Zhang Yi thought it through until his conclusion was razor-clear: holed up in Building 25 with his aerospace-grade safe room and superior firepower, he could survive anything twenty-nine other buildings threw at him. In this arctic hell—no power, no food, no morale—dozens of people were worth far less than they had been in ordinary times.
"I'm safe here," he told himself. "If it ever comes to that, I can take the snowmobile and wage guerrilla warfare—wear them down."But the other problem was practical: exterminating everyone would take forever. When would he finish? And if he didn't finish them, they'd come again.
He opened a chat with Li Jian from Building 18. Li Jian touted his block as a model of "harmonious governance": only a handful of elderly had died, supplies were being rationed fairly, and their arms were strictly defensive. "We can offer manpower, materials, and mediation to avoid open conflict," Li Jian promised.
Zhang Yi admired the man's management skills—"He's talented," he thought—but he wasn't fooled: harmony without teeth was a mirage. History taught him the same lesson—civilizations fall when they can't defend what they have.
As he added more building leaders to the conversation, the pattern became obvious. Every pitch was the same: tie Zhang Yi to our survival; give us your mobility and weapons, and we'll supply labor, women, or neutrality. No one offered anything of decisive, independent value.
Two realistic options remained: fight or negotiate.Fight would burn through his arsenal—over a thousand rounds might not be enough—and would be long, dirty, and uncertain.Negotiate meant binding himself to feed an entire community until the food ran out.
Neither choice was attractive. So he did what he'd always done: wait. Time was a resource, too. He would watch, gather information, and only act when the balance clearly favored him.