Corpses lay everywhere.

Three days—seventy-two hours—four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes.

In the sweep of a human life, which seems so long to us, this is but the blink of an eye, something no one would give a second thought. Yet for those aboard the research vessel, these hours were a living nightmare.

The two infected crew members ultimately could not escape the clutches of the zombie pathogen. After a period of high fever, they died within four hours. Though they did not immediately turn into zombies after death, two more knife strikes still followed.

Just as the radio and satellite television had reported, the characteristics of this outbreak were disturbingly similar to an ordinary cold: chills, exposure to wind, coughing, runny nose, followed by fever, and finally a rapid descent into madness and bloodlust—the transformation into a zombie.

The most horrifying revelation, confirmed repeatedly by Chen Hanxing and Tu Hongye, was that this virus, in the strictest sense, belonged to a class of artificially engineered viruses—a zombie pathogen modified from a cold virus!

While the effects of this zombie virus closely resembled those seen before in Wang Chen and Liu Shuhuan, there was one fatal difference: naturally mutated zombie viruses, akin to flu or avian influenza, are typically spread by droplets, cannot survive long in the environment, and are susceptible to rigorous epidemic prevention. There is, at least, a possibility of containment.

But this new zombie virus was different. It was airborne, capable of replicating within the lung cells of almost all mammals, and spread with terrifying speed! The moment the host’s immunity faltered, or even if they merely felt a little unwell, the virus would strike swiftly. Nor was the host limited to humans—any mammal could serve, though humans suffered an extremely high infection rate, while in others it was quite low. It is crucial to note that there has never been a precedent of a cross-species pathogenic virus spreading solely through the air; even avian flu is droplet-borne. Thus, this was almost certainly the product of artificial modification!

Someone had manipulated the gene segments of the zombie pathogen after adapting it for colds, setting precise conditions for its eruption!

The only small mercy in this disaster was that, for all its lethality, the virus could not escape the most basic laws of nature. Precisely because it acted and spread so rapidly, it also burned itself out with equal speed. To put it simply: a single overwhelming wave.

It should be said that the previous outbreaks of the zombie pathogen and its natural variants were but a smokescreen for this upgraded version—meant to distract nations with the pathogen’s mutability, misdirect vaccine research, and waste precious time and resources. By the time the true weapon was unleashed, it was too late for any country to save its people.

From this, one could surmise that the doomed lovers had perhaps grown too intimate aboard the lifeboat at the bow, caught cold, and sealed their fate. Though this explanation cleared Wang Chen, his companions, and the South Americans of suspicion, it did nothing to aid the ship’s anti-epidemic measures. Prolonged sea voyages inevitably weakened the crew, and as the journey neared its end, everyone was susceptible to a bout of illness—hoping to recover on shore, never imagining a new zombie pandemic would strike.

If there was any faint solace for the survivors amid this deadly outbreak, it was that as the weather cooled, corpses lost heat quickly, slowing the virus’s reproduction. Thus, zombification of bodies proceeded more slowly than in previous outbreaks.

Captain Shi handled the crisis with decisive clarity. He ordered that, except for those essential to the ship’s operation, everyone else was to lock themselves in their cabins with three days’ supplies and not step outside under any circumstances. This did much to limit the spread, but even so, within sixty hours, over two-thirds of the crew fell ill. Some, recognizing the inevitable, threw themselves into the sea; others clung to desperate remedies—from bloodletting to swallowing every medicine at hand—all to no avail.

Requests for higher-level rescue were made at once by Yang Xiaohua, but the response from Zheng Fan was bleak. The domestic situation was dire, he said, and no security personnel could be spared for the four of them or the entire research vessel. They were instructed to handle all matters themselves and to rendezvous at a designated location on the outskirts of Beijing—only there might they find sanctuary and aid.

The problem, however, was that the ship’s anti-epidemic resources were hopelessly inadequate against a zombie pathogen with cold virus traits. With so many crew members falling ill, there was no way to sail into Bohai Bay and berth safely.

In the final twelve hours before reaching shore, the vessel was already half adrift. Most of the crew, including the captain, had not been spared. The first officer, who fell ill last, decided on behalf of his unconscious captain that the infected ship would not head for the mainland but instead ground itself on a nearby island—to reduce the risk of becoming an infection source.

Even though, in those three days, the new zombie virus had swept the globe, and a slight cold or fever could mean death and zombification, this decision had little practical effect. Still, it won the captain’s wholehearted support during a brief lucid moment, and the few conscious crew members agreed. As the captain said, this would be their final meaningful act for their country.

The handful of uninfected crew, along with Wang Chen and his companions, would take the lifeboats and make for the mainland, seeking refuge on their own. Those crew who had not yet fallen ill pointedly ignored the security agents, launching their lifeboats without so much as a word about their destination. Wang Chen and his group, refusing to beg for inclusion, took Joanna, Pablo, and a young woman named Ellie, all uninfected, and boarded two powered lifeboats, choosing the shortest route to land according to the Beidou navigation system, leaving behind the research vessel now choked with corpses. Even the South Americans who had survived the drug cartels could not evade the virus; only Joanna, Pablo, and Ellie lived. The rest—men, women, and children—succumbed within hours.

Wang Chen and his three companions, however, remained entirely unscathed—a miracle that made the surviving crew distrustful and resentful. Who wouldn’t be suspicious, seeing all their colleagues and friends dead, while four outsiders walked free? Fortunately, these surviving crew were educated and not prone to violence, otherwise, suspicion might have erupted into deadly conflict.

The six survivors split between two lifeboats, none with much sailing experience. Their progress across the endless sea was slower than the research ship’s cruising speed, but just about tolerable. After nearly twenty hours adrift, as dusk approached, the longed-for coastline finally appeared.

Yet none could summon the energy to rejoice.

Even at a distance, six or seven columns of smoke and fire were visible—far from the reassuring pronouncements, repeated every half hour on the radio, about the police, military, and citizens working together to maintain order. No reminder was needed; Yang Xiaohua already had her civilian cell phone out, dialing home with trembling fingers, as did Ma Tian beside her.

Coastal communications were still functioning, but neither Xiaohua’s parents nor Ma Tian’s father, a commander in the armed police, answered their calls. After confirming the lines were dead, both could only send brief messages to say they were safe.

Logically, Ma Tian’s father, as a senior officer, should have the best chance of survival. Xiaohua’s parents were merely ordinary citizens, and although Zhang Fu had promised before departure that the families of security agents would be cared for, Zhang Fu himself was gone, leaving only empty words. No one in the lifeboat could say how much that promise was worth.

Now was not the time to break down. However anxious Ma Tian and Yang Xiaohua might be, they could only bury their emotions deep inside.

As they neared the shore, Wang Chen steered toward an open stretch of beach. With the sand in sight, everyone tensed. At first glance, the beach appeared crowded with sunbathers. Closer inspection revealed dozens of corpses in various states of decay.

The situation was far grimmer than the radio or anyone’s imagination had prepared them for.

Wang Chen had no desire to be surrounded by corpses, even if these bodies would take time to become mobile. He turned the lifeboat away, searching another twenty minutes for a safer landing. As the fuel gauge neared empty, they spotted a fisherman’s wharf, ringed with fences. Wang Chen cut the engine and lifted it from the water to avoid unnecessary noise, letting the boat drift to a stop on the modest sandy beach beside the wharf.

Jumping ashore, Wang Chen drew his pistol and, flanked by Pablo with his battered AK, advanced side by side. They stepped over two half-decayed, water-bleached male corpses, their necks nearly severed, and approached three female bodies on the rocks above.

Women, even in death, are often the truest reflection of a society.

So it was here. The two male corpses might have been dispatched in the throes of zombification, but the three women bore unmistakable marks of rape and murder. To call their deaths “unrestful” was a mercy. The oldest, perhaps in her fifties, had at least been spared some agony, but the two younger women, not yet thirty, lay amid dried blood, beer bottle shards protruding from their wounds, their faces twisted in torment, eyes and mouths torn by pain.

When Fang Qiang, Joanna, and the rest caught up, they were struck silent by the sight. Only Yang Xiaohua, her face grim, closed the women’s eyes and scooped sand over their bodies—a makeshift burial, a final gesture of dignity.

It was also the burial of the last sliver of hope in their hearts.

“Wang, I thought escaping the cartel was escaping hell. Now, hell devours me again.” Joanna’s face was pale as she spoke in English to Wang Chen, then exchanged a few words in Spanish with Pablo and Ellie before asking, “What do we do now?”

Wang Chen had intended, once ashore, to contact the nearest authorities—army or police—and seek protection for his group. Now, that seemed hopelessly naïve. When even a random beach could hold such scenes of inhumanity, the collapse of social order was complete. Depending on the military or police to save them was a desperate gamble, and survival until rescue arrived was far from guaranteed.

In other words, if they wanted to live, they had to save themselves.

“Don’t look at me—I’m terrible at making decisions. Happy to help, but you’re in charge.” Fang Qiang saw Wang Chen glancing his way and spoke candidly. “If we were dealing with the usual societal problems, I’d know how to handle things. But this? The old rules don’t apply. Of us, your English is best, and from what I’ve seen these days, you’re steady and have the makings of a leader. Physically, you’re stronger than Ma Tian or Pablo—don’t know how you trained, but you’re at least as good as I was in the army…”

Some people ramble when they’re anxious and uncertain—Fang Qiang was one of them. Wang Chen resisted the urge to roll his eyes and cut him off. “Xiaohua, can you use the data on your laptop?”

Once it was clear the outbreak was out of control aboard the ship, Wang Chen had begun preparing for survival on land. If they could contact the authorities immediately, all the better. Otherwise, they’d have to rely on themselves.

Yang Xiaohua, at Wang Chen’s request, had used the ship’s satellite equipment to gather whatever information she could. The team’s security clearance was too low to access most resources, so she focused on civilian and low-level security supply depots, with some help from Zhao Ying at Forward Base. Still, she was warned that even before the outbreak, many warehouses had already been looted or mismanaged—so official records could not be trusted.

As Wang Chen spoke, Yang Xiaohua opened her laptop, folding it into tablet mode and cross-referencing its map with her phone. “We can’t access the national security depots—only temporary and low-level ones, and some militia supply warehouses. My friend warned me, though, that a lot of those supplies have been embezzled or lost. Anyway, I’ve confirmed our location. The nearest county-level supply warehouse is about fifteen kilometers away, in that direction.”

She pointed, and in the distance, a massive column of black smoke was rolling skyward, visible for kilometers.

An awkward silence fell. Whether or not there were supplies, the likelihood of survivors seemed remote, judging by the fire.

“If we find nothing at the warehouse, there’s a rural credit union in the northern county—that’s a basic security supply point.”

“Alright, less than an hour till sunset—we don’t have much time. We need to find shelter before the corpses start turning en masse. I estimate we have only three to five days. First, let’s get a vehicle and head for the warehouse. Even if it’s burning, we need transportation, and we can sleep there tonight. If the army can’t come, we’ll head for the garrison ourselves—or at least try to find some satellite communications and reestablish contact with Security.”

“Got it!”

“No objections here!”

“That’s settled, then! Let’s get a car!” Wang Chen waved his hand instinctively, already displaying the air of a leader.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Fang Qiang—the mechanical whiz—nor Wang Chen, raised in a family of mechanics, who started the car, but Pablo! The South American’s car-thieving skills were quick and flawless.

He smashed the window with the rifle butt, unlocked the door, broke open the ignition, pulled the wires, and started the engine—all in under two minutes.

In a society still governed by law, such skills would be nothing to boast of. But now, with society and law in ruins, everyone appreciated Pablo’s expertise.

The first car he commandeered was an old Haval H6, a bit cramped for seven people. So Fang Qiang asked Pablo to hotwire a Jinbei minivan with a fisherman’s ad painted on the side—plenty of room, powerful engine, reinforced bumpers front and back, perfect for running over a few zombies. Pablo stripped thin metal sheeting from the wharf to reinforce the seats and cabin. According to him, this “modification” wouldn’t stop a rifle round, but could deflect handgun bullets from twenty meters, maybe even ten; at point-blank, well, that was up to God.

Perhaps the four makeshift agents didn’t say it aloud, but they all silently agreed—having a streetwise criminal in their midst gave them all more confidence.

They didn’t waste the H6. The siphoned gasoline refueled the van, and the rest Pablo mixed with sugar and rubber scraps, filling ten or so beer bottles for Molotov cocktails. These improvised bombs, he said, could explode over a two- or three-meter radius, with shrapnel reaching at least five. Useless against pain-insensitive zombies, but against people... the thought alone was chilling.

Recalling the three women’s corpses, the group had no objection to Pablo’s preparations. Better to be ruthless with the enemy than see their own companions die so horribly.

Their preparations complete, the seven set off. The van, driven by Fang Qiang, headed for the smoke.

The scenes along the way were even more shocking than the beach. Bodies multiplied; zombies began to appear sporadically, as if heralding the arrival of hell itself. Entering a coastal town, the streets were utterly deserted—no cries, no survivors, nothing but corpses, corpses, and more corpses. If a writer with obsessive tendencies tried to describe every corpse, he could pen several thousand words without repetition.

The four agents had seen zombie hordes before, but for the three South Americans, this was their first glimpse of such a disaster. Even Pablo, veteran of the world’s deadliest drug cartels, looked pale; Ellie, overwhelmed by the stench, leaned out the window to vomit.

Perhaps the van’s noise attracted the zombies, or perhaps some people were at their breaking point. Just as Ellie stopped retching, a figure leapt from an upper floor, landing in front of her with a sickening crack. It was impossible to tell if he was dead or alive, but his head burst open on the pavement. Ellie didn’t vomit again—she fainted outright.

Ma Tian quickly caught the unconscious Ellie, while Yang Xiaohua and Joanna uncapped water bottles to help her, only to hesitate—clean water was precious now. Joanna instead stripped off Ellie’s shirt to wipe her face and check for choking, not caring about her partial nudity. Yang Xiaohua covered her with a seat cover for modesty.

Near the town center, the road was blocked by a heap of debris—impassable even for a tank. Fang Qiang had to turn back and find another route under Yang Xiaohua’s guidance. After running over a few zombies and testing the van’s reinforced bumpers, they finally reached the perimeter of the warehouse before sunset.

Their hopes were dashed—the very warehouse marked on the map was ablaze. The only silver lining was that the surrounding buildings were untouched, so they’d have somewhere to sleep.

All around were open-sided storage buildings, large enough for trucks to back in and load. Only at the end of the concrete path did a few farmhouse-style buildings appear sound enough for shelter. Fang Qiang drove around the burning warehouse, but as he neared the main gate, he slammed on the brakes.

Illuminated by the van’s headlights, a woman sat facing the burning warehouse, her side to the van, head bowed so her face was hidden. She wore a tattered shirt and no pants; the shirt hung loosely, shifting in the heat and revealing much of her body. At first, she seemed dead, but beneath her was something terrifying—a still-twitching zombie.

Perhaps the fire had hastened the zombification, for the creature was burned nearly to a crisp, jaw and arms gone, unable to rise, left to writhe under the woman’s weight—still driven by hunger for flesh.

If she could sit atop a moving zombie, she must still be alive.

“This looks like trouble. Should we run her over?” Fang Qiang muttered, eyeing the scantily clad woman and thinking only of a trap.

Wang Chen had the same thought, but was less rash. The four men were armed, Joanna had her Glock 26 for backup, and they had six magazines between them. If anyone tried to use this woman as bait for an ambush, they’d be in for a nasty surprise.

Wang Chen chambered his Glock 17 and signaled the others to stay in the van. He patted Pablo’s shoulder; Pablo grinned and readied his battered AK. The two got out, covering each other, scanning for threats within pistol range before approaching the woman.

She showed no reaction, only turning her face toward them with a vacant stare, her mind seemingly emptied of thought. When they stopped five or six meters away, before Wang Chen could speak, the woman rasped, “You want to use me? One at a time or all together?”

Her words stabbed at Wang Chen’s heart. He was reminded of Han Li in the sanatorium, on the verge of mental collapse, who had spoken similarly.

Wang Chen remained motionless, but Pablo tensed. Perhaps not the brightest, Pablo was a seasoned survivor, and his instincts screamed danger. The woman’s right hand, always at her side, now revealed what looked like a small pistol—more toy than weapon, but Pablo wasn’t taking any chances. He shifted forward, AK trained on her head, finger half-squeezing the trigger, ready to shoot at the slightest sign of aggression.

Wang Chen, however, let his hands fall. He saw in the woman not violence or malice, but only numbness and sorrow—just like Han Li, robbed of sleep by fear. Both were victims of this damned world. Seeing her ragged clothing, Wang Chen holstered his pistol, removed his own shirt, and, under Pablo’s watchful eye, unfolded it with both hands and slowly approached the woman…