians accompanying them were mostly laborers, some warehouse workers skilled with forklifts, and Chen Chong, a brash fellow who cracked jokes about patrolling the perimeter under the moonlight. No one had any real ideas. They searched every corpse on the lot but found nothing except a few Type 92 pistols—no useful leads.

They had to seek help from outside.

Using the satellite phone CA11, they made contact. To their surprise, a farmer who had spent years building small villas in the countryside offered a suggestion: if the door couldn’t be opened, don’t waste effort on it—try drilling a forty-five-degree hole through the concrete on either side of the door frame. If someone could crawl through, opening the door from inside would be easy.

This idea suddenly awakened their collective inspiration. After some discussion, Wang Chen arranged for a team to move a reinforced stone slab from the rocky side of the mountain. There, they used the hand drill to find a suitable spot and began boring. Then, with stone hammers, they chipped out a hole large enough to fit a grenade or a fist. They slipped a grenade inside, rigged a pull cord, stuffed fragments to seal gaps, and propped stones against the opening. Everyone hid behind the vehicles; Wang Chen leaned against a tire and yanked the cord sharply.

Three seconds later, a dull explosion echoed. The group rushed forward, dispersing smoke and debris. But their disappointment was profound. Military engineering was formidable—the grenade only enlarged the hole from a fist-sized gap to about the size of a human head, barely penetrating deeper. Shining a flashlight inside revealed a dark, irregular surface. Reaching in, Wang Chen felt the cold, coarse texture—it wasn’t rock at all, but cast iron.

Obviously, when constructing this ammo depot, following the highest directive to prepare for protracted war and resource scarcity, the military had poured molten iron into the mountain’s entrance flanks before applying concrete.

It seemed their trip had truly been in vain.