Train station freight depot, 2:00 PM.
The container yard was like a steel labyrinth, with blue, green, and red boxes gleaming with a dull luster under the afternoon sun.
A few rusted train cars sat on the tracks, with weeds growing waist-high through the gaps in the railway sleepers.
Wu Fan stood in front of a forty-foot shipping container, watching Rick pry open the lock with a crowbar.
Glenn stood guard nearby with his gun raised, his gaze sweeping across every corner of the container yard.
"It's open."
Rick pried the door open with force, stepped back, and aimed his gun at the gap.
The door opened slowly, revealing a pitch-black interior, and a wave of moldy air rushed out.
There were no Walkerss, no corpses, only neatly stacked cardboard boxes.
Wu Fan walked inside and shone his flashlight on the labels on the boxes.
"Household textiles, four-piece cotton sheet sets, made in Japan."
He read it out loud, then turned back to look at the pile of boxes, remaining silent for two seconds.
"What can this stuff be used for now? It's too rough even for toilet paper."
Merle laughed outside, slapping his thigh.
The second container.
Glenn pried the door open, and Wu Fan poked his head in—it was full of plastic storage bins containing various small appliances: coffee makers, bread machines, and juicers.
The third container finally had some value; it was inventory from a chain supermarket—cases of canned goods, cooking oil, seasonings, and several unopened cases of bottled water.
Wu Fan spray-painted the English word for "Food" on the container and told the truck driver to take it first.
Next was "blind box" time.
The fourth container, office supplies: printer paper, pens, and folders.
The fifth, Christmas decorations: plastic Christmas trees, string lights, and fake snow.
The sixth, Wu Fan was stunned for several seconds after prying it open—it was packed neatly with hundreds of cases of Moutai liquor.
Merle's eyes lit up like lightbulbs.
"Boss..."
His voice trembled: "Th-this, can I be in charge of keeping this?"
Wu Fan expressionlessly spray-painted the word "Liquor" on it and said to the truck driver nearby, "Take it back and register it in the inventory."
Merle's face fell as if someone had stepped on it.
The seventh container, when Wu Fan pried it open, the contents made everyone fall silent.
Hundreds of cardboard boxes filled with children's toys: plush bears, plastic dinosaurs, building blocks, and puzzles.
One box was broken, and a brown teddy bear poked half its head out of the gap; its glass eyes flashed under the flashlight beam.
Wu Fan crouched down and stuffed the teddy bear back into the box. He stood up and spray-painted the word "Toys" on the container.
"Take it back, put it in the community center, and let the kids pick for themselves."
At 4:00 PM, the seventh trailer drove out of the freight yard.
Wu Fan stood on high ground in the container yard, looking at the distant skyline of Atlanta.
The setting sun was descending, coating the broken high-rises in a layer of blood-red light.
Today they pried open over forty containers, and less than a third were useful.
Canned goods, bottled water, medical supplies, tools, a few cases of seeds, and that batch of liquor.
The rest were useless things—at least in this world, they were useless.
But when he thought of those toys and the expressions on the children's faces when they opened the boxes, he felt it wasn't a waste of effort.
"Pack up."
He jumped down from the container, "Let Rick and the others continue hauling it tomorrow; I won't come."
Merle had a cigarette in his mouth, squinting at him: "Boss, are you planning to become a hands-off manager?"
"If I have to do everything myself,"
Wu Fan pulled open the door of the armored vehicle: "What do I need you for?"
Merle thought about it, and it seemed that was indeed the case.
Evil capitalist!
As soon as the convoy returned to the CDC, Amy came up to meet them, her expression a bit strange: "BOSS, Sandra is back."
Wu Fan handed her his coat: "How many people did she bring?"
"A lot."
Amy said: "A whole lot."
When Wu Fan walked into the first-floor lobby, he realized what "a whole lot" meant.
The lobby was packed with people—men, women, children, wearing all sorts of clothes.
Some were crying, some were dazed, and some were shivering while clutching their luggage.
Several people in white coats were bandaging the wounded; Karina and Gail were so busy they didn't have a moment to rest.
In the corner of the lobby sat a dozen people in military uniforms; some had their heads bowed, others were staring at the ceiling, their faces filled with exhaustion.
Sandra stood in the middle of the crowd, talking to Jackie.
Seeing Wu Fan enter, she walked over quickly, stood at attention, and saluted—although she was no longer a soldier, the posture was more standard than anyone else's in the base.
"BOSS, it's done."
Wu Fan nodded and glanced at the people in military uniforms: "Are they the group from that refugee camp?"
"Yes, the National Guard, 48th Infantry Brigade, 3rd Battalion."
Sandra said: "The platoon leader is named Wells, a lieutenant, and he is willing to bring his men to join us."
Wu Fan scanned the crowd but didn't see anyone who looked like an officer: "Where is Lieutenant Wells?"
Sandra tilted her chin toward the corner: "That's him."
Wu Fan looked in the direction of her gaze and saw a man in his thirties.
He was holding a cup of water, staring blankly at the civilians crowded in the lobby.
The day before yesterday, Atlanta suburbs, National Guard training camp.
The armored vehicle stopped at the camp gate; Marcus gripped the steering wheel and glanced at Sandra in the backseat through the rearview mirror.
She had her eyes closed, appearing to be dozing off, but he knew she wasn't asleep.
Since returning from the University of Georgia, she rarely slept.
"We're here."
He said.
Sandra opened her eyes, pushed the door open, and jumped out.
The soldier at the gate saw a black armored vehicle suddenly appear and instinctively raised his gun.
When the door opened and a fully armed woman stepped out, his vigilance increased.
"Who are you?"
He shouted.
Sandra took off her helmet, revealing a weary but calm face: "Umbrella Corporation, here to negotiate with your superior."
The soldier hadn't seen the Umbrella Corporation logo, but looking at this armored vehicle and this gear, he knew they weren't ordinary people.
"Wait here."
He turned and ran into the camp.
In the refugee camp command room, the atmosphere was as noisy as a pot of boiling water.
"Send troops out to find the food in the war reserve depot!"
A second lieutenant slammed the table.
"Stop worrying about those civilians!"
Another lieutenant shouted louder than him: "We can't even feed ourselves, and we're still supporting hundreds of mouths—"
"We should establish a new order!"
A young captain stood up: "Counterattack Atlanta!"
The whole room went quiet for a second, and then everyone looked at him as if he were a lunatic.
No one paid him any mind, and they continued arguing.
Major Harris sat at the end of the long table, pressing his temples.
He was fifty-two years old and had been a soldier for thirty years; he never imagined he would one day sit in a place with no superiors, no orders, and no supplies, listening to a group of junior officers argue about how to deal with hundreds of starving civilians.
"Major Harris,"
A second lieutenant stood up: "I think we should go out and find food first; the civilians have started complaining."
Major Harris sneered: "Complaining? They are eating compressed biscuits, split in half—half at noon, half at night—soaked in water and stirred into a paste, and they're still complaining?"
Another officer chimed in: "These civilians are still reminiscing about their old lives—meat, eggs, milk, fresh vegetables—do they think this is a vacation?"
"If they're dissatisfied, they can go out and find food themselves."
Major Harris's voice turned cold: "Why are they mooching off us?"
Everyone was silent for a few seconds.
A lieutenant colonel tentatively said: "How about... we let them go? Give each of them a pistol for self-defense, and take the guns back when they return."
"Are you crazy?"
Someone immediately objected: "What if these unruly civilians take the guns and attack us?"
Major Harris raised his hand, interrupting everyone's argument.
He stood up, looked around, and said in a hoarse but clear voice: "What else do we have worth stealing? Even if they do, we can just give it to them."
Everyone was stunned.
Then someone realized what he meant, and a smile appeared on the corner of their mouth.
Brilliant, truly brilliant.
Let the civilians choose to leave on their own; that way, it's said that they left, not that our military abandoned them.
Anyway, they didn't want to deal with this mess anymore.
And once they went out and suffered, they would know how precious those compressed biscuits were.
Major Harris was about to continue when the door was knocked on.
"Report! Major Harris, a faction outside has sent a negotiator!"
Everyone looked at each other.
A negotiator?
What kind of faction could send a negotiator in this day and age?
~~~~~~
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