Xiangshan Film and Television City Base.
The thirteen-year-old boy gripped the Zombie Album in his hand, his gaze lost as he watched the crowd coming and going around him, not knowing where his future lay or what he could do here.
He once had a warm family.
With the apocalypse’s arrival, everything had vanished.
"You, co with ."
A survivor at the base shouted, leading this group of poor newcors into a spacious room.
The newcors were full of curiosity about everything here.
One of them asked curiously,
"Big brother, is this place managed by the governnt?"
Everyone looked on expectantly.
To them, wherever they went was fine; all they wanted to know was whether it was governnt-managed because if it was, the governnt would surely take care of them.
The man stopped and looked at this group of survivors, understanding what was on their minds.
"Don’t think too much. No one here will take care of you. You must rely on yourselves. Those who can’t contribute to the base either leave or wait to die. It’s that simple."
Having said that, he did not care what they thought. He greeted those who were already waiting, casually talking about so matters, pointing at the group of newcors, clearly aning that their numbers had increased and needed to be properly arranged.
Sitting there was a stout old lady, whose voice was sowhat raspy and loud.
"Anyone with a useful skill step forward. I an a skill that’s useful right now."
People looked at each other, frowning and thinking whether they had any useful skills.
Six survivors stepped forward.
The old lady nodded in satisfaction, pointing at a younger man and asking, "What skill do you have?"
"I’m amazingly good at playing ’Chicken’."
"’Chicken’?"
"Yes, even though I’ve never been on a battlefield, I have years of combat experience in the ga. I can fight all night long without even blinking an eye. I think this ability would suit our current situation."
The old lady stared at the young man, cursed loudly, "Get lost, bullshitter."
The young man shrank his head, feeling wronged. Why curse at him out of the blue? It would be so much better to talk things out nicely.
The old lady continued to question the others.
Getting precise answers.
She nodded her head, which was acceptable.
Seeing that the survivors included won, she asked, "Any of you familiar with nding clothes?"
The young won looked at each other, generally shaking their heads. Those who had never dabbled in sewing or even held a needle.
The old lady shook her head, "Anyone who can cook, raise your hand."
Seeing the old lady sowhat disappointed, a few won hesitantly raised their hands, not very confident as they only knew a few simple dishes. The old lady didn’t say much, recognizing that these won, in tis of peace, probably hadn’t touched kitchen utensils all year, the modern, fashionable type.
A slight leniency was a lifeline for them.
The old lady continued, "Here, everyone must work. There are no fine als or delicacies; sotis it’s just bread or thin porridge, stead buns, noodles, with only wild vegetables to eat."
"Ah? Just these?"
"How can one survive on this?"
"Yes, isn’t this too miserable?"
They muttered and complained. After struggling to get here, they found that their imagined situation was completely different from reality, a world apart.
"Quiet." The old lady’s expression grew stern. "What are you thinking? Just being alive is good enough. If you want fancy als, then join the base’s search team. Under the leadership of a Transcendent, go out and gather supplies. The treatnt is certainly as you imagine, but your lives are not guaranteed. Anyone who wants to join can co and register with now."
As the old lady spoke,
the newly arrived survivors shrank their heads. After barely making it to this place from the outside, they were reluctant to venture out again, fearing the zombies the most.
The old lady was used to this, having seen too many survivors harboring fantasies of reaping without sowing and enjoying the resources others risked their lives to bring from the outside.
Such were dreams.
Explaining logic was useless; only reality could brutally teach them a lesson.
History had been witness to countless ancestors trading their lives for peace during critical tis, yet just a few decades later, the comfort-shrouded descendants had already begun to forget their roots.
The invaders donned costus and held high-profile events everywhere, even drawing support from many young people of the new age. They didn’t understand the significance of the days on which these events were held, nor did they recognize what the venues neighbored.
It has been said,
"Eating too well breeds uselessness."
The old lady spotted the thirteen-year-old boy, "Child, what is your na?"
The boy holding the Zombie Album looked up at the old lady, "My na is Zhou Zhou."
The old lady nodded, she always tended to look out for poor children, but the rule at the base was that everyone must work. This was unbreakable, so she thought of assigning Zhou Zhou a relatively easy job.
At least to ensure he could survive.
...
Sunshine District.
Room 804.
Feifei and Tingting were ssily eating the golden fried rice in front of them, savoring its deliciousness beyond words.
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