020 Return to the Team

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When a serious epidemic threatens social security, what measures are taken for epidemic prevention? Eliminate the source of infection, cut off transmission routes, and control the susceptible population.

But if the source cannot be eradicated, the transmission cannot be blocked, and the entire human race is at risk—what can we do then? Wait for death?

Absolutely not!

The simplest method, under the premise of ensuring the survival of the population, is to minimize human movement as much as possible—except for essential exchanges of supplies—by using natural features like mountains and rivers, as well as all available man-made structures. If we can hold out until the source of infection disappears on its own or a vaccine is developed, ultimate victory in this struggle is certain.

Everyone can cite these principles, even elevating them to the level of social or national structure—making the argument sound lofty and inscrutable. For example, at this moment, keyboard warriors who have yet to experience the true terror of the undead sit at their computers, arguing furiously online. The debate started when someone posted on a forum, claiming that a centralized state holds an advantage over a federal state in eradicating the zombie epidemic. The main points were that orders are implemented from the top down without bureaucratic foot-dragging, power is concentrated in the hands of those in charge, and any attempt to spread the pathogen can be efficiently suppressed.

Opponents immediately retorted that, in a federal system where citizens are legally armed, everyone is a zombie slayer—dealing with infected zombies doesn't even require the army, National Guard, or the police. After all, by law, it isn’t a crime to shoot intruders in your private space, making it easier to wipe out human-spread pathogens in a federal system.

Supporters of the original post then cited the example of Hurricane Katrina, when the federal military’s inadequate rescue efforts led a governor to publicly voice his dissatisfaction. Opponents countered that natural disasters and human-transmitted epidemics are entirely different—one is an act of God, the other man-made. Therefore, arming every citizen is the best way to contain man-made calamities.

The debate raged on the internet, fingertips worn raw—though no one knows how many—but both sides tacitly ignored one thing: if they were so concerned about the epidemic, why not volunteer on the front lines?

“What? You two want to be volunteers or join the militia? Are you kidding me?” The PLA soldier on duty looked at them as if they had lost their minds, shaking his head. “The epidemic is critical. All civilians must evacuate immediately. No one is allowed into the town, only out. Only the transfer station and rescue center on the east side are open. Go there at once! Don’t linger here!”

To avoid suspicion, Wang Chen and Han Li had taken a roundabout route through half the town to find a checkpoint they could slip through. Yet as soon as they opened their mouths, the PLA soldier promptly refused them entry.

“Comrade, listen, being volunteers was just an excuse. Actually, we’re here to visit relatives in town. My sister-in-law and niece haven’t evacuated yet, and all our belongings are still in town. See? We didn’t bring anything with us. How do you expect us to leave? Can you make an exception?”

This was actually a line Han Li and Wang Chen had just rehearsed. Ever since starting her sales career after high school, Han Li had picked up a few tricks: start with an unacceptable request, then immediately lower your standards—often, that’s enough to win agreement.

Seeing the soldier’s skeptical look, Wang Chen quickly added, “Comrade, we have no intention of staying long. If something happens here, do you think we want to wait around to die? Don’t worry—once we find our relatives, we’ll leave immediately with our luggage!”

Han Li grumbled on cue, “See? I told you we should’ve left sooner, but you wouldn’t even change clothes, insisted on finding Uncle San. I say, forget about the debts he owes us. Now look—no money collected, and we can’t even get into town. We barely have enough cash for bus fare to reach our relatives!”

The soldier looked at the two of them in their coveralls—young, not the type to do manual labor, but with the air of a small-town merchant couple. After all, the military order was flexible, just to persuade civilians to evacuate. He shook his head and waved them through.

At that moment, Wang Chen felt as if he and Han Li were like guerrilla operatives sneaking past enemy lines, struggling not to burst out laughing. They thanked the soldier and had barely walked past the checkpoint when a shout came from behind: “Come back!”

Oh no—was it a body search? Wang Chen suddenly realized they’d been so focused on getting through the checkpoint, he’d forgotten about the 95-type pistol tucked into his waistband. Had it been spotted?

Han Li seemed to realize this too, paling visibly.

Instead, the PLA soldier just shook his head, stepped forward, and handed them each a wire mask. “Remember, you must wear the mask. If you don’t, and you start shuffling like a zombie, the patrol can shoot you on the spot, understand? This is no joke!”

“Thank you, thank you,” Wang Chen replied, hastily putting the mask on. “But this only covers the mouth—does it really protect us?”

“It’s not to protect you from zombies biting you,” explained the soldier patiently. “It’s to keep you from biting others if you turn into a zombie! Right now, the epidemic is spreading, and we don’t have the resources to test everyone. This is the best method we have. Now, get moving!”

Wang Chen, putting on the mask, couldn’t help but admire whoever had come up with such an idea. Indeed, a zombie’s main weapons are its hands and its teeth. Even if someone bitten kept silent out of fear, as long as they wore the mask, once they turned, all they could do was claw at people—fingernails can’t secrete saliva. Without the strong bite needed to tear flesh, the zombie’s lethality is greatly reduced. The mask also serves as a clear marker distinguishing zombies from ordinary people—anyone not wearing one is suspect and can be shot without argument.

The town wasn’t large. Its bustle came solely from its convenient location on the edge of the quarantine zone. Military and government epidemic workers bustled about. Dressed in their drab coveralls and now wearing the “universal marker”—the wire mask—Wang Chen and Han Li blended in perfectly. No one paid them any mind as they made their way to the town center in just over ten minutes, heading straight for the largest hotel.

The hotel was deserted, its doors flung open, bed linens and covers strewn everywhere. Refusing to give up, they searched up and down several floors, finally accepting that it was empty. As soon as they left, a PLA patrol passed by. Wang Chen hurried over and asked, “Comrade, do you know where the hotel guests have gone?”

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The soldier glanced at him but said nothing; the squad leader, however, slowed his pace and replied, “The hotel was housing the relatives of the sanatorium patients. They’ve all been evacuated. Civil affairs and epidemic control staff will move in this afternoon. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, we’re looking for someone—we’re also relatives of sanatorium patients. We got delayed and came to the address our family gave us, but no one’s here.”

“Can’t you just call them?”

“Our phone… lost it, with our bag.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do.” The squad leader shook his head. “There are evacuation buses for civilians at the east end of town. Once they’re full, they’ll leave immediately. You should hurry. Once this place is fully cleared, it’ll be under military control. If you wait, you won’t be able to get in or out…” He broke off mid-sentence, pressing his ear as his radio squawked with a message.

Wang Chen saw that the officer was busy, nodded his thanks, and exchanged a glance with Han Li. Since the people they were looking for couldn’t be found, it was best to leave for the rear as soon as possible. Fortunately, they had enough cash from Xu Dongsheng to get by for now. As for the future—well, they’d figure it out in Changchun or Shenyang.

They were about to leave, unaware that the squad leader’s gaze was growing sharper as he listened to his headset. As they turned to go, he signaled to his men, drew his pistol, and shouted, “Hands up! Don’t move!”

The soldiers, well-trained, instantly formed a semicircle around Wang Chen and Han Li, rifles raised, chambers snapping into place—a sound to make one’s scalp tingle.

Even more intimidating, there was a flamethrower operator in the patrol, the blue flame dancing lightly at the nozzle, making both of them shiver. No one wants to be reduced to charcoal in seconds.

Wang Chen was certain that any false move would mean instant death.

Judging by the squad’s readiness, the troops clearing the sanatorium must have reported finding signs of survivors. If those survivors were people like Cao Baoquan and his men, they’d have reported to the army immediately. Since half a day had passed with no sign of survivors, they must be suspected carriers.

It wasn’t that the squad leader was especially sharp-eyed—Wang Chen and Han Li had simply made too many mistakes. If they’d stuck to their earlier story from the checkpoint, they might have bluffed their way through. Instead, they’d claimed to be sanatorium relatives, yet wore coveralls, carried no luggage, and had no phones. One person losing a phone is plausible, but both? That’s a stretch.

That’s how the human mind works: if you don’t bring up a sore point, you might get waved through. But mention the very thing you shouldn’t, and you’ll only have yourself to blame when you’re caught.

Wang Chen opened his mouth but found his mind blank; Han Li just pressed close to him, eyes shut, bracing for death. Her encounters with zombies had toughened her, but she still couldn’t face these gun barrels without trembling. Frankly, neither could Wang Chen—he was only holding it together by reminding himself not to show fear in front of her.

The squad leader was just as tense—the two before him might be pathogen carriers, walking epidemic bombs!

He wasn’t stupid, either. While containing the suspects, he immediately reported the situation to his superiors.

He’d found likely carriers, possibly escaped from the sanatorium—a matter of grave import. Less than three minutes after he finished his report, an ambulance with a red cross, raising a cloud of dust, roared up from the far end of town. Before it had even stopped, two staff members in full-body protective suits jumped out and shouted, “Where are the survivors from the sanatorium? Where are they?”

Before the squad leader could reply, one of the staff hurried over, ignoring all the guns, and grabbed Wang Chen’s shoulder, his voice full of excitement: “Ah, it’s you! Thank goodness you’re alive!”

What did that mean? Wang Chen, stunned, wondered—had he become a rare specimen? Would he spend his life in a cage, never seeing daylight again? Be dissected on a lab table? Executed behind the chemical storage shed? Should he draw his pistol and go down fighting?

Realizing that his exuberance was making things worse, the staff member pulled back his hood, revealing a face both ecstatic and faintly troubled—a familiar face to Wang Chen. It was Zhang Han, the forensic pathologist who’d once explained the basics of the pathogen to the military leadership.

Originally, the sanatorium’s destruction had nothing to do with him. But after a national academy expert lost all live samples there and failed to convince military commanders to cooperate, he appealed directly to the top. The central authorities sought to mollify both sides: they affirmed the military’s decision—hundreds of zombies escaping would be a disaster, so crushing the outbreak in its cradle was right. Meanwhile, to make up for the lost research material, they sent teams to collect remains at the site and search for survivors or loose zombies.

As for whether the military had hidden live carriers—this was just Tu Hongye’s conjecture, meant to pressure the generals and secure cooperation between factions. That sort of thing could be handled behind the scenes, but never made public.

In short, while the powers above clashed, the little people suffered. Neither academy scholars nor military commanders would personally come to the epidemic front. Search and cleanup were delegated, and collected samples had to be evaluated and preserved immediately. There wasn’t time to send people from the capital—the task naturally fell to Zhang Han, who had taught the commanders and belonged to the security bureau.

He never expected that, just as the recovery team reported traces of survivors, the patrol would capture two suspected survivors—half his work done in one sweep. Who wouldn’t be happy?

Especially when he recognized them as survivors from Harbin—Wang Chen had even helped capture cultists. Overjoyed, Zhang Han couldn’t help letting his tongue run away with him.

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Wang Chen also recognized Zhang Han; the man’s perpetually troubled face was hard to forget. Seeing a familiar face, his nerves eased a little, though he still kept his guard up—after all, their acquaintance was brief. He asked bluntly, “What do you intend to do with us?”

“Do with you? You two are treasures now! Living—no, I mean, infected carriers like you two… Ah, let’s not talk about that!” Realizing the hurt his words might cause, Zhang Han stopped himself. He took a set of protective suits from the epidemic staff and handed one to Wang Chen, reassuring him, “Don’t worry. I guarantee you won’t lose a hair. Put these on and come with me.”

Wang Chen said nothing, but Han Li’s expression was bleak. “This suit is just like the wire mask—meant to keep us from infecting others, isn’t it?”

Zhang Han looked embarrassed. He was a pathologist, not a psychologist—he wanted to admit it, but knew it would sound harsh, and didn’t know how to answer.

Wang Chen stepped in to ease the tension, handing Han Li a suit. “Don’t make it hard for Dr. Zhang. Your name is Zhang, right?” On receiving confirmation, he told Han Li, “Given our situation, survival is blessing enough. Let’s not overthink it—going with Dr. Zhang is best for everyone.”

Han Li knew this was true. Even if they wanted to resist or flee, there was no guarantee they could outfight the armed troops. And even if they did escape, where could they go? If their blood or saliva really carried the virus, and they accidentally infected someone, could they live with themselves? They weren’t heartless.

Seeing their agreement, Zhang Han did his best to smile, thanked the squad leader, and led the suited-up pair to the ambulance, which sped away in a cloud of dust.

If the town had felt tense and oppressive with its camouflage uniforms everywhere, the rescue center at the east end was a riot of color, full of life. Through the window, Wang Chen saw families with children, bundles of clothes and belongings, waiting for evacuation. Children played with toy swords and Ultraman figures, darting in and out of the crowd—like a busy bus station. Wang Chen was struck by a sense of unreality, not knowing this was a common psychological reaction after intense trauma and a sign of possible mental strain. He just felt uncomfortable and shook his head hard.

Zhang Han noticed and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Just a bit hot.”

“The suit has built-in temperature control. If you’re still hot, there’s a small fan—the switch is at the back.”

“Thank you.”

As they spoke, the ambulance pulled into a commandeered lumber yard. The wood had been hauled away to build barricades around the town, leaving space for military and civilian vehicles. The entire site was covered with thermal netting to shield medical and communications equipment from the summer sun—making the yard look like a giant black tortoise from afar.

Wang Chen and Han Li, escorted by several staff, entered a sterile tent prepared for them. Once inside, behind translucent plastic sheeting, they began removing their suits to clean themselves as Zhang Han had instructed, when they heard the sound of an engine and a voice outside: “Where are they? Any survivors? Where?”

The voice was familiar. Wang Chen put down his suit, peered through the window, and instantly recognized the tanned face—it was an old acquaintance. “Captain Sun! Over here! I’m here! Oh, Instructor Dong is here too.”

Captain Sun, delighted, ran over to the window. “It’s you, kid! I knew you were tough—soldier material! Quick—besides you, who else survived?”

Wang Chen’s excitement faded. He didn’t want to dwell on the horrors they’d endured at the sanatorium, so he briefly reported Major Cao Baoquan and the others’ fates.

“So, Major Cao fell in the line of duty… only you two made it out…” The news wiped the brief joy from Sun’s face. He sighed. “I thought at least… Old Cao was a good man. Didn’t even leave a last word. I’ll make sure to honor him with good wine and tobacco. Blasting the sanatorium was a high-level decision—there was no other way. We had no idea the outbreak would escalate so quickly. If those hundreds of zombies had gotten out…”

“We understand, Captain Sun, you don’t need to explain. We got out of Harbin ourselves; we’ve seen what a sea of zombies looks like…” Wang Chen shivered at the memory. Han Li picked up where he left off, “We’re just glad to be alive. Don’t worry about us.”

“Oh, right—I brought these out from the sanatorium. Should I turn them in?” Wang Chen took out his pistol; Han Li handed over the magazine and army knife, showing them through the window.

Captain Sun waved it off. “At a time like this, everyone should be armed for self-defense. The authorities plan to set up a buffer zone with no civilian residents. Within fifty kilometers of the safe zone, all settlements will reinstate the militia system and issue light arms to every resident. There’ll be a month-long weapons training course to prepare for further outbreaks. Hold on to your gear.”

“Rearming the populace? Is the situation that bad?”