Chapter 72: Establishing Contact with the Base (11)

Since the production of the armored reconnaissance vehicles began, Li Fengyi once again felt that the current organizational model—where orders are given from above and only then does development commence—was flawed. There was simply no initiative; if you didn’t bring something up, no one would think to invent anything themselves. Only when problems arose did they scramble for solutions, and everyone seemed content with the ease of this arrangement.

They had only just survived the perilous days when their fate hung by a thread; their definition of safety was still far from established.

The soldiers were inconsolable over their comrades who had turned into zombies. These were the finest warriors, who never retreated and fought bravely until the very last moment.

Trapped inside their chainmail armor, unable to open their mouths, the undead were rendered harmless. The armor protected the soldiers and made it impossible for the zombies to inflict harm; all they could do was rush at the living, roaring, and throw themselves at them, but unable to carry out the next step.

The soldiers embraced by the zombies did not struggle, but sobbed bitterly. “Brothers... brothers…” They choked on their tears, unable to speak.

After deliberation, the Special Committee decided to grant the brave a dignified death. The soldiers gathered in formation to bid farewell to their fallen comrades. A row of warriors, silent tears streaming down their faces, used silent pistols to send bullets into their friends’ heads.

“Do not remove their chainmail. Let it accompany them,” Li Fengyi said, closing his eyes in pain, waving his hand as mournful music played. The martyrs’ bodies were cremated, their ashes to be housed in the Babao Mountain Martyrs’ Cemetery once it was retaken, their urns specially made to accommodate their chainmail.

Every day, their work schedule was packed. Base No. 2 was running smoothly now, with new territories reclaimed daily, and survivors rescued every day.

Many survivors credited the base’s radio broadcasts as the hope that kept them alive. For this, Li Fengyi saw the need to establish a propaganda department. After consulting the Special Committee, the civil service exam for propaganda minister was held, and finally a doctorate from a joint Chinese-Western Media University was selected. He had spent five years in the media industry post-graduation, eventually starting his own advertising firm—then the apocalypse arrived.

The propaganda department did not impose overly strict controls, only forbidding excessive broadcasts of sorrowful content. The apocalypse was hardship enough; dwelling continuously on lost loved ones risked inspiring people to imitate Western cults seeking “freedom” en masse—which left a mess for the restroom elite to explain, how to account for Western masters’ pursuit of “freedom”?

The secretary of the propaganda department’s party committee was a schoolteacher; notably, he was an old party member who had studied abroad, a second-generation Red. Deeply influenced by Western propaganda methods, he had long sought to reform their own approach.

Aside from the need for secrecy—currently the responsibility of the armed forces branch for review—so long as content posed no military threat, standards could be loosened. Everything about the Special Committee could be widely publicized, and Li Fengyi believed this would attract other bases. The United Front Department, for its part, insisted on participating in content review.

The propaganda department broadcast three times daily: morning, noon, and evening—coinciding perfectly with the three meals for their working staff. The propaganda minister beamed; many had suggested only morning and evening broadcasts.

He had watched “Enemy at the Gates,” and felt that heroes were desperately needed in their current situation, so he created a new segment: the Zombie Heroes Chronicle, aiming for a serialized broadcast.

The Zombie Heroes Chronicle included Li Fengyi, who left IOUs even in crisis when he had no money; Sun Xiaoshan, who gained fame as a scholarly rogue; Tank Commander Li Qiang, who was gnawed upon all night; the shrewd General Liu; the heroic Battalion Commander who took the initiative; the bloodthirsty Company Commander entrusted in dangerous times; the clever Chief of Staff who loved ancient texts; the high-standard aerodynamics PhD, the crematorium director, and so on.

The heroes themselves, however, strongly demanded a more respectable name—the Zombie Heroes Chronicle did nothing to bolster their courage as humans. Who was this meant to inspire?

Under the pressure of their collective spirit, the Chronicle was renamed: The Apocalypse Human Heroes Almanac.

The propaganda minister fantasized about becoming Hundred-Knowledge Sage, the martial arts novelist famed for compiling ranking lists of non-master masters.

“This will endure far longer than the Forbes Billionaires List,” he mused, thinking of the Heroes Almanac of the Sui and Tang dynasties. “Its compiler is anonymous, but I won’t be. I’m an adman who survived the apocalypse.”

Each day, the segment on hero deeds ended with, “Producer: Xu Zibiao.”

Years later, many survivors would inquire, “Who is Xu Zibiao? What did he do? Why is he always tagging along with the heroes?”

The Special Committee’s radio program, Apocalypse Human Heroes Ranking, sparked fervor in survivor bases everywhere. From a pre-apocalypse world filled with entertainment to a world now starved for it, survivors found their minds so empty they felt like they were fading away.

Some admired, some boasted, some challenged, “Come here, let’s see who’s tougher—beat you so badly your mother won’t recognize you!” Others cried, “Hero, save me! I’m stuck on Mount Everest trying to summit!”

The United Front Department carefully recorded all reactions from each base—not afraid of today’s antics, but waiting for autumn to settle accounts.

Ye Liujun, too, longed to have his name inscribed in the Apocalypse Human Heroes Almanac, but the survivor groups discovered so far lacked cohesion, and United Front work was handled by the Public Security Department.

“All they know is pole dancing,” the United Front Minister grumbled, “no technical skill whatsoever!”

As a result, the civil service enthusiasts doubled their efforts; his notebook’s black and white lists grew rapidly each day, awaiting an opportunity to prove himself.

That opportunity soon arrived.

After the Industrial Department produced several armored vehicles, clearing the encirclement became ever more efficient—completed in just two days. Next, the construction group directed the basic labor force to begin building fortifications.

The Special Committee planned for long-term zombie diversion operations. Under the wartime efficient system, the work proceeded rapidly, with resources thrown in without regard for cost—though, in truth, there was no cost at all. Even if you wanted to buy supplies, there were no sellers. Whatever was available was put to use: perhaps a QQ car was driven around, while luxury vehicles like Mercedes-Benz were pushed into the barricades.

The reason these luxury vehicles became wall materials was simple; repairs might be easy, but in the apocalypse, the costs were prohibitively high for anyone.

The field troops had already reconnoitered all the highways circling the outskirts of Beijing’s third ring, just waiting for the central base to open a path and choose a direction to advance. While waiting, they purposefully guided groups of zombies to the confluence between the Wenyu and Liangshui Rivers.

The troops moving north along the Wenyu River had reached the Huairou mountains, and on this day, gunfire rang out.