Chapter 2

I left the supermarket early the next morning.

It was still freezing cold outside, fifty degrees below zero. The blizzard had stopped, but the sky remained overcast.

I walked through the frozen streets toward the shelter.

My body temperature is constant, so I don't feel cold, but I still wrapped my coat tightly so that no one would notice anything unusual.

I found an abandoned military truck by the roadside.

The car door was ajar, and inside was a frozen corpse—judging from the uniform, it was probably a soldier who had been trapped here while transferring supplies.

I dragged him out of the car.

I changed into his clothes.

The dirty, worn-out military camouflage uniform was covered in bloodstains and dirt, and emitted an unpleasant smell.

I smeared my face with dirt and ice, messed up my hair, and made several cuts on my face.

I checked my rearview mirror.

The person in the mirror was pale, covered in dirt, with messy hair and empty eyes.

I threw away the walkie-talkie, picked up a worn-out backpack containing several cans of compressed biscuits and a bottle of water.

Then they walked towards the shelter.

Three hours later, the shelter came into view.

It was a converted underground military base. The entrance was a massive steel gate, ten meters high, five meters wide, and at least half a meter thick. Engraved on the gate was the Federation's emblem—a soaring eagle, its talons grasping an olive branch and an arrow.

There was a long queue in front of the gate.

Hundreds of people huddled together, shivering, waiting to enter the shelter.

I stood at the back of the line, head down, back hunched, trying my best to look like everyone else.

The procession moved forward slowly.

Everyone must register, be checked, and disinfected before they can enter.

"Name?"

When it was my turn, a registrar in protective gear looked up at me.

"John Smith," I replied in a hoarse voice—it was a pseudonym I'd made up on the spot, a common name that wouldn't attract attention.

Where did you come from?

"North District, one person."

Where are your family members?

"They're all dead."

The registrar glanced at me and put a checkmark on the form.

What skills do you have?

"Capable of doing the work."

"Your physical condition?"

"good."

The registrar entered the information on a tablet and then handed me a metal number plate.

"Bed number 208, Section D."

I took the license plate—a cold metal plate engraved with "D-208".

Enter the shelter.

The massive steel gate closed behind us with a dull thud.

Inside was a long corridor with concrete walls on both sides and dim fluorescent lights overhead that emitted a buzzing electrical sound.

The corridor splits into several paths at the end, leading to areas A, B, C, and D respectively.

The sign reads:

[Area A: Noble Area/ Area for Significant Contributions ]

[Section B: Middle-class area/Technical personnel area]

[Section C: Commoners' Area/Ordinary Laborers' Area]

[Sector D: Ground Floor/Temporary Containment Area]

I followed the crowd toward Section D.

The deeper you go, the lower the temperature gets.

The entrance to Area A is warm and bright, with heating, carpet, and oil paintings on the walls.

Area B is slightly worse, but it still has heating equipment.

Zone C only has basic lighting and ventilation.

Section D is the deepest part—damp, dark, and crowded.

It's minus twenty degrees Celsius, and there's no heating equipment.

The walls were leaking, the floor was frozen, and there was mold everywhere.

Bed number 208 was in the corner, a dilapidated iron-framed bed covered with a thin blanket, emitting a musty and sweaty smell.

The surrounding area was crammed with dozens of beds, so densely packed that there was almost no space between them.

I lay down.

The bed board was as hard as a rock, and it hurt my back.

Close your eyes .

There were all sorts of sounds around—coughing, groaning, crying, and mumbling in one's sleep.

The old man in the next bed coughed all night, each cough sounding like he was coughing up his lungs.

On the third day, laborers were dispatched.

"Everyone in Sector D, proceed to Sector A to move supplies!"

A uniformed administrator stood at the door, banging on the iron gate with an electric baton, making a clanging sound.

Everyone scrambled to their feet immediately, their movements frantic, like startled rabbits.

I followed the crowd.

Walk through the long corridor.

The temperature difference between zone D and zone A is at least twenty degrees.

The further you go, the warmer it gets, the cleaner the walls become, and the brighter the lighting becomes.

Area A has geothermal heating, brand-new electric heaters on the walls, clean carpets in the corridors, and the aroma of coffee in the air.

"Hurry up! Stop dawdling!"

The administrator shouted and used an electric baton to poke those who walked slowly.

We laborers lined up, waiting to be assigned tasks.

I kept my head down and my back hunched over, trying my best not to attract attention.

I looked up and looked towards the entrance of Area A.

A huge black marble plaque, at least three meters high and two meters wide, hangs at the entrance.

It is engraved with gold lettering:

Memorial Wall for Martyr Ansen

Below were flowers and candles—all fake, made of plastic, but arranged neatly and looking very solemn.

There was also an enlarged black and white photo—my photo, the one from my convenience store work ID, printed out in an enlarged format and framed in an elegant frame.

The following is engraved below the photo:

[Anson (1995-2024)]

[Sacrificed heroically to save family]

Their selfless spirit will live on forever.

I stood in the queue, looking at the plaque.

Looking at his own portrait.

"Move forward! Don't block the doorway!"

The administrator shouted again and banged on the wall with an electric baton.

I followed the crowd inside.

As I passed the memorial wall, I heard someone speaking.

"My son-in-law may have been an ordinary person, but his death was meaningful..."

It was my mother-in-law Martha's voice.

I stopped in my tracks.

I looked at it from the side.

My mother-in-law, Martha, was standing in front of the memorial wall, surrounded by several well-dressed ladies—all family members of high-ranking residents of the shelter, dressed in clean clothes, wearing makeup, and with their hair neatly combed.

My mother-in-law, Martha, was also dressed very elegantly—a new down jacket, clean trousers, and even lipstick.

She wiped away her tears as she recounted the story with great emotion:

"He stayed behind alone to cover our retreat in order to save us . "

"Those ice beasts tore him to pieces . "

"We survived only because he risked his life..."

As she spoke, her voice choked with emotion, and tears streamed down her cheeks—her acting was superb. If I hadn't experienced it myself, I might have been moved by her performance as well.

The ladies offered her tissues and comforted her.

"Mrs. Martha is truly strong."

"The martyrs' legacy will surely be remembered."

"You must take good care of yourself, so that you can comfort the spirits of the martyrs in heaven."

My mother-in-law, Martha, wiped away her tears and looked up at the photo on the memorial wall—my photo.

"Anson...you're watching over us from heaven...we will definitely live on..."

Her voice trembled, filled with sorrow.

They absolutely deserve an Oscar.

"Get out of the way! Don't block my way!"

A foot suddenly kicked my shin.

I lowered my head.

My brother-in-law Tom was standing next to me, looking disgusted.

He was dressed in clean sportswear, his hair was slicked back, and he held a cup of hot coffee in his hand—hot coffee was a luxury in this apocalypse.

"You smell awful, stay away from me." He pinched his nose and looked at me with disgust.

He didn't recognize it at all.

I lowered my head and stepped aside.

Tom turned and walked toward the supply warehouse, still complaining:

"These lowly people, they all look like beggars, they don't even know how to wash themselves."

As he passed the memorial wall, he stopped and bowed to my portrait , a perfunctory gesture, just going through the motions.

Then he continued walking forward, whistling, looking like he was in a good mood.

I continued forward with the crowd.

I was assigned to the handling team.

The task is to move the supplies from the warehouse in Area A to the various suites—canned goods, water, fuel, medicine, and various daily necessities.

I carried a box of canned goods.

Walk along the corridor.

The door was open when we passed by my mother-in-law Martha's suite.

Laughter and cheerful voices could be heard coming from inside.

I stopped and turned to look.

Luxury suites – at least 100 square meters, with a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

The living room was carpeted, furnished with a genuine leather sofa, and had an LCD TV mounted on the wall—even though there was no signal, its presence was a symbol of status.

My mother-in-law, Martha, was sitting on the sofa, chatting and drinking tea with several ladies.

The table was laden with exquisite pastries and fruits—apples, oranges, and grapes—which were incredibly expensive in the apocalypse.

His wife, Eileen, sat on another sofa, wearing a clean sweater, holding a teacup, her head down and silent.

She looked haggard, with red and swollen eyes, as if she had been crying.

But at least she was warm and safe.

Be careful! Don't break it!

When my mother-in-law Martha saw us laborers, she shouted loudly in an imperious tone.

"Look at these lowly people, they deserve to do hard labor all their lives," she said to the wealthy women, her voice full of superiority.

The ladies laughed.

"Mrs. Martha is right, these people are just cheap."

"Unlike us, we are all families of martyrs, people with status."

I carried the box and walked past the door.

There was no stopping.

Keep going.

In the evening, supplies were distributed.

Laborers in Block D lined up in long queues, waiting to receive their daily rations.

I stood in the line.

The people in front received a piece of black bread and a bowl of thin porridge one after another—the black bread was as hard as a rock, and the porridge was so thin that you could see the bottom of the bowl, with a few grains of rice floating in it.

When it was my turn—

"Give."

Tom, my brother-in-law, stood behind the distribution counter and casually tossed a piece of moldy black bread at my feet.

The bread fell to the ground, rolled a few times, and got covered in dust.

I bent down to pick it up.

"etc."

Tom suddenly lifted his foot and stepped on the bread.

Grind it hard.

The bread was trampled to pieces, with crumbs flying everywhere.

"Kneel down first." He looked down at me, his eyes filled with malice and pleasure. "I'll show you who you are."

The surrounding laborers all watched this scene.

Someone lowered their head.

Someone sighed.

No one dared to speak.

I lowered my head.

He slowly knelt down.

The moment my knees hit the ground, I heard him burst into laughter.

"Hahaha! See that? These are the lowly people!"

Several administrators around also laughed.

I reached out and picked up the bread that had been trampled.

Clutching it in my hand.

He turned and left.

Tom's loud laughter came from behind, along with his conversation with his companion:

"These lowly people deserve this. If we don't teach them a lesson, they won't know who they are."

"Tom is awesome!"

I walked back to bed number 208.

Lie down.

Looking at the rotten bread in my hand.

His shoe prints are on it.

There was also mud and dust.

I didn't eat it.

It's just something I hold in my hand.

Each and every one of you.

I've memorized them all.