Chapter Four: Saving a Life (Part One)

“Are you saying your own brother is coming to kill us, yet you ran over here to warn us?” Zhao Qiang looked at Deng Lei lying on the hospital bed with disbelief. Deng Lei’s condition was dire—multiple open fractures and damage to most of his internal organs. If it weren’t for the extraordinary regenerative abilities of the new human species, Zhao Qiang would likely be facing a corpse right now.

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The base held little apprehension about contact with Jiang Lu’s faction. Whether the outcome was good or bad, what was destined to come would inevitably arrive. Thus, aside from making necessary arrangements, life within the base remained largely unchanged. The squad continued daily patrols around the base or ventured further out to gather supplies needed by the base.

The advantage of this was the timely detection of potential zombie hordes gathering. Similar incidents had occurred before—mysterious “wise” ones suddenly appeared, bringing large numbers of zombies who would cluster near the base for days before launching fierce attacks. While every assault was repelled by the united defense of the base, these events forced the squad to divide their external duties into supply runs and patrols.

On a sudden impulse, Zhao Qiang proposed forming an alliance. Everyone rallied around this idea, drafting charters and setting goals. But Zhao Qiang, patting his backside, dismissed such paperwork as internal affairs unsuitable for field operatives, conveniently forgetting he was the very instigator. He simply led his squad on aimless wanderings—no, patrols.

It was well known that Zhao Qiang disliked handling tedious matters. He rarely involved himself in internal base management. Since reuniting with Peng Sha, it had become routine for Zhao Qiang to be absent from leadership meetings. Even when he did attend, he would merely exchange jovial greetings before finding a spot to doze off.

This approach freed him from daily drudgery. It felt much like his former job: report to work each morning, complete the day’s tasks, then return home to peacefully spend time with his wife, leaving all else behind.

The only difference was the nature of his work. At the office, it was trivial paperwork; here, every day was a battle—an endless fight against the undead.

“Boss, abnormal activity detected in Zone 12,” came a voice over the radio from the observation post. The base had divided the surrounding area into a grid of numbered zones for quick, precise communication.

“What’s going on?” Zhao Qiang’s squad was patrolling Zone 1, diagonally opposite Zone 12.

“Not sure. Seems like a large-scale zombie gathering!” The observer’s voice was tense.

“Copy that! We’re heading over immediately. Notify Wei Tao and prepare for combat!”

“Roger!”

Arriving at Zone 12, they found a horde of zombies assaulting an armored vehicle. This was no makeshift armored truck cobbled together from cash transport vehicles and steel plates, but a genuine armored beast—a Russian Tiger tank.

Painted in dark olive drab, the Tiger roared through the zombie mass. Weighing six tons and powered by a 205-horsepower turbocharged diesel engine, this steel monster crushed ordinary zombies and zombie dogs alike beneath its massive wheels.

Yet despite its ferocity, the Tiger’s speed slowed alarmingly. Without firepower support, any hope of escaping the zombie swarm by sheer force of will was laughable. Zombies lacked consciousness and fear; to them, there was only prey. Once you entered their sight as food, every nearby zombie would see you as the feast of the day, relentless until death.

The Tiger’s strength forced the zombies to futilely pound on its hull and hood with their hands, only to be instantly crushed beneath its tires with sickening crunches of bone. The vehicle barely jolted, leaving behind slick pools of blackened blood.

Despite darting left and right, the Tiger could not break through the encirclement. At a distant intersection, a “Crusher” appeared. With only one driver inside, no one was manning the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top. No one dared challenge the Crusher’s dominance even from within the tank.

The Tiger had no choice but to turn around within the zombie-infested streets—a painful maneuver for its 4.6-meter length. More zombies were ground into pulp under its wheels, and the danger grew.

“Come on, push it!” the driver stomped the accelerator, wrestling the steering wheel, trying desperately to escape the blood-soaked trap. But no matter how hard he tried, the Tiger merely roared helplessly in place, its specially designed tires spinning in the thick blood and flinging dark plasma outward.

Outside, hundreds of zombies surrounded the vehicle in an unbroken ring. The five-millimeter thick, heat-treated armor plating protected the driver for now, but the looming presence of the Crusher darkened his expression with despair.

The driver’s fears were justified. The Crusher burst through the zombie wall and began tearing into the Tiger. It pounded the armor with its massive fists, denting the steel plates deeply. Though no cracks appeared, the impact drained the driver’s color.

Finding hammering ineffective, the Crusher clawed at the armor, seeking weak spots. After a fierce struggle, the tank’s hull emitted metallic groans, like a submarine creaking under crushing pressure at maximum depth.

With the vehicle on the verge of collapse, the driver finally succumbed to the overwhelming stress and fainted, unaware of how he was rescued.

When he awoke, he was swathed in bandages like a wrapped parcel. Any movement sent searing pain through his body. Opening his eyes, the zombies had vanished, replaced by several men clad in special police uniforms standing around him.

“You’re awake?” a stranger’s voice spoke. The driver sensed no hostility in it.