Chapter 77: Huanghua Airport

March in Yangchun was supposed to be a time for warmth and blossoming flowers. Changsha, an inland city, always welcomed spring early, yet the sky remained perpetually overcast, and occasionally, a few dull, gray snowflakes would drift down. The biting wind never ceased for a moment.

The Huanghua International Airport, once a bustling hub with throngs of people and ceaseless streams of vehicles, now bore no resemblance to its former self. Outside its towering walls, the landscape was infested with wandering zombies. The fierce cold made the grotesque shapes of these monsters all the more terrifying, as they circled the airport walls, unwilling to disperse.

Within the walls, the scene was entirely different. The runway, which had once seen aircraft landing and taking off every few minutes, was now silent. Planes of all models were parked haphazardly, and at the end of the runway lay the wreckage of an aircraft. The flames had long since extinguished, leaving the fuselage charred and unrecognizable, its original airline impossible to discern. Around the airport, guards were posted every few steps, soldiers in combat uniforms gripping their rifles, their weary eyes fixed on the movements outside the wall, never daring to relax. Every so often, they stamped their feet to stir life back into their frozen bodies.

The airport's terminal was crowded with survivors seeking refuge. Adults, haggard and exhausted, clustered together, huddling for warmth. They no longer had the strength to complain about the cold; compared to the zombie-ridden world outside, the terminal, shielded from wind and rain, was paradise.

Children had lost their usual vitality—thin and pale, they lacked the energy to play and nestled quietly in their parents' arms, their eyes blinking with despair.

All the shops in the terminal had been requisitioned. Dozens of young men and women busied themselves in kitchens, large steamers brought out, fires blazing under the stoves, steam billowing from the pots. The cooks stirred continuously, and the hundreds of refugees depended on these few pots and whatever food could be scavenged from the kiosks to barely make it through each day.

A sweet female voice came over the loudspeaker: “Attention, fellow citizens. Lunch is now ready. Please collect your meals at the designated windows according to your number. Maintain order within the hall, and parents, please keep an eye on your children. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The announcement played twice, and the hall grew even more chaotic. People rummaged through their luggage for lunchboxes and stood, heading toward their assigned destinations. Parents clutched their children tightly, fearful of mishaps amid the confusion. Armed soldiers patrolled back and forth, keeping the disorder in check. Lunch was simple—each person received a bowl of thin congee and a spoonful of preserved vegetables or whatever could be found.

No one complained. There had once been a few troublemakers dissatisfied with the military regime; they smashed their bowls and stormed out to protest. But barely had they stepped out before they were dragged away and executed by armed soldiers. From that day, no one dared to voice dissent.

The voice on the broadcast belonged to the woman Zhao Qiang yearned for—Peng Sha. Throughout these difficult days, Peng Sha always sat alone in the control tower, her gaze fixed toward the city. To ensure she was first to hear any news from the outside, Peng Sha volunteered for the role of announcer, enduring the monotonous dispatch work day after day.

The scene from the day of evacuation constantly replayed before Peng Sha's eyes: the soldiers had run out of ammunition, and there were dozens of unarmed survivors, herself included, needing protection. With their skills, had the soldiers abandoned everyone and focused on breaking out, most would have escaped safely. But to protect the group, they resorted to the most primitive tactics. When bullets ran out, the soldiers charged into the horde of zombies, bayonets and daggers in hand, many sacrificing themselves so the main group could escape. Those desperate screams still echoed in Peng Sha's ears.

Is he all right? Peng Sha fell into deep thought. Every day in the tower, she found herself pondering this. Uncle Wang had said Zhao Qiang was with a skilled fighter, so their safety should be assured, but so much time had passed with no word from Zhao Qiang. On the retreat, they had encountered numerous rescue teams and ever more survivors, but Zhao Qiang was nowhere to be found.

Peng Sha had no way of knowing that Zhao Qiang, in his quest to find more survivors, had set his sights on the city. Though the prison wasn't far from Huanghua Airport, Peng Sha's dwindling manpower meant she could barely defend the airport, let alone send search parties after a single person. Zhao Qiang's search direction was precisely opposite to the airport, so their paths never crossed.

Peng Sha never gave up hope. He will return. He will surely come back for me. Clinging to this belief, Peng Sha unhesitatingly took on the airport's tedious dispatch duties, sitting in the tall tower each day, gazing toward the city, keeping watch over every movement in the airport, ready to receive any news the moment it arrived.

“It’s time to eat.” A middle-aged man’s voice interrupted Peng Sha’s reverie.

Peng Sha quickly wiped away unnoticed tears, rose and turned. “Uncle Wang, you’re here.”

Uncle Wang, whose full name was Wang Baoquan, had led the rescue team that saved Peng Sha. As the highest-ranking officer in the airport, this middle-aged soldier had no airs before the girl who was about the same age as his own daughter. He was kindly, almost fatherly. “Yes, sit down. Thinking about him again?”

Peng Sha nodded and returned to her seat, head bowed, her face etched with anxiety.

Wang Baoquan stood nearby, his eyes fixed on the window. “Don’t worry. He’ll be all right. I trust my judgment.” As a veteran, Wang Baoquan had encountered countless people; even a fleeting glimpse of Zhao Qiang’s skills through binoculars had left a deep impression that day.

“But…”

“No buts, little Peng. Go eat. I’m here.” Wang Baoquan cut her off, his admiration for the strong-willed girl growing.

Peng Sha said nothing, stood and walked toward the door. After a few steps, she suddenly perked up, as if listening for something. After a moment, she cried out, “Uncle Wang, did you hear that?”

Wang Baoquan was older and his hearing not as keen. He listened carefully but detected nothing unusual, just as he was about to speak, Peng Sha threw open a window. The biting wind rushed into the small tower, and with it came the faint sound of gunfire.