Chapter 4: Harsh Reality

A jolt of primal awareness shot through Su Xiaomu. He twisted aside instinctively just as a decaying body crashed down where he’d been standing. Putrid, blackish sludge oozed onto the tiled floor.

The fallen zombie writhed, trying to rise. But Su Xiaomu’s attention snapped to the hallway corner. Another shambling figure had appeared, drawn by the commotion, and was now lurching towards him.

Cleaver raised, Su Xiaomu crouched low, muscles coiled. He needed to attack first. This one… it seemed faster than the previous two. Was it his imagination?

As the zombie awkwardly stepped over its fallen kin, Su Xiaomu darted left. He swung the cleaver sideways in a vicious arc aimed at its temple.

THWACK! The zombie’s rotting arm came up instinctively. The blade bit deep into decaying flesh and bone. Su Xiaomu recoiled instantly, letting go of the cleaver handle. Wasteland lore screamed in his mind: a scratch, a bite, even a deep gouge from those filthy claws meant infection. Transformation.

THUD. The cleaver, still embedded in the zombie’s forearm, hit the floor. The creature barely registered the severed limb dangling by sinew. Its remaining eye fixed hungrily on Su Xiaomu.

Run. The only option left. Su Xiaomu spun on his heel and sprinted down the opposite hallway, his ragged breaths loud in his ears.

Huff… Huff… He skidded to a stop at the top of a stairwell. An eerie silence hung here too. Blackened bloodstains smeared the floor, attracting lazy flies. Once-white walls were streaked with rust-brown trails and dark, greasy handprints. Su Xiaomu scanned the shadows warily. He was on the fifth floor. Getting down would take time… and luck.

He wasn’t naive. More of them lurked. Waiting. Watching from darkened doorways. From what he’d seen, they lacked intelligence, moved slowly… but this last one had been quicker. A terrifying development.

Spotting an apartment door slightly ajar, Su Xiaomu slipped inside. He’d lost his cleaver. He desperately needed another weapon. Without one, his next encounter would be his last.

The living room was a disaster zone. Overturned furniture, shattered glass. A dark, dried stain on the sofa hinted at a severed limb. Su Xiaomu pushed the grisly thoughts aside. He raced to the kitchen. Empty. Not a single useful knife.

“Fuck!… Not even a sliver of a chance?” he raged silently. He couldn’t stay. They hunted by scent. Sitting still was death.

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye in a shadowed corner. A wooden club, thick as a man’s wrist. One end was worn smooth, forming a natural grip. He hefted it. Solid. Weighted. Better than nothing.

Armed with the crude club, Su Xiaomu began his perilous descent, floor by floor.

He scavenged frantically. On the fourth floor, behind a barricaded door, he found a packet of stale crackers. On the third, tucked in the back of a cupboard, two packets of dried noodles. Pre-apocalypse Su Xiaomu would have scorned them. Now, they were treasure. He stuffed them into his pack.

He encountered zombies. Some he managed to lure into rooms and slam the doors shut on. Others, slower, weaker, he bludgeoned into stillness with desperate, bone-jarring swings of the club.

Finally, the ground floor landing. Peering through the grimy lobby doors, Su Xiaomu’s blood ran cold. A dozen shambling figures milled outside. One he might handle. Two, maybe flee. But a dozen? They were already turning, drawn by his presence.

Three directions. Left: two zombies. Right and center: five or six each. Left was the only chance. His knuckles, gripping the club, were white as bone.

Sink or swim. He hunched low, bending almost double, and bolted for the left exit.

THWACK! THUD! He swung the club wildly, connecting with the first zombie’s skull. The second lurched into the path of the falling body. Momentum carried the decaying mass crashing down onto Su Xiaomu, pinning him beneath its putrid weight.

The stench was overwhelming. Rotting flesh pressed against his face. A gaping, blood-flecked maw descended towards his throat. Su Xiaomu squeezed his eyes shut, a final wave of despair washing over him. This was it.