Chapter 10: The Pool

"The second flaw is this," the white‑haired man continued. "These living corpses can die only once. If they die a second time, their souls disperse into nothingness."

Old Wang fixed him with a stare before asking, "This isn't your first time here, is it? Those undead seemed to recognize you."

The white‑haired man declined to elaborate. "That's my business, not yours."

Old Wang stood speechless. I cleared my throat to prompt him, but still he said nothing. Finally, Old Wang turned back to the white‑haired man. "Since you can get in and out, surely you can help us open that wall. Then we can make our own way back."

The white‑haired man shook his head. "That gate is a one‑way entrance. Once it's closed, only the outside latch will open it. If you want to leave, you must take the living gate ahead." His words matched what dead Mott had said—inside lurked at least three living corpses. By luck and the chamber's cramped confines, only one had been dispatched. If two or three more had burst out, the best outcome would likely have been all of us perishing together.

With no alternative, we steeled ourselves to move forward. The white‑haired man showed no haste; as soon as he signaled his intention to walk on, the others fell in behind him. Fatty piped up, "Let's go together so we can watch each other's backs." Old Wang, La Zi, and I flushed at Fatty's "helpful" suggestion—none of us fancied being "looked after" by him.

The white‑haired man didn't object. "Follow if you wish," he said, and set off at a leisurely pace toward the hidden chamber.

Old Wang arranged us into formation: himself, Fatty, and Song Er would trail the stranger; La Zi and Li Yan would escort Mott's henchmen (his corpse was being carried by those few men); Liu Jingsheng and the others would cover the rear. Begrudgingly, Old Wang handed Fatty one of the confiscated AK‑47s. "Here—take it. And shut your mouth."

Fatty gripped the rifle and harrumphed, "A gun bolsters a man's courage. As Chairman Mao said, 'Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.' If a gun can win power, it surely can steel one's nerves."

Unable to endure his prattle, I sneered, "Give it a rest. No cannon would beef up your courage—you were the fastest runner out of that chamber."

Fatty bristled. "Don't talk nonsense. I didn't have a gun in hand. Hundred‑yard sharpshooting isn't easy, but with a weapon in my grip? I'd've taken down every last one of those corpses."

Old Wang shot us both a withering look. "Shut up, both of you! Enough with your tall tales. And you want more of those undead?"

The white‑haired man moved at an unhurried pace. Once inside the hidden chamber again, he paused to examine the splintered skull of the first corpse, then glanced at Old Wang's bandaged cheek. "Did that acidic ichor splatter you?"

Old Wang rubbed the wound. "Who knows what it was—like sulfuric acid. It burned off a chunk of my flesh."

The stranger produced a small paper packet and handed it over. "Mix this with water into a paste and apply it. You'll have new flesh in no time." Before Old Wang could thank him, Fatty sidled up. "Brother Whitehair, some of that stuff splashed on my back earlier—feels itchy. Can I get a few packets, too?"

I clapped Fatty on the shoulder. "You just haven't showered in ages—that's sweat rash, not poison."

"Really really—if you don't believe me, you can look," Fatty grumbled, lifting his shirt. The white‑haired man ignored him and pushed through the rear door of the chamber. Seeing no response, Fatty sheepishly redonned his shirt, mumbling under his breath.

The back door opened onto a narrow corridor. The white‑haired man, clearly familiar with the layout, led us down a twisting path, never pausing at any junction, until we reached the far end of the passage.

We all gripped our weapons tensely as we advanced, every step uneasy—any of those missing living corpses could spring out at us from anywhere. Fortunately, by the time we exited the tunnel, we hadn't seen so much as a single corpse.

Beyond the tunnel mouth lay a vast subterranean pool. Less than a hundred meters from the outlet, the shore was piled high with hundreds—perhaps thousands—of bodies. Not all were desiccated mummies; many had died more recently, and the cave's humidity had left them in various stages of decay. Some were little more than skeletons. The stench of rot was overpowering, enough to make anyone faint.

Fatty covered his nose and muttered, "They call this the 'living gate'? Christ, we've escaped the tiger's den only to arrive at a dragon's pool…" He started to say more, but saw everyone glaring and fell silent.

"Captain, look there." Zhang Yunwei's flashlight beam picked out a long object on the ground. Old Wang trained the light on it: an old‑style rifle, its metal parts completely rusted, the stock almost eaten away. Judging by the shape, it was either an early Chinese Zhong‑type or a Japanese Type 38 Arisaka.

"There's more." Li Yan pried up a blackened lump with his knife. After a moment he recognized it as the legendary "Turtle Cover"—the Japanese Nambu Type 14 pistol.

The further we walked, the more relics we found: pristine waterproof compasses, machete blades so rusted they looked like iron bars. A skeleton on the floor still clutched a feng‑shui compass. We even discovered three foreign bodies—Caucasians, judging by their blond hair and European features, who had died not long ago.

Nearby lay two empty AK‑47 magazines and a Remington shotgun. Searching their packs turned up no IDs, but we found a bundle of detonators and five kilograms of plastic explosive, all sealed in waterproof bags and remarkably well preserved. Mixed among these were a sapper's entrenching tool, climbing ropes, miners' helmets—and over eight thousand US dollars in various pockets.

Old Wang snarled, "Just how many people did that bastard Lao Lin lure here?" The white‑haired man glanced at him but said nothing. Liu Jingsheng said, "Captain, we should take the explosives and detonators—might be useful on the way out."

Old Wang nodded, then turned to me. "La Zi, you carry the explosives and detonators." Before I could answer, Fatty hustled forward, saying, "Let me take them. You're already carrying twenty‑odd pounds. I'll handle this."

I wondered why he'd suddenly grown so helpful—until I saw him sling the explosives into his pack, heft the Remington onto his shoulder, and deftly pocket the cash.

A few paces farther, we reached the edge of the pool. Stalactites hung above like jagged teeth, some dipping into the black, bottomless water. Under normal circumstances we could swim across, but with at least three living corpses still unaccounted for—let alone the henchmen—venturing in would be sheer madness.

Old Wang fell in beside the white‑haired man and asked, "Brother, how do we get across?" A henchman piped up before the stranger could speak: "Sir, I know—can I get credit for it?" The man had smuggled over a ton of drugs; with the kingpin dead, he'd face heavy sentencing and perhaps even firing squad. Earning "merit" might buy him a life term instead of death.

"Yeah? You know?" Old Wang gave him a long look. "Spit it out—or your sentence gets worse."

"I'll talk." The henchman hurried to two earthen mounds and lifted their tarpaulins, revealing two small wooden boats fitted with outboard motors and propellers. The inverted hulls were cleverly camouflaged among the dirt piles.

Hope flickered. Old Wang ordered the boats dragged into the water. Each held eight to ten men comfortably, so we split into two groups and set off—cautiously weaving among the stalactites, progress was slow.

"We're finally leaving this hellhole," Fatty muttered from the bow, oblivious to the grim surroundings. In stark contrast, the white‑haired man sat frowning, silent. Whenever we asked about the golden skull, he snapped, "None of your business."

"Captain, look—fish!" Song flashlight revealed dark shapes swirling by our hull as though a school were migrating.

"What kind of fish?" Fatty craned forward, then reached to grab one. "Don't touch them!" the stranger barked, blocking Fatty's hand. "They're not yours to snatch." Fatty scowled.

The stranger traced a circle over the water with his finger; at a tap in the center, a strange fish leapt through the air and vanished inside the ring before splashing back into the depths.

Fatty stared, dumbfounded. The fish wasn't scaled—it was feathered, its maw full of fangs, clutching a human finger between its teeth.

"A fish my ass—more like a bird‑fish!" Fatty gaped, as the rest of us stood speechless. The stranger swept the circle away with a flick of his hand.

If this was a normal man, no one would believe him. He'd slain living corpses with a twist of his hands, split skulls with a talisman, and now could conjure feathered, fanged fish at will.

Li Yan offered the man a cigarette. "Remarkable skill," he said. "I've never heard of that before. What kind of fish was it?"

The stranger ignored the cigarette. "It's called a ying fish, native to the western slopes of Mount Gui. They have wings and cry like mandarin ducks. Out of water, they die."

"Out of water they die? Aren't all fish like that?" Fatty rolled his eyes. "That ying fish leapt out of water—why didn't it die?"

I tugged Fatty's sleeve and pointed back at the surface, where the feathered fish floated belly‑up—dead.

Fatty muttered, "Talk about perfect timing—my talking makes it show up, then it dies."

No one paid him any mind. I swallowed my nausea and asked the stranger, "That fish doesn't look vegetarian. Are they man‑eaters?"

He glanced at me. "In Mount Gui's lakes, they eat small fish, shrimp, and water plants. But here…" He drew out the pause. "…they feed only on the dead."

I shuddered. Song Er, oblivious to the implication, asked, "Why only the dead here?"

"Because there's nothing but corpses in this water." At his words, the two boats went silent.

On the other boat, a henchman leaned over the gunwale, entranced by the fish circling beneath him. Then, two bleached, skeletal hands shot from the water and gripped his clothing. Before he could react, they yanked him under.

"Something in the water!" Fatty shouted, firing at the rippling surface. Old Wang barked, "Stand ready—there's something in the water!"

Not everyone had seen it yet when dozens of ripples raced outward. Black shapes erupted from the water's edge, vaulting onto both boats like lightning. Emaciated and cadaverous, their twisted faces snapping—it was the living dead, far more than the three we'd counted.

Rat‑tat‑tat‑tat! Guns roared. The undead swarmed both hulls, their scattered attacks barely slowing them. Within seconds, Old Wang and Liu Jingsheng's boat was overrun—only the two of them remained; the henchmen had been torn apart and dragged below, taking Zhang Yunwei and Li Jiadong with them.

"Jump here!" I yelled, and the white‑haired man lunged in—not with a talisman this time, but a sword thrust into one zombie's belly. With a slash, the dried corpse dropped inert. Before he could pull free, four more swarmed him. He kicked one into the water, but the rest knocked him off the boat.

With our ally gone, we were on our own. On our boat, four of us remained—Li Yan, Song Er, Fatty, and me. Two undead still clung to the hull. Drawing on our chamber experience, I emptied a magazine into one zombie's forehead. Rat‑tat‑tat— headshot. I ducked back as its brains splattered.

One left. As I moved to fire, my weapon clicked—empty. Fatty's and Li Yan's shots scattered but did no real harm.

I reloaded in a heartbeat and prepared to squeeze the trigger when Fatty swung his AK‑47 in a brilliant burst, the zombie's head exploding under the spray—proof of his "one‑hundred‑yard" brag.

No sooner was that threat gone than we swept our fire at the remaining horde around Old Wang and Liu Jingsheng's boat. Fatty ditched the AK‑47 and grabbed the Remington.

"You two, get down!" he roared, pumping shells in rapid succession: Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! The close‑range blast sent the zombies into the water.

"Now jump!" Fatty shouted. Old Wang and Liu Jingsheng sprang across, but as they cleared the gap, two undead leapt up from the water and intercepted them, wrestling them under. They thrashed briefly, then sank; moments later their torn bodies bobbed to the surface.

Everything happened in a blur. By the time I raised my weapon again, Old Wang and Liu Jingsheng were lost. My anger churned, powerless to save them. More undead gathered, their grisly faces leer­ing.

Then I remembered the explosives. "Give me the charges!"

"What for?" Fatty hesitated. "Those five kilos will blow us sky‑high too."

"Shut up!" I ripped open his pack, flung the plastic explosive toward the densest pack of undead, and ignited the fuse.

BOOM! A towering column of water shot skyward. Stalactites rained down, along with limbs of the undead. The blast nearly capsized our boat; we clung to the gunwale as it rocked violently. Half a minute later the water stilled.

"Couldn't have split that in two?" Fatty wheezed from the deck.

My mind had gone blank at the fuse's spark—I'd been ready for a final, glorious end. Now I shook off the fear. "You could've warned me!"

"Like I had time! You think I'd just chat?" Fatty's features twisted in fury.

"Save it," Song Er and Li Yan murmured—clearly on my side. Fatty sputtered in frustration.

Li Yan peered at the water. "We'd better recover their bodies."

My heart sank. Together we pulled Old Wang, Liu Jingsheng, Zhang Yunwei, and Li Jiadong's remains aboard. We searched for the white‑haired man but found no trace. Resigned, the four of us pressed on—surely the cave's exit couldn't be far ahead.