"Chapter 1

May 4, 2012, 2:00 PM. Clear skies, light breeze.

Minshan City, XL Province, Huaxia.

In a residential complex nestled on the outskirts of the city, specifically the left unit on the sixth floor (the top floor) of the fourth building counting in from the main entrance gate.

Inside the bedroom, Zhao Bin lay supine on a large bed layered with black foam padding. His torso was bare, revealing defined and powerful musculature. He performed a continuous series of strenuous sit-ups; with each powerful contraction, the clear outline of a six-pack flexed across his abdomen. Sweat streamed down his skin, dripping onto the foam pad.

The bedroom was cramped. A bed, a computer desk, and a bookshelf left little room. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out most light, allowing only slivers of illumination to seep through the gaps. The bedroom door remained firmly shut.

Zhao Bin's skin had a pallor suggesting infrequent exposure to sunlight. His features were reasonably symmetrical, topped with a neat crew cut. However, his eyes burned with an unusually intense focus. On the bedside table sat a phone with a black cover. Suddenly, it buzzed loudly, accompanied by violent vibrations.

Zhao Bin immediately halted his workout, snatched the phone, glanced at the caller ID, and pressed the answer button.

""Hey, Zhao Bin? It’s Zheng Yang. My dad’s sick today, gotta take him to the hospital. Could you cover for me and request time off when you go to the office? Okay? I’ll treat you to dinner when things settle.""

Zhao Bin chuckled. A year out of college, he’d scraped together the means to land a job at a pharmaceutical company. Having lost his parents to illness years before, he’d painstakingly saved for a year, finally managing to buy this unit in the city’s suburban complex. This roughly 190-square-meter unit had drained his entire life savings and mortgaged a significant chunk of his salary for the next decade. This was his hard-won stability. Zheng Yang was one of the graduates who’d joined the company with him. While Zheng Yang was sociable and got along with everyone, Zhao Bin was naturally more reserved. Despite this, their relationship wasn't bad, and covering shifts or requesting time off for each other was routine.

""No problem. I'm heading to the office right now. Remember to bring the hospitalization certificate tomorrow.""

""Sounds good! Tomorrow I'll… AH!!!""

sudden, ear-splitting shriek pierced through the phone, the sheer volume making Zhao Bin's ears ring. His heart lurched. ""Zheng Yang! What's wrong? Are you okay?""

""AAHHH!! NO! DAD!! DON’T BITE ME!! …Ahhh…"" Zheng Yang’s terrified screams continued over the line, growing progressively fainter as if he was moving away from the phone.

series of bizarre, wet chewing sounds emanated clearly from the receiver, punctuated by occasional guttural snarls. The noise resembled some wild beast devouring its prey.

Zhao Bin swallowed hard. Zheng Yang’s agonized cries echoed down the line, suggesting some extreme, horrifying ordeal.

""Zheng Yang!! Are you still there? Should I call the police!?""

""ROOOAAAAARRR!!!"" A ferocious roar erupted from the phone, startling Zhao Bin badly.

""Help… heeeelp…"" Zheng Yang seemed to be calling out weakly, then his voice faded abruptly into silence.

Zhao Bin decisively ended the call and immediately dialed 110.

""Sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be connected at this time. Please try again later.""

Scratch (Frustrated grunt sound)

Zhao Bin seethed with impatience. So much for 24/7 service! Useless when it matters! He slammed the phone down and dashed to the landline beside the computer, rapidly punching in 110 again. The same computerized tone, reporting failure to connect, greeted him.

""A life’s at stake! Forget this, I have to get to the nearest police station."" Though Zheng Yang wasn’t his closest friend, a life was still a life. As withdrawn as Zhao Bin was, he couldn't stand by and do nothing while a familiar colleague potentially died.

He swiftly pulled on clothes, fastened his belt, pocketed his phone, and lunged towards the door.

""Ahhh!""

Another scream echoed.

Zhao Bin froze. This one came from outside his window. He rushed over and yanked the curtains aside. Below, residents who moments ago were sparse and calm were now fleeing in terror, scattering in all directions.

""What in the world…?"" Zhao Bin pushed open the window and craned his neck to look down.

His eyes locked onto a chilling sight directly opposite: by the convenience store downstairs, the once thin, balding elderly store owner, now seemingly turbocharged, charged at the fleeing crowd with bloodshot eyes and a gaping maw. His speed was terrifyingly, unnaturally fast.

Countless others, acting just like the balding man, surged out from every corner and building entrance. Some caught people and immediately began to gnaw; others, missing their targets, unleashed frenzied howls and resumed their pursuit.

Screams, wails, cries for help melded into a horrifying cacophony. The tranquil complex instantly became a scene of pandemonium.

Thud! ... ""AAHHH!!! Don’t come closer! NO!!""

Zhao Bin snapped his gaze upwards. On the fifth-floor balcony directly across from him, a middle-aged woman stumbled backward in panic. The thud had been a flowerpot knocked off the balcony railing by her frantic movements. She brandished a clothesline pole like a weapon, desperately thrusting it into her own apartment. A middle-aged man, utterly ignoring the blows, snarled and pounced, pinning her down. His gaping jaws clamped viciously onto her neck. A sudden jet of bright crimson blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the man’s face. The woman struggled wildly but uselessly. The man chewed savagely. Within less than a minute, the woman's head tore free, her entire neck severed. The sight of the mangled stump, glimpses of torn trachea, red-streaked white vertebrae, and the continuing fountain of blood delivered an unparalleled jolt of visceral horror to Zhao Bin standing yards away.

In the distance, the faint wail of police sirens became audible, occasionally punctuated by sharp pops – gunshots. But the sounds always stopped abruptly after only a few rounds.

Zhao Bin stood frozen for a moment, transfixed by the grisly scene, until the feasting man across the way lifted his blood-soaked head, met Zhao Bin's horrified stare, and let out an earth-shaking bellow directly at him. Only then did Zhao Bin snap back to reality.

Whump! Crash! The window slammed shut, the curtains yanked tightly closed. Zhao Bin, face ashen, slid down the wall onto the floor, his chest heaving rapidly. His eyes were wide with stunned disbelief, edged with burgeoning terror.

""What is this...? Resident Evil?"" He’d seen the movie; a classic. And what was unfolding outside felt chillingly identical to its opening scenes.

""Calm down. Get a grip! Panic and fear won't help,"" he told himself firmly. ""The most important thing now is to find out what the hell is happening."" He took several deep, deliberate breaths, closed his eyes for a moment to center himself, and waited for the frantic pounding in his chest to subside. Then he surged to his feet.

First, he bolted to the computer and powered it on. Simultaneously, he raced into the living room and flipped on the TV.

The TV sprang to life faster. Snow filled the screen on the first channel. Zhao Bin frantically channel-surfed. Finally, one channel displayed an image, but the small ""Replay"" tag in the upper right corner was unmistakable – yesterday's news, rerun.

""Xinhua News Agency reports: Fifteen nations, including the United Kingdom, the United States, Italy, and France, have simultaneously reported outbreaks of a severe influenza strain. Initial estimates suggest millions may be infected. The scale and speed of this outbreak far surpasses that of the SARS virus. According to Dr. Squall, a virologist with the World Health Organization, the transmissibility and adaptability of this 'Streaming Strain Virus' are unprecedented. Cross-species infection presents no difficulty for it. In response, nations worldwide are implementing strict containment measures, aiming for complete isolation of infected zones to protect uninfected populations...""

""The virus has been designated SG3-type. Transmission is confirmed via bodily fluids. Viral samples have demonstrated extraordinary resilience, surviving for 24 hours even at temperatures above 70 degrees Celsius in a vacuum. Incubation period is approximately 24 hours. Initial symptoms mimic common cold, progressing to mid-stage symptoms involving...""

Zhao Bin hastily grabbed a pen and scribbled down the key points: SG3, Bodily Fluids, Highly Resistant, 24hr Incubation. He then sprinted back to the bedroom where the computer boot-up screen was finishing.

Major news portals dominated the browser homepage. Blood-red banners screamed headlines like ""Biohazard Apocalypse!"" Scrolling reports detailed outbreaks and violent attacks by infected individuals occurring globally.

Zhao Bin clicked on one report accompanied by a photo.

The image showed a man, his skin grotesquely swollen and deathly pale. He was captured mid-lunge, arms raised, claws outstretched. His eyes were pools of bloody crimson. His gaping maw revealed rows of jagged, unnaturally sharp teeth. His scalp was mostly devoid of hair. His entire face was twisted into a mask of ravenous, feral hunger.

Scanning rapidly, Zhao Bin absorbed the horrifying scope: Worldwide. No corner of the globe seemed untouched. Reports poured in from every continent – infected individuals attacking, spreading chaos. One embedded news clip showed a reporter interviewing someone on the street one moment, only to be violently tackled from behind by a lunging infected man moments later.

Military, research facilities, government offices, hospitals… the reports painted a picture of utter systemic collapse. This level of global saturation was impossible through bodily fluids alone. Airborne transmission seemed the only plausible explanation for such rapid, near-universal devastation.

Zhao Bin dashed back to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer out.

Across the way, spatters of vibrant red stained windowsills and walls on multiple floors. Through some windows, he could make out the hunched, rhythmic movements of figures clearly tearing into something. Looking down into the complex itself sent a chill through him. Living residents were nowhere to be seen. The grounds were awash in smears and pools of blood. Small clusters of infected individuals squatted or knelt near unmoving forms, feeding voraciously, occasionally flinging away unrecognizable chunks of gore. A wave of visceral revulsion squeezed Zhao Bin’s chest. His scalp prickled.

""What now? The whole world is infected. Where is safe? Thank god I just bought two bags of rice."" He mentally calculated his own consumption. ""That might last me about two months. But I need protein, vegetables... vitamins. I can't survive long on rice alone.""

He dove for the medicine cabinet. He swiftly inventoried all antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, medical iodine, gauze, bandages – anything that seemed remotely useful. Next, he rushed through every room in his unit – three bedrooms, a living room, plus a kitchen and bathroom, effectively five rooms – meticulously closing and securing every window and pulling every curtain tightly shut.

He hauled all the gathered medications and the stockpiled food (the rice, some dried goods) into the largest bedroom – his chosen fortress. He bolted to a storage closet and pulled out several large sections of leftover aluminum sheeting from past renovations, grabbed a hammer and a box of nails, and began feverishly boarding up the bedroom window from the inside.

Bang! Bang! Thud! For a solid ten minutes, the rhythmic hammering echoed. He secured four overlapping sheets on each window pane, forming a sturdy 'X' pattern. He gave each plate a final, savage tug. Solid. He double-checked the sturdy metal security door to the apartment – locked tight. Finally, he collapsed onto the cool, smooth tile floor of the living room, drenched in sweat.

The once pristine white floor tiles were now dusty with plaster debris stirred up by his frantic construction. Even through the sealed windows and doors, the pervasive coppery tang of blood seemed to seep into the air.

Slumped against the heavy security door, exhaustion and fear washing over him, Zhao Bin felt utterly drained. The intense adrenaline rush and paralyzing terror had consumed his reserves. Now, with the immediate barriers in place offering a fragile sense of security, bone-deep fatigue crept in. Compounded by his interrupted post-workout state, his eyelids felt weighted with lead. Unconsciousness stole over him where he sat, slumped against the cold metal door in the dim apartment.

Sometime later – how long, he couldn't tell in the blackout sleep – a sound jolted him awake.

Thud… Thud-thud…

heavy, rhythmic pounding vibrated the security door against his back.

His eyes snapped open. Total darkness enveloped the apartment. No light seeped around the thick curtains. Zhao Bin tensed instantly, pressing his ear flat against the cool metal door.

Thud… Thud-thud…

It sounded like something heavy impacting the wall nearby. Zhao Bin visualized the building’s layout, identical apartments side-by-side. Their living rooms shared a single wall. The sounds were coming from next door's living room.

He carefully pushed himself up, silently wincing. Sitting slumped on the cold floor had stiffened his legs. He massaged his thighs, urging blood flow back into them. Couldn't afford weakness now. He slowly, silently pressed his eye to the security door’s peephole.

Darkness. But within the gloom, he could just make out a faint, swaying silhouette shifting erratically in the hallway.

low, guttural, wet rasping sound, like labored breathing through thick fluid, drifted faintly through the barrier.

""A zombie!"" The thought flashed, stark terror kicking his heart into a gallop. He stumbled back several paces, sucking in shallow, sharp breaths.

The sudden noise inside his apartment seemed to alert the figure outside.

Screeeeeetch…

harsh, grating noise of metal scraping against metal erupted right outside the door, vibrating through the frame. Accompanying it was a faint, sickly-sweet stench of decay – like rotting meat wafting under the door.

Zhao Bin’s face paled further. He froze, rooted to the spot, scarcely daring to breathe.

The scraping continued relentlessly – the unmistakable sound of ragged fingernails repeatedly clawing against the steel surface of the security door. Zhao Bin could vividly imagine the scene: blood-red eyes fixed on the barrier, an inhuman snarl ripping from its throat, filthy hands relentlessly scraping, scraping for a hold.

The ear-splitting noise was magnified in the unnatural silence of the night.

One minute passed. Then two.

BANG!

The security door shuddered violently as something massive slammed against it with brutal force."