novelsite Chapter 12 The Fog Ends, the Path Lost
Chapter 12 The Fog Ends, the Path Lost
6:10 a.m.
Mist seeped in through the crack in the door, slowly creeping across the floor. Zhang Xun stood inside the back door, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the handle of the baseball bat. The tape had been applied last night, three layers thick, the mesh-like anti-slip texture protruding beneath his fingertips, still sticky with fresh glue. The metal bat was cool to the touch, its weight just right; when swung, the momentum would pull his wrist along, requiring a burst of strength from his waist to stop the arc.
Su Nian inspected the compound bow beside him. It was her bow; her fingertips traced the grain of the carbon fiber, meticulously checking the string tension and pulley smoothness, her technique as professional as if she were conversing with an old friend. Three fingers hooked the string, her thumb suspended in the air, her elbow at a ninety-degree angle—every movement precise to the extreme. Zhang Xun noticed a thin callus on the second joint of her right index finger—from years of string-pulling, located on the outer side, completely different from the shallow callus he had developed at the archery range.
After the inspection, Su Nian steadily handed the bow to Zhang Xun without looking up, her voice so low it was almost inaudible in the quiet morning mist: "Your thumb is off by half an inch. You have calluses on your thumb, but the position is wrong. Don't grip the string too tightly when you draw it; just use your knuckles to hold it, like hooking a cup that's about to fall."
Zhang Xun adjusted his posture. A slight tremor came from the bow; it was the carbon fiber breathing. He knew his skill level—three months at the archery range, then he had to stop because he was busy at the shop. Last time at the archives, he missed at fifteen meters, the arrow hitting an infected person in the back, almost attracting a horde of zombies.
"I'll carry the arrows," Su Nian said, taking off her bow and slinging it diagonally over her shoulder. The quiver, containing eleven carbon arrows, sat on her left side. "You'll use the baseball bat."
Zhang Xun nodded, tucked the baseball bat into the side pocket of his backpack, and then touched the outdoor knife behind his waist. His palms had been sweaty when he gripped the bat, and the handle of the knife was damp. He rubbed it against his trouser leg, leaving a dark water stain.
Qin Wei emerged from the shadows and handed him a waterproof bag. Inside were antibiotics, a pack of twelve, the aluminum foil lining as stiff as a trading chip.
"Two hours," she said, her voice still steady, but with a barely perceptible tension. Her eyes swept carefully across Zhang Xun's face. "If there's no signal, Xiao Tang and I will go into the air-raid shelter as planned. I won't come out to look for you; that would only be a pointless death. You must be careful, and you must come back alive no matter what. I'll be waiting for you."
Zhang Xun's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. He didn't say much, only nodded heavily, his gaze heavy as if carrying a promise weighing a thousand pounds. He took the bag, stuffed it into the inner layer of his backpack, and placed it close to his chest.
Lin Xiaotang peeked out from the stairwell, clutching the rabbit doll in her arms. Its ears were pinched out of shape, and its pink fur was tangled up. She ran down and handed each of them a cloth bag. The bags were hard and contained dry rations made from crumbs of compressed biscuits mixed with flour, the edges of which were charred and had a slight burnt smell.
She looked up, her eyes dark and swollen, clearly from not sleeping all night. Her voice was hoarse with a sob, and her hand clutching the rabbit doll was white with tension: "Brother Xun... you must come back safely."
"Remember," Zhang Xun reached out and pressed his hand on the top of her head, feeling the warmth of her hair and its slight tremor. "Rabbit, remember, when you hear this, lock the door. Guard the door. Every half hour, the walkie-talkie will ring, even if it's just a static sound."
The back door opened a crack, letting in a cloud of mist, carrying the pungent, metallic scent of decay and rust, along with a strange, cloying sweetness, like fruit in its final stages of rotting. Su Nian went out first, her figure swallowed by the grayish-white mist, her outline instantly blurred. Zhang Xun followed, the door closing softly behind him, the latch clicking gently, but amplified several times in the silence.
On the street, fog swirled through the alleyways, reducing visibility to less than ten meters. Zhang Xun walked close to the left wall, his baseball bat bouncing softly against his hip with each step in his backpack pocket before being swallowed by the fog. He was careful with his footing, avoiding broken glass and cans. Su Nian led the way, her stride steady. Her knee injury shifted her weight slightly to the left, and with each step, the outside of her foot landed first, then transitioned to the entire sole—a silent footwork technique taught by the SWAT team. Yet, she walked with remarkable stability and without hesitation.
Back alley, ruins of a farmers' market, and the underground passage of Jiefang Avenue.
The passageway was pitch black; the emergency lights had long since gone out, with only a sliver of grayish-white light filtering in from the distant entrance, making it seem as dim as if shrouded in a dirty veil. The walls were covered in deep scratches, exposing the broken rebar beneath the concrete, like the claw marks of a wild animal. Su Nian's flashlight, wrapped in a red cloth, emitted a small, dark red glow, illuminating about a meter ahead, just enough to see the obstacles beneath her feet.
"Stop." She suddenly raised her hand, her fist clenched.
Zhang Xun froze instantly, his breathing becoming extremely labored. In the middle of the passage ahead lay a corpse, dressed in a security guard uniform, its chest caved in, surrounded by radial sprays of blood on the walls, now a dark brown. It was the work of an infected person, or perhaps a human. The corpse's right hand gripped a police baton, deformed and bent at a ninety-degree angle.
"Two days ago," Su Nian judged, the flashlight beam slowly moving and shining on the corpse's fingernails—which contained black, fleshy remnants. "The blood had dried, but hadn't completely stank. The time of death was approximately forty-eight hours."
They went around to the other side of the wall. Zhang Xun noticed drag marks on the ground, several parallel scratches extending from the depths of the passage to the location of the corpses, then turning towards the northern exit. These were traces of the infected moving north, like the marks of a receding tide, or as if they were being pulled by invisible threads. He recalled the scene he had seen through his binoculars last night—the infected standing outside the government building, like soldiers awaiting orders.
At the exit, the fog had dissipated somewhat, but the sky remained a leaden gray. The South Street parking lot stretched out before us, like a steel graveyard.
That used to be a parking lot attached to a large supermarket, now it's a dumping ground for abandoned vehicles. Dozens of cars are piled up, rust just starting to appear on the bodies, still retaining their original paint color. All the glass is shattered, the seats have been violently torn apart, exposing the foam and springs, stained with dried blood and dust, yet still brightly colored. In the central open space, three blue-green tents are pitched, the fabric is dirty, stained with mud and oil, but the frames are straight, indicating they are professional-grade outdoor tents.
Su Nian crouched behind an overturned delivery truck, binoculars pressed against her eyes.
“Three sentries,” she said in a whisper, lowering her binoculars, her voice almost carried away by the wind. “One in the guard post, the binoculars reflecting light. One on the roof of the car, lying prone, the binoculars reflecting light. And one behind the tent, a shadowy figure moving about, holding something long, probably a gun or a spear.”
Zhang Xun pulled a red cloth from his backpack. He waved it three times, paused, then waved it twice more. This was the agreed-upon signal, like some kind of ancient code.
A faint light flickered in the guard booth, paused twice, then again. A response followed.
"Let's go." Su Nian straightened up, but her hand had already reached for the holster on her lower back. Her fingers rested on the gun handle, but she didn't pull it out; she just kept it in a position where she could exert force at any moment.
They entered the parking lot. Mist swirled between the wheels. Just as they stepped past the first row of parking spaces, four figures emerged from behind abandoned vehicles, spreading out in a fan shape. There was a steel pipe, a fire axe, and a homemade spear—a sharpened steel bar tied to a mop handle and secured with wire, the tip bearing dark red marks.
No one spoke. The metal gleamed coldly in the morning mist, carrying a damp chill. Zhang Xun noticed their positioning: they had blocked off their retreat, but left a passage to the central tent. It was a hunting formation, the psychological pressure a hunter exerts on its prey.
"We're here to trade," Zhang Xun said, raising his hands, palms facing outwards, fingers spread to indicate harmlessness. "Is Lao Liu here? We've brought some hard currency."
Silence. Then the tent flap was lifted, and a man stepped out. He was in his forties, with a buzz cut, and his face was etched with deep wrinkles, the marks of years of constant frowning. He wore an ill-fitting suit jacket, the cuffs worn white, as if it had been picked up or ripped from a dead body. He was twirling two iron walnuts in his hands, the cracking sound jarring in the silence.
"Just the two of you?" Lao Liu asked, his eyes sweeping over Zhang Xun before settling on Su Nian. He noticed her posture—elbows locked at a fixed angle, left hand hanging naturally but close to the quiver, and her stance, with a slightly lowered center of gravity, suggesting she was ready to unleash her power at any moment. "Has this woman trained? This stance doesn't seem like that of an ordinary outdoor enthusiast."
Su Nian didn't answer, but just stared at him coldly, her eyes like ice. Her fingers tapped lightly on the holster, making a rhythmic clicking sound, like a countdown, or a warning.
"Buying things," Zhang Xun stepped forward, just in time to block Lao Liu's gaze from scrutinizing Su Nian, and pulled a waterproof bag from his pocket. "Hard currency. In exchange for intelligence, about the situation in the western suburbs and the north."
Old Liu took the bag, opened it, and squeezed out a strip of antibiotics. The plastic blister pack flipped between his fingers, and in the sunlight, the pills gleamed with a translucent yellow sheen. He grinned, revealing his yellow teeth, which stood out starkly in the greyish morning light.
"Enough for three lives," he said, his fingertips unconsciously tapping his thigh—a habit he developed when nervous. Zhang Xun noticed that his left index and middle fingers moved simultaneously on the third tap. "But intelligence is more valuable than life. What do you want in exchange? The situation in the western suburbs? Or do you want to know about those gun-wielding lunatics in the north?"
"We want both," Zhang Xun said calmly, but his gaze was fixed on Lao Liu's eyes. "And they have to be real. Sixth Brother, we're here to make a deal, not to die. If you give us false information, we'll die on the way, and you'll cut off this line. In our line of work, reputation is everything."
Old Six's eyelids twitched. He turned around. "Come in and talk."
The tent reeked of tobacco and rotting vegetables, along with a sweaty, musty smell—the accumulated odor of many people who hadn't bathed in a long time. There was a folding table and a few broken chairs, one of which was missing a leg and propped up with bricks. On the table lay a hand-drawn map, drawn with charcoal, its edges stained black by sweat. It marked supply points and territories of influence in several areas of Lanshan City, but all were very brief.
Zhang Xun sat down, but didn't relax. He noticed a figure moving behind the tent flap, and a metallic glint—not a regular firearm, but more like a homemade shotgun or a homemade musket. The barrel was thick, and the recoil could break a collarbone, but it would be equally deadly at close range.
Lao Liu sat opposite him, the iron walnut spinning on the table, making a crackling sound, creating a kind of psychological pressure.
"The western suburbs," Lao Liu said, tapping his fingers on the table once, twice, three times, "are a bit unsettled lately. Those lunatics at the construction site—Wang Tie's gang—are searching a place. They say there's a lone resident, well hidden, who might have valuable information—either supplies or intelligence. They're offering a reward of a bottle of antibiotics for his location, dead or alive."
Zhang Xun's heart skipped a beat. Living alone, well-hidden, with intelligence, in the western suburbs warehouse district—this pointed to Bai Mo. But Lao Liu didn't mention his name or gender; clearly, he didn't know who it was either, only that the construction site workers were looking for "a stranger."
"What about the north?" Zhang Xun pressed, suppressing his emotions. "You just said there's a madman with a gun."
"Three to five people," Lao Liu lowered his voice, "from the armory direction. They're not a big deal yet, but they have real weapons. They're not with the construction site people; they're doing their own thing. But..." He paused, "within three days, the construction site people might come south to talk to us about 'cooperation.' That'll make this area quite lively."
Zhang Xun watched as he rhythmically tapped his index finger on the table. When talking about the distribution of power in the western suburbs, his movements were relaxed, and his knuckles were outstretched. But when he talked about the "cooperation" in the south, his middle finger would involuntarily curl slightly, and his shoulder would tense up slightly as well. This was a micro-expression of lying, but when it came to the western suburbs, Lao Liu's eyes were certain—he was relaying what he knew, only perhaps not in complete detail.
"That person living alone," Zhang Xun probed, "is it male or female? What's their background?"
"Who knows," Lao Liu shrugged. "The people at the construction site are tight-lipped. They only said he's a 'spy,' maybe he's trying to go solo, or maybe he's a remnant of the government. Anyway, he's been hiding for a while now, never showing his face. If the construction site hadn't been searching so thoroughly, nobody would have known he was there."
Zhang Xun reached into his pocket and pulled out something else—a fragment of an archive, its edges charred, with the blurry words "E Series" and the fragmented words "Project Fireseed" on it. He slapped the fragment on the table, making a soft sound.
“This,” Zhang Xun said, his voice low, “is marked with the government's insignia. I have what they want. Betraying me is the same as betraying this. You know better than I whether the people at the construction site dare to take it. What they want are antibiotics and weapons, not trouble.”
This was a bluff, and also a gamble. Zhang Xun was betting on an old hand like Lao Liu, preferring to believe it was true. Lao Liu's expression changed repeatedly, his fist clenched tightly in his palm, his knuckles turning white and making a cracking sound.
The tent flap suddenly moved. A figure flashed out from behind, carrying a machete, and lunged at Su Nian—his target was her backpack.
Su Nian didn't turn around. Her left hand already gripped the compound bow on the corner of the table, while her right hand drew an arrow from the quiver with fluid, effortless movements. She didn't look behind her, but merely tilted her ear, her shoulder and back muscles slightly tense, like a fully drawn bow, before pulling back the string—
Whoosh.
The arrow pierced the tent flap, passing three inches from the attacker's ear, spraying a drop of blood, and embedded itself in the discarded tire behind him, its tail feathers trembling violently. Blood flowed from the attacker's earlobe; he froze on the spot, his machete clattering to the ground, hitting his foot, but he dared not bend down to pick it up.
At the same moment, Zhang Xun sprang into action, drawing his outdoor knife and pressing it against Lao Liu's throat. The blade was icy cold, carrying the distinctive metallic stench, and left a white mark on the edge.
"A deal," Zhang Xun said, his voice low, almost squeezed out between clenched teeth, "or a bloodbath? The choice is yours."
Old Six swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against the tip of the knife, creating a subtle sensation. He glanced at the arrow embedded in the tire, its fletching still trembling, then at Zhang Xun's eyes, which held no madness, only calm calculation.
"A deal," he said, slowly raising his hand, palm up, "a fair deal. Comrade, not bad archery."
---
When I left the parking lot, the fog had completely dissipated, but the sky was still leaden gray, like a dirty rag.
Zhang Xun carried a bag containing two extra items: a walkie-talkie (channel 3, for a ten-minute daily contact at noon) and half a hand-drawn map, marked with charcoal pencil showing the layout of the western suburban warehouse district. One of the red circles read "Spy," with a question mark next to it. Lao Liu didn't know who that was, but Zhang Xun knew it was likely Bai Mo.
Su Nian walked ahead, her pace quick. Her knee injury made her gait somewhat stiff, but she didn't slow down.
"Two people," she said suddenly, without turning around, "fifty meters later, in the direction of the farmers' market. Their footsteps were light, but they crunched on the fallen leaves."
Zhang Xun didn't turn around. He heard it—footsteps, deliberately soft, but in the deathly silence, the sound of withered leaves shattering was like thunder. It was tracking, Lao Liu's backup plan, a double-cross insurance policy.
"Leave them inside to handle this," Su Nian said, her voice cold and hard. "We can't use guns; they'll be too loud. The farmers' market has a complex layout and good cover."
They turned into the farmers' market. This used to be the liveliest place in the area, but now the stalls were collapsed, rotting fruits and vegetables piled high, watermelons and cucumbers turned into a black, mushy substance, and a stench of blood rose from the ground. Flies buzzed in the shadows, the temperature higher than outside, as if they had entered another world.
The trackers appeared. Two men, wearing masks and carrying machetes and steel pipes, their eyes gleaming. They hadn't expected Zhang Xun and Su Nian to stop and stand back-to-back in the middle of the main passage.
"Leave the bags," one of them said, his voice hoarse and laced with a bluffing menace. "The people can leave. Old Six has changed his mind; he doesn't have enough antibiotics, he wants all of you."
Zhang Xun put down his backpack, but his hand reached for the baseball bat in the side pocket. Su Nian stepped back to the left shelf, hooked her fingers on the bowstring, the arrow was nocked, but she didn't pull it back, it was just in a ready-to-fire state.
The next second, a roar came from deep within the farmers' market.
Not just one sound, but several, coming from different directions. Behind the shelves, towards the freezer, several dark figures emerged. The infected, drawn by the earlier confrontation, the smell of blood, or simply the scent of living people, were...
One of them rushed to the front, probably a deliveryman in his previous life. His sportswear was tattered, but his calf muscles were well-developed. The moment he pushed off the ground, he kicked up a cloud of dust. His speed was astonishing, and the ten-meter distance was closed in an instant.
Su Nian was moved.
She nocked an arrow, drew the string—her movements were devoid of unnecessary flourishes, her elbow angle perfect, a muscle memory honed through thousands of training sessions. The first arrow shot through the parkour runner's knee, the arrowhead carrying bone fragments as it exited from the other side. The runner collapsed, but continued to crawl, clawing at the ground. She stepped forward, placing her foot on the corpse's shoulder, and with a swift pull, she yanked the arrow out—a dark red liquid spurted from the groove. The arrow was retrieved, wiped clean on the corpse's clothing, and returned to its quiver. Before he could rise again, she drew her military dagger from her waist and plunged it deep into his temple, ending his life.
There are ten quivers remaining in the quiver.
The second infected creature lunged from the side, its mouth gaping open in a rotting display of blackened teeth. She spun around, and the second arrow pierced through its eye socket, exiting through the back of its head, causing the corpse to fall backward. She stepped forward, planted her foot on its forehead, gripped the arrow shaft with one hand, and pressed down on the corpse's chin with the other, using the momentum to pull it out and retrieve it.
The third arrow pounced on Zhang Xun from the side. She had already fired her third arrow, pinning the infected person to the metal frame of the shelf. The arrow fletched violently, and the corpse twitched there. She stepped forward, tore at the corpse's clothing to use as leverage to pull out the arrow, wiped it clean, and retrieved it.
Three arrows were fired in three volleys, leaving ten quivers in the quiver.
Meanwhile, Zhang Xun gripped the baseball bat with both hands, the metal shaft held horizontally in front of his chest. He used his core strength, stepped forward with his left foot, and pushed off with his right, swinging the bat in a wide arc—
Ugh.
The sound of air being cut was sharp and short. The baseball bat head accurately struck the temple of an infected person, the sound of the skull collapsing was dull and crisp, and blackish-red liquid splashed in a fan shape, spraying onto the plastic shed next to it, dripping stickily downwards, mixed with white brain matter fragments.
Zhang Xun landed his first blow, but his hand was trembling.
It wasn't fear, but the lingering effects of adrenaline, the muscles fighting against inertia. He remembered that night in the archives, the resistance as the knife pierced his skull, the cloying stench, and the uncontrollable gagging afterwards. That feeling returned; his stomach convulsed, but he gritted his teeth, spun around, and used the twisting force of his waist to send the baseball bat arcing through the air, slamming it into the jawbone of the second infected man. The cracking sound was clearly audible, teeth flew out, and his body flew sideways, overturning a row of shelves, twisting and deforming the metal supports.
A third one lunged from the side, its claws tearing at his clothes. Zhang Xun shoved and elbowed, his left elbow slamming into the infected's face, the sharp sensation of its nasal bone shattering clearly audible. The infected tilted its head back, facing him directly, and in that instant, Zhang Xun swung his right baseball bat in a vicious upward arc, striking its jaw precisely. The sound of shattering jaws accompanied by flying teeth filled the air as the infected's head snapped back. He then raised the bat high above his head with both hands and smashed it into the infected's rotting face—
Blood, flesh, and brains splattered on the ground, splashing onto his trouser legs, warm and carrying a sweet, putrid stench.
It was just as disgusting as last time.
Zhang Xun's breathing was heavy, condensing into moisture inside his mask. His hands were still trembling, even more so than before, but he held back, not stopping. The baseball bat whistled through the air, each swing accompanied by the muffled thud of bones cracking, like some kind of primal drumbeat. But he knew this was different from Su Nian's composure—he was suppressing fear with anger and dread, while she was truly calm.
The last two infected were knocked back by Zhang Xun's blow, and Su Nian's military dagger pierced the back of their heads with precision, killing them instantly. She then quickly pulled it out, leaving black and red marks on the dagger.
silence.
The only sounds in the farmers' market were the buzzing of flies and the dripping of blood from the shelves. Tap. Tap.
Zhang Xun bent over, rested his hands on his knees, and gagged. Nothing came out; his stomach only contained the dry rations he had eaten that morning, but he still vomited, his shoulders trembling. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn't grip the baseball bat and had to use his other hand to grab his wrist and forcibly steady himself.
One of the two trackers was so terrified that he wet himself, while the other turned to run away but his legs gave way, and he tripped over a corpse, falling into a pile of rotting fruits and vegetables, making vomiting noises.
Drawn to the horde of corpses, they surged in from all directions, their roars merging into one.
"Let's go!" Su Nian shouted, her voice echoing through the empty market. She glanced at Zhang Xun, "Can you still move?"
"Yes." Zhang Xun straightened up, wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, his hands were still trembling, but he gripped the baseball bat tightly.
She examined each corpse on the ground, collecting the arrows—wiping away the blood, checking the shafts for cracks, confirming the arrowheads were intact, and repeatedly wiping them on the corpses' clothing until the arrows regained their original black sheen before putting them back in the quiver. Ten arrows, and the quiver still held ten arrows after collection. Each one was as precious as gold.
They rushed toward the cold storage behind the farmers' market. He noticed that the iron door of the cold storage could be opened and closed, and although the hinges were rusty, they could still turn. The inside was filled with foam boxes, which could be used as obstacles.
"Inside!" He pushed Su Nian inside, then brought up the rear, using his body to hold the iron gate shut.
The infected slammed against the iron gate with a series of thuds, like the impact of some wild beast. Su Nian pressed herself against the gate, using the gap between the iron gate and the frame to precisely pierce the brain with a triangular dagger, through, out, and then back in. Zhang Xun braced his shoulder against the gate, feeling the force of each impact; his hands were still trembling uncontrollably—just like last time, trembling uncontrollably, until the sounds of the horde of zombies crashing together gradually subsided.
The back door of the cold storage led to a narrow alley, the walls of which were covered in moss. The two rushed out, crossed three alleys, and jumped over a collapsed wall until they saw the curtains on the second floor of the shop—it was Lin Xiaotang keeping watch. The curtains moved slightly; she had seen them.
The back door opened a crack. They squeezed in, only to be immediately pulled back.
Qin Wei's hands roamed over Zhang Xun's body, checking for wounds. Her fingertips were icy cold and calloused, brushing across his neck, wrists, and waist, finally stopping at the tear in his clothes.
"There was no bite," she said, her voice tense, but her fingers relaxed slightly. "The blood is someone else's. There's some on my face too; just wipe it off."
After confirming Zhang Xun's identity, she turned to Su Nian, her fingertips still delicately tracing over the vital areas to make sure there were no new teeth marks or damage before she squatted down and gently lifted the bandage on Su Nian's knee.
The bandage was mostly soaked with blood, with dark brown marks spreading along the edges. The wound had opened up with a thin crack, and blood was seeping down the calf.
"Secondary debridement," Qin Wei's voice regained its composure. "The wound has reopened, so we just need to clean and disinfect it again. No need for stitches, just apply a pressure bandage to hold it in place. Don't run or jump for the next few days, otherwise the wound will keep reopening and will be harder to heal."
Lin Xiaotang handed him warm water, her hands trembling, but she didn't cry. She looked at the torn hem of Zhang Xun's clothes, the black and red bloodstains splattered on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were bright.
"Intelligence," Zhang Xun said, panting, as he pulled a walkie-talkie and map from his pocket and handed them to Qin Wei. "There's a lone person living in the western suburbs who's been surrounded by construction workers; it might be Bai Mo. The gunmen in the northern district aren't quite up to par yet. Within three days, the construction workers from the western suburbs will head south to make contact with Lao Liu."
Su Nian sat in the chair, her gaze falling on Zhang Xun's still trembling hands. "You're more steady than last time, but you're still shaking."
Zhang Xun paused, his voice low: "Just like last time... nauseous. Only I didn't throw up."
Qin Wei began treating the wound; the smell of iodine filled the air, pungent and acrid. Su Nian gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead, but her eyes remained bright. Zhang Xun sat on the folding bed, wiping the flesh and blood from the baseball bat with a cloth; his hands were still trembling, and his movements were slow, carefully cleaning away the remaining bone fragments.
Outside the window, sunlight shone on the rusted roller shutter, reflecting a blinding light. But the air inside the shop remained heavy.
Lin Xiaotang stood to the side, clutching a rabbit doll in her hand, its ears twisted out of shape. She looked at Zhang Xun's still trembling hand, walked over, and without saying a word, simply placed her hand on the back of his hand and gently pressed it down.
Time ticked by, and the gears of the apocalypse were slowly meshing.
---
At 6:40 p.m., the light was retreating from the window, gradually swallowing the outline of the room.
Zhang Xun was still sitting on the folding bed in the corner, clutching the walkie-talkie Lao Liu had given him. The plastic casing was cracked and taped shut, the channel knob stuck at 3. He stared at the number, his knuckles white from the pressure.
"Channel 3," he whispered, as if confirming a frequency that didn't belong here, "South Street gang turns on their line every day at noon. Call them if you need antibiotics to sell or food to buy."
Lao Liu didn't recognize Bai Mo, nor did he know who was being searched in the western suburbs, let alone their gender and age. All Lao Liu knew was that the group of lunatics at the construction site were looking for "a stranger who was hiding very well," who might be a spy, a remnant of the government, or just an unlucky survivor.
A hand-drawn map lay open before Zhang Xun, the charcoal lines blurred in the dim light. A red circle marked the edge of the western suburban warehouse district, surrounded by several arrows—Lao Liu's deduced search directions. But Lao Liu didn't know if it was Bai Mo, and neither did Zhang Xun. Everything was unknown—was it her? Was she still there? Was she even alive?
He put down Lao Liu's walkie-talkie and took out the civilian walkie-talkie that was already in the shop from under the counter—white, with a plastic casing, a short standby time, and no encrypted frequency like those used by police equipment. He turned it on, tuned it to the public channel, and pressed the call button.
"This is Zhang Xun," he said in a low voice into the microphone, "Is anyone listening? Any frequency, any channel, please respond if you hear me."
Static noise. A rustling sound, like endless snow. He switched channels, 1, 2, 4, 5… trying each one, each time just the same white noise. No response, no familiar voice saying "received," not even a fluctuation in current.
Bai Mo never gave him a walkie-talkie channel; she only gave him a business card with an address in the western suburbs warehouse district and the words, "Protect her, and protect yourself." There was no frequency, no code, and no communication agreement.
Zhang Xun turned off the walkie-talkie, his fingers tapping lightly on the table in a disordered rhythm. He realized that Bai Mo either didn't have a walkie-talkie, was using a frequency he didn't recognize, or... was no longer able to respond.
He had to go to the western suburbs himself. Fifteen kilometers, more than three hours on foot, passing through the old town and industrial areas, where the density of infected people was unknown. Driving meant noise, risk, and the possibility of never coming back.
"How is it?"
Qin Wei's voice came from the shadows. She walked over and stopped an arm's length away, a small yellow stain of iodine on the hem of her clothes. She didn't look at the walkie-talkie, but only at Zhang Xun's eyes; ten years of tacit understanding allowed her to read the meaning of silence.
"I can't get through," Zhang Xun said, his voice hoarse as he put the civilian walkie-talkie back on the counter. "I've tried all the public channels, but there's no response."
"So you're going," Qin Wei said. This wasn't a question. She understood him, just as she understood the young man who had said "I'll wait patiently" by the lake eight years ago.
"I have to go," Zhang Xun said, pulling a dark gray business card from his breast pocket. His fingertips traced the small print on the back—West Suburbs Warehouse District, Building B-17. "This is the only clue. If the person being searched is Bai Mo… if she's still alive…"
He paused, not finishing his sentence. Qin Wei didn't press him. She turned to check Su Nian's knees, her movements gentle, but her back was taut in the dim light.
Su Nian lay on the night watchman's seat, her knees wrapped in new, thicker bandages than before. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear as she looked at the business card in Zhang Xun's hand.
"I'll go tomorrow," she said, her voice hoarse from the pain, but her tone still firm. "I know the western suburbs well, and I roughly know the layout of the warehouse district."
"Shut up," Zhang Xun walked over, squatted down, and looked at the bandage on her knee. The wound had reopened and needed rest. "Don't even think about moving for three days. What happened on South Street was my fault; I shouldn't have let you go."
"You're wrong," Su Nian looked at him directly, her gaze unwavering. "If we don't go to South Street, we won't get the intelligence, and we won't know that someone in the western suburbs is under siege. Intelligence is more important than my knees."
"But your knees are more important than intelligence right now," Zhang Xun said, his voice low but clear. "I need you to live, for your knees to heal, because there will be more battles to fight. This time, I'll go myself."
"No," Su Nian frowned, "It's too dangerous. You need to cover me."
"I need you to live," Zhang Xun repeated, gently pulling up the blanket that had slipped off her, as if covering a fragile piece of porcelain. "This time, I'll go alone, or with Qin Wei. She knows the way, and... she's calmer than you think."
Qin Wei was organizing the medicines when she heard her name called. Her fingers paused, but she didn't look up. She reached for the glass bottle in her pocket, which contained sand—a gift from him eight years ago.
Lin Xiaotang came out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of warm water and half a piece of dry food. She walked over to Zhang Xun, handed him the water, and bit her lip as she looked at the address on the business card.
"The western suburbs..." she said softly, "are very far."
"Hmm," Zhang Xun took the water, his fingertips touching hers—warm, with a rough, floury feel. He quickly withdrew his hand, holding the glass in his palm. "But that's the only clue."
Lin Xiaotang lowered her head, her fingers twisting the apron strap, a pink rabbit doll tucked under her arm. She wanted to say, "I want to go with you," but seeing the weariness in Zhang Xun's eyes and the trembling of his fingers as he held the water glass, she simply gave a soft "Mmm."
"I'll mind the shop," she said, her voice soft but clear, "you come back."
Zhang Xun looked at her, his Adam's apple bobbing. He had known of those feelings ever since she was a little girl with pigtails, but he couldn't reciprocate, couldn't reveal them, and couldn't make any promises to her now. The five-year age gap felt both shallow and deep in the apocalypse.
"I'll be back," he said, carefully folding the business card and placing it back in his breast pocket, right next to his heartbeat. "I promise you."
Outside the window, the infected on the street began to move north again, like a gray tide, slow and persistent. Zhang Xun placed the walkie-talkie Lao Liu had given him on the windowsill; it was merely a channel for communication with the South Street gang, unrelated to the western suburbs. He sat there, looking at Su Nian's wounds, at Qin Wei's busy back, at Lin Xiaotang's drooping hair, waiting for tomorrow's sun and that fifteen-kilometer journey into the unknown.
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[End of Chapter Twelve]