Sixteen Years

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When Fu Yan had gone upstairs to the fourth floor, he hadn’t conducted a thorough search of the first floor. Now it seemed that some individuals had slipped through the cracks from some hidden corners.

He quickly scanned the area and noticed five civilians in casual clothing surrounding a group of three people. Since this was a rescue mission, they didn’t carry many weapons, just one gun among them. However, they hesitated to use their firearms because the individuals in front of them were “injured civilians,” and they were trying to control them without causing harm.

However, perhaps due to the sudden nature of the situation, the three individuals might have let their guard down or were unable to control these mutated zombies in a short time. By the time Fu Yan jumped down, one of the men already had obvious bite marks on his neck.

Thin lines of blood trickled down his neck and soaked into his black combat suit.

The situation was worse than Fu Yan had imagined. The number of zombies exceeded the number of special police officers, and two young officers were pinned down on the first-floor railing, their bodies bending backward in a horrifying curve, struggling to hold on. Another officer was entangled with two adult zombies near the out-of-service escalator, at risk of being pushed over the edge.

The injured officer, however, had no zombies clinging to him.

Due to human rights and mission orders, the special police officers were hesitant to use violence against the “injured” civilians, fearing that it would cause secondary harm. But Fu Yan didn’t hesitate. He quickly and skillfully loaded his gun and, from a distance, blew apart the back of one young zombie’s head.

Brain matter splattered, and blood covered the ground as the young zombie in a hooded sweatshirt swayed in place, as if someone had suddenly turned off its switch, before crashing to the ground with a thud.

He acted so swiftly that not even the nearby special police officers had time to react. Fu Yan then put away his gun, slid gracefully to the ground, and, in a matter of seconds, reached their location.

It wasn’t until then that the officers reacted. One of them, shocked and angry, said, “Without orders, how can you just shoot injured civilians?”

Fu Yan showed no signs of anger in response to the accusation. On the contrary, he seemed to understand their reaction the most.

In the early days of the apocalypse in his previous life, he had been just like them—adhering to orders, adhering to moral standards. When he encountered infected but not yet mutated zombies on the road, he couldn’t help feeling empathy for them as fellow humans.

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But in just half a month, reality had taught him about “choices.”

If you didn’t cut out the rot, there would only be more people rotting because of it.

“I’m sorry,” Fu Yan said. “But now is not the time for explanations.”

With that, Fu Yan grabbed the young man by the collar, withdrew an electric shock baton from his waist, and pressed it into the hand of another zombie.

His muscle memory was evident. Fu Yan withdrew his hand swiftly, just before the zombie could bite, without even grazing the skin.

Then, without hesitation, he pulled the officer aside, reached for his gun, and swiftly shot the two zombies in front of him.

Within this short time, the two zombies that had been left by the escalator had already been pinned to the ground face down. Two special forces officers knelt on their backs, forced to use handcuffs.

The immediate crisis was over. Fu Yan finally had a moment to look back at the two zombies he had killed earlier. They were a young man and woman, dressed similarly and appearing to be a couple.

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They hadn’t mutated for long; their skin had not yet turned that terrifying shade of pale blue, still retaining a softness. Unless you carefully examined the cloudy eyes, it was difficult to tell if they had truly mutated.

Fu Yan was efficient, having killed three people within a minute of his arrival, which was undoubtedly shocking to the uninformed young officers.

Before they could react, there was a clear sound of a bullet being chambered behind Fu Yan. He sighed and put away his gun, raising both hands to signal that he was not a threat.

“Why didn’t you report and just open fire?” the leading special police officer asked.

“I judged that the situation had become urgent,” Fu Yan replied calmly. “If it turns out my judgment was wrong, I’m willing to face a military tribunal.”

Clearly, they had known his identity beforehand. They exchanged hesitant glances at his words.

“You saw it too, these things bite people,” Fu Yan continued. “Once bitten, you get infected, and the transmission rate outside is already one hundred percent—everyone infected becomes those monsters who only want to bite others.”

“But—”

“I know what you want to say, but don’t hold onto false hope,” Fu Yan said. He carefully checked his coat for any bloodstains and straightened the cuffs that had gotten wrinkled earlier. Finally, he drew his gun from behind again.

He lowered his gaze slightly, carefully rubbing the barrel with his thumb, as if checking something, yet there was also a subtle hesitation.

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Fu Yan couldn’t tell them in front of these young officers that these mutations and infections were cruel and irreversible. In his previous life, so many researchers in the base had spent days and nights studying, but by the time he died, it had all been in vain. There were no vaccines, no effective treatments; this virus seemed to appear out of nowhere, with no origins or limits. It had descended like Pandora’s curse, taken root in everyone, and grown into completely different forms.

Perhaps there were mother plants or anchor points, but despite extensive searching in his previous life, they had never found anything substantial.

These things would quickly devour human brains, and before a human’s body “died,” they had already met the conditions for brain death.

As for why zombies could continue to function after “dying,” Fu Yan had no clue. But the only certainty was that once infected, he didn’t believe these young people would live to see the day when a cure was developed.

With these thoughts in mind, he steadied his resolve, quickly loaded his gun, and aimed it at the injured special police officer.

Almost instantly, two gun barrels were pointed back at him. The young special police officer near the escalator shouted, “Lower your weapon!”

“My principle is not to kill teammates, no matter what happens,” Fu Yan said, his eyes locked on the injured officer. “But you need to disarm and go for treatment.”

Fu Yan paused for a moment, then added, “Right now.”

Fu Yan couldn’t say cold-hearted words like “abandon” in front of these uninformed young people. He was a soldier himself, and abandoning a comrade went against his principles. Although he had made such choices many times, each time the lingering pain remained fresh, and he hadn’t become numb to it.

This kind of operation wasn’t something Fu Yan was very familiar with. In his previous life, they had almost become used to disarming and leaving the team automatically when injured, going solo. Everyone had an unspoken understanding of this matter, and there was almost never a need for someone to request it explicitly.

His actions might seem harsh, but at least the words he spoke weren’t too harsh. The tension in the other person’s shoulders quickly eased, and they nodded in agreement.

“Okay,” he said.

“But that won’t do,” the young special forces officer from earlier intervened, saying, “If our team leader disarms, what will he do if he encounters danger when he goes out?”

“I’ll escort him out,” Fu Yan replied promptly. “I’ll take him to the ambulance.”

After saying this, Fu Yan actually lowered his gun, approached, and grabbed the officer’s arm. His technique was precise, resembling both supporting and restraining the officer. It seemed as though he could pin the officer to the ground at any moment if there was any sign of mutation, and then shoot him in the back of the head.

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“You don’t need to be so cautious,” the special forces team leader said with a wry smile, “Even if I’m infected, it’s not like I’ll turn into a lunatic from one second to the next.”

Fu Yan glanced at him and slightly relaxed his grip, saying, “sorry, I’m used to it.”

Unknowingly, the special forces team leader’s eyes drifted away for a moment, and then he couldn’t resist asking, “How long until I become like them… I don’t know why, but you seem to know more than we do?”

“Soon,” Fu Yan replied honestly, “Quickly, within ten minutes, or slowly, within a day.”

“Do you think there’s a cure?” the officer asked.

Fu Yan didn’t answer this question; he just remained silent, staring at the officer. The team leader, in his long silence, sensed a tragic implication and forced another smile.

“You’re a straightforward guy, brother,” he said. “I don’t… regret it, wearing this uniform, I knew what to expect. I just didn’t think it would be rabies that got me in the end.”

The wound on the man’s neck began to darken, and from this close, Fu Yan could already smell the putrid odor emanating from it. He shifted his gaze away slightly and flicked off the safety.

“Do you regret it?” Fu Yan asked.

“I don’t regret it,” the man waved his hand, casually wiping away some of the dark brown blood from his neck. He gritted his teeth and said, “Defending the homeland, charging into the frontlines, arguing about whether it’s worth it or not… It doesn’t matter anymore. And it’s not just me; those two kids are barely in their twenties.”

Unconsciously, Fu Yan tightened his grip on the gun in his hand.

At that moment, he suddenly remembered his former teammates. After the apocalypse, the damage from fighter jet deployments was too great, and aside from extremely long-distance missions, he hardly had a chance to fly again.

He was reassigned to a special operations team, with most of the members being the same, except they had transitioned from flying in the sky to running on the ground. His deputy team leader had joked about it a few times, complaining about the demotion.

Later on, some of these people died, some were injured, and some willingly joined the ranks of the undead, becoming one of the countless walking corpses. But for most of them, their final wishes were the same.

“Brother,” the special forces team leader’s voice overlapped with Fu Yan’s memories. “Take a shot.”