044 Li Baozhu’s Premonition

Li Baozhu was a quintessential child of the eighties, fortunate enough to be considered the second generation of village officials. His uncles, along with his father, were all influential figures in the small town where he was born. This privileged family background, combined with the wave of reforms sweeping through their province and his mother's unrestrained affection, naturally fostered Li Baozhu's arrogant temperament. To what extent? At sixteen, he fought a client over a mature woman at a hair salon, beating the man so severely that he was left with a grade-eight disability. Ordinarily, given his family's local influence in the nineties, such an incident—so long as no one died—would be swept under the rug. Unfortunately, the client was not a local and had official connections of his own, higher than Li Baozhu's. The sordid nature of the incident prevented the other party from using his official status to punish Li Baozhu, but he made it clear that Li Baozhu would pay for it one day.

Seeing the predicament was unavoidable, the family, believing that a thousand days as a thief could not match a thousand days guarding against one, pulled strings to send Li Baozhu into the military, tightened their belts, and paid the client a hefty sum to settle the matter.

Three years in the army can temper even scrap metal into steel. The Li Baozhu who returned was not the same as before. Hampered by his lack of education—he hadn’t even graduated from middle school—he had no hope for an official career and so obediently accepted his family’s arrangement to become a junior manager at a town-run enterprise. But loafing was no longer his ambition. Every time he recalled the vast sum his family had paid and how he was forced to kneel and apologize to a city-level official’s son, his teeth ground with hatred.

Crushing the other on the official path was impossible. So he turned to business, vowing that one day he’d use his wealth to make the other pay. That hatred burned for at least ten years. From a small-town enterprise manager, Li Baozhu clawed his way up through collusion with officials and gray dealings, becoming a well-known entrepreneur in the surrounding villages.

Though his net worth was insignificant compared to the countless tycoons along the southeastern coast, he still possessed tens of millions. The city official’s son, however, was not so fortunate. He was implicated in a family corruption case, imprisoned, and died within two years behind bars—a fallen princeling whose death drew no attention, even though he was healthy and ruddy when sentenced. No one investigated. Did Li Baozhu secretly grease the wheels? Who could say?

Had Li Baozhu not lost his head, following the steady path of business, his life would have been one of wealth and progeny, with his twilight years spent watching his children enact grand melodramas for his amusement. But then came the zombie pathogen.

Unlike the majority, who wandered lost and fearful, unsure how to survive and blindly trusting rumors, Li Baozhu, as a wealthy man, could vastly improve his survival chances. When the virus first broke out, many began arranging escape routes, securing isolated islands or mountain retreats, stockpiling supplies to prolong their lives against the apocalypse. Some covertly persuaded local officials to procure forbidden weapons, strengthening their “fortresses.” When the state loosened restrictions, allowing private militias in some sense (influenced, perhaps, by capital), these tycoons hastened their fortress construction, their perspective and foresight far beyond ordinary folk.

Even if peace returned, all they'd have was a secluded mountain villa—not worth much scrutiny. But what if? Who doesn’t want to survive?

Li Baozhu was no different. Yet, his colorful early life and military experience set him apart from most tycoons. He didn’t just pile money into a paradise to extend his days. In his view, to survive the apocalypse, the most crucial element was people—people who’d wield guns for him. With loyal armed followers, what paradise couldn’t he seize? What fortress couldn’t he claim?

To kill one is a crime; to slaughter thousands is to become a hero. Slaughter nine million and you are the hero of heroes!

The army had cured many of Li Baozhu's flaws but had also planted the seed of ambition in him—a seed that, in peacetime, would never have sprouted. But the zombie pathogen was the sun, and the opening of private militias the rain, nurturing that ambition.

Thus, when the zombie pathogen mutated into a contagious virus, causing social structures, legal systems, and government agencies worldwide to falter and collapse in short order, Li Baozhu, an ambitious man, injected himself with the costly antiviral he’d acquired, donned his prepped gas mask, and emerged, eager for action.

The advantage of preparation was preserving the lives of his trusted subordinates and their families. In the absence of other guarantees, he easily won their loyalty—especially those who entrusted their families’ lives to him. Watching acquaintances turn into corpses, or prey for zombies, while their loved ones found safety in Li Baozhu’s sealed community, selling their flesh and blood to him became a natural transaction.

At least, on the surface, it seemed natural.

In just two days, Li Baozhu had organized his domain. Next, he dispatched four vehicles and eight men to the nearest towns, focusing on two supply warehouses, the militia base, and the nearest army camp. His plan was precise: defend his base, retrieve key supplies, clear out threats, expand gradually, and stock enough provisions for his hundred-odd people to survive the winter.

What? Li Baozhu, worth tens of millions, had only thirty-odd young men as his trusted followers and a hundred family members settled? Isn’t that pathetic?

Come now, did you think net worth equated to cash on hand? A big boss’s wealth is scattered across countless assets, and since the first outbreak, cash has only lost value. Civilian markets saw canned goods, military rations, survival kits—everything double in price, driven by the “better safe than sorry” mentality. As for dubious “cure-all” drugs, they were as plentiful as diamonds and priced accordingly.

Not everyone believed the world would end, nor were they willing to follow Li Baozhu. His ambition was vast, but he couldn’t gamble all his funds on the certainty of doom. Some would die from the disease, so after all deductions, he had only as many usable hands as previously mentioned.

Now, Li Baozhu faced his first crisis.

His men had died.

The two lads’ communication went silent. Li Baozhu immediately sent a drone to investigate. The drone, lacking night vision, relied on its dim LEDs, confirming his men were dead in their vehicle, clearly murdered. The killer hadn’t lingered, but likely left town overnight.

Now the question: how should he respond?

Watching his followers’ families wail, Li Baozhu cursed himself for not pairing mature men with youths; at least older men wouldn’t be so reckless. Instead, he’d let two young hotheads loose. The in-car radio had reported the warehouse was burned and they’d “explain to the boss,” then rushed into a deadly confrontation! Two fools! If the enemy could burn the warehouse and kill the hired guards, why would they fear a shootout with two kids?

And it was two TV-addled youths who thought having a gun made them invincible!

Now, they were dead, their guns gifted to an unknown enemy, and Li Baozhu had to avenge them!

On the surface, he couldn’t miss such an opportunity to win hearts. He had to display righteous indignation and demand blood for blood. Fortunately, the warehouse town was hemmed in by sea on two sides and mountains on another, with only a couple of roads suitable for vehicles, converging at one point less than ten kilometers from Li Baozhu's base. Factoring in the drone’s round trip and the enemy’s time to find a vehicle and flee, an ambush at the junction could very likely intercept them.

No time to waste. Li Baozhu left a few to guard home, took the rest and all available weapons and ammo, and marched to the junction. As he anticipated, after clearing out stray zombies, seven vehicles were arrayed on either side of the road, iron spikes scattered across the middle. Within fifteen minutes, the sound of cars came from the village direction; two pinpricks of headlights appeared around the bend and grew larger through Li Baozhu’s binoculars.

He had served three years; if not a butcher, he’d at least seen pigs run. Judging by his greenhorns’ marksmanship and his own rusty aim, he reckoned they should wait until the car was within fifty meters—given the darkness—for maximum accuracy.

Watching the headlights grow, Li Baozhu readied his submachine gun, sneering inwardly. Tonight, they'd finally spill blood, and his men would learn what it meant to kill. The enemy would be riddled with bullets!

When the headlights became painfully bright, Li Baozhu didn’t hesitate—he fired.

The gunshot was the signal; instantly, a dozen submachine guns erupted, bullets pouring down like rain, the roar deafening.

Li Baozhu fired controlled bursts, but his men, both young and old, simply sprayed wildly, forgetting his pre-battle instructions.

Seeing their amateurish performance, Li Baozhu sighed inwardly. He’d considered recruiting ex-soldiers, but thought better—who knows what lurks in a man’s heart? In a world where might makes right, ex-soldiers might develop ambitions of their own. If younger and better shots, he might not survive.

A burst of bullets spent in seconds, Li Baozhu called for a ceasefire. Looking at the opposing vehicle, all was dark. Listening, he heard only silence. At least the headlights were surely destroyed, and the car likely stalled.

“Launch the illumination balloons!”

The lighting crew quickly produced a few hydrogen balloons, attached wilderness lamps underneath, and released them via kite string into the sky.

Thanks to the wonders of online shopping, these civilian gadgets worked well. The van’s outline reappeared, but at twice the distance Li Baozhu had estimated—nearly two hundred meters!

What was going on?

He was baffled. He hadn’t driven himself since he became wealthy, and knew nothing of commuter vans like Transit, Jinbei, or Iveco, common in rural areas over the past decade. These vans, besides modifying their suspension for more passengers, almost always had their headlights upgraded—rural roads rarely had streetlights, so drivers relied on powerful high beams, sometimes upgraded ones. Without them, a reckless dump truck might not be seen until too late.

So, while Li Baozhu thought the van was close, it was actually nearly two hundred meters away.

At double the expected distance, with submachine guns’ poor accuracy and his men spraying wildly, bullets flew everywhere but at the target. Even Li Baozhu’s own shots were probably barely grazing. To hit even once would be a miracle.

Worse was yet to come.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Four rhythmic shots rang out; three hydrogen balloons became flaming balls, plummeting to the ground.

Bang!

Well, the shooter in the van wasn’t perfect; a fifth shot finished the last balloon.

Even so, Li Baozhu was shocked. Judging by the shots, both sides were using submachine guns, but the enemy’s marksmanship was far superior to civilians! As a knockoff of the AK-47, the gun was easy to use but hard to master; hitting a floating balloon at two hundred meters required serious training.

Moreover, these guns had long been phased out of active service. If the enemy were current soldiers using recently acquired submachine guns, they wouldn’t be so accurate. If they were, like Li Baozhu, retired soldiers rearmed after years, they wouldn’t shoot this well either.

Eliminating those possibilities, Li Baozhu’s experience led him to one conclusion.

Reconnaissance troops.

Only reconnaissance soldiers would be familiar with all types of weapons, both active and obsolete, and only they could adjust accuracy by feel, without sighting in.

With this realization, cold sweat drenched Li Baozhu.

Logic told him to retreat immediately; no matter how many reconnaissance troops faced him, his rabble stood no chance. Perhaps, as his power grew and chaos deepened, he could recruit and control professional soldiers, but now, his men were untested, mere new recruits—easy prey for reconnaissance troops.

They were leftovers, eaten only when the mood struck!

But how to give the order? First time leading an operation, and this was the result. How could he command his men now? How could he win their loyalty? How could he realize his ambitions?

He was a boss, after all; he didn’t hesitate long. Less than half a minute after the balloons were shot down, he made his decision.

Retreat! Live to fight another day!

Too late.

Suddenly, several beer bottles flew out of the darkness, smashing around the vehicles used as cover. The pungent smell of gasoline filled the air! Before Li Baozhu’s men could react, a gunshot rang out, and flames erupted!

Li Baozhu broke out in a cold sweat, then relaxed upon realizing the molotovs had landed only ten or twenty meters away; even the nearest fire was about ten meters off. The flames and flying sparks couldn’t harm them. Then, a second wave of cold sweat hit him.

Because he understood—the enemy had no intention of approaching for close-range molotov attacks. The moon was bright tonight; getting too close would risk discovery by his tense men. Even if molotovs were thrown fast, bullets are faster; even with poor marksmanship, at twenty or thirty meters, a volley would surely hit.

So the enemy’s purpose was simple: illumination.

“Hit the dirt!”

Li Baozhu shouted, dropping to the ground. Gunfire followed, as predicted.

No reaction could be faster than a bullet.

He saw two men beside him spin and collapse, dead without a sound. Their blood and flesh spattered, shocking the others into action—except for one unlucky soul who froze and was shot in the head the next second. The rest all hugged the ground.

But to their surprise, it didn’t help.

At a hundred meters, submachine gun bullets could still penetrate vehicle metal; the shooter didn’t stand still at two hundred meters, but advanced after destroying the balloons. When the molotovs ignited, the enemy was within a hundred meters! Shooting at living targets behind cars, they couldn’t achieve every shot lethal, but every few rounds, someone was hit, screaming—if they were lucky enough not to die instantly.

The gunman who had circled to Li Baozhu’s flank with molotovs also fired, using a handgun. He dared not get too close, retreating to fifty meters—beyond effective range—firing wildly. Mostly wasted bullets, but occasionally someone was hit, and it was especially effective against Li Baozhu’s “new recruits.”

Even knowing there were only two shooters—one with a submachine gun, deadly from afar; one with a handgun, a distraction—they lacked the courage to stand and fight back, let alone send three or five to flank the handgun wielder as Li Baozhu shouted.

After twenty shots, the submachine gun’s rhythm abruptly stopped. Li Baozhu was about to call for counterattack when, in the firelight, someone shouted, “They’re changing magazines! Run!”

Ridiculous! An expert can swap magazines in two seconds; how far can you run in two seconds?!

Yet his men believed it! In a rush, his newly loyal followers scattered!

No one thought of family safety thanks to Li Baozhu, or remembered to repay kindness. Survival came first! Without life, nothing could be protected.

Li Baozhu was helpless, furious, and regretful—how could he have been so foolish as to lead his men into this? What use was his wealth or ambition now? He’d have been better off, like other tycoons, quietly hiding out somewhere, eking out another day.

Run!

Fortunately, Li Baozhu had a few diehard followers. Seeing disaster, they nearly carried him into the nearest sedan. Their plan was sound—driving is faster than running—but in their panic, they neglected a key detail: carrying the boss into the car was like painting a target for the enemy.

If only they’d chosen the armored cash transport Li Baozhu had specially prepared—but they hadn’t.

Amid flickering orange flames, Li Baozhu hadn’t even settled in the car when, from the fire, a figure appeared beside the vehicle. Clearly a woman, not tall, her form almost delicate in the firelight, clad only in a man’s shirt. Her legs were bare, and occasional glimpses beneath the hem hinted at more.

Li Baozhu, however, had no time to admire.

Because what she held was deadly.

A gun.

A submachine gun with a rectangular, ugly magazine.

For the third time that night, Li Baozhu realized what was about to happen. He raised his hand, wanting to say he not only had money but also a safe community; if she didn’t shoot, anything could be negotiated...

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.