Chapter One

Startled awake from yet another nightmare, Zhao Qiang could no longer remember how many he had suffered. Ever since the catastrophe, a peaceful night’s sleep had become a luxury beyond his reach.

The scenes from his dreams clung to his memory with a vividness almost cruel—his wife, trapped and surrounded by the undead, torn apart while he remained helpless to save her. Even after waking, the pain in his chest was so acute it left him gasping for breath.

It had been half a month since, over a work-related issue, Zhao Qiang lied to his entire family and was driven out of their home by his heartbroken father-in-law. He and his wife had lived in separate cities ever since. Each day since then, he endured the agony of separation—but it was at this very moment that disaster struck.

December 22, 2012, at 14:08.

There was a job fair at three that afternoon, and for once, Zhao Qiang took care to tidy his appearance in hopes of finding work. As he bent to tie his shoelaces, a blinding white light tore across the sky. Though it was mid-afternoon, the brightness was so intense it seared through the daylight.

Those caught in the direct glare found their skin rotting and peeling away, while new skin tried to grow beneath only to suffer the same fate, the cycle repeating in agony until each victim collapsed and died, writhing in pain.

Countless lives were lost in this disaster. Yet, many survived unscathed. Governments and militaries responded swiftly, launching investigations and tending to the wounded.

But death was not the end—it was merely the beginning.

The dead were heaped in public squares near where they fell. There were so many bodies that many could not be placed in body bags, simply discarded in piles. Soldiers took over city security and recovery efforts, while many ordinary citizens joined in, quietly assisting in removing the corpses. Faces bore deep sorrow, and cries of despair rang down the streets as families identified their lost loved ones.

While people busied themselves counting and preparing the bodies for burial, the true horror erupted.

In an unremarkable corner, two elderly men struggled to carry a corpse toward a gathering point, their faces etched with grief. Suddenly, the corpse’s hand twitched, its eyes snapping open. The old men recoiled in terror—this, in China, was called "corpse revival."

The dead man sat up abruptly, sending the stretcher clattering to the ground as the old men collapsed in shock, horror written across their faces. The reanimated corpse writhed awkwardly, as if unfamiliar with its own body, then slowly staggered to its feet, blank eyes roving, as though listening for something.

In the distance, screams and sporadic gunfire erupted. The noises agitated the revived corpse, which soon spotted the two unconscious elders at its feet. A guttural snarl issued from its throat as it lunged for them…

At the time disaster struck, Zhao Qiang was holed up in a cramped rental room, numbing his nerves with cigarettes and alcohol. He despised the Mayan predictions—he had just purchased a new home in Changsha, and if the world ended, his investment would be worthless. Staying inside had spared him from the initial wave. Upon realizing what had happened, his first thought was of his wife far away in Changsha, and he immediately packed his things to return, choosing reunion over joining the local rescue efforts.

Over the phone, he learned his wife was safe. She'd been at work when disaster struck, but her company had sent everyone home immediately, allowing her to return to her apartment and avoid the second wave of horror.

Biological apocalypse—only these words could capture the disaster unfolding in Zhao Qiang’s mind. From his window, he saw nothing but panicked crowds and marauding undead. Occasional gunshots would soon be swallowed by screams and silence.

In China, disaster relief soldiers never carried weapons, and most casualties had been among those they tried to help. When the undead rose, these unarmed soldiers became the zombies’ first feast.

The sporadic gunfire came from local police and SWAT, but they hesitated to shoot—after all, those “creatures” still looked like ordinary people. The police were sworn to protect, not slaughter unarmed citizens. The result was inevitable: countless rescue workers fell victim to the undead.

The disaster was called a biological apocalypse because, just as in games and films, anyone bitten or killed by the undead eventually became one of them, seeking out fresh flesh.

The television sputtered out a government official’s message to citizens:

"Please lock your doors and windows. Do not go outside. Wait for rescue... Avoid contact with corpses and bite victims... To deal with them... aim for the head... We have the situation under control..."

Chaos still reigned outside, shrieks rising and dying away abruptly. Staring through the window, Zhao Qiang realized he was trapped.

—

All around the residential compound, zombies wandered aimlessly. Survivors hid in their homes, but even so, screams echoed continually. Each new cry drew waves of undead toward its source, only for the process to repeat elsewhere.

Zhao Qiang pulled out his phone again and dialed the number he knew by heart—his beloved wife, Peng Sha.

“Baby, are you alright?” The call rang a long while before being answered. Zhao Qiang worked hard to keep the fear from his voice.

“….” Only sobs came from the other end—a kind of answer in itself.

“Don’t be afraid, baby.” He felt a weight lift from his heart. “Listen to me. From now on, do not open the door for anyone until I get back. Promise me—no matter who it is, don’t open the door.”

“Qiang, I’m scared,” Peng Sha whimpered, her terror obvious.

It took a long time to calm her and gather the information he needed. At their home in Changsha, food supplies would last her half a month, maybe less. Her irregular work hours had led Zhao Qiang to stock two boxes of instant noodles, and just two weeks ago, he’d bought a hundred pounds of rice from the wholesale market. That should get her through this crisis.

Sitting on the bed, Zhao Qiang considered his next move. Changsha and Yueyang were not far apart—by high-speed train, less than thirty minutes. But now, public transportation was out of the question. “Damn it, I need a car,” he muttered, rubbing his face hard. “And a driver!” He couldn’t drive, after all.

Plenty of cars sat in the complex, but Zhao Qiang could neither drive nor steal one.

As he teetered on the brink of despair, gunfire erupted outside. The Guangzhou Military District had sent an armed unit into Yueyang, thousands of soldiers marching in. With orders to open fire at will, they began mowing down the zombie hordes swarming the streets. Rifles spat fire, machine guns mounted on armored vehicles ripped through the undead’s ranks, shattering their flesh walls in an instant.

Dozens of soldiers leapt from trucks at the entrance to Zhao Qiang’s complex. Facing hundreds of zombies, they quickly dispatched the threat, their rifles reducing the ghouls to bloody fragments.

A makeshift barricade was erected at the gate, with a squad left to hold off the zombies outside, while the rest split into teams to sweep the interior courtyards.

Each team had a soldier with a portable loudspeaker, calling out to anyone approaching. Their method for distinguishing humans from zombies was simple: if you didn’t respond and moved sluggishly, you were shot.

When a team finally reached Zhao Qiang’s building, a call for backup crackled over a sergeant’s radio—the gate was in crisis. The soldiers turned and sprinted back toward the entrance.

Zhao Qiang didn’t hesitate. Grabbing the only weapon at hand—a hatchet—he rushed out.

“Who are you?” A soldier spotted him and swung his rifle around.

“Don’t shoot!” Zhao Qiang shouted, terrified the soldier might panic, and hurried closer. “I’m not infected!”

The commotion drew more soldiers. Seeing the hatchet in his hand, they barked, “Drop the weapon! Hands up!”

Zhao Qiang complied, tossing the hatchet and raising his hands high. “Don’t shoot! I mean no harm!”

His cooperation eased their nerves. “Anyone else?” one asked, steadying Zhao Qiang.

“No, just me.” Zhao Qiang swallowed hard.

“Alright, stick with us and keep your head down,” the soldier commanded, then ran for the gate.

When Zhao Qiang reached the entrance, he saw chaos on the brink of collapse. Countless zombies pressed against the barricade, trying to break through. If not for the walls and makeshift defenses, the line would have already fallen. Most of the original defenders had run out of ammunition and died; only the timely return of the inner squads had held the breach—for now.

—

Among the defenders, ten or so survivors cowered in a stairwell, most of them elderly and frail. Though they had escaped the initial disaster, confusion reigned—many could not understand why the People's Army would open fire on civilians, some shouting angry accusations, others simply shivering in terror.

Spotting Zhao Qiang, the only young face, a lieutenant hurried over.

“Kid, do you understand what’s happening out there?” The officer didn’t want him ignorant of the danger.

“I do. But what can I do?” Zhao Qiang replied. He didn’t want to become zombie food, nor join their ranks.

“Good. We need your help.” The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder, then called to a soldier, “Xiao Li, bring a rifle and show him how to use it!”

Xiao Li, after firing a couple of bursts at the zombies outside, slung his Type 95 rifle from his back and handed it to Zhao Qiang, quickly explaining how to load, reload, aim, and fire, and gave him a few magazines before returning to the line.

Zhao Qiang had fired a gun once during college military training—an old Type 81, with only three bullets. While his classmates blazed away in seconds, he had calmly taken aim and fired, so much so the instructor thought he was some kind of gun enthusiast.

Now, the weapon had changed, and he had three full magazines, but the targets were no longer distant paper—they were living, moving bodies just ten meters away. Despite thinking himself hardened by violent films and games, the reality made his stomach churn. Blood and flesh flying in front of him was a world apart.

They’re zombies. If I don’t kill them, I’ll be eaten. It’s just a dream—I’ll wake up and it will all be over. Zhao Qiang made excuse after excuse, but his hands trembled violently and he fought back the urge to vomit, unable to squeeze the trigger.

The situation deteriorated rapidly. The soldiers were running out of ammunition. Against the endless tide of undead, their supplies seemed pitifully small. The zombies felt no pain, no fear; all they wanted was fresh blood and flesh. The gunfire drew even more, as distant zombies followed the noise in droves. The complex was now completely encircled, despair settling across the soldiers’ faces.

Some of the young soldiers, having fired their last rounds, charged into the zombie horde with their final grenades, the explosions buying a few moments’ respite for those behind. But the undead pressed on, undeterred.

The veterans carefully rationed their shots, each burst taking down a zombie, but with their numbers dwindling, even experience could not hold the line.

“Zhao, get those old folks back into the stairwell. Move!” The brief battle had forged bonds among them, and the veteran Zhang Tao gave the order.

Zhao Qiang knew his own limits. Though he could now manage to fire, his shaking hands and roiling stomach made him a poor shot. He handed his last magazine to the old soldier, then hurried several elders back toward the stairwell.

Soon, only seven or eight soldiers remained. The rest had sacrificed themselves with grenades, or been overwhelmed while reloading. Even the lieutenant, bitten and bleeding, emptied his rifle before drawing his sidearm and ending his own life. The remaining soldiers, exhausted and out of ammunition, retreated into the building.

Zhang Tao threw his last grenade to slow the zombies, then slammed shut the security door. The undead clawed furiously at the metal, desperate not to lose their fresh prey.

To spare the elders from the horror, Zhao Qiang settled them on the second-floor landing. Downstairs, he and the few surviving soldiers waited in terror for the end. The security door, shoddily built and neglected for years, began to give way under the relentless assault, its bars snapping one by one.

Silently, they checked their remaining ammunition. The veterans discreetly ejected a single bullet and held it in their palms. Zhao Qiang understood—they had no wish to become monsters. That last bullet was meant for themselves. As for the elders upstairs, their fate was left in the hands of the heavens.