033’s Opportunity to Switch to an Administrative Position

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One must admit, Zhang Fu was deeply unimpressed by the higher-ups inserting two civilians, supposedly unafraid of zombies, into the security special task force. True, he himself had recruited three newcomers, but two were assigned to logistics support, and the third at least had a background in the armed police—barely scraping past the five-kilometer cross-country run, and survival training was a mandatory pass. Not to mention, this young man had dared to fight zombies on a speeding armored vehicle for comrades he'd only known for a couple of hours.

With such courage and temperament, bringing him into the security special task force for training was perfectly justified.

But those two civilians? What was the point? Dose them with stimulants for enhanced physical strength? Even if it worked, rapidly swelling muscles would inevitably lead to uncoordinated movements. In a desperate fight, even the slightest deviation could mean death. Zhang Fu had seen this happen too many times.

Veterans like Zhang Fu had killing techniques ingrained in their bones; competing in brute strength was an insult. His subordinates, all with less than ten years of service, combined stamina with skill, and could easily handle three or five 'national-level' athletes at a time—perhaps ten or eight would be a challenge, but three or five posed no problem.

Granted, zombies were unlike any opponent Zhang Fu had faced before: they felt no pain, feared no death, and most lethal techniques were useless against them. But these zombies lacked intelligence. As long as there was enough space, Zhang Fu could take out dozens single-handedly—and he had done so before, grabbing a handful of kitchen knives at a rescue center in a small town, leading survivors to safety. Even in full protective gear, his movements were merely hindered. So, was it really necessary to add two civilians to the special task force for such trivial reasons?

Necessary.

Absolutely necessary.

Since the discovery that the zombie pathogen could be transmitted via droplets, the interval had been too short for even battle-hardened special task force members to quickly adapt to fighting in full protective gear. The more experienced the operative, the longer the adaptation took. Zhang Fu was a living example—his downward vision narrowed by protective clothing, he failed to notice a pair of shriveled yet powerful hands at his feet.

Wang Chen’s warning made Zhang Fu instinctively leap up, launching himself purely on the strength of his legs, narrowly avoiding the grasping hands. As he landed, his feet pinned the hands that clearly belonged to no living person.

The owner of the hands didn’t give up; driven purely by instinct, it tried to retract its hands, but being stepped on dragged its body from beneath the desk. To the zombie, the outcome was the same: fresh meat delivered right to its mouth.

It strained to open its mouth, exposing its most disgusting yellow teeth and gums, tearing its cheeks as its jaw muscles split apart, utterly indifferent. The zombie’s eyes saw only the flesh wrapped within the protective suit—it was about to sate its most primal need!

Bang.

Satisfaction denied.

For a veteran like Zhang Fu, having danced with death, his heartbeat didn’t even quicken. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed cabin. Wang Chen’s shout was meant not only for Zhang Fu, but broadcast on the public channel—his warning instantly raised the alertness of all the security special task force members.

Unfortunately, it was too late.

The first to be attacked was Quickhand, who lived up to his nickname. Even with protective gear slowing his reaction, the moment a shadow flashed in his peripheral vision, his hand twisted up, gun muzzle tracking the zombie’s trajectory. But the zombie’s speed far exceeded his expectations, several times faster than ordinary zombies—even faster than those infected with the rabid zombie virus.

A moment’s delay, and Quickhand managed only to squeeze the trigger as the zombie landed beside him; bullets tore through its body, but the gaping maw bit deep into Quickhand’s shoulder!

Here was where the difference between well-trained special task force members and ordinary people became clear. Quickhand, though wracked by agony, didn’t utter a sound. He lifted his assault rifle, pressing the muzzle up under the zombie’s chin, delivering a precise finishing shot! Flinging the zombie aside, ignoring his bleeding wound, he discarded the cumbersome rifle, drew two Glocks—one in each hand—and fired repeatedly at the strange, ferocious zombies nearby!

Unlike the prone-to-jamming nine-millimeter Type 92, the Glock issued to special task force members (fictional, absolutely fictional) was sharp, alternating hollow points and heavy rounds in the magazine—a signature of the operatives. In gunfights, whether against people or body armor, it worked wonderfully. Now, against zombies, especially someone like Quickhand, adept at dual-wielding, he could hit every target at close range!

But these zombies—more like desiccated corpses—were too fast!

Quickhand’s marksmanship was deadly accurate, but shooting the zombies’ bodies, even blowing off arms, legs, or completely shredding their guts with hollow points, couldn’t stop their berserk attacks!

The next injured was Old Dog, second only to Zhang Fu in length of service, soon eligible to lead his own team. Old Dog’s combat experience was considerable, and his reaction wasn’t slow. At the first gunshot, he retreated two steps, pressed his back against the cabin wall, maximizing his field of view. His Type 05 submachine gun was ready, as the dried corpses, once soaked in the grayish brine, awakened at the sound of gunfire, and descended on the nearest living flesh for a feast! Old Dog couldn’t let them attack his comrades; his submachine gun fired in bursts, hitting multiple zombies!

Then came the unexpected: a zombie, hit mid-leap, took a bullet to the spine, its body below the chest completely severed. Yet its shriveled upper body, deflected by the impact, spun down beside Old Dog. Normally, a three-round burst would suffice to blow apart the zombie’s head. But just then, Old Dog spotted a zombie behind Lynx, lunging at the back of Lynx’s head!

No time to think. Old Dog’s submachine gun first targeted the zombie attacking his comrade, fired two rounds, then swung back to deal with the threat beside him.

Too late.

The zombie, missing half its body but with intact shoulders and arms, moved even faster than Old Dog expected! It bit through Old Dog’s protective suit, leaving a deep bite on his thigh just as Old Dog’s belated bullets struck home.

Gunshots rang out suddenly, then faded rapidly. On the public channel, only a few faint, ragged breaths could be heard. Quickhand, seeing Old Dog’s hand signal for safety, immediately drew the emergency pathogen vaccine, skipping any test—he jabbed the three-barreled syringe into the wounds near his shoulder!

No one wanted to become a zombie.

Old Dog did the same. Zhang Fu’s cold, steady voice came through the earpiece: “Zhang Fu team, report casualties.”

“Quickhand wounded.”

“Old Dog wounded.”

“Lynx safe, Wind is dead.”

“Zhou Feng team, report casualties.”

“Noodle injured.”

“Zhou Feng safe, the rest... dead. The special task force left in the pharmaceutical workshop sealed the isolation door before dying; to leave, the zombies inside must be dealt with.”

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“……”

Thirteen boarded the ship; four were dead, three wounded, and of the remaining six, three were green recruits. Zhang Fu shook his head slightly. It had been years since he’d faced such a devastating failure.

The facts were undeniable—not to mention, he’d just been saved by Wang Chen. Zhang Fu realized that the civilian he had previously dismissed had, at the critical moment, played a crucial role. As for the other one, who clung to a shotgun, shrieking in the corner like a woman, after this operation, he’d be sent straight back to prison. If he resisted, Zhang Fu would gladly use him as a target, venting the anger from the heavy casualties.

Regardless, the special task force members had not died in vain. Their sacrifice proved one thing: the zombies, even dehydrated and desiccated, would revive upon contact with sufficient liquid, stimulated by the zombie pathogen. As for why they moved faster than ordinary zombies, Zhang Fu could only think of one answer.

These zombies had high concentrations of drugs or toxins in their bodies—especially those soaked in “poison water.” Living people exposed to it would be tormented day and night; these corpses were “rehydrated” in poison water, the effect—

The specifics would be up to the researchers. Zhang Fu pulled out a sealed bag, grabbed a zombie’s head, and stuffed it in, muttering, “Wounded, dress your injuries. Uninjured, reload your ammo. Bat, what’s happening outside?”

“Nothing, all clear.”

“Keep an eye on any zombies rushing out of the cabin.”

“Roger.”

“Keep collecting samples and plant explosives. Gather at the stern. Prepare to evacuate.” Zhang Fu looked up, studying the office ceiling. He said nothing about dealing with the zombies still roaming the workshop; the survivors didn’t ask. Even after heavy casualties, the veterans chose to trust Zhang Fu.

“I’m going to die, I’m going to die, really going to die, I don’t want to die, don’t want to die, don’t want to die…” Liu Shuhuan still clung to his shotgun in the corner, chanting like a mantra.

“Get up!” Wang Chen, who had trained with Liu Shuhuan, couldn’t understand how a civilian college student like himself hadn’t broken down, yet Liu Shuhuan, a former convict, could be so cowardly.

But for ordinary people, seeing zombies leap and gunfire erupt, few could remain calm.

Wang Chen tried to say something, but Ma Tian, unable to hold back, shoved Wang Chen aside and kicked Liu Shuhuan hard!

Thud! Ugh!

Liu Shuhuan’s nearly two-hundred-pound body slammed into the wall from Ma Tian’s vengeful kick. The military boot with its hard alloy sole struck his stomach; even with body armor, his iron stomach couldn’t withstand it. Vomit mixed with undigested food burst from Liu Shuhuan’s throat.

Zhang Fu glanced over at the commotion, saw Liu Shuhuan was alive, and looked away.

“Awake now? Want me to kick you again?” Ma Tian’s tone was harsh. Anyone in Ma Tian’s position—just having lost comrades and seeing Liu Shuhuan’s pathetic state—would be furious. A single kick was mild; someone less restrained might have shot Liu Shuhuan for cowardice, no military court required.

“Enough, enough, don’t do that. We haven’t finished the mission.” Wang Chen was angry too, but compared to Ma Tian’s brash, military upbringing, Wang Chen, a mechanic turned ordinary youth, knew that keeping a low profile meant survival. Letting Liu Shuhuan vomit, he changed the subject: “Captain Zhang, is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t need you here. Go with Ma Tian to help the wounded.” Zhang Fu, still inspecting the ceiling, replied offhandedly.

Old Dog entered, gun in hand. Wang Chen quickly took his gear, helped him sit, and began cleaning his wound under Old Dog’s direction. Noodle soon shuffled in, his wound also on his thigh, bleeding troublesome; Ma Tian moved to assist.

Bandaged Old Dog’s wound, Wang Chen glanced at Zhang Fu, still inspecting and tapping the walls and ceiling. Old Dog, who had a good impression of Wang Chen and Ma Tian—especially Wang Chen’s timely warning that had helped the operatives—spoke quietly: “These drug traffickers are the type who gamble with their lives. If Interpol really surrounds them, they might cut power to the tanker, even use EMP bombs to destroy the electrical systems. Then sliding doors, buzzers, electric doors—all useless. Backup power isn’t guaranteed, so the fancier the escape route, the faster you die. Remember: real escape routes are always simple, reliable mechanical devices.”

Wang Chen nodded, though he still doubted it. This was a world-famous drug cartel—could they really not have elaborate traps or escape routes?

Soon, the surviving operatives gathered in the office with samples and hard drives. Zhang Fu, confirming everyone was present, took Liu Shuhuan’s shotgun, held it upside down, and jabbed at the ceiling.

On the third panel, a fire escape ladder slid down from the ceiling. Zhang Fu tossed the shotgun back to Liu Shuhuan and said on the public channel, “Bat, start the helicopter.” Drawing his pistol, he led the way up.

“It’s true?!” Wang Chen was amazed the reality matched Old Dog’s words.

Ma Tian, seeing Wang Chen’s naive expression, couldn’t help smirk. He’d worried Xiao Hua might develop feelings for Wang Chen, but now saw he was just an ordinary civilian, nothing to worry about. Ma Tian refocused on the task, and seeing Zhang Fu and Quickhand climbing into the passage, quietly asked Old Dog, “The bodies of the fallen operatives…”

“Operatives aren’t soldiers; they’re buried where they fall. Didn’t you write your will?” Old Dog’s tone was as casual as discussing meals. He patted Ma Tian’s shoulder, murmuring, “If you regret now, it’s not too late. When this mission’s over, you can apply to withdraw. But once your codename’s set, leaving gets much harder.”

Ma Tian wanted to protest he wasn’t afraid, but Old Dog didn’t give him the chance. With Wang Chen’s help, Old Dog climbed into the escape passage.

Zhou Feng chimed in, “Leaving now isn’t shameful. Don’t pledge loyalty to me—joining or quitting is your own choice.”

Thinking it over, Ma Tian nodded, climbing the escape ladder. Zhou Feng, as vice captain, brought up the rear.

Emerging into the blistering equatorial sunlight, Wang Chen felt alive and grateful. He hauled Zhou Feng up, and Zhang Fu pulled out a bundle of C4, attached a remote detonator, tossed it into the escape passage. The six formed a tactical formation and jogged toward the already running helicopter nearby.

Something was wrong!

Zhang Fu noticed Bat, in the pilot’s seat, was motionless, making no preparations for takeoff. The helicopter rotors were slowing, not accelerating. Zhang Fu immediately crouched, raised his left hand, clenched and released his fist—

Alert! Take cover!

The veterans understood Zhang Fu instantly. Ma Tian reacted a bit slower, and Wang Chen and Liu Shuhuan only caught on by copying the operatives’ actions. Before they finished hiding, shadows vaulted over the ship’s sides, and at the bow, six or seven figures in navy camouflage, masked, armed with assault rifles appeared!

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Surrounded!

“Zzt…crackle…zzt…zzt…” Only static came through the earpieces; no other sound.

The helicopter rotors still spun. Zhang Fu knew they were likely using full-spectrum radio jamming, but decided to risk it. He stood tall, slowly raised his left hand, and shouted in English, “I am holding…”

Without warning, Zhang Fu’s left hand and the detonator exploded. His fingers and fragments scattered, one landing beside Liu Shuhuan, who immediately collapsed, shouting, “I surrender!”

Bang! Quickhand, without a word, drew both pistols—right hand covering, left hand blew off half of Liu Shuhuan’s skull! Immediately, a hail of bullets struck him, riddling Quickhand with holes.

All of this happened in less than thirty seconds!

There was no time for Wang Chen to think. Seeing Quickhand fall, his blood boiled—he aimed his gun at the shadows, shouted half a curse, and was hit hard in the back, sent flying five or six meters!

Dizziness, chest tightness, nausea, and all sorts of negative sensations hit him at once. Wang Chen felt his body was no longer his own, unable to obey commands, unable even to pull the trigger against the assailant pinning him!

Not only him—Ma Tian and Zhou Feng suffered the same. Zhang Fu, his left hand blown apart, was also knocked down as Quickhand shot Liu Shuhuan.

The attackers uttered not a single word, never announced their identity or ordered surrender. They subdued instantly, killed any resistance immediately, wasting no time.

This was the harsh reality of the special task force world.

Wang Chen struggled to resist, but was struck by a stun gun, his body convulsed violently, unable even to scream. He bit his tongue, his sphincter lost control, and he wet himself…

The intense shocks left him completely numb. The attackers drenched him in powerful disinfectant, then bound his wrists, arms, feet, and legs with nylon ties. Everyone received the same treatment; two attackers lifted each and threw the survivors onto a speedboat beneath the tanker. As Wang Chen slowly recovered, he tried to look up at his captors, but darkness fell as a hood was pulled over his head.

Throughout, he never heard the attackers speak a single word.

When the speedboat stopped, Wang Chen was carried and tossed into somewhere—gentle rocking told him he was still at sea. When the hood was removed, he found himself in an iron-gray cage, made of thick steel bars, escape impossible. The cage was barely a meter wide, forcing him to crouch—lying or standing was impossible. Looking around, he saw Ma Tian, Fang Qiang, Zhang Fu, and other operatives, but Bat and the ship expert were absent.

“Bat and the expert… both dead,” Fang Qiang’s somber voice came, directed at Zhang Fu.

Zhang Fu’s left hand was tightly bandaged, his face pale, leaning back in the cage, eyes half-closed. He replied, “After you were ambushed, Bat tried to warn you?”

“Yes, then his neck was snapped. I went blank, tried to fight, but the expert shielded me and was shot. I… I reacted too slowly…” Fang Qiang, a nearly forty-year-old man, finished with red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s not your fault. You’re logistics, not combat personnel. They’re definitely listening to us, so just chat freely.” Zhang Fu’s voice was as flat as ever, low in pitch. “After they ambushed you, did they play Bat’s voice through a device?”

“Yes. I was stunned—the voice was identical.”

“Real-time voice synthesis… Did they mention any names? Oh, right, you don’t speak English.”

“Captain Zhang… where are we?”

Wang Chen listened intently.

“This is probably the Walter-class stealth destroyer. We’re likely in CIA hands now.”

What?!

“Wasn’t the fake intelligence supposed to have worked…”

“In intelligence, anything can happen. We managed to divert other nations to the Caribbean tanker, so being ambushed and captured isn’t surprising.”

“But…”

“No buts. We’re in international waters, not on a research vessel classified like an embassy. Who knows which country the cartel’s tanker belongs to, or which laws apply. So, the US can claim it was a joint operation with Interpol to capture a drug ship, and will likely charge us with drug dealings to wrangle with our country.”

“So what happens to us?”

“In intelligence, elimination depends on circumstances. Right now, we’ll probably be traded for captured CIA agents back home, go through lie detectors and checks, then transferred to desk jobs or allowed to retire.”

Talk about prophecy! Ma Tian’s expression turned awkward—he’d lied to his mother about joining the security department as an office worker. Now, it was true!

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