The Wrath of the Public is Not to be Provoked

Wang Chen had a terrifying nightmare. He dreamt that his father, Wang Yefei, appeared before him, his entire body ashen, his eyes rolled back, and with a bestial roar, lunged at him. The foul stench of rotted flesh filled the air—his father had clearly just gnawed on a corpse, with hair still caught between his teeth, every strand visible. Wang Chen tried to run but found himself paralyzed, desperate to scream for help but unable to make a sound. Just as his father seized his head and seemed about to feast, for some unknown reason, his father suddenly raised his hand and delivered a resounding slap to his own face.

“Damn!” Wang Chen sat bolt upright, only to collapse back down, his mouth full of the coppery tang of blood, his ears ringing, and his vision swimming with double images.

Through the buzzing in his ears came the familiar booming voice of Li Changhuai: “How’s that? How’s that? The old folks always said, if you’re trapped in a nightmare, a good slap will surely wake you up!”

Han Li, who’d been shocked speechless by the previous slap, now watched as Wang Chen was awakened with another, muttering inwardly, “Does your family treat slaps as miracle cures for everything?” Wang Chen grumbled to himself but said nothing aloud—his mouth was still half-full of blood. He turned and spat onto the ground, grabbed a nearby bottle of purified water, rinsed out his mouth, and finally had the energy for his first question after waking: “Where are we?”

Hu Chun was smoking, and he wordlessly lit one for Wang Chen and handed it over. But it was Hu Qianqian who immediately began chattering away. The young girl’s tongue was sharp, and in a few quick sentences, she filled Wang Chen in on what had happened while he was unconscious—though, in truth, there wasn’t much to tell.

“We’re in a hangar at the Hafei Test Flight Airfield—the hangar’s been cleared of zombies. There’s a full circle of armored vehicles around the hangar, then another ring of cars, then the tarmac with a circle of tree stumps, and outside the stumps...”

“A circle of what?” Li Changhuai, pleased with his handiwork, interrupted happily.

Hu Qianqian shot him a withering look. “Outside the stumps is a wall, and then masses of zombies! Hmph!”

He’d only meant to tease a child, so Li Changhuai didn’t mind. He picked up an open can of luncheon meat, intending to dig in, but Han Li finally couldn’t stand it anymore and gave him a sharp look. “That’s for Wang Chen. At least leave him a few pieces.”

“Oh, right, right,” Li Changhuai said, embarrassed, passing the meat to Wang Chen. “Brother Wang, don’t mind me, your Brother Li can’t resist meat. Come on, eat up.”

Wang Chen was truly famished. He put aside the half-smoked cigarette—he’d only lit it to steady his nerves—and without further ado, used his pocketknife to spear two pieces of meat, shoving them into his mouth and chewing voraciously. He washed them down with two gulps of water, followed by some eight-treasure porridge that the PLA had somehow procured. Instantly, his spirits revived, and the lingering effects of nightmare and slap faded away.

After all, people must live on.

Before Wang Chen finished eating, the hangar doors were pushed open and in strode Cao Baoquan, followed by three military doctors in white coats and a dozen PLA soldiers carrying aluminum cases. The sight left the civilians momentarily stunned, and the hangar fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.

Cao Baoquan stood among the civilians and called out, “There are some matters we need your cooperation with. After last night’s evacuation, things are a bit chaotic. We need to re-register everyone’s identity, take a headcount, and draw blood for pathogen testing. Please proceed according to your group when called.”

Groans of complaint rose from the crowd. Still, as long as they weren’t being sent against the zombie hordes and as long as evacuation was being arranged as soon as the thunderstorm cleared, the civilians remained patient.

Outside, the wind and rain grew fiercer as the civilians began queuing up for registration and blood draws. In the midst of the boredom, Wang Chen suddenly heard Cao Baoquan shout, “Nobody move! Hands on your head and squat down! Any resistance and you’ll be shot!”

What now? Some people instinctively turned toward the makeshift blood-draw station. To prevent sudden outbreaks of infection, civilians weren’t crowded together but housed in three separate hangars, and Wang Chen’s rest area took up only a third of the space. To avoid accidental casualties while catching the “Great Immortal,” Cao Baoquan had deliberately set the blood-draw table far from the crowd, creating a distance of over thirty meters—those with sharp eyesight might make out faces, but others could only distinguish gender.

Several men and women of varying ages were surrounded by armed soldiers, hands on their heads, slowly squatting. One middle-aged woman, her features still holding traces of youth, kept crying, “We surrender! We won’t move! Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”

Beside her stood a handsome man in black, the type who could easily play a gentle second lead in a TV drama. This calm, composed man was, in fact, the “Great Immortal”—the mastermind behind the earlier bombing.

Suddenly, the middle-aged man behind the woman used the man in black as cover, kicked her forward to draw attention, and reached into his jacket.

“True Go—”

Bang! Cao Baoquan fired, hitting the fat man square in the forehead. The troublemaker couldn’t even finish his shout before collapsing backward.

But before anyone could relax, a hissing sound and a plume of smoke began to rise from the dead man’s clothes.

“Bomb! Holy—” Instinctively, Cao Baoquan lunged forward to stop the bomb, but collided headlong with the screaming woman.

Wang Chen and Hu Chun, seeing disaster unfold, barely managed to hit the floor in time. Li Changhuai only had time to shout, “Again?!”

Boom!

As the smoke cleared, Wang Chen first ensured he was unharmed, then scrambled up, grabbing his military knife and rushing toward the blast’s epicenter. Hu Chun was half a second faster, his axe gleaming in the firelight. Li Changhuai, slower on the uptake, realized why his companions had charged ahead and hurried after them with his mason’s hammer.

Not just them—anyone not caught in the explosion and bold enough to act was already rushing toward the center. No one could guarantee that the dead wouldn’t turn into zombies, so stabbing the corpses in the head immediately was the safest course—after all, the living mattered more than the dead!

Thirty meters at a dead sprint would take an ordinary person seven or eight seconds. Wang Chen and Hu Chun weren’t the first to arrive; two young men, evidently experienced in track, reached the casualties first. One checked a pulse, confirming the victim was dead, and the other immediately stabbed his knife into the unfortunate soul’s brainstem.

Wang Chen and Hu Chun hurried after, heading straight for Cao Baoquan, who was pinned beneath the woman’s corpse, his condition unknown. Hu Chun checked her pulse, glanced at the nearly severed wound across her back, and shook his head at Wang Chen. With two swings of the axe, he finished her off, then they shifted the body together, revealing Cao Baoquan, eyes wide open, blood at the corner of his mouth, his face utterly still. Just as Hu Chun reached to check his pulse, Cao Baoquan hacked a cough, his eyes flickering back to life, and croaked, “I’m not dead, go deal with the other bodies!”

Hu Chun nodded and started to rise—then froze, as did Wang Chen and the newly arrived Li Changhuai. The three of them, along with every conscious civilian, turned their gaze to the previously silent man in black.

Somehow, the man in black was already on his feet. From Wang Chen’s vantage, blood trickled from both ears and one eye was ruined, yet he managed to stand, swaying beside an overturned aluminum case, looking as though he might collapse any moment. In his hands was a Type 95 assault rifle.

“Heh...heh... all of you can go to hell!” The man’s hoarse, guttural voice sounded like a fiend crawling out of the abyss.

Click.

The gun didn’t fire.

Clearly unfamiliar with assault rifles, he fumbled with the bolt, aimed again, and shrieked, “All of you, die!”

Still no shot.

Bang! Bang!

Had they let him fiddle any longer, Cao Baoquan might as well have quit the army and gone home to farm. Even half-lying on the ground, he fired two precise shots—at less than ten meters, both bullets punched clean through the man’s shoulders. Whether the man ever used his arms again was irrelevant; what mattered was keeping him alive.

Assuming he had a future at all.

Shit!

Hu Chun tried to hold him back, but Wang Chen was already charging—though, this time, he was beaten by the two athletic men. Who wouldn’t rage if someone just aimed an assault rifle at your head? Only a fool would stay calm.

The man in black tried to shout again, but the first young man delivered a running kick straight to his groin, stifling the words in his throat, his mouth agape, unable to make a sound. The second stomped hard on his jaw—fortunately, the man curled up in pain and absorbed some of the blow, or his neck might well have snapped.

“Wang Chen! Hu Chun! Hold them back! Keep him alive!”

With the two young men already attacking, Wang Chen and Hu Chun had no chance to get in a hit; seeing others take action, their anger cooled. Hearing Cao Baoquan’s strained command, they hurried over and dragged the two attackers away. But as they tried to pull them back, they suddenly felt a crowd pressing in behind.

Sweat broke out on Wang Chen and Hu Chun’s foreheads. In just a few moments, the group who’d come to help—or to run from the threat—had gathered around them, with the rest of the civilians following suit. Most unnervingly, the entire crowd was silent, their faces dark with unspoken fury.

Wang Chen, young and inexperienced, didn’t grasp the gravity, but Hu Chun, shrewd and worldly, realized the situation was spiraling out of control. If the crowd had been noisy, perhaps they could have negotiated or delayed, found a spokesperson to reason with. But this ominous silence screamed one message: the wrath of the masses cannot be defied.

Who told that fat fool to shout about the “True God”? It was clearly a cult—very likely the source of the zombie outbreak. Even if they weren’t, the man in black’s “all of you, die!” had infuriated everyone who’d fought to survive. Unlike those who waited for rescue, these people had clawed their way through zombie hordes, lost loved ones, and suppressed their rage for too long. No one wanted to escape the zombies’ jaws only to be blown up by these maniacs. No one wanted to face that arrogant gun.

Think you’re something special? At best, you have one more breath in you than a zombie. If we don’t finish you today, we won’t rest!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sensing trouble, Cao Baoquan fired three shots into the air.

“If you kill him now, you won’t be punished! People like him deserve to die!” his words calmed the agitated crowd.

Now was not the time for reverse psychology—Cao Baoquan wasn’t a fool.

“But think about it: this man is the mastermind behind the canteen bombing. How many died? How many turned into zombies? Killing him now might feel good, but what if his accomplices go on to kill more, to spread the pathogen? How many more will die? How many more will turn? He cannot die—at least not so easily!”

He spoke at length, and as he paused for breath, the soldiers who’d arrived with him began separating the crowd. With this “way out,” the civilians, formerly on the verge of violence, gradually calmed. Just as Cao Baoquan breathed a sigh of relief, a voice suddenly rang out from the side: “Old Liao? Old Liao, don’t scare me! What’s wrong, Old Liao?!”

Cao Baoquan’s mind went blank.

“What did you say? Critically wounded?!” In the military command post, the chief’s face was as cold as frost. If the criminal forensics expert died on base, what was the special operations battalion and the disciplinary squad even there for? At such a critical moment, to make such a blunder—if not for the rule against changing generals during battle, the chief would have replaced them on the spot!

The staff officer, seeing his superior’s shifting expression, quickly added, “Before he was wounded, the criminal investigator had already identified the mastermind. The arrest went awry, but based on the reports, the special operations and disciplinary squads are not at fault. Also, the mastermind is still alive.”

“Hmph! Not at fault! Fine, file this as per procedure. Interrogate the mastermind immediately—we must get results! Oh, and once the storm passes, arrange a helicopter to bring the suspect and the expert back. Certain matters must be handled as they should. As for that man—he must be...! Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The staff officer, hearing that old and ominous phrase, knew the suspect was finished; a prolonged interrogation awaited, and for him, death would be a luxury.

The people’s democratic... was not a joke, especially in wartime, when such a person must be... The mere thought made the staff officer’s skin crawl.

“Anything else?”

“The autopsy results are in for the fallen soldier. The cause was indeed zombie virus infection, though the infection vector was unusual.”

“Oh? Let me see.” The chief took the forensic report, scanned it, and promptly ordered, “Distribute this to all relevant departments, especially the rescue center. Make sure the operators are briefed immediately to prevent similar incidents at the front. But keep the proper level of secrecy!”

“Yes, sir!”

The military’s efficiency was impressive. Less than an hour after the forensic report was filed, Operator #3148 saw a new alert pop up on her computer screen.

“Remind civilian survivors: avoid contact with water contaminated by corpse or zombie remains... Large quantities of virus will adhere to clothing and skin. At a critical threshold, this can cause zombification. If exposed, report immediately to the rescue center for instructions and rinse thoroughly with water. Use household cleansers if available...”

Operator #3148 was still skimming the notice when her supervisor clapped for attention. “Everyone not currently on a call, hold off on reading the public info on your screens. We have a special message. Please welcome our forensic expert to explain some classified details.”

Classified details?

Confusion clouded Operator #3148’s eyes, her brows furrowing. She disliked these secretive messages—they meant incidents involving contaminated water had to be handled differently, flagged in the system, or, in severe cases, might result in a missile strike mere minutes after a phone report.

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Only hours earlier, a remote clinic near Changchun had called for help. After confirming the zombie infection there was a “special case”—the infected had crossed the blockade before turning and was locked in the ER by a nurse, preventing further spread—the military had canceled a missile strike with only three minutes left on the countdown.

The operator who’d helped confirm the details sat near #3148. When the order to stand down came, she nearly collapsed from relief—had the case taken even a few minutes longer, the clinic and its hundreds of patients would have been erased from the map. The pressure on a phone operator could be overwhelming.

As #3148 gathered her thoughts, a gaunt, sharp-featured man appeared on the main rescue center screen. “Why did you need me for this video? I’ve got experiments to run...”

He didn’t bother with introductions, diving right in: “Let’s be brief. We’ve found that the zombie virus can survive for a short time in water at around thirty degrees Celsius, provided the pH and nutrients are suitable. If you add zombie blood to such water, the viral concentration drops, but the virus doesn’t immediately die. If a healthy person comes into contact with this water, three things can happen. First, nothing—the virus concentration is low, the person is healthy with intact skin or thick clothing, and their immune system defeats the tiny amount of virus before it can take hold.”

The man’s voice was hoarse, his eyes bloodshot—clearly exhausted. He paused to gulp some water, then continued: “Second, the virus enters the body and multiplies, causing zombification. This typically happens if someone has a fresh wound and is exposed to contaminated water, similar to a zombie bite, though the viral load in water is lower and the onset is slower. Or, if the person’s immune system is weak, even a small amount of virus can take hold and eventually overwhelm them.”

“Third, most healthy people will just feel weak, some might run a fever or even collapse—this is the immune response to the virus. We’ve seen from blood samples that those who soak limbs in contaminated water get a certain amount of virus through the skin. If it’s not enough for full zombification, the immune system fights it, but the virus may go dormant in the body. That’s our latest finding: the person becomes a zombie virus carrier, like a hepatitis B carrier.”

The rescue center erupted in shocked whispers.

“One thing is certain: if such a carrier dies, the chance of zombification is one hundred percent—and it’s fast! Whether carriers can be cured, or will remain contagious for life, is still under study...”

The video cut off.

“That’s why we had an academician from the Academy of Sciences explain—so you take this seriously. When taking calls, carefully ask if anyone has been exposed to water contaminated by zombies or infected blood, or splashed by zombie fluids. Such details must be reported. This is to prevent cases where someone appears healthy but turns hours later—such hidden cases could be catastrophic, as you can imagine.”

“Yes!” the operators replied.

Operator #3148 returned to her seat, dazed, her chest tight as though an invisible hand was squeezing her heart. She tried to tell herself it was just an emotional illusion, that deep breaths would help, but she could not relax—she couldn’t lie to herself. Many civilians who’d taken her advice had joined the special forces evacuation, and even if they survived, they’d be carriers for life. The academician hadn’t said so outright, but the hepatitis B analogy said it all.

Hepatitis B is incurable—how much more so a virus a million times more virulent?

For a moment, #3148 thought she heard countless voices clamoring in her ears. As she tried to listen, they vanished, only to return a few seconds later, thunderous and overwhelming.

Murderer! You are a murderer!