In 1987, the Daxing'anling Mountains were struck by an unprecedented forest fire. After the flames were extinguished, the landscape was littered with charred remnants of trees and ruins, the air thick with the acrid smell of scorched earth.
A unit of PLA soldiers was conducting final cleanup operations at the scene. They had not rested properly for over a month, and the horrific aftermath of the fire had numbed their senses through sheer repetition.
Charred corpses were being cleared and buried at the foot of the mountain. Suddenly, a soldier named Zhang Zhu screamed in terror, shouting to his squad leader nearby, "Squad Leader! Come quick! What the hell is this?!"
"Zhang Zhu! Stop your damn hollering! Get a grip!" The squad leader strode over, assuming Zhang Zhu had stumbled upon another burnt corpse. But when he looked down, his breath hitched. The body on the ground was indeed charred black by smoke. Though its skin and hair had been seared away, the torso from the neck down was unmistakably human. The head, however, was another matter. The skull was grotesquely elongated, the facial muscles mostly burned off. Through the gaping wounds, two rows of sharp, fang-like teeth glinted in the light. It looked less like a human corpse and more like a human body grafted with the skull of a predatory beast.
The squad leader stared, a cold sweat dripping down his neck. Soldiers nearby crowded around, murmuring and pointing.
"Zhang Zhu! Fetch the company commander! Now!" the squad leader barked, steadying his voice. This was beyond his paygrade.
"Yes, sir!" Zhang Zhu sprinted toward the company headquarters. The squad leader sighed, watching him go, then turned to disperse the gawking soldiers—until a panicked shout cut through the air: "It moved! The monster moved!"
The squad leader whipped around. The charred corpse lay motionless, but its posture had undeniably shifted. His mind reeled. Not dead? How?! It's fucking charcoal!
Before he could react, the corpse jerked upright, lunging at the nearest soldier. Its jagged teeth clamped onto the man's throat. With a violent toss, it flung the soldier seven or eight meters away. The man's neck was a mangled ruin, blood gushing as he crumpled, lifeless.
"Holy shit!" The squad leader snapped into action, yanking his Type 56 automatic rifle from his back (only squad leaders carried firearms during cleanup duty, meant to deter wild animals). He racked the bolt and fired a burst at the corpse. Rat-tat-tat! Bullets punched into its chest—but the creature barely flinched. Instead, it turned and lumbered toward him.
Gritting his teeth, the squad leader emptied the magazine into the corpse's torso. This time, the impacts staggered it backward momentarily. When the gunfire ceased, it resumed its slow, relentless advance.
Out of ammo, the squad leader gripped his rifle like a club, bracing for impact. His men raised shovels and pickaxes, ready to fight.
Then a voice roared behind them: "Everyone, hit the ground!"
The soldiers dropped instantly. A storm of gunfire erupted—rat-tat-tat-tat!—sparks flaring where bullets struck the corpse. When the barrage ended, the creature finally toppled backward.
The squad leader, closest to the corpse, cautiously rose. He crept forward and peered at its face. The eyelids had burned away, leaving bulging eyes staring vacantly, pupils dilated. It was truly dead.
Behind him stood the company commander, the political instructor, and a soldier—all clutching empty rifles. They reloaded swiftly, training their weapons on the motionless corpse.