Chapter 123: Influenza
Above Hershel's Farm, the roar of the helicopter's rotors startled a flock of sparrows pecking in the fields.
Wu Fan sat by the window, observing the land below through a pair of binoculars.
The cultivated area had expanded since his last visit—stretching from the farmhouse to a distant creek, nearly two kilometers long and half a kilometer wide.
Corn stood in tassel, soybeans were blooming, and rows of potato vines sprawled across the ridges, lush and vibrant under the afternoon sun.
Hershel sat beside him, pointing toward the fields and muttering as he worked through his observations.
"The corn is doing alright, but the northern field isn't fertile enough. We'll need crop rotation next year. The soybeans are fine—plenty of rain this season, so the pods are forming well. And the potatoes—look at that patch, the vines are already spilling into the furrows. I'll need to get the boys to turn them over later."
Wu Fan lowered his binoculars.
"Didn't I send over two harvesting machines? They can dig potatoes and harvest wheat and corn automatically."
Hershel flushed slightly.
"I… I still need to learn how to use them. They're more advanced than anything I've ever worked with."
More than advanced—Hershel had only ever used tractors with simple attachments before. What Wu Fan had provided were fully automated agricultural machines.
"It's fine," Wu Fan said casually. "You and the younger ones can study them. I don't know how to operate them either. Once you figure it out, teach me."
Hershel looked at him with quiet admiration.
"Alright. Once I master them, I'll write a manual for you."
Wu Fan waved his hand immediately.
"No need for manuals. Just give it to someone else. Even looking at textbooks makes me sleepy. I prefer hands-on work."
Hershel laughed.
The helicopter circled the farmland and headed east.
An orchard stretched beneath them—recently planted peach, pear, and apple saplings, still small and half-hidden among weeds.
Hershel sighed.
"Fruit trees take three years to bear fruit. I wonder if the world will be normal again by then."
Wu Fan did not answer.
He simply watched the saplings sway in the wind, their leaves curling under the sun.
"Three years…"
In three years, Atlanta's defenses should be complete, Georgia should be cleared of Walkers, and the vaccine should be widely distributed.
Perhaps the world truly could return to what it once was.
---
In the CDC office on the third floor, Wu Fan flipped to the last page of a population report.
53,742 people.
12,000 National Guard soldiers, 20 from the Army, 2 from the Air Force, 4 ground crew members, and—zero Marines.
He paused, circling the Marine Corps column and adding a question mark beside it.
Those men were the most adaptable after the outbreak; they had likely gone to sea and isolated themselves on some remote island.
He wondered where they were now—and whether they would ever return.
---
The door suddenly opened.
Amy entered quickly, her expression tense, clutching a report.
"Boss, a massive flu outbreak has appeared in the town. Many people are coughing blood and struggling to breathe."
Wu Fan stood immediately.
"How many cases?"
"Forty-seven confirmed so far, and the number is still increasing. Most are elderly and children."
"Have the soldiers seal off the area and disinfect everything. Move all patients to the CDC isolation ward on the second floor."
He picked up the phone.
"Call Candice. Now."
---
Candice arrived quickly, her lab coat slightly disordered and her hair loosely tied.
She stopped in front of the desk, slightly out of breath.
Wu Fan pushed the report toward her.
"Community flu. Symptoms include respiratory failure and hemoptysis."
"Collect samples. Analyze it. Develop a treatment. Tell me what you need."
Candice took the report, scanned it once, then turned and left without hesitation.
---
The town had already been sealed off.
People in hazmat suits stood at intersections, spraying disinfectant across the air, ground, and walls.
Stretcher teams carried out patients—some still coughing, some unconscious, others covered with blankets, their faces hidden.
An elderly woman reached out from beneath a sheet as she was lifted away, her fingers clutching tightly at the fabric until her knuckles turned white. She tried to speak, but no sound came through the mask.
A young man stood at his doorway, masked and silent, watching his family being taken away. His eyes were red, but he did not cry.
---
On the second-floor isolation ward, the air smelled of disinfectant mixed with blood.
Nurses moved quickly between beds, recording vitals, adjusting drips, and monitoring patients.
A child lay on a bed, feverish and pale, his breathing shallow and rapid.
Outside the glass, his mother pressed her hand against the barrier, her palm aligned with his face.
Candice entered in full protective gear, followed by an assistant carrying a blood collection kit.
The child saw the faceless figure and trembled slightly, trying but failing to cry out.
The assistant drew blood from his arm—thin veins under fragile skin.
Candice observed silently as the vial filled.
---
Back in the lab, she placed the sample into a centrifuge.
The machine hummed to life.
Minutes later, she prepared a slide and examined it under a microscope.
The virus appeared densely packed—like a swarm.
She adjusted the focus.
Streptococcus pneumoniae, but mutated. Stronger. Thicker capsule. Higher resistance.
She pulled earlier data from the files and compared them.
It was the same strain—but it had evolved.
And the previous medication might no longer be effective.