Chapter 013: Arriving at the New Home

The suffering of Operator 3148 was no more than a ripple in the aftermath of the news disclosure—a minor disturbance amid the chaos. At times like these, no one paid attention to the psychological turmoil of a lowly switchboard operator. Unlike the somewhat sensitive Operator 3148, most operators felt little mental stress; after all, they were stationed behind the lines, far removed from the visceral terror faced by survivors and soldiers confronting the undead. But Captain Sun was different. The hands that could hold an assault rifle for hours without trembling now bulged with veins as he read the military order, crushing his military-grade IP66 tablet in sheer frustration.

What did it mean to evacuate in stages and batches? What did it mean to sort people by gender and age? What did it mean to authorize shooting infected individuals? Military orders, unlike the nebulous directives issued for civilians, possessed one distinct advantage: clarity. There was no ambiguity; recipients were expected to understand exactly what was demanded. That was why Captain Sun reacted so fiercely.

The order needed no elaboration. In essence, survivors rescued at great risk by special operations and related units would likely spend the rest of their lives in medical quarantine zones—a euphemistic way of saying they would serve as medical test subjects for research into the zombie pathogen. Even after death, their bodies would not be returned to their families but used for medical dissection. As for soldiers entering the infected zone, they too would require repeated quarantine upon departure to prevent any infected individuals from slipping through.

Clearly, this was a case of sacrificing the interests of a few for the good of the many. Logically unassailable, yet morally cold, bordering on cruel.

What could Captain Sun say? A soldier’s duty is to obey orders. He was well aware of the pathogen’s infectiousness and had to admit that, for the nation, the higher-ups had made the best possible choice.

Yet the phrase "authorized to shoot infected individuals" still stung him deeply.

Instructor Dong had been Captain Sun’s partner for years. Truth be told, the two spent more time together than Sun did with his own wife. Seeing his old comrade so agitated, Dong pried Captain Sun’s fingers from the shattered tablet, glanced at the order, sucked in his breath, ignored the ruined screen, quickly typed a few words, and handed the tablet back, speaking in a hoarse voice, “Orders are orders. The procedures are all spelled out. We just have to carry them out.”

By the time Dong finished typing, Captain Sun had regained his composure. He understood his partner’s intentions, pushed the tablet aside, took out a cigarette and lighter, lit up in silence, and strode away without a word.

Knowing his old friend was in low spirits, Dong watched his retreating back and called out, “Keep your spirits up!”

Sun didn’t look back, but raised a middle finger in reply.

Dong smiled bitterly, shook his head, and pressed the tablet’s confirmation button twice before the damaged device finally sent the receipt. He muttered, “Sun the madman, still as strong as ever.” He was about to head back to the command vehicle for a replacement tablet when an urgent alert sounded.

A single glance at the message made Dong’s eyes widen. He hurried after Captain Sun, taking three steps at a time.

“…There must be a clear field of fire, ideally with more than fifty meters’ separation, highest ground near the airstrip, water storage facilities, ample space, high floors, and a rooftop suitable for helicopter landing—these are mandatory! Only one of the three buildings can be selected!”

Stepping into the hangar where civilians rested, Captain Sun was still discussing defensive positions with his comrades. When he faced the crowd, he fell silent, standing in a parade stance without any loudspeakers, lips pressed tight, gazing wordlessly at the survivors.

The once noisy hangar gradually fell quiet. All hearts weighed heavy. Most people didn’t even know the name of this dark-skinned soldier, but his very presence radiated silent intimidation.

“The first batch of helicopters will arrive in an hour and a half. Women and children will evacuate first!” After standing for some time, Captain Sun finally forced out the words.

Boom! The crowd erupted, finally seeing their long-hoped-for moment—the evacuation schedule was set. Yet a few clear-minded individuals worried inwardly; hadn’t they previously insisted on waiting for quarantine results before evacuating, to prevent outbreaks during transit or after landing? Why the sudden change? And why evacuate by gender and age instead of family groups?

Questions lingered, but voicing dissent at this moment was suicidal or worse. The clever ones kept quiet; whispers abounded, but not openly.

Hu Chun, an experienced middle-aged man, noticed something amiss. As everyone gathered at the chosen office building to await evacuation, he dragged Wang Chen along, shamelessly sidling up to Cao Baoquan, hoping to use a smoke break to wangle a few words, wanting to leave with his daughter—even if it meant waiting.

But the outcome was as expected: none. In front of Wang Chen, Cao Baoquan gave Hu Chun some face, deflecting gently. Before Hu Chun could press further, a commotion interrupted him.

“My God! What is that?!”

“So many zombies!”

“Open fire! Liberation Army, hurry!”

“Help! We’re doomed!”

One crowd in the tens of thousands, another in the tens of thousands of zombies. Hell on earth.

Harbin, surrounded by flat plains with few hills, offered clear views from any tall building. As the Songhua River floodwaters rose, available ground diminished. The zombies, infected and brain-dead, operated on sheer biological instinct—those still mobile naturally moved from water to land.

The urgent message that startled the instructor pertained to this: three or five hundred zombies were nothing for the special forces—just a blurred spot on satellite imagery. But thirty or fifty thousand? Three or five hundred thousand? That demanded serious attention.

From the vantage point, the panicked crowd’s terror was heightened; as the endless zombie horde stumbled forward, toppling fences, rolling over shrubs, moaning in a way that burrowed into the ear and haunted nightmares, converging from all directions on the last dry high ground, no one could stay calm. If not for past brushes with death, some civilians might have died on the spot from fright.

Arriving ahead of the zombies were countless small animals. Unlike resourceful rats, the bigger cats and dogs, fleeing the flood and the zombies’ hunger for living things, became the vanguard of the horde. Unaware of the danger signaled by the faint smell of gasoline, they plunged headlong toward the office building’s open ground, ignoring the threat in favor of escaping the undead.

Letting these cats and dogs roam outside posed no danger—the office building’s entrances were barricaded by special forces; nothing could get in but water, not even a finger, let alone a cat or dog.

Yet no one could guarantee whether these animals carried the pathogen. Rats thrived with plague, but when humans caught it in medieval times, whole populations perished. Should one or two slip inside, the panic alone would keep the special forces busy. Captain Sun felt no mercy; he pressed his earpiece and uttered two words.

Ignite.

Flare guns fired, flames erupted!

The rain had just ended and the ground was wet, but for the special forces, this was no obstacle; these experts made fire-lighting almost an art. Around the office building, within thirty to thirty-five meters, flames rose at Sun’s command, cutting off the animals and slowing the zombies’ advance. Even as zombies were pushed into the fire by their fellows, the flames—fueled by gasoline, additives, accelerants, and now human fat—only grew stronger.

The stench of roasting flesh was nauseating.

When the military helicopters arrived near the office building, they did not land immediately. Guided by the special forces and the glow of the flames, they unleashed their onboard weapons upon the encroaching zombies. Against such “soft targets,” the helicopters used rocket pods. While less sophisticated than air-to-ground missiles, they had broader coverage and greater effect.

Wang Chen had seen war scenes on television countless times, but never imagined he’d witness it firsthand. Four helicopters firing simultaneously turned the area around the office building into an inferno of blood and fire. Except for the barricaded doors and windows on the first floor, every glass pane above was shattered or cracked—none intact. The unending explosions were deafening, the floor trembled, and even crouching against the walls, one could feel hot winds brushing shoulders and backs, with the air thick with smoke and the stench of scorched flesh.

When the barrage finally ended, the civilians fell into collective silence. This was just four helicopters—not even dedicated attack choppers. After full firepower coverage, nothing moved within a hundred meters of the building, save a few burning heaps; not a single object resembling a human form could be found, only charred ground and glowing embers.

Cao Baoquan hauled Hu Chun to his feet, patted his shoulder, his shoehorn face sincere, took a deep breath as if making a major decision, and said, “Hu, you and Brother Wang have helped a lot—we remember. Rest assured, if your child passes the medical exam, I’ll personally take her to her mother.”

Hearing this promise, Hu Chun’s body tensed, then relaxed, his face stiff as he forced a few laughs. Wang Chen, still young, was puzzled by Cao’s official tone, sensing something was off but unable to pinpoint it. He simply followed Hu Chun back to their companions, noting Hu’s strained and forlorn expression, and did not ask further.

After the helicopters finished their barrage, they landed. Hu Qianqian was among the first to evacuate. Hu Chun insisted she stay close to Cao Baoquan, never leaving his side, repeatedly confirming she remembered her mother’s phone number and work address. Only after Cao’s repeated urging did he watch his daughter board the helicopter.

Seeing the aircraft disappear into the clouds, Wang Chen finally couldn’t hold back, whispering, “Hu, what’s going on? You’re acting as if this is a final farewell… damn it, what happened?”

Hu Chun glanced at Wang Chen, then at the equally bewildered Li Changhuai and Han Li, searching his pockets. Wang Chen, sensing the mood, handed out half a pack of cigarettes. Even Han Li, who rarely smoked, took one, and the four formed a small circle on the rooftop, silently puffing away—a scene both secretive and eerie. Thankfully, before departure, Cao Baoquan had chatted with Wang and Hu, and the four were far enough from the helicopter zone that the temporary ground crew didn’t bother them.

Halfway through his cigarette, Hu Chun finally forced down his turmoil, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “You heard what Cao promised me, didn’t you, Wang?”

Without prompting, Wang Chen replayed Cao’s words in his mind. He wasn’t stupid, and his face changed instantly.

“Hey, hey, Hu, Brother Wang, what’s the riddle? Tell us!”

“Yeah, Hu, don’t be like this—it’s scary.”

“I’ll explain.” Wang Chen’s throat was dry; he swallowed hard. “Captain Cao promised that if the child passes the exam, he’ll personally take Qianqian to her mother.”

“That sounds fine,” Li Changhuai still didn’t get it.

“You… you mean Hu didn’t pass quarantine? No, Hu didn’t turn into a zombie, so regardless of the results, the kids can leave, but we can’t?” Han Li understood.

“What nonsense!”

“Quiet!”

“Keep it down!” Li Changhuai quickly apologized, lowering his voice. “I’m slow—so what do we do?”

Wang Chen saw Hu Chun’s vacant stare, eyes unfocused, clearly absent-minded, and sighed, “What else can we do? Leave the office building? Outside is full of zombies. We just have to play it by ear.”

This answer didn’t satisfy Li Changhuai, who was never one to shy away from trouble—he’d stepped up for a stranger and risked his life with Wang Chen during the explosion—just a straightforward guy prone to stubbornness. He gritted his teeth, “Let’s go ask Captain Sun directly!”

“Are you stupid?! What would you get? Even if you found out, do you expect him to let us go?!”

“Brother Wang is right. If we pretend not to know, maybe we can slip through. Once off the helicopter, look for a chance to run. If they get suspicious and keep an eye on us, escaping will be much harder,” Han Li chimed in.

“True enough…” Li Changhuai rubbed his garlic-shaped nose, full of resentment, but stayed silent.

Riding a military helicopter was a novel experience, but Wang Chen never expected his first bout of airsickness to happen now. He wasn’t alone; Han Li vomited repeatedly, and their mutual misery eased the embarrassment.

Just as the group had predicted, once off the helicopters, all civilians from the infected zone learned that contact with contaminated water meant possible virus carriage and required isolation. The scene quickly became chaotic; only Cao Baoquan’s warning shots restored order. The civilians were “invited” onto buses with barriers and railings. Some tried to protest or escape, but faced with layers of armed soldiers and stun guns capable of inducing convulsions, they ultimately had no choice but to comply.

Once the last bus disappeared down the road, Cao Baoquan finally relaxed, feeling discomfort everywhere. Yet, before his subordinates, he kept up appearances, twisting open a bottle of mineral water and gulping half. He considered dousing his head with the remainder when someone handed him a sausage and Forensic Zhang’s voice sounded, “Military discipline.”

Cao Baoquan smiled wryly; who’d have thought the grim-faced Forensic Zhang had a knack for dry humor? He took the sausage, tore it open, and took a fierce bite. Captain Sun, done with his duties, came over with his signature stern face, Instructor Dong following, both gnawing sausages. Dong mumbled, “Any bread?”

“In your dreams. Where’s Old Jiang?”

“Chemical defense unit has lots to handle—already regrouped.”

“Oh.”

“Lucky the rear found the infection cause in time; otherwise, we might not have made it out. By the way, how’s Old Liao?”

Cao Baoquan was about to complain about Dong’s verbosity when Forensic Zhang answered, “Old Liao was severely injured and evacuated earlier. I don’t know his follow-up medical status. Technician Yu… boarded the bus.”

“She only touched civilians’ blood—should be fine, right?”

“Who knows? Until the tests confirm, she has to stay with the civilians.”

Hearing this, Cao Baoquan remembered his promise to Hu Chun, drank some water to moisten his throat, and asked, “I knew a friend among the civilians—a good man. He was always holding his daughter while wading through water. If the little girl’s exam is clear, which department handles her placement? I promised to personally take her to her mother.”

The question stumped Forensic Zhang, but he knew the shoehorn-faced captain was a comrade-in-arms, and such a small request was worth helping with. He tossed his finished sausage aside, took out his phone, and began dialing…

Meanwhile, the buses had arrived at a parking lot, surprising the weary survivors who expected a longer journey. It made sense—since they’d arrived by helicopter, they wouldn’t be dropped at a civilian airport and then travel dozens or hundreds of kilometers by bus. If trouble arose en route, it would be disastrous. The best choice was to land as close as possible.

Under staff instructions, civilians got off the buses in the night, unable to see their surroundings. Yet the military-style building before them, with its prominent signage, quickly eased the unrest among those who feared detention or secret imprisonment.

After all, the buses were clearly marked “Changchun Women’s Prison.” Compared to the building labeled “Northeast Military Zone Fourth Retirement Home,” the contrast was striking.

“Hey, looks like decent conditions. That bus ride had us on edge,” Li Changhuai, the epitome of carefree, had just complained about never having been imprisoned, but perked up instantly at the sight of the retirement home sign.

“Hu, what do you make of all this…” Wang Chen whispered uncertainly.

“No matter what, we’re on their turf now. Two words: accept fate. Don’t get any ideas.”

“That’s true…” Wang Chen glanced at the relaxed Li Changhuai and chose to stay quiet, having noticed the nearby installation of barbed wire and armed soldiers. Escape seemed impossible.

Han Li tightened her grip on Wang Chen’s arm, her keen observation matching his—she’d noticed the same ominous details and instinctively held on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the retirement home. For the foreseeable future, you will recuperate and receive treatment here. Rest assured, the Party and the nation will never abandon you. We have extensive experience and courage from fighting SARS, and two years behind us, so…”

The broadcast echoed in every ear. Official as it sounded, it was at least reassuring.

On reflection, it made sense. These civilians, though special, hadn’t turned into zombies. At worst, like SARS patients in its heyday, they’d be quarantined in a closed but suitable facility. Life or death depended on fate. Modern medicine was advanced; even if their blood or tissues were used for tests, blood draws and minimally invasive surgery sufficed—no need for the horrors of live dissection like the devil units of World War II. After all, this wasn’t wartime, even if the infected zone resembled a war zone. The survivors, at least, were out of the infected area; their lives still counted for something.