Beyond the Zero Zone

Moonlight fell into the gaping mouth of the corpse, illuminating a full set of intact teeth.

Shen An crouched in the middle of the road, his fingers probing the wound on the man's neck—not a bite mark, but a knife wound. Neat, extending from behind the left ear to the right collarbone, precise in depth, avoiding the carotid artery. He looked up. The night wind blew from the direction of the dry riverbed, carrying the smell of rust and rot.

"This wasn't a bite from an Infected," he said.

Ji Ming, his adjutant behind him, didn't respond immediately. A few seconds later, his voice finally came through, carrying a hint of suppressed tension: "Then who bit it?"

Shen An didn't answer. He stood up, scanning the ruins on both sides of the road—broken walls, a collapsed gas station, a few rusted-out abandoned vehicles. Three years after the Dawn Incident broke out, this area had been designated by the Northern Base as the "Outer Perimeter of the Zero Zone." Theoretically, no human activity should exist here. But right now, a corpse that had been murdered lay across the road, and their eight-man Purge Force squad stood at the edge of an invisible vortex.

He remembered the day the Dawn Incident broke out three years ago.

Not the images—the sounds. The frequency of every monitor in the lab screaming at once. The sharp crack of his father shattering glassware. Jiang Lan's voice as she tackled him to the ground: "Don't move." He didn't want to think about what happened after. He only remembered that he had lost everything that day, and that the Northern Base had taken him in.

Three years. He'd climbed from a raw recruit to Deputy Captain of the Purge Force—not through his father's connections. That man was someone he refused to mention. It was through a zero-error rate on every mission. The high-ranking officials at the Northern Base called him living proof that "data doesn't lie." He didn't like the assessment. He was just more afraid of losing control than most people.

Tonight's mission was codenamed "Qinglan"—clearance of all Infected Entities within a three-kilometer radius of Hongliu Camp. According to the Northern United Base archives, Hongliu Camp was a C-Class containment point, theoretically not on the S-Class Purge list. Shen An had led an eight-man squad. If they followed protocol and completed the outer perimeter sentry duty, they could sign off and report back.

He raised his wrist to check his watch. 23:17.

Three hundred meters ahead was the outer sentry post of Hongliu Camp. Beyond it lay a dry riverbed—the most dangerous terrain in the Wasteland, with open sight lines but also a breeding ground for Infected gatherings.

"Squad One, left flank. Squad Two, right flank. Squad Three, follow me along the road," Shen An said in a low voice. "If you spot Infected, issue a warning first, then follow B-Class processing procedures."

Ji Ming was to his right, a faint crackle of static coming from the communicator clipped to his ear. Ji Ming was his first friend at the Northern Base and the only deputy who knew Shen An's family background. Twenty-four years old. A man of few words, as calm as an aged veteran.

"Deputy Captain, there's movement up ahead," Ji Ming said quietly.

Shen An stopped.

Thirty meters ahead on the road, a dark figure lay sprawled across the center. Shen An squinted—it was human-shaped, but the posture was wrong. When a normal person falls, their first instinct is to brace with their hands. But this person's arms were pressed flat against their sides, as if someone had laid them down and arranged them neatly.

"On alert," Shen An snapped.

The entire squad scattered instantly, three groups fanning out in a pincer formation. Shen An signaled Ji Ming to follow as he gripped the pistol at his waist—a T-90 Standard Pistol loaded with ammunition packed with Northern Base's custom Silver Bullets, paralyzing to Infected Entities and just as lethal to humans.

Ten meters. Five. Three.

Shen An crouched down, using the muzzle to tilt the man's chin up. A man, around thirty, wearing gray work clothes similar to the refugees of Hongliu Camp. His face was turned down, but from the side, Shen An could see his jaw and ear—the skin had begun to turn gray, but not yet the cyanotic black of an Infected.

Shen An pressed his fingers to the man's neck. A pulse. Still beating.

"He's alive." Shen An stood up. "Ji Ming, notify the camp—"

Before he could finish, a figure suddenly burst out of the brush beside him.

Shen An's reaction was pure instinct. Sidestep, raise the gun, pull the trigger. The bullet grazed the person's shoulder. The figure didn't cry out; they thudded to the ground beside the corpse.

Not an Infected. Infected didn't charge out like that—they moved in packs, always reacting after hearing a sound first. But that movement had purpose behind it. Intent. Lethal intent.

"Don't move!" Shen An's voice carried far through the night of the Wasteland.

But footsteps erupted from all directions at once—not one person, but ten, twenty. Dark figures surged out of the ruins lining both sides of the road, each gripping different weapons: chopping knives, crowbars, modified hunting rifles.

Every member of the Purge Force raised their guns, but no one dared fire the first shot. Hongliu Camp wasn't the enemy—at least not in the archives of the Northern Base.

Shen An made the call in half a second: "On my command—fire a warning shot!"

Two gunshots shattered the night air. The sound carried far across the Wasteland, startling a flock of crows from the distant ruins. But the encirclement didn't break. The shadows pressed closer instead.

The leader stopped and stepped out from the crowd.

A woman, around forty, with short gray hair and an old scar at the corner of her eye. The expression on her face was one Shen An knew well—the look of everyone who had survived three or more years in the Wasteland. It was what remained after life had worn away all the edges. Like a stone scoured by water for too long—smooth on the surface, but concealing invisible cracks within.

"Deputy Shen," she said, her voice hoarse. "We're not here to make trouble. We're here to demand an explanation."

Shen An didn't move. His gun was still aimed at her.

"Three years ago, when you people from the Northern Base first came, you said, 'The Dawn Project is for the continuation of humanity.'" The woman took a step forward. The Purge Force members around her instinctively backed half a step. "Three years ago, we believed you. A month ago, Hongliu Camp received a notice saying we'd been added to the purge list. Upgraded from C-Class to S-Class. Deputy Shen, do you know what S-Class means?"

Shen An knew. S-Class meant "total elimination." Not clearing Infected Entities—clearing everything, including humans who hadn't been infected.

"That wasn't an order I gave," Shen An said.

"But it's an order you carry out." The woman smiled. Her smile was colder than the wind over the Wasteland. "Deputy Shen—is everyone from the Northern Base like this? 'It's not my problem, but I have to go solve it'?"

Shen An was silent.

He swept his gaze across the encirclement—twenty-three people, all human, no signs of infection, but all holding weapons, the look in their eyes saying they were ready to fight to the death. He ran the calculations through his mind in an instant: eight against twenty-three. Firepower was matched, but the terrain was unfavorable. They were trapped on the road, with the dry riverbed at their backs and no cover.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The woman said, "We want you to get the hell out of Hongliu Camp's territory. From now on, Hongliu Camp handles its own safety. We don't need the Northern Base's 'purge.'"

"That's not my call to make," Shen An said. "But I can relay your message."

"Relay it?" The woman laughed coldly. "Deputy Shen, do you know what the Northern Base's Security Minister is called? Lu Shihan. He came here in person two months ago and told us to 'evacuate in an orderly manner.' We refused. And then? The sentry posts around our camp kept getting hit by 'Infected' attacks. The 'Infected' we took down—"

She stopped, staring into Shen An's eyes.

"They were all humans in disguise."

Shen An's pupils contracted. He crouched down again to re-examine the "corpse" lying on the ground—the one he had thought was a live decoy. He pulled open the man's collar and looked closely at the wound on his neck: not a bite mark, but a knife wound. Very neat. Extending from behind the left ear all the way to the right collarbone, precise in depth, avoiding the carotid artery.

This wasn't a wound an Infected could inflict. It was a person—someone with professional training, using a specific technique.

Shen An stood up and turned to the woman. "This man—was he from your camp?"

The woman's expression shifted. "No. Our people never kill like this. This is Northern Base technique."

"The Northern Base has never had 'technique like this,'" Shen An said. "At least, not that I know of."

"Then what is this corpse doing here?" The woman stepped forward. "I brought my people here because someone came to report early this morning, saying that your Northern Base Purge Force was bringing 'Modified Infected'—half-human, half-zombie monsters—to attack Hongliu Camp. We came to check the scene beforehand. Nothing. But we found this."

She pointed at the corpse.

"An ordinary camp refugee. He was alive last night. Dead this morning. Time of death: around three in the afternoon. At that time, your Purge Force hadn't even entered Hongliu Camp's territory."

Shen An's mind began racing. If what this woman said was true, it meant there was a third party—not Hongliu Camp, not the Northern Base—a third force was provoking conflict between the two sides.

"You said someone reported early this morning," Shen An pressed. "Who?"

"A man in a hat. He said he was a wandering hunter from the outskirts of Hongliu Camp."

"What was his name?"

"He didn't give a name. But he had a nickname."

"What nickname?"

"Mad Dog."

Shen An's brow twitched. He'd never heard the name before. But he filed away one detail: the man had used the word "report" instead of "alert." Reporting meant he knew what was going to happen.

Just then, a cold laugh echoed from the ruins in the distance.

Not loud, but piercingly clear in the early morning Wasteland.

"Well, well. Quite a lively chat, isn't it?"

Everyone turned at once.

Under the moonlight, a figure stood on the second-floor balcony of a ruined building.

He was holding a chopping knife in one hand, blade pointed down. Dried blood clung to the blade—not the black blood of an Infected, but bright red. His short hair was a mess. Three ear holes on his left ear glinted silver in the moonlight. A deep old scar ran along the side of his neck, from behind the ear down into his collar, the full extent hidden from view.

He jumped straight down from the second floor.

When he landed, his knees didn't even bend. He caught himself with one hand on the knife, steady as a bird alighting on a branch.

"Sister Tang from Hongliu Camp, right?" His tone was loose, carrying that signature nonchalance unique to the Wasteland. "I'm late. The ones from earlier—I already dealt with them."

Shen An raised his gun instantly.

The man looked up at him. His eyes were bright, the outer corners slightly tilted upward. The way he looked at people felt like a provocation. But he didn't flinch. He just stared straight at Shen An's gun muzzle and laughed.

"Officer, you come out here without using your head?"

Shen An didn't move. He completed his assessment in 0.3 seconds: the man wasn't an Infected—clear eye whites, no cyanotic black; smooth, agile movements, far exceeding the sluggishness of an Infected. The blood on the blade was bright red, meaning he had killed someone alive recently.

"Who did you kill?" Shen An asked.

"The ones I killed," the man said, slinging the knife over his shoulder, "were the few in this group who were trying to ambush Sister Tang."

"People from the Northern Base?"

"No." The man finally looked Shen An in the eye, his gaze turning cold. "They were from 'Dawn.'"

Shen An's pupils shrank violently. Dawn. The Dawn Project. The experiment his father had presided over, the one that had triggered the apocalypse three years ago—described as "accelerated human evolution." The official explanation was an "accidental leak." But Shen An had always suspected it wasn't an accident.

"Dawn?" His voice dropped low.

"That's right." The man took a step forward. Shen An's gun followed his movement. "Your high-ups at the Northern Base don't know this, but you should. The Dawn Project didn't end three years ago. It's been running the whole time—just switched from 'open research' to 'underground continuation.'"

"Evidence?"

"Evidence?" The man raised a hand and pointed at the old scar on his own neck. "Six years ago, I was clawed by an Infected modified by the Dawn Project. Three gashes on my neck, deep enough to see bone. According to the official data, I should have turned into an Infected long ago. But I didn't. I survived. I've got Antibodies in me—the very thing your Northern Base scientists have been after."

Shen An's breath caught for a beat.

Antibodies. If this was true, then this man was worth—to the Northern Base—

"How much do you think I'm worth, Deputy?" The man grinned at Shen An. "You know it in your heart, don't you?"

Shen An didn't speak. But his muzzle shifted—a subtle two degrees to the side.

The night wind blew from the direction of the dry riverbed, carrying the smell of rust and rot. The old scar on the man's neck gleamed under the moonlight like a silent testimony. And Shen An knew that tonight's purge mission had already veered off every course he could calculate.He suddenly remembered the look in Jiang Lan's eyes three years ago when he pinned him to the ground—not fear, not anger, but a kind of insight far beyond his age, as if he had long known this moment would come, as if he had long known that Shen An would one day stand under the moonlight of the Wasteland, facing a person he could not explain with data, making a choice he could not calculate with reason.

That person stood in the moonlight, a chopping knife resting on his shoulder, the corners of his eyes slightly tilted upward, a faint hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

"Deputy Captain Shen," he said, "your muzzle was off by two degrees."

Shen An's finger paused on the trigger.

"Are you hesitating about whether to kill me," the man continued, "or whether to trust me?"

The moonlight fell between them like an invisible dividing line. Shen An looked into those eyes that shone especially bright in the night of the Wasteland, and realized for the first time that some things—like trust, like choice—had never been something that could be calculated by data alone.