Chapter 71: Establishing Base Communications (10)

On one occasion, the Ministry of Civil Affairs visited the owner of a Unimog vehicle and asked the young heir if he had any suggestions, offering to arrange a better job for him. Although he was exhausted every day, like a dog on its last legs, he firmly declared that labor was the most honorable pursuit. In truth, he had heard that the Ministry planned to build a cremation facility on the outskirts of Beijing and was too afraid to become a corpse collector. This puzzled the Ministry, for it had been many years since anyone so sincerely aspired to ordinary labor; they even considered whether to find him a psychological counseling group—after all, if he developed any mental issues, they’d lose a basic laborer.

The Ministry’s special visit was prompted by his résumé, where he listed his major as religious studies. They wondered if a religious person might face the multitude of corpses with greater composure—according to the city’s crematorium reports, crematory workers were developing numerous psychological problems, and maintaining composure amidst astronomical numbers of corpses was not something ordinary people could achieve.

Sun Xiaoshan requested that the vehicle be modified for combat and rescue needs. This model’s cab already had a self-recovery winch; as requested, a metal fishing net was installed, its mesh densely studded with barbs. When used, a rope-launcher would toss the net onto the trapped warrior—barbs inevitably found purchase in the chainmail, then the winch would reel them in, dragging the person to safety.

The driver’s seat was surrounded with steel plating, the windshield covered by a sheet of chainmail. The seats, originally facing away from the cargo area, were moved to the center, facing both sides. Warriors sat wielding steel pipes and unfamiliar swords, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The zombie-fighting compartment was remodeled to resemble rows of steel pipes, fitted with hooks, foot plates, and safety belts.

If a warrior was unable to board in time—burdened by heavy gear, which was likely—they could hang their chainmail on a hook, fasten the safety belt, and ride the foot plate as the vehicle charged forward.

At chest height on the compartment floor, unfamiliar sword blades were installed. When the vehicle moved, these effectively sliced through the upper bodies of zombies, preventing them from climbing onto the vehicle. The front was left clear for the winch and net, and fitted with an inverted-V steel plate to part the surging zombies, preventing blockage of the cab.

With the help of seasoned engineers and technicians, the modifications took only half a day.

This modified vehicle was christened the "Armed Reconnaissance Rescue Vehicle." After the survivor base erupted into chaos, it was renamed the "Zombie Armed Reconnaissance Rescue Vehicle." When the reconnaissance battalion objected, the name became the "Armed Reconnaissance Zombie Rescue Vehicle," to distinguish it from the models used against humans equipped with firearms. However, the name was too unwieldy, so it was commonly called the "Zombie Armed Reconnaissance Rescue Vehicle."

The vehicle performed admirably, making several runs and rescuing dozens of warriors who had ventured too boldly and become trapped behind enemy lines. None suffered external injuries—the chainmail framework bore the brunt of the zombie pile-up. Warriors, suffocated under the stench, were immobilized.

On the last run, a platoon leader insisted on joining the mission: "My wife is inside; I have to save her!"

"Haven’t you gone in several times already?" someone muttered.

Everyone thought it a hopeless wish—after so many days of apocalypse, the odds of survival were slim. Yet the platoon leader persisted, "I just heard from the quarantine zone; there are still survivors inside!"

Seeing the platoon leader’s tears, the company commander agreed. To maximize the chance of rescuing any survivors, they hitched an all-steel, sealed trailer behind the armed reconnaissance vehicle.

The platoon leader sat at the rear, extending his sword through the gaps between the steel pipes, slicing zombie heads as they drove up to a factory.

He jumped off, leading several warriors into a workshop. Familiar with the place, they raced to the basement—he had worked here before the apocalypse, often meeting his wife inside, their rendezvous detailed with reference to certain famous films...

The zombie horde in the factory was alarmed, rippling like stones tossed into a lake. The platoon leader slashed wildly, crying out, "Qiao’er, Qiao’er, I’ve come for you!"

The basement was empty. The warriors struggled to pull the platoon leader from the heap of zombies. He neither spoke nor moved, like a felled zombie. There were many such people in the apocalypse. The warriors threw him onto the vehicle, fastened the safety belt, and the armed reconnaissance vehicle sped away from the factory.

As the reconnaissance vehicle exited, it passed a water tower sixty or seventy meters tall. Today, someone was waving clothes atop it. The lookout tapped the driver, who turned the vehicle, barreling through the horde straight for the water tower.

Xie Qiao’s small survivor group usually hid inside the water tower, afraid to emerge and risk discovery. There was stored water, though supply was intermittent, and survival was tough, yet they managed.

Just now, Xie Qiao had climbed to the top again, hoping her fiancé would come for her. Spotting the armed reconnaissance vehicle, she hurriedly waved her clothes, not daring to shout for fear of attracting zombies.

The platoon leader’s vacant gaze swept across the water tower’s summit, and suddenly he leapt down, rolled with the speeding vehicle, brandished his sword, cleaving through the zombies as he charged, shouting, "Qiao’er, Qiao’er, I am Ma Dali, I’ve come!"

Because several trapped warriors had zombie brain matter forced into their mouths and accidentally swallowed it—perhaps driven by thirst in recent days—they turned into zombies. The Ministry of Industry, upon learning of this, decided chainmail should be fitted with a backpack-style water pouch made of waterproof material.

"This is basically redundant; if it’s not waterproof, wouldn’t it leak?" Li Fengyi, who listened to the report, grumbled inwardly. Still, he didn’t interrupt the water expert, who had finally seized the chance to brief the top leader. The expert had reportedly bathed and changed clothes for the occasion, but Li Fengyi suspected it was still a coverall stained with engine oil.

The water expert was actually an engineer from the waterworks. In the post-apocalyptic world, with water quality fully restored and rivers once dry now roaring again thanks to abundant rainfall, his specialty was less crucial—especially since water was now easy to collect, provided one wasn’t dragged under by mutated river fish. For this reason, escaping from the basic labor force, the expert was quite excited.

"Mounted on the warrior’s back, with a tube leading to the mouth," the expert gestured enthusiastically. "When thirsty, just turn your head to drink. The pouch also provides cooling, preventing overheating during fierce combat. Below the chainmail’s eye level, soft materials line the inside, making it sealed but not obstructing breathing."