Chapter Seventy-Six

Six people, six guns—when trained fighters open fire in unison, the sight is nothing short of spectacular. The man at the front of the formation gripped his rifle with his right hand and a curved blade in his left, striding forward with unwavering determination, clearing the way. No zombie could so much as slow him down. His QBZ-95 assault rifle was reserved for the swift and agile ones: many had only just leaped before a 5.8mm bullet blew their heads apart, sending them flying. His machete, bent like a dog’s leg, danced up and down, scattering zombie limbs in all directions.

Four more QBZ-95 rifles formed the center, each aimed to cover a side of the group. Though not as ferocious as the vanguard, the shooters were disciplined and precise; bullets struck true, their three-round bursts fired as if on full-auto. A single military shotgun provided support from the center; no straggling zombie escaped its deadly summons.

Gunfire crackled like popping beans. Occasionally, someone in the group would shout, “Changing mag!” and the shooting would momentarily subside. A single hand would flick open the pouch, pluck out a fresh magazine, and swap it with the empty one—all in under three seconds. Despite the tide of zombies surging from every direction, not a single one managed to break within five meters of the team.

The squad advanced rapidly, the armored cash transport close behind. The team cleared the way for the vehicle, while it in turn secured their rear, its sturdy chassis battered by throngs of zombies pounding and pushing with furious desperation. “Bang! Bang!” echoed the impacts, but without the aid of ground troops, no vehicle could possibly break through such a horde.

Working together, the squad finally escorted the cash transport through layer after layer of undead, bringing it to a relatively open area once more.

Inside the cramped vehicle, everyone was flushed with excitement. Cai Jiashu was practically dancing with glee; during today’s battle, his gun barrel had grown hot to the touch. For the first time, they had plunged deep into the zombie army—truly staking everything on survival. Yet miraculously, the entire team emerged without a scratch, having slain a number of zombies that defied calculation.

…

Soon, both squads completed their missions successfully, with results exceeding expectations. All ten members survived unharmed, and they’d managed to clean out the entire garrison’s ammunition depot. Now, the prison’s own armory was piled high with every kind of weapon and bullet; for the foreseeable future, ammunition would be no concern.

The army’s arsenal was far superior to anything the air force ground crew had ever seen. Brand-new rifles lined the racks in perfect order: QBZ-95 assault rifles, QBU-88 sniper rifles, QJB-88 squad machine guns, PF89A rocket launchers; crates upon crates of ammunition. Zhao Qiang and his men left nothing behind, stripping the garrison’s armory bare, like ants carrying off grain.

With these new weapons, the greatest beneficiaries were the lookout posts at each corner of the prison. The QJB-88 squad machine guns were already mounted, their black muzzles gleaming faint blue. Three 200-round ammo boxes lay stacked nearby, ready for action at any moment. QBU-88 sniper rifles were distributed to each lookout, vastly increasing their field of view.

Wei Tao was deeply satisfied with everyone’s performance. In the past, training a student like Zhao Qiang had filled him with pride, even if he rarely showed it. This time, the training period was short, the squad larger and the tasks urgent; Wei Tao hadn’t expected much. Yet over the past few days, the team’s outstanding performance had taken him by surprise.

When the rule was to empty a magazine in fifteen seconds, not a man took more than sixteen. Their hit rate on zombies was one hundred percent. Indeed, Wei Tao’s marksmanship standards were even stricter than those of special forces selections: at ten meters, a head-sized target required no careful aim—just raise the rifle and fire. Throughout the action, everyone followed Wei Tao’s procedures to the letter, moving like a well-oiled machine, each man fulfilling his role. There were errors—inevitable, given their inexperience—but nothing fatal. Given time, these two squads would become a force to be reckoned with.

Wei Tao, Zhao Qiang, and Meng Longwei had poured enormous effort into achieving these results, finally forging a group of unruly recruits into a disciplined unit. Soldiers respect those with real skill: Zhao Qiang’s abilities were beyond question, and as his teacher, Wei Tao’s reputation was just as solid. Meng Longwei, as a direct officer from the ground crew, already commanded authority—sometimes more than Wei Tao himself. It was through their joint efforts that two rival groups of men were finally united, leading to today’s success.

In the last phase of the mission, Wei Tao left the driving to others and let Zhao Qiang coordinate with each squad leader. With an expert like Zhao Qiang overseeing things, minor errors were never fatal—he could spot and correct them instantly, and his example inspired the rank and file.

On their way back, Zhao Qiang suggested a detour to a nearby supermarket, where they collected a bounty of supplies: canned luncheon meat, sausages, chili sauce, and piles of both meat and vegetables—anything unspoiled was hauled back. A few tipplers even snatched two crates of baijiu. Spirits high, the group returned to the prison, where the men immediately set about slicing meat, pouring drinks, and those with a knack for cooking headed to the kitchen to lend a hand. The place bustled as if celebrating a festival.

“A bunch of rascals, living it up—what a wasteful lot,” Meng Longwei laughed and cursed. Though his words sounded regretful, his eyes betrayed nothing but amusement as he watched everyone, occasionally pitching in himself. “Hey, kid, is that any way to slice meat?” he called, spotting a soldier hacking the luncheon meat into chunks as black and lumpy as coal briquettes. Meng Longwei wasn’t having it—despite the apparent bounty, divided among over a hundred people, each would get less than a tael of meat. He snatched the knife from the soldier and, with a few swift strokes, sliced the luncheon meat paper-thin.

“How are we supposed to eat this? So thin, it won’t even fill the gap between my teeth,” a soldier grumbled, picking up a sliver between two fingers, face as sour as bitter melon.

No matter what, after so many hard days, everyone was finally able to enjoy some meat again. The children ran back and forth among the tables, soaking in the festive mood, and even the adults allowed themselves a rare smile. Indeed, compared to the hungry, perilous days before, this life was already a blessing.