Chapter 46 - 42: Wang

Chapter 46: Chapter 42: Wang

Meanwhile, in the center of town, a faint light flickered from a ground-floor room in a relatively intact two-story building.

A small team of twelve or thirteen survivors was taking shelter here.

Their leader was a middle-aged man known as Wang. Around forty years old, he had a burly, broad-shouldered build. His entire body was currently bundled in a thick, stained, army-green overcoat, but his formidable presence was still palpable. He had a rugged face, his skin coarse and weathered from the sun and wind. Reflected in the firelight, his eyes looked exceptionally steady and sharp as he habitually scanned his surroundings.

Wang had served in the army for many years. After the apocalypse began, he relied on his formidable skills and a clear head to gradually become the core of this spontaneously formed team of survivors.

Surrounding him were seven or eight men and women, the backbone of the team. They had all been struggling to survive with Wang for some time now and had built a mutual sense of trust and rapport.

The rest of the group was scattered about the room’s corners, either resting or silently organizing their gear. Among them was a middle-aged couple with a little boy of about seven or eight, who was also bundled up tightly. The child was nestled in his mother’s arms, looking exhausted and listless.

"I’ve checked everything. The doors and windows are reinforced. The second floor has a good field of view, so I’ve arranged for Sun and Old Li to take turns on watch," a young man with battered glasses and a scholarly air reported quietly to Wang. His name was Zhao Ming; apparently a former programmer, he now served as the team’s "technical advisor" and scribe.

Wang nodded, his voice low and hoarse, carrying an unquestionable steadiness. "Good. We don’t break the rules. In this damn weather, those things have gotten sluggish, but we can’t rule out a starving one—or something else—sneaking up on us. Tell everyone to hurry up and rest, get something to eat. We move out once everyone’s recovered."

"Understood, Wang," Zhao Ming replied, turning to make the arrangements.

In the center of the room, wood stripped from abandoned furniture burned inside a makeshift stove fashioned from a salvaged iron barrel. A soot-blackened pot rested over the fire, its contents bubbling away. A man in his fifties with mostly gray hair, whom everyone called Old Chen, was carefully stirring the food inside with a wooden spoon.

A faint odor, a mix of smoke and cooking, filled the room. The pot held a thin porridge of rice and other grains. A few shredded, dark strips of jerky and several withered vegetable leaves floated inside. This was their dinner for the night—the new normal for them these past weeks.

"Old Chen, give the kid a little more of the thick stuff at the bottom of his bowl," a woman adjusting a pair of large, fan-like snowshoes said, looking up at him. She was Wu Xiujuan, the wife of the couple, her face haggard from constant hardship.

Old Chen said nothing, merely giving a silent nod.

"Mom, I’m not hungry," the little boy mumbled in his mother’s arms, but his eyes couldn’t help darting toward the steaming pot.

"Nonsense. We’ve been walking all day. How could you not be hungry?" Wu Xiujuan said, stroking her son’s head, her voice tinged with a weary gentleness.

A sturdy man with a faint scar on his face clicked his tongue and complained to Old Chen, "Old Man Chen, this porridge is too damn thin. You take a piss and it’s gone. What’s the use?" His name was Big Bull; he was straightforward, strong, and one of the team’s main fighters.

Without looking up, Old Chen said slowly, "This is all the rice we have. If we’re careful, it’ll last us until Jiang City. If you want something solid, go hunt for it yourself."

Big Bull was left speechless. He sullenly rubbed his nose. "Hunt where? It’s all ice and snow out there. Even the rats are holed up for the winter."

A woman sitting by the fire silently cleaning an old hatchet chimed in, "Be grateful we have something to eat. Don’t be picky. Remember that group we met before? They were chewing on tree bark." Her name was Sun Xiaoyun. She was a woman of few words, but ruthless in action—another member of the team who was not to be underestimated.

Big Bull fell silent. Everyone there had a deep, personal understanding of the hardships of the apocalypse.

Wang walked to the pot and glanced at the watery porridge inside. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then smoothed out. He picked up a nearby dented and chipped enamel bowl, and Old Chen ladled him half a bowlful.

Carrying the enamel bowl, Wang went to the window and peered cautiously through a crack at the dark, silent street outside. Only then did he return to squat by the fire, taking small sips of the porridge—so thin you could almost count the individual grains of rice.

"Wang, are we really going to search this town tomorrow?" Zhao Ming asked in a low voice, sidling up with his own bowl of porridge. He held a worn-out notebook with a crude map drawn inside. "The map says Cyan Pine Ridge Town was looted multiple times right after the cataclysm started. Apparently, there were some major conflicts here later, too. Word is anything useful was cleared out long ago. We’re on a tight schedule, so maybe we..."

Wang swallowed a mouthful of what was essentially rice water, with barely a grain of rice in it. His gaze swept over the team members scattered around the room, their faces sallow with malnutrition, and rested on the small boy curled in his mother’s arms. "Maps are static, people aren’t," he said slowly. "No matter how thoroughly a town has been looted, there are always corners people miss, spots later groups might have overlooked. It’ll be worth it even if all we find is some dry wood to burn or a couple of rusty cans."

He paused, lowering his voice. "Besides, you’ve seen for yourself on the way here—the closer we get to Jiang City, the more ’fellow travelers’ are on the road, and the more complicated things become. That group we ran into yesterday... the way they looked at us wasn’t right. We need to restock on supplies, no matter how little we find. It could be what saves us when things get rough. We can’t rely entirely on others before we reach the shelter."

Zhao Ming pushed up his glasses and nodded. "Understood. Tomorrow, I’ll take two people and focus on searching the places that are most likely to have been overlooked, like basements or more remote, single-family homes."

"Good. Prioritize safety. Focus on scouting, don’t split up, and retreat immediately if anything seems off," Wang instructed. "We’re just here to recover. We have to set out as soon as everyone is well enough. We’re still ten-odd days from Jiang City; we can’t afford delays."

Though the two spoke quietly, their conversation was still faintly audible to those nearby in the silent room.

In a corner, the husband of the couple, a quiet man named Wu Jianguo, sighed softly and whispered to his wife, "I hope they find something. The kid’s shoes are almost worn through."

Wu Xiujuan tightened her arms around her son. She said nothing, but her eyes were filled with anxiety and uncertainty about the future.

Elsewhere, Big Bull and Sun Xiaoyun were also whispering.

"Wang is being overly cautious," Big Bull muttered, unconvinced. "This town looks completely dead. What danger could there possibly be?"

Sun Xiaoyun shot him a glance and said coldly, "Better safe than sorry. Did you forget what happened at that abandoned gas station? If Wang hadn’t been so quick on his feet, those bastards would have had us. In this world, the living can be far more dangerous than the dead."

Big Bull was clearly reminded of that harrowing experience. He visibly flinched and said no more.

The firelight danced, illuminating faces etched with exhaustion and vigilance, yet holding a flicker of hope. They sipped porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it, chewed on rock-hard jerky, and spoke in hushed tones as they planned their search for the morning.