Suddenly the chat changed tone. The same neighbors who'd cursed and mocked Zhang Yi now treated him like a savior. Even those who'd been lying in bed, half resigned to death, lit up with hope.
"Zhang Yi, are you really going out for supplies?""If you can, we'll survive!""The country has stockpiles—enough for everyone!""I'm so ashamed… after how we treated you…"
A few of them actually choked up. Most had lost family to the violence that had swept the building, but that hatred evaporated under the glare of need. Zhang Yi kept his face solemn and said what they wanted to hear: "As building leader, I'm responsible. My stores are finite—we have to go out to survive."
It calmed them. In the apocalypse, charity felt theatrical, but self-interest was pure and honest; people clung to it. They accepted the arithmetic: his supplies would run out eventually, especially now with two mouths to feed. They praised him like a man with answers. Zhou Ke'er teased, "If you started a cult, you'd have disciples already." Zhang Yi grinned. "Cannon fodder doesn't need ideology—feed them stale bread and they'll worship you."
Zhou Ke'er hesitated. "Are you really going? Let me come." Guilt flickered across her face—she hated being the extra burden. Zhang Yi pinched her cheek. "Don't worry, I have enough for both of us. I just need to scout. Now that I'm their hope, no one will attack me." He was brusque: "Women stay home and wait for their men."
Then, with a small, theatrical flourish, he emptied his remaining food and coal into his spatial storage. "I trust you 100%," he said, smiling. Zhou Ke'er found the sentiment less moving than the spectacle—emotion passed quickly in this new world.
He dressed for the outside like a one-man armory: a calfskin jacket that would stop a knife, frying pans strapped front and back as primitive body armor, a crowbar slung at his hip, and a loaded pistol. When he climbed out, it was from a broken window on the fourth floor—most residents had moved upward, fleeing the first twelve floors where the snow had piled deepest.
Outside, the drifts came up to his knees. He produced a snowmobile from his spatial storage—already fueled—mounted it, and took off. He mastered it within minutes. He knew the machine would draw eyes; he saw faces at windows, felt their hunger and greed pressing out like a physical thing. He didn't care. "Too many people already want me dead," he thought. "What's one more?"
The city lay buried, landmarks ghostly beneath the white. Zhang Yi knew the routes; he wouldn't get lost. He rode into the storm, the little engine a hot, roaring doubt against the world's cold.