In the northwest corner of Zhaojia Village, a two-story house stood as a fragile bastion for Old Zhao, the village’s sole survivor. He cowered in the innermost bedroom on the second floor, clutching a hoe with trembling hands, his forehead slick with cold sweat. The bedroom door groaned under the relentless pressure of a starved Six-Star zombie battering against it. Damn it all, Old Zhao complained, his mind reeling with bitterness as he cursed the heavens. When the apocalypse erupted, he had been toiling in the fields, like most villagers. The horror of watching his neighbours transform into ravenous zombies, tearing into anyone nearby, drove him to flee home. There, he found only tragedy: his five-year-old grandson, bitten and lifeless, and his wife, turned into a zombie. Overwhelmed by grief, Old Zhao summoned the strength forged by years of farm labour to lock his wife in the downstairs utility room and bury his grandson in the courtyard. She’s still in there, somewhere, isn’t she? He wondered, clinging to village tales that zombies retained their souls. Unable to contact his son in the city or access news, he was ignorant of the world’s collapse, surviving in trembling isolation.

At first, the zombies posed little threat—sparse and sluggish, easily felled by a seasoned farmer like Old Zhao. His livestock—chickens, ducks, pigs, and cows— went berserk on the day of the outbreak, scattering into the fields or mountains, some becoming prey for zombies. Only unmutated animals remained in their pens, docile and unaware. Food had not been a concern; Old Zhao’s courtyard garden provided vegetables for months, and a room full of harvested rice, paired with a de-husking machine at the village entrance,  ensured self-sufficiency. As long as I ration, I can live, he thought, even planning to plant seedlings when the chaos subsided. But the zombies evolved, growing stronger and more relentless, targeting not just humans but poultry too. After the first week, Old Zhao ceased confronting them, barricading himself indoors and venturing out only at night to harvest vegetables. His wife’s increasing strength had been his undoing; that day, she broke free from the utility room, her zombified form lunging for him. He barely escaped to the second floor, locking himself in. Maybe it’s better to die, he wailed. At nearly seventy, his hopes of a grand birthday banquet with his son were shattered.

He was cloaked in despair. Suddenly, the zombie’s groans ceased, replaced by the sounds of combat beyond the door. A voice  called out, “Is anyone in there?” Old Zhao jolted upright, his heart racing. “Yes, yes!” he shouted, flinging open the door with reckless abandon. Human voices—after half a month, he thought, uncaring whether friend or foe awaited. Outside stood Chen Liu and his team, their faces mirroring his surprise. They cleared the entire village, finding Old Zhao as its sole survivor. The village had been a grim tableau: elderly zombies were expected, but the sight of child-sized undead pierced their hearts. Children are our future, and now they’re gone, Chen Liu mourned, the weight of humanity’s loss heavy on him. Old Zhao, cautious yet hopeful,  asked, “Were you sent by the government to rescue us?” Unaware of the world’s transformation, his question carried a flicker of pre-apocalypse faith. Chen Liu hesitated, then replied, “We’re not from the government. We’re from Jinghu Sanatorium.” Old Zhao’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Oh, yes, I remember,” he mumbled, dazed, inviting them in with stiff formality.

Chen Liu offered a concise explanation of the outside world’s collapse, each word deepening Old Zhao’s silence. The old man’s weathered face betrayed helplessness and confusion. “So you’re saying… we don’t have a home anymore?” Home? Chen Liu thought the word now a painful luxury. The question silenced not just him but Li Dong, Zhang Chong, Yu Dachao, and Zheng Kuncheng. For most, the apocalypse had severed ties to family, leaving them alone or separated by vast distances, with no certainty of reunion. Home is a dream we can’t afford, Chen Liu mused. The anticipated threat of mutated beasts did not materialise, easing their sweep of the village. By midday, they eradicated the zombie population, restoring an eerie peace to Zhaojia Village. Li Dong, surveying the surroundings, spoke thoughtfully. “Captain, this place is great. Why not move our base here instead of staying at the sanatorium?” His excitement grew as he outlined the village’s advantages: a hand pump for water, fields of rice and vegetables, and the potential to fortify it with walls against zombies and beasts. “This could be a paradise,” he  said, his enthusiasm infectious among Zhang Chong and the others.

Chen Liu silently weighed the proposal. Zhaojia Village could sustain us for a year, he conceded, recognizing its immediate viability. But his ambitions stretched beyond mere survival. I need to grow stronger, and this place can’t offer that, he thought. “It’s a good spot,” he said carefully, “but zombies and beasts will keep evolving. A year from now, how will we stop them?” Zheng Kuncheng  countered, “Surviving one year is better than none.” Li Dong added, “In a year, Liao City Base will be operational, and the roads will be clearer. We can relocate then.” They’re thinking short-term, Chen Liu realised, but his mind was fixed on the long game. Without a rebuttal, he let the idea linger, knowing their future depended on more than temporary safety.