Individuals living in modern society are largely spared the dire predicament of dying from thirst. In recent years, urban development has reached new heights, with convenient public faucets installed along roadsides, some even offering purified water. While certain water-scarce provinces might be an exception, in the perpetually rainy southern border regions, the issue of drinking water was never a concern.
Now, however, circumstances had drastically shifted. Upon inspecting the warehouse, they collectively confirmed that a mere eleven bottles of mineral water remained.
With twenty-two survivors currently sheltering in the parking lot, this meager supply amounted to only half a bottle per person.
“It appears that today, beyond ensuring Zhao Long’s transport to the hospital, our immediate priority must be to secure a supply of potable water.” Jing Lan glanced back at the circle of survivors, noticing Xia Lang approaching, guitar in hand.
“I’ve actually been meaning to discuss this with you for quite some time. Moreover, there are other pressing issues that demand our attention, such as the accumulating waste in the restrooms.”
“We’ll address that later,” Jing Lan sighed, a weariness seeping into his voice. “All I truly desire is a decent night’s sleep.”
Xia Lang offered his customary smile. “Press on, senior. The task of maintaining the restrooms can be entrusted to me. Oh, and regarding resource allocation, I believe it’s imperative we discuss this with everyone sooner rather than later. We can no longer afford to distribute supplies on an ‘as needed’ basis, especially since I’ve heard new mutated entities have emerged outside. Keke’s assertion that supplies are ‘everywhere’ might be overly optimistic; even traversing a short distance could prove perilous.”
“This responsibility undoubtedly falls to you; your intellect must be put to good use.” Jing Lan’s words were not without cause. As the guitarist for the Four-Color Conjecture band, every member believed Xia Lang to be a genuine prodigy, not merely for his deft handling of guitar strings, but, more notably, for his truly extraordinary memory.
His practice method involved committing a score to memory, then rehearsing it repeatedly without needing to consult the sheet music again. This remarkable memory also proved invaluable in other domains, such as vocabulary acquisition and facial recognition.
Acting swiftly, the group convened a brief meeting with the others in the office building, where a fundamental principle was established: Old Cao and Xia Lang would oversee the distribution of resources. With Xia Lang’s exceptional memory for faces, any attempt to exploit the system would be futile.
The very man whom Keke had once chastised for his contrarian views piped up again, challenging: “How can we be certain he won’t make a mistake?”
Keke, incensed by his presence, felt an urge to produce something immediately, compelling Xia Lang to demonstrate his photographic memory. Xia Lang, however, quickly intervened, gently urging her, “Please, don’t get so agitated with him. Should I err, I will readily admit my mistake. I also ask that everyone assist me by pointing out any inaccuracies.”
“In that case, aren’t we all equally capable?” the man retorted. “Why must *you* be the one to undertake this task?”
Xia Lang paused, his eyes blinking slowly, as he met the man’s wide-eyed gaze for several seconds. “Wang Bo Gang… that’s your name, isn’t it? Hailing from Suhai County, you once drove a truck and, regrettably, ran over a yellow dog. Your son, Wang Qiang, is in the fifth grade of elementary school. You enjoy playing Guandan and bridge, but since your son struggles to learn, you often play with your neighbors instead. Your neighbors, who have three children, amassed their wealth from cultivating coffee…”
“Who told you all this?” the man exclaimed, his face a mask of utter astonishment.
Xia Lang simply shrugged. “The night before last, you, Li Weiguo, Zhao Long, and Cai Jikun were engaged in a game of Guandan. I was sweeping the floor nearby; surely you haven’t forgotten?”
“Would you prefer I recount the conversations I overheard among them?”
With that, the decision was unequivocally settled. Following this, Old Cao delivered an impromptu address to the assembled crowd, beginning with an overview of their current collective status: their successes in gathering provisions, the integration of new members, and the outcomes of their recent urban reconnaissance. This included establishing contact with a hospital, where numerous other survivors were found. He then outlined their immediate plans, confirming areas within the city that likely held more supplies and stressing the need for collective effort to ensure everyone was fed. Finally, he informed them of the dire scarcity of resources in the parking lot, noting that their drinking water supply would last, at most, only two more days, thereby necessitating immediate action.
It had to be conceded that Old Cao’s rhetoric was remarkably sound, encompassing both inspiring grand narratives—though, upon closer reflection, such lofty pronouncements from a huddled group of ‘ants’ felt somewhat farcical—and practical demands, each underpinned by clear logical reasoning.
Evidently, the rumors of his frequent addresses at artist gatherings held true. These struggling, obscure artists, who could only gather to flatter one another, had, perhaps inadvertently, honed certain unexpected abilities.
His emotional composure was unshakeable; even direct opposition failed to provoke him. Moreover, he possessed a remarkable knack for subtly and sarcastically implying that he championed the interests of the majority. He often framed his arguments with rhetorical questions like, “If we were to follow your suggestion… then consider this: most of our friends would likely view it this way… wouldn’t they?” (A general silence would signify agreement.) “If you proceed in that manner, many will undoubtedly voice their objections. Have you considered how you might persuade them? And how, pray tell, has this suddenly become *my* responsibility? You cannot simultaneously advocate for democracy with me, only to then expect me to specifically champion your individual cause when true democratic discourse is required, can you?”
Jing Lan nudged his cousin’s shoulder. “For a painter, he seems to have acquired a rather impressive grasp of logic.”
His cousin, however, merely pouted. “He’s decent, I suppose. Perhaps, being frequently underestimated, he simply learned to articulate his own defense, honing that skill over time.”
Indeed, securing collective approval during a crisis proved remarkably straightforward, primarily because most people, devoid of alternatives, yearned for protection. In this nation, the majority had never had the chance to master hand-to-hand combat or the use of bladed weapons, and even fewer possessed proficiency with bows or firearms. At times, Jing Lan and Keke themselves wondered why they had acquired such skills, as if some unseen hand had guided the siblings to prepare in advance.
Now, to their ranks had been added a petite, white-haired loli, surprisingly formidable in a fight.
In such an apocalyptic landscape, individuals like them could almost effortlessly become figures of widespread reliance.
Young people, however, frequently lacked the gravitas of established figures. This was where Old Cao once again proved invaluable. This struggling artist, who bore a striking resemblance to Andy Warhol, possessed an exceptionally genial temperament and a silver tongue. Paradoxically, he was also blessed with a sharply defined, earnest face and eyes that were particularly keen—a gaze perhaps honed from countless hours spent in studios, silently lamenting the unrecognized talents of fellow struggling painters.
At this juncture, it was safe to say that, Officer Niu notwithstanding, Old Cao was the most capable of commanding the crowd’s attention and respect.
As for Officer Niu? Observers noted that Doctor Gu had been engaged in an extended conversation with him. Perhaps they were discussing his injuries; the officer had, after all, sustained a blow to the back of his head from a hammer and certainly required medical attention. Yet, their discussion seemed unduly prolonged.
Following this meeting, the survivors were largely unified, having collectively agreed upon several fundamental principles. These included the previously established method for resource allocation, alongside daily patrol and watch duties.
Night duty, however, presented a more vexing challenge, easily disrupting established routines. Jing Lan proposed implementing a night watch system, wherein designated individuals would sleep during the day and patrol at night. For the moment, though, no one had expressed willingness to undertake such a role.