by Chu, Wesley
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To Russ,
For helping me navigate through the apocalypse
1 THE NEW WORLD
From a distance, Fongyuan village appeared to exist outside of time.
Nestled in the lover’s embrace of the Yuanjiang River in the heart of Hunan province, it was an ancient and beautiful place that held tightly to its storied past and fought bitterly against the ravages of change. Lush mountains rose above the morning mists, like spines on a dragon’s back. A dance of stark white cranes stood on its bank, impassively scanning the water for small prey. The muddled algae-ridden river, wide and meandering, curved through the valley like a spotted mountain viper.
The village was a collection of densely stacked old structures dating back to the Song dynasty, along with the occasional multistory twentieth-century apartment building, all capped by traditional curved roofs and flying corners. Several buildings on both sides of the river jutted over the water on stilts, reminiscent of the cranes wading in the shallows. A waterfall cut through the mountains in the distance, feeding a narrow stream that meandered to join the Yuanjiang. Apart from the overgrown flora, burned-out car husks, and the occasional toppled structure, the village looked idyllic.
Over the centuries, Fongyuan had withstood famine, foreign invaders, and civil unrest. It had fought bitterly against the Japanese during the Second World War and served as a stronghold to revolutionaries during the ensuing Chinese Civil War. Every time destruction had come for Fongyuan, the village had persisted, rebuilding itself dozens of times over a thousand years.
What it could not survive, however, was the dead rising from their graves.
Out of the mist, two figures ambled onto a stone road at the edge of the village, their movements stilted and clipped. They bumped into one another as they walked, as if deep in a drunken conversation.
Chen Wenzhu leaned over the edge of the roof and studied the pair impatiently as they passed underneath his perch. They looked worn, skin flayed to the bones, probably victims from the first days. The lucky ones.
The first figure, gaunt and slightly stooped, swayed down the rough, steep cobbled path, shoulder deflecting off a wall before careening into the middle of the street. She was missing her arm from the elbow down. Half of her jaw was exposed under a thin layer of loose flesh that gently quivered in the wind. Her dress, once an ankle-length floral cascade of vibrant pink, was now tattered, faded, and stained dark with blood and viscera.
The pair were unusual in that the smaller one followed closely behind the taller one and was holding her hand. Shirtless and barefoot, it looked like a little boy who couldn’t have been more than five or six. He had an untouched, angelic face and black hair in a bowl cut. He could have almost passed for living if it were not for the distant look in his eyes and the ugly gash across his neck.
The two jiāngshī, as they were now called, were doomed to walk the world forever in this undead existence until someone pitied them with a second death. A final death.
Jiāngshī.
Zhu clicked his tongue. That was what everyone called the dead-who-refused-to-stay-dead. It was an old name, one shrouded in folklore that dated back as far as the Qing dynasty. The jiāngshī of legend were corpses reanimated by magic or spirits. They were terrible creatures who fed on qi, or the life force of a person.
The dead that rose now, these things that plagued the land, were something else entirely, and their reality was much, much worse than their namesake.
Ming Haobo, crouching next to Zhu, wondered aloud. “What do you think, Elena? Mother and child? Teacher and student? Two strangers who found each other when the outbreak swept the village?”
The third person on their wind team, Elena Anderson, made a muffled sound suspiciously like a coo. “I think it’s a grandma. She looks like an Agatha or a Maribelle. That little boy’s name is Bobby. Little Bobby came to visit Grandma Maribelle out here in the countryside.”
“Maribelle probably baked cookies and mooncakes for Bobby.” Bo stumbled a bit on the English names, but Elena grinned at his effort. Who knows, one day his English could be better than her Mandarin.
“You always go straight to food, Bo.”
Bo shrugged. “Every time I visited my năinai, all I did was eat well.”
Elena nudged him in his generous midsection. “That explains so much.” They watched as Maribelle led Bobby to a staircase jutting out of a house. She bumped up against its side and continued to walk in place. Elena sounded wistful. “Maribelle probably took Bobby on long strolls through the village.”
Bo played along. “They flew kites and caught dragonflies at the playground a few blocks back.”
“They went fishing down at the stream every morning.”
Bo pointed at a third jiāngshī farther back that had just turned onto the street. “Maybe that one behind them is the grandfather. What do you think his name is?”
Elena pursed her lips. “He looks like a—”
“That’s enough,” interrupted Zhu. “We’re losing light.” Although he tolerated anything that would take their mind off reality, he didn’t approve of this game. Giving names to the dead made their job much harder than it needed to be. Besides, all this mucking around was going to get someone killed.
Zhu pointed to the smaller jiāngshī. “Elena, shoot the one on the left. I’ll take the one on the right.” He looked over at the third jiāngshī. “Bo, take out the yéye, the grandfather.”
Elena and Bo got to work. Bo crept down the length of the curved roof toward his assigned jiāngshī while Elena drew her bow. All three dropped down from the roofs at the same time. Elena took a moment to find her balance, favoring one leg as she rose to her feet. The street was slanted and the cobblestones uneven. Zhu didn’t wait for her as he rushed the pair.
He was about to bury his machete in Maribelle’s neck when an arrow streaked over his shoulder and punched into her skull. Maribelle dropped like a sack of bones as the undeath left her. Zhu changed targets quickly and brought his blade around to the smaller figure, lopping poor little Bobby’s head off in one fluid motion.
He shot Elena an annoyed look and slapped his right arm. “This is right.”
“Sorry,” she muttered, lowering her bow. “I got them confused again.”
Zhu nodded, but wondered if that were really true. More likely she didn’t want to shoot the little boy; Elena was sensitive like that. Understandable, but developing empathy for things you had to kill was dangerous. It was a lesson he’d learned early in his childhood when he used to name the family chickens. The day his yéye grabbed two of his favorite hens and wrung their necks before taking them into the kitchen was one of the most traumatic of his life.
Zhu gave her the benefit of the doubt. “We’ll review again later. How’s your leg?”
“I rolled my ankle. I’ll be fine.”
He glanced back just in time to see Bo’s sledgehammer explode the last jiāngshī’s head like a melon, splattering flesh and bone against the back wall. The big man immediately pulled out a rag and carefully wiped his hammer clean.
Bo rejoined them a moment later and glanced down at their handiwork. He looked crestfallen. “I hope you’re eating mooncakes in heaven,
little Bobby.”
The wind team hurried off the main road and sprinted down the winding side street. Zhu kept an eye on Elena as she tried to keep up with her injured leg. Stones cut from all different shapes and sizes, mashed together like a giant puzzle and worn down after centuries of use, made the path rough and uneven. The single-story buildings that lined both sides were built from a patchwork of wood, stone, and concrete blocks, each layer of materials a time stamp of its era. The roofs above each building hung low and stretched out over the street, covering the sky, save for a narrow strip down the center.
As they continued moving, weaving, and pushing past small clusters of jiāngshī, Zhu searched for another opportunity to get back to higher ground. It was never safe to stay on the ground in a village for more than a few seconds. Besides, they were a wind team; up above was where they belonged, moving silently and safely like the gusts whistling overhead. Fortunately, they were still at the outskirts, or else the jump down from the roofs would have been suicide. The shadows from the setting sun were growing longer. They had to find shelter soon.
The street itself was surprisingly clean and empty, considering it had not been swept or maintained in many months. This was likely due to the start of the rainy season that had drenched most of the province the past couple of weeks. A light breeze was blowing in from the north, kicking up swirls of mist and tickling the hairs on the back of Zhu’s neck. The wind carried with it faint traces of rot but also the freshness of spring and the minute promise of new life.
Zhu signaled for his team to stay close. They sped halfway down the street before turning into a narrow alley barely two body-widths wide. A jiāngshī with its back to him turned and extended its arm. It just managed to growl before he kicked it in the chest, sending it toppling over a pile of refuse. Zhu’s machete stabbed into its eye socket, and he continued down the alley without slowing. He made a left, then a right, and then stopped at yet another intersection to get his bearings and to check if his team was still behind him. Elena was only a step behind, and Bo pulled up a few seconds later, puffing heavily.
“It’s nearly dark,” she said, her eyes darting across each possible path. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”
One street had a barricade of crates and an overturned ox cart. Before it was a cluster of jiāngshī huddled around a pile of garbage. That left only one way to go, except it would lead them in the wrong direction. Unless…
Bo stared at that group uneasily. “Which way, xiăodì?” Calling him little brother wasn’t exactly an accurate term of endearment. Bo was actually almost old enough to be Zhu’s father.
“We’re almost there.” That was a small lie. Zhu wasn’t sure. Much had changed over the years and nothing looked familiar anymore, especially after the world had fallen apart. His chest clenched. He shouldn’t have come here.
He hurried down the only way available, giving the rest of his team no other option but to follow. They were halfway down the street when Zhu found what he was looking for. He tossed his machete onto the tin awning of a chicken coop, and pulled himself up. Elena and Bo followed on his heels.
“Watch your step.” He glanced around the edge of the coop where the roof supports sat. Who knew how many jiāngshī were inside the buildings beneath their feet. The three navigated the ancient maze of high and low roofs before finally dropping down to an enclosed courtyard where two jiāngshī were stuck in a muddy koi pond. They raised their arms at the sight of people, but were otherwise not a threat. The team scaled the opposite wall and tightrope walked gingerly along the perimeter until they reached the second-story balcony of the adjacent building. A short jump later, they entered what appeared to be an abandoned apartment building.
Zhu shed his duffel and sniffed. The air had no trace of rot, thankfully, but he paused at the doorway as a wave of familiar memories and nostalgia washed over him. “We should be able to rest here.” They were fortunate to have a roof over their heads tonight. He wasn’t sure they would make it by sundown. The village was only a half day’s journey from the farthest yellow flag, but it had taken his wind team two days to navigate a safe route through this uncharted region.
The sparse living room had a couch on one end, a tube television in the corner, and a broken rocking chair. Even after all these months, the elements had not found a way to invade this building. The place looked neat, tidy even, save for the thick layer of dust. Just like he remembered. Old memories flooded Zhu’s head: the familiar smell of his năinai’s hotpot, the long nights the family spent together watching fireflies light up the sky, spending an evening with his sister in the living room taking apart the kite so they could make bows and arrows from the frame. Bo hit a little too close to home earlier when he was chatting with Elena: this used to be Zhu’s grandparents’ home. His parents actually lived in the apartment downstairs, but any place on the ground level was far too dangerous to investigate. The last time he was here, the apartment was overflowing with four generations of the family Chen. Now, as far as he knew, he was the only one left. Zhu had no idea what had happened to any of them. His grandmother must have perished early on. She was to be ninety-nine this year. As for his parents, grandfather, and sister, Zhu lost contact with them shortly after the power grid and phone lines went down. He had not heard from them since.
The place now looked peaceful and empty: empty of death, of jiāngshī, of violence. For that he was glad. He had steeled himself in preparing for the worst. Zhu turned away from his team and squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring a goodbye to his family and apologizing for not being here when they needed him. He should have been a better son and returned home as soon as he realized that the government was losing control of the outbreak. Should have taken the first bus back to the village when the infection spread. Should have walked when the buses and trains stopped running. But he didn’t. Now the only thing he could do was finally put his past to rest and move on. He had no other choice.
The final days before the country fell were filled with confusion and chaos. The Ministry of Health’s last report had warned that there could already be seven hundred million jiāngshī. That meant over half of China’s population had perished within the first few weeks of the outbreak. That number would only be higher now, six months later.
At the time, the government had assured its people that everything was under control. Everything would be well again! The people would overcome, the dead would be cleared, and the survivors would rebuild! China would survive as it always had, on the strength and determination of her people!
They trumpeted that message all the way up to the final moments, when Beijing suddenly went quiet. Panic spread to the rest of the body once the head became silent. Many of the local governments collapsed. Outside of large cities, the roads were the most dangerous places to be in China. People from the cities tried to flee to the countryside to get away from the rivers of dead, and those from the villages tried to flee to the cities where they thought the government could protect them. The result was that travel ground to a halt in every direction. Anywhere people congregated and sought refuge, death soon took up residence. The outbreak found an abundance of carriers, spreading to every corner of the Land Under Heaven.
Elena, picking through the drawers and cabinets, put her hands to her hips. “How did you know about this place, Zhu?”
There were definitely places with easier access and better amenities in which to hole up for the night, but Zhu would rather not get into that right now. He did not want to spend the next few hours talking with his team about his past. The guilt was still fresh and the pain raw. Besides, they had a job to do. But as long as he was coming back to Fongyuan, Zhu knew he would regret it if he didn’t at least stop by his family’s home one last time. This could be his last chance. “It’s just an abandoned apartment.” He pointed at a stove tucked in the corner. “Get a fire started. Bo, check the kitchen. I’ll search the rooms.”
Zhu wandered down the hallway clutching his machete. If ther
e were a jiāngshī in here, they should have heard it by now. They definitely would have smelled it by now. One couldn’t be too certain, or careful, however.
His grandparents’ bedroom was bare except for a large traditional stone bed and wooden dresser. All the drawers were opened and empty. The opposite wall with one window was decorated with several portraits of his năinai and yéye that spanned from their teenage years into when they were both gray, wrinkly, and stooped over. The largest picture on the wall displayed his extended family, which easily numbered into the fifties. If Zhu looked carefully, he could just see the upper half of his teenage head on the far right, right next to the blotted-out face of his cousin’s ex-husband. Năinai was merciless when it came to family.
On a small table in the corner was a shrine to the Buddha with spent incense sticks still resting in cups. A xiàngqí board sat on a small bench next to the bed, its pieces set up and ready for a chess game that would never happen.
Zhu picked up one of the pieces—the elephant—and noted its worn edges and many scratches, no doubt from all the times he had hurled it angrily to the ground in frustration. He was a sore loser when he was young, and his yéye was merciless, even to an eight-year-old boy. Zhu tapped the piece on the board before placing it back exactly where he had found it. Maybe someone else would find it and put the game to good use. It just wouldn’t be him. Games, while highly sought after at the Beacon, were given low points as scavenge. Besides, he couldn’t bear thinking of someone else playing his grandfather’s xiàngqí set.
The next room had two small beds with the headboards meeting in the corner. One was perfectly made. The other was a mess. On the near side were two desks lined up side-by-side. Zhu stood at the doorway for several seconds. This was where he and Ahui had lived. Their parents’ place downstairs was only a one bedroom, and they worked all the time, so he and Ahui had spent most of their childhood here. He walked over to the messy bed and sat down, taking everything in.
