Debtors: Survival Rules for the Apocalypse

5:30 a.m.

Zhang Xun barely slept all night.

He lay on the folding bed, listening to Lin Xiaotang's suppressed breathing and Qin Wei's slight turning. The screams from the next building played on a loop in his mind, like a broken recording, slightly distorted with each loop, but the core fear remained clear.

At 5:30 a.m., he quietly got up, touched the composite bow and quiver by his bedside, and groped his way downstairs in the dark to begin his preparations.

The bow was a few days ago, delivered by Su Nian. The handle was engraved with the letters "SN," her initials. He gently traced the indentation with his fingertips, remaining silent for a moment.

He tested the bowstring; the tension was normal. He slowly pulled it back, his right arm muscles tensing, feeling the familiar tension.

A quick inventory of the quiver revealed twelve carbon arrows with carbon fiber shafts and replaceable arrowheads.

He took the outdoor knife from the knife rack, rubbed it against his trouser leg a couple of times to confirm the blade was sharp. Then he strapped the knife to the side pocket of his backpack, secured it tightly with tape, and tested the angle at which he could draw the knife with one hand—it was smooth and easy. He then tucked the baseball bat diagonally into the other side of the backpack and tied it securely with rope to prevent it from rattling and making noise while running.

He wasn't exactly a master archer; he'd only played at the archery range for a short time and was barely a beginner. He didn't even own a bow before.

Right now, these are all his strongest weapons.

The first-aid kit was given to him by Qin Wei last night. She didn't say anything, but just put the items in one by one: iodine, gauze, tourniquet, three days' worth of antibiotics, and a small bottle of alcohol.

"Take it with you," she said.

He did not refuse.

The backpack is empty; I'm waiting to fill it with water.

There were two walkie-talkies, from his shop. Qin Wei had already charged them with a power bank last night and tested them at the lowest volume; they still worked. One was for him, and the other was for the shop.

Six o'clock sharp.

Zhang Xun typed three lines in his phone's notes app:

"Back door → fire exit → underground parking garage → property pump room".

Fetch water and return via the same route.

Within two hours.

Qin Wei walked over, her footsteps light. She was wearing that dark gray windbreaker, her hair already tied up, clearly she hadn't slept much. She checked the first-aid kit again, then stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack.

"Two hours," he said, "if I don't come back..."

"You will come back," Qin Wei interrupted him, her voice still low but carrying an undeniable weight, "You must come back. We have no Plan B."

Zhang Xun nodded. He put the walkie-talkie into the side pocket of his backpack and checked the quiver's securing straps again.

Qin Wei turned to leave, then stopped. "Lin Xiaotang," she said, "she's not feeling well today. Go check on her before you leave."

---

Qin Wei was already crouching at the second-floor window, her flashlight pressed against the edge of the windowsill, its beam barely visible. Her view covered the direction of the back door and the two adjacent alleyways. From this angle, she could see an area of ​​about fifty meters—in the hazy morning light, it looked like a sketch washed clean.

Lin Xiaotang stood inside the back door of the shop, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and a rabbit doll in the other.

Zhang Xun walked downstairs, his footsteps light, yet still clear in the completely silent shop. He walked to Lin Xiaotang's side, wanting to say something, but found all the words stuck in his throat.

Finally, he simply reached out and ruffled her hair—just like he had always done since she was a child.

Her fingers tightened, her knuckles turning white, but she didn't raise her hand to grab him.

"Brother Xun," she said, her voice as soft as breathing, "come back."

It's not a question. It's some kind of ancient, conventional grammar.

Zhang Xun nodded. He turned sideways and squeezed out through the crack in the back door.

The door gap was narrow, so he had to turn sideways, first stuffing his backpack out before sliding out. The steel pipe on his back scraped against the door frame, making a slight metallic scraping sound. He froze, waiting.

There was no response. Only the sound of the wind blew through the alley, carrying a cloying, rotten stench.

He turned around and peered through the crack in the door. Lin Xiaotang's face was only a blurry outline in the darkness, but she raised the walkie-talkie to indicate that she had received the message.

Then he stood up and walked deeper into the alley.

---

The back door led to a narrow fire escape, flanked by the backs of residential buildings, with trash and broken glass scattered on the ground. Zhang Xun moved close to the left wall, his footsteps making a soft "crack" sound as they landed on the broken glass. He stopped, adjusted his pace, landing first on the outside of his foot and then transitioning to the sole—a hiking technique he was now using for walking.

The morning light was hazy and dim; the sun should have already risen, but it was fragmented into countless pieces by the clouds and buildings. There was a faint, indescribable stench in the air, not the strong smell of corpses, but more like something slowly rotting, like vegetables forgotten at the bottom of a refrigerator.

He stopped halfway through the alley.

About fifteen meters ahead, an infected person was crouching.

It was a food delivery worker in life, its yellow uniform stained with black dirt. Its head was tilted to one side at an abnormal angle—its cervical spine might be broken, or it might just be muscle laxity. Its mouth was slightly open, emitting a low "gurgling" sound, as if something was stuck in its throat.

It's gnawing on a dead mouse.

Zhang Xun pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath as low as possible. He could see the infected creature's profile; its eyes were half-closed, its pupils dilated into a murky grayish-white. Its movements were slow, mechanical—biting, chewing, and swallowing. The rat's tail dangled to the ground, still twitching slightly—a nerve reflex, not a sign of life.

He slowly retreated, each step precisely calculated. Left foot, right foot, left foot. The distance widened to twenty meters, then twenty-five meters.

The infected creature did not turn its head. Its world had shrunk to the size of that rat; everything else ceased to exist.

Zhang Xun took a different route. At the alley entrance, there was an overturned tricycle. He braced himself against the sidecar, flipped over, and landed with his knees bent to cushion the impact, making almost no sound. Another parallel alley was narrower, lined with walls on both sides. There were dried water stains on the ground, possibly rainwater, or something else entirely.

He leaned against the wall, took out his phone, and typed in the notes app—screen brightness turned down to the lowest setting, text in black, background in dark mode:

Infected Person Observation #1 Time: 6:25 Status: Eating (dead rat) Reaction: No reaction to a moving target 15 meters away Inference: In the absence of sound stimulation, the animal is in "low power mode".

He paused for a moment, then added:

Visual range: Reacts to moving objects within approximately 5 meters; Response delay: 2-3 seconds (estimated); Sound: Maximum trigger, to be verified.

He saved it. He put the phone back in his pocket. He continued walking.

---

The iron fence surrounding the target residential area was about two meters high, with anti-theft spikes at the top. Zhang Xun took out a piece of cloth—an outdoor headscarf—from the side pocket of his backpack, wrapped it around his right palm, grabbed the railing, and used it to climb over. The thickness of the cloth was just enough to insulate against the sharp metal, but he still felt pressure on his palm.

Upon landing, he crouched down for ten seconds to observe.

The interior of the residential complex resembled an abandoned oil painting. Dried bloodstains splattered in the flowerbeds, like ruptured arteries. The unit door was ajar, a piece of glass shattered, the gap radiating outwards, as if formed by an internal impact. Scattered in the stairwell were slippers, suitcases, and a pink schoolbag—a primary school student's bag with a cartoon rabbit printed on it.

Someone attempted to escape at the last minute. It's unknown whether they succeeded.

He moved along the edge of the flower bed, his target the secondary water supply pump room next to the property management office. It was a detached concrete hut, about three meters square, with an iron door and no windows.

The iron gate was locked. The padlock was a standard cross-shaped one; there shouldn't be a key left. All the keys were either in someone's pocket or in the stomach of an infected person. He inserted a steel pipe into the latch, using a lever principle, and pried three times. On the third pry, the lock cylinder broke with a crisp "click."

He froze, waiting.

There was no response. There were no infected individuals within five meters of the pump room, and no movement within ten meters.

He pushed open the door, slipped inside, and left it slightly ajar behind his back.

It was dark. He used his phone screen to illuminate the room, with the smallest possible aperture.

A vertical stainless steel water tank, about two meters tall, cylindrical, with a valve at the bottom. The surface of the tank was dusty, but the water stains below the valve were fresh—someone had been here before it, or it was simply leaking.

He approached and shone his phone light on the liquid level observation window on the side of the tank. The water level was about thirty centimeters below the top, with floating matter—grayish flocculent material, possibly rust and sediment from the pipe walls, or something else entirely. The water itself appeared clear, but under the phone's light, any judgment was unreliable.

He filled the first bucket with a folding bucket, about five liters. The sound of the water was particularly loud in the enclosed pump room, like some ancient ritual about life. Then he filled the second, third, and fourth buckets. Twenty liters in total, just enough for the waterproof lining of his backpack to hold without leaking.

Just as he was about to receive the fifth bucket, a sound came from outside the pump room.

The sound of dragging. Footsteps. Not one—at least two, maybe three. The sound passed by the pump room door, without stopping, but close enough that he could hear the sticky, murky, putrid breathing.

Zhang Xun turned off his phone, squatted in the corner of the pump room, and gripped a steel pipe. The metal surface of the water tank was cold against his back.

The sound lasted for about thirty seconds, then faded into the distance. The dragging sound and footsteps gradually disappeared in a certain direction.

He counted his heartbeats at 120 for about two minutes. Then he glanced outside the door with his phone at its lowest brightness setting—the corridor was empty. There was a dark red drag mark on the floor, stretching from the stairwell to the end of the corridor, like the trail left by some kind of huge, injured snail.

He grabbed his backpack, slipped out the door, and retraced his steps.

As he scaled the wall, the weight of his backpack distorted his movements. He had to throw the backpack over first before climbing over, and when he landed, his knees hit the ground, causing him to grit his teeth in pain, but he didn't make a sound.

---

The hardware store is two blocks away; it's an old shop called "Old Li Hardware".

Zhang Xun passed through the side gate of the residential area and walked onto an abandoned side road. The road surface was full of potholes, and weeds grew in the cracks. In the distance, a bus was stopped in the middle of the road, its doors open, and the inside was dark.

The hardware store faces west, its roller shutter door half-open—either pushed open from the inside or forced open by external force, creating a gap about half a person's height. Inside, the store is a mess; most of the shelves are overturned, and goods are scattered all over the floor, like a frozen explosion.

There were many footprints on the ground—human footprints, not those of infected people; someone had been here.

He squatted at the door for three minutes, observing what was happening inside.

He saw it in the fifth minute.

Behind the counter.

An infected person was squatting there, with their back to the door.

It was huge. At least a size larger than a normal infected person. Its arms were as thick as an adult's thigh, and its shoulders were so broad they almost touched the width of the counter. It was wearing worker's overalls, which were covered in black stains, like dried blood.

It's moving.

It wasn't the kind of movement that involves walking—it was just crouching there, its body rising and falling slightly, as if it were breathing or waiting for something.

Zhang Xun squatted at the door for five minutes, but it didn't turn around.

He decided to go in.

He tapped the ground lightly with the steel pipe—the sound was very soft, like the cracking of knuckles.

The infected person did not respond.

He moved forward a meter and squatted down next to the overturned shelf. Tools were scattered on the ground.

He gently nudged the items into a reachable position with a steel pipe and picked them up one by one.

Utility knife, new blade. Not bad.

Electrical tape, it's a good stuff.

Candles, that's wonderful.

There were two screwdrivers.

He reached for the last screwdriver—and in that instant, his foot touched something.

An empty metal can.

The can rolled twice on the ground, making a crisp "clang" sound.

The burly man behind the counter moved.

Without any warning, its body shifted from a crouching position to a standing position with astonishing speed—then it turned its head.

In the dim light, the face looked like a crumpled piece of paper, its features distorted, its eyes cloudy and grayish-white, and it emitted a low, guttural roar that seemed to come from deep within its chest.

It stepped out from behind the counter, each step causing the ground to tremble.

Zhang Xun did not hesitate.

He turned and ran.

"Bang!"

The shelf behind him was knocked over—it knocked over the shelf just to chase him.

Zhang Xun burst out of the hardware store and rushed into the street. Startled by its roar, the infected on the street began to gather in the direction of the sound—they thought there was prey there.

But it didn't stop. It kept chasing. It wasn't fast, but its strides were long, each step causing the ground to tremble. Zhang Xun rushed into the alley, turning two corners in a row, his lungs burning, the water in his backpack sloshing around, its weight pulling at his center of gravity.

After the second bend, he stopped, pressed himself against the wall, and listened.

The roars continued in the distance, about fifty meters away, before gradually subsiding. The burly man had lost his target, or perhaps he had lost the will to pursue.

He crouched in the corner, panting like a broken bellows. Sweat streamed from his forehead into his eyes, blurring his vision.

He waited for a full five minutes.

The footsteps disappeared completely.

He stood up from the corner and found his hands were trembling.

He took out his phone and typed:

>Observation of infected persons #2

Time: 7:55

Type: Strength type (muscular man)

Pursuit distance: Abandon after approximately 50 meters.

Speculation: Heavy weight, strong explosive power but short endurance.

Save. He waited until his heart rate dropped a bit before continuing to move.

---

Return via the same route, avoiding areas known to have a high concentration of infected individuals.

As he passed the first alley, the deliveryman who had been gnawing on a rat was still there. The rat had been eaten down to its skeleton, its tail dangling on the ground like some kind of ironic punctuation mark. It glanced up in Zhang Xun's direction, but being more than ten meters away, it didn't react.

Zhang Xun squeezed back into the shop through the back door. The door was even harder to get through than when he went out—the weight of his backpack got stuck, so he had to take it off first, push it in, and then slide in sideways.

Lin Xiaotang immediately grabbed his backpack strap and pulled him inside. Her fingers were icy cold, but she was very strong.

Qin Wei hurried down the stairs, the beam of her flashlight hitting his face first, without speaking immediately.

She wasn't aggressive; she simply, habitually and doctor-like, gently swept the light across his forehead, cheeks, and neck, then down to his arms, palms, trouser legs, and ankles, leaving no spot untouched.

The movements were light, yet meticulous.

"No," he said, his voice a little hoarse, "there was no contact."

"Really not?" she asked in a low voice, her tone calm but concealing the tension that had been building up all morning.

Before he could answer, she took a half step closer, gently lifting his chin with her fingertips, making him turn his face to examine his ear and the side of his neck carefully—the most easily overlooked and most easily bitten spots.

Her fingertips were still the same as they were back then, slightly cool and covered with thin calluses.

She looked down at his wrist again, her fingertips brushing against his pulse, pausing for half a second, then looked down at his ankle and the edge of his shoe.

He didn't speak the whole time, only his breathing rose and fell gently.

Zhang Xun's Adam's apple bobbed: "Really, no, I wasn't touched."

Qin Wei then withdrew her hand, turned off the flashlight, and the tension in her eyes slowly faded.

She took a small step back, resuming her usual subtle distance, but still couldn't help adding:

"Don't push yourself. Tell me if you have any wounds."

It sounded like a doctor's order, and also like worry.

Zhang Xun placed the backpack on the ground and unzipped it. Twenty liters of water sloshed about inside the waterproof lining without spilling. There were twenty-four candles wrapped in a plastic bag. Also included were a screwdriver, a roll of tape, and a utility knife.

Lin Xiaotang's eyes reddened as she saw him return safely, but she didn't cry. She simply said softly, "Brother Xun, you're back."

The sound was very soft, as if afraid of waking something.

Qin Wei checked his hands—his palms were sweaty, and he had scraped his skin while climbing over the wall, leaving a shallow bloodstain. She wiped them with an iodine-soaked cotton ball without saying anything.

Zhang Xun sat on his folding bed, writing down his observations from his outing on paper. He needed to conserve battery on his phone; pen and paper were more reliable.

> 1. The infected person does not respond to stationary targets, but reacts sluggishly to moving targets within 5 meters.

2. Strength-type infected individuals have strong explosive power but short endurance; they abandon the pursuit after 50 meters.

3. The hardware store's supplies have been looted/scattered; large materials are inaccessible deep inside.

He handed the paper to Qin Wei. She looked at it, nodded, and then typed something for him: "There might be impurities in the water; it must be boiled and then filtered simply." "Candles are a good thing." "The filter cartridge has a limited lifespan; at this rate, it will last at most two weeks."

Zhang Xun nodded. He looked at Lin Xiaotang, who was placing the candles one by one on the ground and counting them, as if she were performing some kind of ritual.

"Today," he said, his voice soft enough for her to hear, "you did a great job. You held the door."

Lin Xiaotang's finger rested on a candle. She didn't look up, but her shoulders relaxed a little.

---

Three people work together to filter water.

Zhang Xun personally oversaw the process: first, he used gauze to filter out large particles of impurities from the water, then used an outdoor water purifier to rinse the water twice, with the activated carbon filter layer by layer adsorbing the residue, and finally, he boiled the water on the stove.

The water filter pitcher is a high-end model in his store, with a filter cartridge rated for about 200 liters. But now, every liter filtered is consuming the last bit of the filter's capacity.

"It will last at most two weeks." He looked up at Qin Wei, his tone resolute. "After that, we must find an alternative."

Lin Xiaotang cooked a pot of porridge with filtered water. The rice was from the store's stock of outdoor instant food packets, and she added crushed compressed biscuits and a little salt. The three of them shared it, each getting about one and a half bowls.

Lin Xiaotang's condition: Her hands no longer trembled while cooking. She filled each bowl and brought them to Zhang Xun and Qin Wei, then sat in a corner to eat with her own bowl. She didn't smile, but at least she was no longer lost in thought—her eyes would follow Zhang Xun's movements, as if to confirm that he was still there.

In the evening, Zhang Xun observed with binoculars on the second-floor platform.

The number of infected people on the street is about the same as yesterday, around thirty to forty. The cluster from the direction of the next building is starting to disperse—once the sound trigger disappears, they slowly drift away, like some kind of aimless tide. The gunfire from the direction of the government building has completely ceased, and the green emergency lights are no longer visible. The official resistance may have been exhausted, or may have already evacuated, or may have already…

He didn't think any further.

Shift adjustments: Zhang Xun for the second half of the night (after recovering her strength), Qin Wei for the first half, and Lin Xiaotang for the middle shift. This is a sign of trust in her, but also a test—the middle shift is the most difficult time; the fatigue accumulated in the first half of the night means dawn is still far away in the second half.

---

Lin Xiaotang sat on the sofa in the second-floor living room, a rabbit doll on her lap. The candles had been extinguished, and she used the faint moonlight from the window to look at the intercom screen—channel display, battery level display, signal strength display.

Noise.

It wasn't white noise, but intermittent human voices. She turned the walkie-talkie volume down to the lowest setting and listened for ten seconds.

A hoarse female voice, crackling with static:

"...Someone is here...This is..."

"...I am...Su Nian..."

"...Repeating...This is Su Nian...Lanshan...ZF..."

The signal was interrupted.

Lin Xiaotang's hand holding the walkie-talkie was trembling. She waited five minutes, turned the volume up to the maximum, then back to the minimum, and then held it to her ear again. There was no sound.

She glanced at Zhang Xun's folding bed—he was already asleep, his breathing steady. Qin Wei was in another corner, also fast asleep.

She did not wake them immediately.

She noted the time on her phone: "April 13th, 01:07 AM. The walkie-talkie received a signal that appeared to be from someone named Su Nian."

Then she continued to sit in the darkness, waiting for Zhang Xun to take her shift.

In this city where even electricity has disappeared, is this faint noise a spark of distress, or a trap leading people to hell?

[End of Chapter Seven]