Chapter Three

It was a bright and sunny morning when Zhao Qiang finally saw Peng Sha again after so many days apart. She was still as beautiful and enchanting as ever, the gentle sunlight casting a delicate glow over her petite figure, making her all the more lovely and captivating. Gazing at his beloved, Zhao Qiang tossed aside his gun and ran toward his wife, desperate to hold her in his arms after such a long separation.

But for some reason, even though she stood right before him, no matter how fast Zhao Qiang ran, he could never quite reach her. He kept running, but his wife seemed to drift farther and farther away. Anxious and impatient to be with her again, Zhao Qiang could only watch as the distance between them grew, despite all his efforts.

He called out her name in desperation, his face etched with worry. Still, his beloved stood in that unreachable place, smiling softly at him. Just as he was about to finally reach her, a group of disgusting zombies suddenly appeared out of nowhere, swaying as they lunged at his wife from behind.

Panic-stricken, Zhao Qiang ran and shouted with all his might, hoping his wife would sense the danger behind her. Yet Peng Sha remained in the sunlight, smiling and waving gently at Zhao Qiang, completely unaware of the threat closing in.

As the zombies’ claws were about to touch his wife’s frail body, Zhao Qiang suddenly remembered the gun he had just thrown to the ground. Looking down, he saw the weapon right at his feet, its barrel glinting with a cold, dark light. Without hesitation, Zhao Qiang picked it up, hoping to eliminate the threat before the zombies reached his wife. But to his horror, he found his hands utterly powerless, unable to raise the weapon no matter how hard he tried.

A despairing scream tore from his throat as Zhao Qiang jolted upright in bed, cold sweat soaking his back. It had all been a dream. Shaking his head hard, he tried to rid his foggy mind of the lingering nightmare. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his brow, only to realize that his arms ached unbearably from yesterday’s battle—so much so that even lifting his hand to wipe his forehead was nearly impossible.

Looking around, he saw that everyone else had already left their sleeping spots. Last night, Wei Tao had assigned the elderly and the soldiers to two adjacent rooms, choosing to take the night watch himself. Zhao Qiang had been placed in the soldiers’ room, but now he found himself alone. If not for the pain in his arms and the unfamiliar barracks, Zhao Qiang might have doubted whether everything that happened yesterday was real.

Stepping out, Zhao Qiang found that everyone was already up. The soldiers, freshly showered and dressed in clean uniforms, looked much more at ease, their faces regaining confidence. They smiled at Zhao Qiang, greeting the man who had fought alongside them with the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms.

Li Hao approached him. The oldest and most seasoned among the soldiers, Li Hao had naturally become their leader after the loss of their commander. He clapped Zhao Qiang on the shoulder and said, “Not bad, kid. You did really well yesterday. Have you ever served in the army before?”

Zhao Qiang shook his head with a wry smile. The strong grip of a soldier, combined with his own soreness, nearly did him in, but he couldn’t refuse the kindness of someone who’d saved his life. “Other than firing three bullets during college military training, I’ve never touched a gun.” It was true. Men have a strange fondness for firearms, but unless they join the military or police, most Chinese men never have the chance to handle a real one.

Li Hao grinned and punched Zhao Qiang lightly on the chest. “You don’t look like a rookie who’s never held a gun. Yesterday you were almost like a battle-hardened veteran—steady, calm, precise. Not many can shoot like that their first time.” His eyes held the pride of a mentor.

All Zhao Qiang could do was offer another wry smile, the pain from that punch making him gasp, his grimace drawing laughter from those around him. He knew perfectly well what had really happened yesterday: when 95 handed him the rifle, it had been set to single-shot mode. The bloody chaos shocked a man who had only ever seen such scenes in movies and thought himself desensitized. When he finally managed to pull the trigger, the first bullet went who-knows-where, and his terrified, rigid finger stayed locked on the trigger. It took several seconds for him to realize he could only fire one round at a time, and in the chaos, there was no chance to search for the selector switch. If not for that, he was sure he would have emptied his magazine in under a minute—and his impressive, methodical headshots would never have happened. As the fight went on, there was no need for finesse—his only job was to mechanically drive the bayonet into zombie skulls, twist, and withdraw. The scene grew bloodier, but with no way out, Zhao Qiang could only become a cold-blooded butcher.

After breakfast, Wei Tao brought Zhao Qiang to the showers, found him a clean set of clothes from the storeroom, gave him a few instructions, and left.

It took a great effort for Zhao Qiang to wash himself clean—the blood and grime left by battle had made him feel wretched. He scrubbed until his skin was red, finally feeling a hint of relief, and the hot water eased his aching muscles.

Dressed in the latest digital camouflage uniform and combat boots, Zhao Qiang suddenly felt like a real soldier. As he left the showers, Li Dalong—the young soldier who’d taught him how to use the 95 in the heat of battle—was waiting outside, a hint of sadness on his youthful face.

“Brother Zhao, Old Li wants you in the storeroom,” Li Dalong relayed his orders. “If you don’t know the way, I can show you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I really don’t know where your storeroom is,” Zhao Qiang replied, grateful to the young man whose help had saved his life the day before.

In the storeroom, Zhao Qiang found all the remaining soldiers gathered. Wei Tao was nowhere to be seen. Before Zhao Qiang could ask, Li Hao waved him over, “No need to look—Wei Tao went off to sleep. He stood guard for us all night.” Zhao Qiang walked over to Li Hao, where several old Type 81 rifles and a pile of parts were laid out on a workbench.

“Take a look at these,” Li Hao said briskly. He began sorting through the parts, explaining, “These are our army’s standard Type 81 rifles. Over the next couple of days, I’ll teach you how to use and maintain them. Once you and Wei Tao leave, you need to master these survival skills as quickly as possible.” Even as he spoke, Li Hao had already assembled a Type 81 rifle with practiced speed.

Zhao Qiang had never imagined learning about firearms under such circumstances. Li Hao’s dazzling speed in assembling the weapon left him struggling to keep up. The Type 81 had long been standard in the army, and while the newer Type 95 rifles weren’t yet widely issued in third-tier cities like Yueyang, the mature design and simple structure of the Type 81 made it more reliable in some ways.

It took Zhao Qiang an entire day to truly master the disassembly and maintenance of the Type 81. As an instructor, Li Hao was exceptional. He didn’t mechanically explain the function of every part; instead, he taught Zhao Qiang where each piece belonged, how to quickly clear a jam, and emphasized the critical areas that needed maintenance—especially the barrel and chamber.

Perhaps men have a natural talent for firearms—Zhao Qiang almost completely understood the standard-issue weapon after just two hours. The rest of the day was spent repeatedly disassembling and reassembling the rifle under Li Hao’s watchful eye, any flaw in his movements met with a torrent of fierce criticism. By the end of the afternoon, the lesson Zhao Qiang remembered best was: “Remember, your gun is your life. Take care of it as you would your wife.”

He hadn’t forgotten the nightmare from the night before. If that vision ever became reality, Zhao Qiang couldn’t bear the thought of his only means of saving his wife failing at a critical moment. After mastering assembly, he focused his training on quickly changing magazines.

The previous battle was fresh in his mind—many soldiers had been attacked by zombies while reloading, clutching a magazine they hadn’t managed to insert, dying with regret as their comrades fought on. Some, in their final moments, used the last of their strength to toss spare magazines to their friends, only to be overwhelmed by the horde or pull the pin on their last grenade.

A few soldiers still regretted not wearing the newly issued tactical vests earlier—they could have carried more ammo, reloaded faster, and covered their comrades better. Knowing that Zhao Qiang and Wei Tao would soon be leaving, the soldiers brought out the best equipment the unit possessed: Kevlar helmets, cut-resistant gloves, new combat uniforms, boots, tactical vests—everything they could find to arm Zhao Qiang to the teeth.

Looking at these earnest young men, their faces full of sincerity, Zhao Qiang didn’t fully grasp the value of all this equipment, but he could see from Li Dalong’s careful explanation of every pocket on the tactical vest that they wanted him as safe from zombie attacks as possible. To avoid slowing himself down, Zhao Qiang politely declined a riot shield, which the young soldier accepted with a resigned shake of his head—he knew a small shield was useless against a swarm. Instead, he installed an infrared sight on Zhao Qiang’s rifle.

Thank God, Zhao Qiang thought. The feeling these busy soldiers gave him left him at a loss for words. The infrared sight would greatly reduce targeting time, and the night-vision device offered him greater assurance in darkness.

Three days passed quickly, with only a few brief skirmishes. The garrison was in a remote location, so there weren’t many zombies nearby; those few wandering close were swiftly dealt with by the sharpshooters, and the occasional small group was no trouble for the soldiers.

Thanks to Li Hao’s expertise and the help of copious Yunnan Baiyao, Zhao Qiang’s body recovered to peak condition. Though Li Hao and the others missed their families dearly, their soldier’s nature kept them at their posts, unable to abandon the elderly and the few surviving villagers they’d rescued.

After three days of rest, both Zhao Qiang and Wei Tao were eager to set out. Zhao Qiang knew that his own injuries had delayed their departure, since he had been affected the most by the fighting. The armored truck’s compartment was now packed with supplies, weapons, ammunition, drinking water, and field rations. Even so, everyone continued to add useful items to any remaining space.

Many soldiers hurried past Zhao Qiang and Wei Tao, heads bowed, occasionally glancing up with red eyes full of unspoken emotion and deep reluctance.

I can’t bear to leave you either, brothers who have shared life and death with me! Zhao Qiang turned away, not wanting them to see his tears. But thoughts of his wife in the distance, the loss of communication, and the nightly nightmares made it impossible for him to let go.

Wei Tao, too, couldn’t hold out long. He put on a pair of sunglasses and quickly climbed into the driver’s seat of the armored truck. These iron-willed men had no time to mourn fallen comrades before they had to face another parting with the living. The life of a soldier had not taught them how to show love; they could only express their feelings for their brothers in their own way.

At the moment of departure, Li Hao handed Zhao Qiang, now seated in the passenger seat, a military radio and several walkie-talkies. He patted Zhao Qiang’s shoulder. “There’s not much I can give you, brother. I hope these will help you find your wife, and that you and Xiao Wei will be reunited with your families.”

Li Hao’s voice grew choked as he thought of his ailing father and gentle mother back home. He didn’t know if his parents would be as lucky as the elderly they had rescued; given their circumstances, it was unlikely.

Zhao Qiang accepted the radio with tears in his eyes, unsure how to comfort the resolute man before him. He could set off for Changsha to search for his loved ones without hesitation, but these soldiers bearing the national emblem could not abandon their duty to care for strangers, even if it meant not being at their parents’ side.

When the sentry signaled that the way was clear, Wei Tao started the engine, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.

“Salute!” Li Hao shouted. The soldiers all stopped what they were doing and gave a silent, standard salute to the departing armored truck. They all knew that, after leaving the safety of the camp, Zhao Qiang and Wei Tao would be on their own. Out in that vast horde of zombies, the two former comrades-in-arms would have to rely on themselves against a threat that could easily tear them apart.