Chapter 4: My Son’s School

The art classroom was situated at the back of the school, separated from the main teaching building by the field, nestled just to the north. Beyond a single iron gate at the rear lay the world outside the school—a secluded, winding alleyway, designed so that the sounds of teaching would not disturb those within.

Li Fengyi hurriedly led Chu Zhen across the field and arrived at the art classroom, where five or six children from grades two to five stood dumbfounded, staring at the teacher slumped over the easel. The teacher coughed softly, as if rasping for breath.

Peering through the pane of glass on the door, Li Fengyi quickly located Li Yutian, pushed the door open, and scooped him up, patting him all over in concern. “Xiaotian, are you alright?”

Seeing his father, Li Yutian’s tense face immediately relaxed. “Dad, I’m fine. The teacher’s sick.”

There was no time for further concern; Li Fengyi handed Li Yutian to Chu Zhen, asking her to take the child outside, and then turned to the rest of the group. “All of you, follow me,” he directed the five or six children.

He knew that the art class usually ended at five o’clock, and with no parents present yet, he couldn’t leave the young children alone when their teacher had fallen ill.

Gathering the children onto the field, Li Fengyi quickly assessed the group: including Li Yutian, there were six children—four boys and two girls. One was in third grade, another in fourth, and two in fifth; they all knew their way home. Only the second grader could not articulate their address, his childish voice so confused that Li Fengyi could hardly make out what he was saying.

Li Fengyi checked his phone—half past four. He called Sun Xiaoshan. “Xiaoshan, how’s it going? What’s your situation?”

Sun Xiaoshan’s breathless voice came through. “We didn’t go to Jingkelong Supermarket. Instead, we found three small flatbed delivery trucks at the grain and oil store. Two are loaded with forty or fifty bags of rice and flour—this shop is also a water supply point. The third is loaded with six barrels of mineral water, Nestlé brand. We’re hurrying back, but the school gate is crowded and the alley is narrow, so we’ve detoured through Hepingli Central Park. We’ll be home in a few minutes. Everyone at the shop was coughing and paid us no mind; we didn’t even know how much to pay. I left all the cash we had and wrote an IOU, but it might not be enough.”

Li Fengyi replied, “Hurry back. Remember to lock the main gate of the residential compound when you get there. Be careful on the way.”

“Alright.”

Number Five Compound was said to be the safest neighborhood around, or so all the local locksmiths claimed. Their little courtyard had just one building, situated east of Mary Hospital. Every night at eleven, the gate would be locked, leaving only a small opening in the iron fence—a hole half a meter off the ground, just big enough for a person to squeeze through. Inconvenient, perhaps, but it provided a rare sense of security in Beijing.

The art class was due to end at five. Li Fengyi turned to Chu Zhen. “Let’s wait with the children until their parents come. Seeing how frightened they are, we can’t just leave, no matter how anxious we feel.”

That decision ended up saving several lives.

Li Fengyi called Wang Shujuan. “Sun Xiaoshan is at our place with some others; they’ve brought food and water. I found Li Yutian, but there are still a few children waiting for their parents. I’ll leave when they arrive.”

In the open expanse of the field, the sound of coughing had nearly faded, replaced only by the cries of children at the school gate. Chu Zhen was terrified.

Li Fengyi instructed, “Chu Zhen, stay with the children.”

He had all the art class kids gather around her, then surveyed the area. Next door to the art classroom, he saw a room marked “Clinic.” Pushing the half-open door, he entered. There were few medicines inside—after all, Beijing was dotted with hospitals: Youthgou Hospital to the north, Mary Hospital to the south, both just a few hundred meters away. The clinic housed only basic supplies: rubbing alcohol, gauze, and a few first aid kits.

Li Fengyi bundled up some gauze, grabbed a few bottles of alcohol, and tossed them into a bag, leaving some cash behind. He took the first aid kits as well—two for Chu Zhen, one for Li Yutian, and two for himself. Chu Zhen could only laugh and cry at his resourcefulness.

Sun Xiaoshan called again. “Brother Li, we’re home. The security guard was slumped in his booth, but we found the keys and locked the gate.”

A while later, Li Fengyi checked his phone. It was five o’clock, and several government notification texts had come in, all repeating the same message. He led the children toward the southern school gate.

As they reached the western corner of the teaching building, a cacophony of anguished screams erupted.

The children’s cries grew deafening, mingled with desperate shouts—“Mom, Dad, please don’t bite me!”—and other wild pleas.

Li Fengyi rushed to the entrance and was stunned by the sight before him.

Parents and security guards, in a frenzy, were biting and tearing at those beside them, blood spraying with each savage bite, as if they were devouring their victims whole before lunging at the next. Some adults fought back with fists and kicks, but more children simply wailed in pain as their parents bit into them, clinging desperately to their parents’ clothes, sobbing as they circled, too terrified to run away...

Li Fengyi felt his whole body freeze, a chill racing up his spine, rendering him immobile.

Chu Zhen caught up, collapsing against him in terror, the children clustering around. Li Yutian cried out, “Dad! Dad! What’s happening to them?!”

His son’s voice snapped Li Fengyi back to himself. “Follow me!” he shouted.

The two adults, with six children in tow, dashed for the school’s northeast back gate.

As they passed the art classroom, the teacher, moving sluggishly, turned his head, sniffing the air and then lurching out through the door, his stride unnaturally swift. His eyes were bloodshot, nostrils no longer bleeding, the dried blood at his philtrum a dark, shocking red.

Li Fengyi shouted, “Chu Zhen, take the children and leave through the back gate. Li Yutian, lead the way—wait for me at home.”

The art teacher, seemingly by instinct, locked onto Li Fengyi, the tallest among them, and lunged.

“Maybe he thinks I have the most meat,” Li Fengyi thought. “The bastard can count, apparently!”

He tried to draw the teacher westward, away from the children. As Chu Zhen, with the now-crying children, hurried toward the northeast corner, Li Fengyi sprinted a few steps to widen the gap. Predictably, the teacher veered toward the nearest children.

Li Fengyi quickly closed the distance to draw him back. The teacher turned again, drawn to his movements.

So Li Fengyi settled into a rhythm, neither too close nor too far, leading the art teacher in circles around the field, mind racing—how could he shake off this cannibalistic teacher?