Chapter 1: The Sichuan Revenant Panic of ‘95 (Part One) – Revised
H1: The Ghosts of Memory and the Weight of Silence
Before I put these words to paper, I locked myself in my study for a long, long time. I had to decide if this story was one that should ever be told. It all comes back to a single question: what is a dragon? A celestial beast from a myth? A spiritual emblem of a nation? Or both?
The debate over their existence is as old as the legends themselves. To some, they are a paradox—a creature that exists, yet cannot possibly be real. The ancients believed dragons could shift their form, from colossal to microscopic, from visible to invisible. They could summon rain to nourish the land or conjure storms to destroy it. Perhaps it was this blend of human imagination and imperial power that elevated the dragon to its unshakable throne in our mythology. Now, in our modern world, such creatures have been relegated to the dusty cabinet of superstition.
During my time abroad, I’ve seen Western academics pore over their own legends—griffins, unicorns, krakens—analyzing them with scientific rigor, endlessly probing for a kernel of biological possibility.
I’m no scholar. I’m not an agent of some clandestine government department, one of those men-in-black types you see in movies. I don’t even know if such an organization truly exists in our country. I can’t tell you if they hold the definitive proof of the dragon’s existence, or if a dragon’s leviathan skeleton lies cataloged in one of their secret vaults.
That kind of information, if it exists, is buried under layers of black ink and stamped “CLASSIFIED.” The world is full of inexplicable events and cryptozoological mysteries. China is no exception. Our government has a long history of sealing away incidents that could spark public terror. Sometimes, the panic of the herd is far more dangerous than the monster that caused it.
Consider two examples: the “Wildman” sightings in a northern province back in the ‘70s, and the “Revenant Panic” that swept through the southwest in 1995. Both events sent waves of fear through cities and villages alike, paralyzing communities and causing, in the case of the ‘95 incident, over a hundred million yuan in economic losses in just two weeks.
Sometimes, what the public doesn’t know is for their own good. When it comes to a creature as deeply woven into the Asian psyche as the dragon, the truth—if it were ever found—would remain a state secret forever.
Of those two incidents, I was only present for the second. My story starts in 1990, when I was conscripted into the army and assigned to a construction corps in the high plains of Qinghai. It was there, in that desolate land, that I first stumbled into the orbit of a place spoken of only in whispers: Dragon Spring Township. My transfer back to my home province of Sichuan in ‘95 dropped me right into the terrifying saga of the revenant outbreak. 【1. But even that was just a prelude. The true beginning of this long, horrifying odyssey of blood, scales, and water—the event that set everything in motion—was the Great Flood that came three years later, and the impossible thing that surfaced in its churning waters.】
The memories still haunt me. That journey dragged me across nearly the entire Asian continent. The faces of the comrades I lost along the way—swallowed by forgotten tombs, abyssal mountain chasms, and lightless riverbeds—are seared into my mind. Their last screams, their final, desperate glances… they are the ghosts that share my waking hours and torment my sleep.
Perhaps it’s for them that I’m writing this. Perhaps they want the world to know the truth they died for. 【2. The truth about what a dragon truly is—not a symbol, not a god, but something far more primal… and hungry.】
I’ve carried this secret for too long. My only goal here is to unburden myself, to tell the story as it happened. So please, don’t ask me if it’s real or if it’s fiction. Just read it as a story. That’s all it needs to be.
H2: Black Suits and a Contagion of Fear
After the Dragon Spring Township incident, some strings were pulled, and I was transferred back home to Sichuan. They gave me a desk job—a cushy civilian officer post at the military district headquarters. My days were a placid cycle of administrative paperwork and teaching national defense courses to university students. Life was predictable. Stable.
And then, one routine Tuesday, that life shattered.
(A solemn warning before we proceed: I am writing a story. Do not seek out the places I mention. Do not try to retrace my steps. This is my burden to share, not yours to carry. You read, I write. That is our pact.)
It was a late afternoon in April 1995. I was clearing my desk, ready to head back to my bachelor’s quarters, when the piercing shriek of the assembly alarm cut through the air. The sound was an electric shock. Instantly, the base convulsed. From the family housing blocks, the administrative offices, and the training grounds, a black tide of uniformed bodies poured out, converging on the flagstaff square in front of the main building. All fifteen hundred of us stood at attention, breath held, as the base commander addressed us.
At first, I figured it was a surprise drill—a “pull-out,” as we called it. But then a convoy of sleek black sedans rolled onto the square. A group of men in crisp, ill-fitting black suits stepped out. They held clipboards. One of them began reading a list of names.
“Xia Zhu.”
My name. I was stunned. Desk jockeys like me were rarely pulled for anything more strenuous than quarterly firearms qualification. My mind was a blur as I and the other civilians on the list were herded by the black-suited men into a multimedia briefing room. 【3. Was this about Dragon Spring? The thought shot through me like a jolt of ice water. Had they known I was there?】
We took our seats, and I covertly studied our handlers. They weren’t from any branch I recognized. Not the Disciplinary Corps, not the base guards, not military police. They moved with a cold, detached efficiency that was unnerving.
One of them, a thick-set man with a square jaw and intense, dark eyes, dropped a thin file on my desk. He leaned in close, his gaze pinning me to my seat. His Mandarin was sharp, clipped with the hard accent of the northeast.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice a low rumble that felt like stepping into a walk-in freezer on a summer day. “Stop. Don’t guess who we are. We already know who you are, Officer Xia. Just do the job you’re given.”
He moved on. I opened the file. The contents were straightforward: we were being assigned to a publicity task force. Our mission was to visit universities, high schools, and neighborhood committees across the city to spread a specific message.
The subject: the so-called “zombie incident” that had sprung up in the local rumor mill over the last few days.
Here are a few options for the term 僵尸事件 (jiāngshī shìjiàn):
- The Revenant Panic: (Pros: This is the option I’ve used. “Revenant” is a more literary and serious term for a risen corpse than “zombie,” fitting a horror/thriller tone. “Panic” captures the social chaos described. Cons: Less commonly known than “zombie.”)
- The Jiangshi Outbreak: (Pros: Uses the authentic Chinese term, which will appeal to genre-savvy readers. It signals that this isn’t a Western-style zombie. Cons: May require the reader to infer the meaning from context, potentially creating a small barrier to entry.)
- The Hopping Vampire Scare: (Pros: A classic, more pulp-fiction way of describing jiangshi. It’s evocative and has a certain retro charm. Cons: Might make the story sound more campy or less serious than intended.)
Before my encounter at Dragon Spring Township, I would have scoffed. Zombies? But I had seen things. I now knew that the world was far wider, and stranger, than I had ever imagined.
H3: The Truth in a Column of Smoke
As I walked back toward my office, file in hand, my friend Jiang Tao jogged up beside me, breaking my train of thought. He was decked out in full camouflage combat gear, his face grim.
“Hey,” I said, nodding toward his kit. “What’s all this about?”
He glanced around, his expression tight. “Got a smoke?”
I handed him one. He lit it, his eyes falling on the file in my hand. He recognized the cover sheet. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows of a nearby alcove.
“It’s a real shitstorm, man,” he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “You want to know what’s really going on? I can tell you. We’re on the same side. I know you won’t talk.”
He took another deep drag. “You’re a local,” he began, his voice low. “You know Mount Qingcheng, right? Taoist holy site, big tourist draw. Well, with tourism booming, the local government decided to develop the back of the mountain—specifically a place called the Nine Elders Cave. During the initial excavation, they found something. Nine perfectly preserved—desiccated—corpses. To avoid a panic and keep the tourism project on track, they decided to hush it up. The plan was to move the bodies at night and bury them somewhere discreet.”
He paused, his eyes dark. “Something went wrong. The five workers who stayed behind to guard the site that night… they were all found dead. Not just dead. Ripped apart. There wasn’t a single whole body left. The rest of the crew took one look and ran for their lives. And just like that, the story was out. One person tells ten, ten tell a hundred. Now the whole city is buzzing with rumors, each one crazier than the last.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh and tossed him the file from my desk. “This is the official story,” I said, my face burning with a secondhand shame. “Rabies. A new, hyper-aggressive strain. Claims I’m supposed to make with a straight face.”
He scanned the top page. “Yeah, right. Rabies that makes a dozen people go berserk on the same night they were bitten. A little thin, but I guess it’s better than the garbage flying around out there. People are saying we dug up Qing dynasty vampires over in Shiling. I’m no history buff, but even I know those are all Ming dynasty tombs. Another one is they came from the Wuhou Shrine. Wonder if Zhuge Liang himself is walking around.”
I tried to crack a smile to break the tension, but it died on my lips. The only sound was my own hollow chuckle.
“Jiang Tao,” I asked, my voice suddenly serious. “Are you guys going out to hunt… them?”
He shook his head, grinding the cigarette out with the heel of his boot. He handed the file back. “No. We’re going to retrieve what’s left at the cave.”
My blood ran cold.
“They only found six of the original nine corpses when the first team went in,” he said, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. “The other three are gone. Our mission is to secure the remaining six before those black-suit guys take them away.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the square. “Gotta go,” he said, clapping me firmly on the shoulder. “Time to move out.”
He took a few steps, then stopped and turned back. He raised his hand, forming a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, and leveled it at his own temple. His expression was dead serious.
“What I told you,” he mouthed silently. “Keep it quiet. Or else.”
In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him look like that. This wasn’t a joke. I gave a slow, solemn nod.
I walked him to the edge of the building and watched him climb into the back of a canvas-topped military truck. As the vehicle’s red taillights dissolved into the deepening twilight, a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach.
Something told me Jiang Tao’s mission wasn’t going to be a simple recovery operation. And this contagion of fear spreading through the city was only the beginning.