The rules were set, and now it was time to place the people at their designated positions.
Lu Chen used a charcoal pencil to draw the layout of the supermarket on the cardboard, dividing it into four sections.
Su Wanhai formed the combat group, practicing formation, ammunition exchange, and close combat.
She didn’t choose strong individuals; she chose those who were “responsive to instructions”.
Twelve people formed two lines, starting with pushing shopping carts.
Shen Wanqing was in charge of medical care and hygiene: wounds, fever, water supply, garbage.
She set only one rule: whoever is sick reports it, and those hiding their illness are expelled.
Her voice was not loud, and no one dared to ignore it.
Old Feng was in charge of logistics and discipline.
Accounts, rationing, night watchkeeping, scoring.
An old notebook, with neatly written characters, recorded anyone who took half a pack of cigarettes more. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Lu Chen himself was in charge of main combat and decision-making.
He went around the street before dawn, drawing back the distribution of the zombies.
The supermarket was always different each day.
One floor was sealed off, and wooden strips were nailed to the windows upstairs, leaving three ventilation holes.
The water pipes of the fire hydrants were connected and filled with a row of plastic buckets.
The shelves were moved, creating areas for sleeping, cooking, and children’s writing – the books were redrawing copies from a stationery store.
On the evening of the tenth day, the first pot of hot food was served.
The rice was from the local storage, cooked in standing water, which was softer than usual.
Everyone sat around, and first, someone laughed, then everyone laughed.
The child knocked on the bowl with a chopstick, but was held down by the adults, still laughing.
As the days settled down, people began to smile.
She finished disinfecting a stack of bandages and suddenly spoke.
“Lu Chen.”
“Hmm.”
“If you don’t survive -” She paused, looking at the lamp, not his face, “Who will you think of?”
He stopped wiping the knife.
The knife blade was reflected in the lamp, shaking slightly.
For a long time, he said:
“I can’t remember.”
Shen Wanqing didn’t ask any more.
She rolled up the bandages, put them in an iron box, and clicked it shut.
Outside the window, the wind swept a newspaper, rolling across the street.