"Chapter 1: The D-Virus Outbreak [TOP]

May 18, 2012. Over three months had passed since the full-blown outbreak of the D-virus. In those three months, nations across the globe suffered relentless assaults by the virus. Countless people infected by it transformed into zombies. They gnawed frantically on survivors too slow to escape. Many became food for the shambling dead; many more, bitten or merely coming into contact with the infected, became like them themselves.

Governments worldwide battled desperately against the hordes of ravenous zombies. But the sheer numbers were overwhelming. Out of a global population nearing seven billion, less than a billion survived. Factoring in those consumed or infected – bitten or touched – the number of surviving humans had dwindled to under seven hundred million.

May 20, 2012. Inside a large supermarket in Z City, S Province, China, a young man, his face smudged with grime and clothes hanging in tatters, moved with extreme caution as he searched. He constantly glanced around, his expression taut with panic.

After a tense few moments, he finally discovered a few packets of instant noodles tucked away in a corner on the first floor. Staring at the noodles in his hands, he swallowed hard, a visible hunger in his throat, but then quickly shoved them into a plastic bag. His gaze drifted reluctantly towards the well-stocked food section dominating the center of the floor. There lay tantalizing canned meats and packaged goods, enough to last him years. Yet he knew, with stark certainty, that place was forbidden territory. He could only search the fringes, the corners, for scattered, forgotten food, and then vanish as quickly and silently as he had arrived.

His name was Meng Bufan. He possessed a certain youthful neatness, but his frame – one meter seventy-five tall, weighing just sixty-five kilograms – seemed painfully thin and slight.

Bufan was a local. His parents died of illness when he was seven, leaving him to be raised by his uncle. Poverty forced him to drop out after his second year of middle school. Since then, he'd drifted through various menial jobs. Growing up unguided, starved of parental affection, molded him into someone solitary. He rarely spoke an unnecessary word. At twenty-two, he had almost no friends, a picture of profound introversion.

Over three months ago, when the D-virus exploded into the world, his uncle became a gruesome meal for the dead. Bufan himself had been working on the supermarket's third floor when the nightmare began. He watched, stunned, as people around him twisted into horrific shapes. Patches of skin sloughed off, revealing raw, bloody flesh beneath. Then, they became monsters, mindlessly attacking anyone nearby.

Terrified, Bufan scrambled into a room at the back of the third floor – the manager’s office. It was relatively plush, equipped with a computer and air conditioning. But aesthetics were meaningless now. As soon as he burst inside, he frantically dragged the desk, the sofa, and even the water dispenser to barricade the door. Then he huddled in the farthest corner, his eyes wide with terror, glued to the entrance.

For about two hours, chaos reigned outside. Then, an unnerving silence fell, so complete he could hear his own frantic heartbeat hammering in his ears. He waited longer, straining for any sound. Hearing nothing, he slowly uncurled and crept towards the door. He pressed his ear against the wood, listening intently. Only after repeated, tense moments of silence did he dare shift the barricade slightly. He cracked the door open just a sliver, one eye peering out, filled with dread.

The office sat in the northeast corner of the third floor. Beyond the door lay the clothing section. The scene that met his eye froze his blood. Garments lay haphazardly scattered on the floor. Display shelves were overturned. The floor was a disaster zone. Yet, what filled him with raw terror were the scattered, mutilated corpses: arms missing, legs gone, some with bellies ripped open, entrails spilling onto the floor. Blood saturated everything. It was a tableau straight from a real-life horror movie, a visceral, terrifying echo of some grim apocalypse. He slammed the door shut, retreating. Fear and unease dominated his mind. What had happened? Why did people turn into… that? It was unthinkably horrific, like a waking nightmare.

Despite his ingrained introversion, fear wasn't usually a stranger he bowed to. He walked dark alleys others avoided, ventured where others wouldn't. Yet, faced with such grotesque reality, even his resolve wavered. This was no prank, no movie. It was unfolding brutally around him. Watching ordinary people descend into cannibalistic frenzy would shatter anyone's courage. Less stout hearts would likely be paralyzed.

Bufan forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to steady his nerves. He needed to see, to understand. Summoning courage, he cautiously moved the sofa and desk, unblocking the door. Slowly, painstakingly, he opened it just a crack, scanning the dim surroundings for several long minutes. Convinced it was clear, he pulled it open wider.

Just as he prepared to step out, a figure lurched from behind a nearby clothing rack. A zombie, its mouth smeared crimson. One arm was entirely missing, black blood oozing thickly from the ragged stump. Patches of decayed skin hung loose or were gone entirely, revealing bone in places. Its eyes fixed hungrily on Bufan as it chewed rhythmically on something unseen, thick droplets of blood plopping rhythmically to the floor from its jaws.

Bufan’s mind went blank. His legs felt suddenly weak. For two heartbeats, their eyes locked. Then, the zombie emitted a guttural snarl and began shambling towards him. Its movements were clumsy, slow, but the sheer grotesqueness made each step a horror.

Terror froze him for a split second before instinct screamed Move! He slammed the door shut with desperate force, immediately throwing his body weight against it and shoving the desk and sofa back with frantic haste. Paranoia seized him; anything remotely movable in the room – chairs, files, the computer monitor – was hurled against the burgeoning barricade. Only then, barricaded behind his fragile fortress, did he scuttle back to the corner, wrapping his arms tightly around himself in a protective ball.

Then came the knocking. Slow. Heavy. Resonating like a death knell through the makeshift barricade and vibrating deep into Bufan’s bones, making him shake uncontrollably. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying silently, fervently to whatever might be listening. The knocking persisted. Though deliberate, each impact landed with monstrous force, rattling the door itself and causing the piled furniture to shudder. It went on for what felt like an eternity, a full minute of pure, unadulterated terror… and then, abruptly, it ceased.

Bufan opened his eyes, pupils dilated, locked onto the door, bracing for the moment it would explode inward. He waited, coiled tight in the corner. Half an hour crawled by. Silence, thick and absolute. This time, no force on earth could compel him to open that door. He stayed curled in the gloom, motionless. He didn't know what to do. Had no plan. Existence distilled to waiting; waiting and hiding.

Only fear remained now, a deep, chilling dread that filled him utterly. The image of the mangled creature – its dripping maw, its decaying form – replayed ceaselessly behind his eyelids, refusing to be banished no matter how hard he tried.

Gradually, exhaustion born of sheer terror overtook his frayed nerves. In the suffocating silence of the fortified office, Meng Bufan finally succumbed to a haunted, restless sleep…"