Soaked in the mud, Old Walker’s head had rotted beyond recognition. The waterlogged, swollen eyeballs were bulging almost out of their sockets, and the fallen hair clung to the head, looking like wild grass randomly stuck into the strangely colored earth. The decaying flesh at the neck was a sickly, greasy white, and several exposed, blackened blood vessels were crawling with fat, wriggling maggots. They squirmed back and forth in the pulp-like rotten flesh, wantonly feasting on and sucking up this sumptuous banquet of carrion.

According to the design, the maximum capacity of the air-raid shelter was only one hundred people. Although the extra survivors made the space a bit cramped, it was not overly crowded. At the very least, everyone could lie down close together to rest.

The distress signal transmitter set up at the window became the hope in everyone’s eyes. However, as the days passed, the survivors’ longing and hope for life were gradually replaced by despair and helplessness.

Because it was not wartime, there was no food stored in the shelter. Although a water pipe running underground could meet daily drinking needs, the threat of hunger hanging over everyone’s head made the survivors’ eyes take on a different look.

When they had just escaped into the shelter, each survivor had a little something to eat on them. A few pieces of chewing gum, the dried plums and fruit snacks girls always kept in their purses… One young guy seemed to have just come out of a fast-food restaurant, still carrying a whole KFC family bucket in his hand.

With the sergeant’s insignia on his shoulder, the highest-ranking officer, David Bolton, naturally became the commander of all the soldiers. By his order, everyone had to hand over their food, which he would then distribute in rations. Unexpectedly, this normal order—common in the military or emergencies—provoked strong opposition from most people.

“You’re interfering with citizens’ personal freedom. What right do you have to take our food? Don’t think you can do whatever you want just because it’s an emergency. I’ve already noted your military badge number. As soon as we get out of here, I’ll report this to your superiors.”

The speaker was a middle-aged, balding, overweight man in a suit who claimed to be some bureau chief. As he righteously rebuked, he pulled out a pack of soda crackers from his leather briefcase and stuffed them into his mouth, as if eating any slower would mean what was rightfully his would end up in someone else’s mouth.

To this, David Bolton could only respond with a cold sneer. After checking the safety facilities at the shelter entrance, he and eight soldiers sat together in a small defensive circle, watching all movements around them with vigilance.

He knew very well that the little food the survivors had wouldn’t last even twenty-four hours. Once they reached their physical limits, these starving people would be capable of anything.

Because the incident happened so suddenly, he and his soldiers didn’t have much food on them either. Two standard packs of compressed rations would only last forty-eight hours. If they stretched it, maybe four or five days at most.

“Do not distribute food to anyone. Even if you have to watch them starve to death, you absolutely cannot give them anything to eat—”

David Bolton was not cruel by nature. Years ago, when he went with the army to help with flood relief in Sichuan, he had received systematic survival and rescue training. As long as there was enough water, humans could survive for a long time on their body fat. Theoretically, each kilogram of fat could provide enough energy for four days of survival. Even with no food at all, a person could last at least a week.

In this era of abundant food, people cared far less about nutrition than about how to shed their excess body fat. In David Bolton’s view, except for a few girls who were so slim their bones were alluring, the rest of the survivors were in no real danger in the short term.

Three days later, what he feared most finally happened.

The hungry people began to grow restless. Although their body fat was enough to keep them alive, driven by physiological urges, they started searching for anything that could be used as food.

“Share your rations with everyone. The army serves the people—you can’t just watch us starve!”

It was still that fat, big-eared bureau chief. Even now, his words were full of former authority: “Hand over all the food and let me distribute it. I am the highest-ranking administrative official here, and you must obey my orders—”

In response, David Bolton swung his rifle butt and knocked the man to the ground.

He had to ensure he had a certain amount of food reserves. This was not selfishness, but the greatest guarantee that everyone could walk out of here alive.

At the most critical moment, even a bit of biscuit crumbs mixed with water into a thin gruel could pull a dying life back from the brink of death. Besides, the soldiers needed enough strength to be able to lead everyone in a counterattack when the rescue team arrived.