Perhaps due to his extensive experience playing ‘CS’, Jing Lan was exceptionally sensitive to distant human figures.
However, with dusk approaching, it was difficult to discern the true identity of the approaching figure.
The journey from the foot of the mountain to their current location spanned a good four or five kilometers.
Moreover, there were no settlements near the base of the mountain.
Although the forest area typically provided keys to some staff and mountain residents—Keke, for instance, had acquired a key through a relative’s connections, under the guise of being a “forestry researcher”—most visitors usually arrived by car.
Furthermore, with danger lurking everywhere outside, who would dare to stroll about so brazenly?
Ling Yechen seemed to have been constantly observing Jing Lan’s actions lately, perhaps still influenced by Jing Lan’s morning directive, “Follow me; if I run, you run.”
Naturally, following Jing Lan’s gaze, Ling Yechen also spotted the suspicious newcomer.
Almost simultaneously, those inside realized this might be a zombie.
This shared understanding required no verbal confirmation.
The figure ambled slowly, and by then, Jing Lan already suspected it was a zombie.
However, what further confirmed for him that the approaching figure was, in fact, human, was its subsequent action.
The figure appeared to look up, then abruptly halted.
Instantly, Jing Lan knew what it had seen.
The car with four people parked downstairs.
“That’s a person,” Jing Lan declared first.
Somewhat unexpectedly, Little Lamai, his voice hushed and eerie, added, “And a gun.”
“You saw it?” Jing Lan asked, his tension mounting.
“It’s on his back, so you can’t see it.
But there’s a leather pouch hanging from his belt; that’s for bullets.” Little Lamai narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice suddenly sharpening. “Careful, he’s raising the gun now.”
Indeed, as the man drew closer, they could clearly see he was a middle-aged individual carrying a hunting rifle.
“To the first floor,” Jing Lan gestured, and the group descended the stairs to the ground level.
The second floor was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, making them vulnerable targets in a shootout, despite their elevated position.
Huddled beneath a wall on the ground floor, Ling Yechen remained utterly still, yet the silence only intensified his fear.
He leaned against Jing Lan, his voice hushed. “Senior, if we just hide like this, will we really be safe?”
Jing Lan quickly surveyed the ground floor, shaking his head. “This place is surrounded by windows on all sides.
If he wants to shoot us, he has angles everywhere.
Not opening the door won’t help; the window glass isn’t bulletproof.”
Soon, the man reached a spot seven or eight meters from the observation station’s entrance and called out, “Master inside, open the door.
I’d like to come in for the night.”
The people inside exchanged glances.
Jing Lan leaned close to Ling Yechen’s ear and whispered, “You go open the door, but don’t expose yourself.
Then tell him to put the gun on the ground.”
“Why do I have to open the door?” Ling Yechen asked, perplexed.
“I need my hands free to prepare my throwing knives.
At this distance, I can throw them faster than he can raise his gun.”
However, the situation did not escalate for the worse; the man proactively lowered his weapon.
“Then you can open the door,” Jing Lan said, his tone easing.
The man, surnamed Feng, was in his fifties and operated a small roadside restaurant, water station, and repair shop at the foot of the mountain.
His hunting rifle, a double-barreled Eagle brand, was a family heirloom, privately kept by his forefathers, and fired slugs.
The man also possessed a key to Observation Station 115.
He had been entrusted by the forest authorities to repair their patrol vehicles, and since his work sometimes required him to go out, he had been given a key to the observation station within the forest area.
His current trip up the mountain was to hunt wild boar.
Hearing “wild boar,” Jing Lan felt a sense of relief; it seemed the strange noises he had heard in the forest earlier were, with eighty to ninety percent certainty, caused by these thick-skinned creatures.
“Aren’t you running a restaurant?
Are you already running out of food so quickly?” Ling Yechen asked Old Feng.
“Unfortunately, I was planning to stock up on New Year’s provisions in a few days.
So, supplies are scarce.
I do have a pot of chicken soup, though—for my wife and son.”
“Then why the rush to come out hunting?” Jing Lan inquired.
“A village down the road below is now full of madmen; I can’t get in.
I’m hunting a bit, and while I’m at it, I’ll grab some supplies from the observation station to take back.
After that, I’ll seal up the entire house, and my family will tough it out for half a month.”
“What happens after half a month?”
Old Feng looked puzzled. “What happens after half a month?
After half a month, won’t those madmen simply starve to death?”
A chill ran down Jing Lan’s spine as he swiftly grasped Old Feng’s reasoning.
‘Indeed, why hadn’t I considered that?’
‘Why assume zombies could survive indefinitely?’
Clearly, this preconceived notion was heavily influenced by various zombie-themed works.
Zombie narratives typically depicted zombies sustaining themselves by consuming human flesh.
Yet, a significant flaw existed in this premise.
If there were an abundance of living humans to consume, the living would have long since overwhelmed and eradicated the zombies.
Conversely, if a large number of living people transformed into zombies, wouldn’t the zombies eventually run out of food?
Taking it a step further, if zombies could even consume other zombies, that would be even better; they’d be like naturally occurring enchanting fungi, gnawing on each other, turning the biohazard into a sweet symphony, and humanity could simply watch as the zombies tore into one another.
It was Old Feng, who had likely never watched a zombie survival series, who, relying on extremely basic biological knowledge—the fact that one starves without food—deduced that the zombie crisis would likely not be prolonged.
Jing Lan voiced his thoughts, and his two companions agreed it made perfect sense.
Ling Yechen, too, was somewhat surprised he hadn’t considered the issue sooner. “Right,” he mused, “we subconsciously assumed the current situation was like in ‘The Walking Dead,’ where zombies never truly die.
But that directly violates the law of conservation of energy, doesn’t it?”
“So, can we just wait at the observation station for half a month?” Lui Si asked, her voice slightly weak.
Old Feng, being a meticulous person, immediately realized this might concern the allocation of supplies at Observation Station 115.
“You can hide at my place,” he offered, gesturing towards the foot of the mountain. “My house is quite spacious.”
“The mountain has a lot of mosquitoes.
Don’t let these clear days fool you; in a few days, they might all wake up.”
“That wouldn’t be bad,” Jing Lan commented, looking at Lui Si.
At the same time, he continued to question himself: ‘Why are you so determined to go down the mountain?’
If the zombies were indeed to starve within two weeks, then staying hidden in the observation station would certainly be a good strategy.
Lui Si let out a soft sigh.
“Never mind.
You all decide.”
Old Feng’s car was parked at the foot of the mountain; he had then gone up to hunt wild boars.
Therefore, he had originally intended to spend the night at the observation station.
Now, however, things had changed.
The group loaded their supplies into Jing Lan’s car, drove down the mountain, and then Old Feng got into his own vehicle, leading them to his shop.
The shop was approximately 15 kilometers from Station 115, a common roadside service point in the area, offering water refills for large trucks and featuring a deep concrete trench for basic vehicle inspections.
It also provided food and lodging.
Truck drivers also required rest; otherwise, a moment’s oversight could lead to accidentally running over a reckless “ghost fire” youth in a blind spot, costing them hundreds of thousands.
Old Feng and his wife had two sons, both slightly younger than Little Lamai—it was puzzling why he had such young children in his fifties.
His wife was a dark-skinned woman who appeared honest and dutiful—the type who had never left their hometown her entire life.
Old Feng’s family also ran a private guesthouse, so there were several extra beds, meaning the four members of their protagonist group wouldn’t have to worry about a place to sleep—or so it seemed.
However, after Lui Si and Little Lamai each chose a bed, only one remained.
“I’ll sleep with Little Lamai,” Jing Lan offered.
Regardless, Lui Si was a girl and deserved a bed to herself.
After all, she had slept alone on the sofa just last night.
“I… I’m not used to sleeping with others,” Little Lamai admitted, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
That left only one option…
As simple, local folk, Old Feng’s family shared a perfectly seasoned and delicious chicken soup with Jing Lan and his companions.
Afterward, conversation flowed—though no one recalled who started it—eventually turning to Jing Lan’s cousin trapped in the school.
Still chewing a mouthful of chicken, Old Feng boomed, “Of course you have to save them!
Why wouldn’t you?”
Then, as if recalling Jing Lan and his group lacked weapons, he pointed to the Eagle double-barreled hunting rifle in the corner. “You can borrow this, too.
There are also a dozen slugs.
Do you know how to use it?
If not, I can teach you.”
Apparently thinking that one gun would still be dangerous to take into the city, Old Feng slapped his forehead. “I have something even better!
I’ll show you after dinner.”
His wife asked, “What good things?
Why do you always do things so secretively?”
“Just a good knife.”
‘What good would a single knife do?’ Jing Lan thought to himself.
After dinner, Old Feng led him to his woodshed, where he dug out a small wooden box from underground.
Opening it, Jing Lan found five wooden-handled grenades neatly arranged inside.
“My goodness!” Jing Lan exclaimed.
“These are all privately hoarded treasures,” Old Feng whispered, “Don’t tell anyone after this is over that I gave them to you!”
It seemed even his wife was unaware of his collecting hobby.
These types of grenades were products of overproduction during a special era.
It was said that hundreds of millions of them were manufactured back then, with a quota of several per person, and they haven’t been completely destroyed to this day.
Accidents had even occurred in previous years.
Some elementary school students playing outdoors had found such grenades, brought them to class to play with, and they exploded.
“It’d be good if these things could be put to use; I’d be doing a good deed,” Old Feng patted his chest. “So it’s settled, if you’re a real man, you’ll go save your cousin.”
Jing Lan asked, a little curious, “What about your other relatives, Master Feng?”
Old Feng tapped his pipe. “No worries.
I’m unlucky.
Unlucky people either have few relatives or too many.
My old mother, she had pneumonia a few years ago, and couldn’t bear being cooped up at home, so she took medicine and passed away.”
Jing Lan found it difficult to inquire further.
Rural suicide was a major issue, but there was no need to discuss it now.
“Anyway, Little Jing, remember this: besides your family and your wife, don’t trust anyone else.
People can turn bad in an instant.”
Jing Lan frowned slightly.
He wondered if Old Feng had considered that Jing Lan was neither his relative nor his wife when he said that.
After dinner, the family played two rounds of mahjong with Jing Lan and Ling Yechen.
As night fully descended, around ten o’clock, they prepared for bed.
Jing Lan scrolled through his phone again, noticing that many major media platforms had gone silent.
However, most news platforms had a top story pinned:
“National Special Disaster Response Bureau Established”
The word “disaster” was rarely used by officials; they usually said “calamity.”
Jing Lan was just wondering whether to try sending Keke a WeChat message when a massive roar erupted from the distance, like the sound of machinery violently colliding.
Everyone in the house jumped in fright.
Old Feng quickly rushed to the front parlor window to look outside.
“It looks like a truck has overturned,” he said, glancing hesitantly at the people in the room, then asked, “Should we go help?” He wasn’t sure who he was asking.
Jing Lan immediately noticed that from the location where the truck had overturned, there seemed to be a peculiar, chaotic noise.