After a full night of rest, the community workers began hauling out the next round of supplies. Once everything had been delivered to each building, a message pinged in the group chat:
"All supplies for each building are now on the first floor of the community. Please come down in an orderly fashion and line up to collect your share."
The moment the message was sent, the group chat exploded.
"Wait, what? Didn't you deliver the supplies straight to our doors last time? Now we have to go downstairs? Are you sure the stairwells are safe? What if we all go out and end up dead?"
"Exactly! Are you just being lazy? You brought everything to us last time. Now you're making us come down ourselves? What, planning to open the doors and let the poisonous fog in so we all die?"
"Oh, give it a rest. If they really wanted us dead, they could've just starved us out. Why go to the trouble of clearing stairwells and distributing supplies? If you're scared, then don't go. Nobody's forcing you."
"Still, whether it's opening the door to grab something or going all the way downstairs, how do we know it's really safe? What's going on here?"
"Right? You're clearly just trying to give yourselves less work."
"Actually, no. I remember last time they said we'd have to come down and get our stuff next time. Did none of you pay attention?"
The community worker replied:
"Last time we delivered to your doors because we were registering the deceased at the same time. Going forward, please use the designated safe passage to collect your supplies. It's now 9 AM. Distribution ends at 11 AM. Each household may send one person. Bring your own bags. The community will not provide any."
Their message made it clear. They'd be handing out supplies until 11 AM. Whether people showed up or not wasn't their concern. If someone missed out and starved, it wasn't the community's problem.
That kind of attitude might've caused outrage in the past, but now? Everyone's survival depended on these supplies. Even if they were grumbling, their hands were already moving—grabbing bags and heading downstairs. No one wanted to risk missing out.
Only one person per household was allowed to go. Understandable, considering they had just finished clearing out the bodies in the building. Even if more people were around, it wasn't likely they'd all be moving about so soon.
Of course, this method was only for those who were still healthy. For the ones who had foolishly opened their windows and been exposed to the poisonous fog, or were otherwise too ill to leave their homes, the community would still deliver directly. That was why distribution ended at 11—by noon, workers had to start delivering to the 'foolish ones' upstairs.
Still, even those who didn't complain in the chat couldn't help grumbling once they were in line.
The mood was the same all around. One person started, and others joined in immediately. The crowd grew loud and restless. It got so noisy that the staff couldn't even hear their own voices while registering people. When they asked everyone to quiet down, it only made things worse.
The tension was about to boil over.
But did you really think the higher-ups hadn't prepared for this?
Just as things were escalating, a soldier stepped forward. He raised his voice sharply.
"Quiet."
No one listened. The arguing only grew louder, and fists were about to fly.
Then the soldier pulled the gun slung over his shoulder and fired a shot into the air.
Bang.
The entire stairwell fell silent.
It was a real gun, obviously, but no one had actually expected him to fire it. Yet he did. And with that one shot, everyone was suddenly reminded how much they wanted to stay alive.
The soldier scanned the frozen crowd. "Are we ready to collect supplies like civilized people now?"
Everyone nodded weakly.
"Yes."
The line reformed quickly, stretching from the first floor all the way up to the fifth. The crowd was that big.
Once people were in order, the supply distribution resumed, and the community workers finally let out a breath of relief.
"Five packs of instant noodles, one self-heating meal, two packs of compressed biscuits, two bars of chocolate."
That was a one-week ration for one person. The man receiving it paused, then asked cautiously, "This is for one person? For how long?"
The staff member pointed to a sign beside them. "It's all written there. That's a week's worth of supplies for one person."
A week? It was clearly not enough. "Come on, this barely lasted two meals a day last time. Now it's just one meal a day?"
The staff member responded coldly. "We don't decide how much you get. The standard comes from above. We're just following instructions."
Sure, it wasn't the friendliest tone. But even if they explained kindly, it wouldn't change the facts. Better to get it over with quickly. People would complain in the group chat no matter what. The workers had already learned to ignore it.
The man looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at the soldier still holding his gun made him think twice. He lowered his head and trudged back upstairs.
Watching the crowd finally clear out, the workers suddenly understood why higher-ups had insisted on having military personnel present. They had to admit—it was a very wise move.
If anyone was wise, it was Lan Jin. She knew the first round of distribution would be the busiest, and she had no intention of spending hours in a line. Her plan was to head down around ten o'clock.
It wasn't too late. Supplies would still be available until eleven, and the lines should be much shorter by then.
While most people were rushing down to line up, Lan Jin remained in her apartment, checking the clock on the wall while glancing over at the tiny toddler sitting in the corner, furiously yanking at a Barbie doll's head.
"Qiao Qiao," Lan Jin said, exasperated, "everything else on that Barbie comes off easily, but the head doesn't. Why are you so obsessed with pulling it off?"
As soon as she said it, Qiao Qiao immediately shoved the head back on—though not very successfully. The plastic was so bent out of shape, it barely looked like a head anymore.
But Qiao Qiao wasn't done. After the failed reattachment, she moved on to a new target. First the legs, then the arms. After pulling off all four limbs, Qiao Qiao looked up at Lan Jin with a deeply wronged expression.
"No, Mama. I pull arm here."
Qiao Qiao raised her tiny hands, proudly showing off the bits and pieces. A once-perfect Barbie doll now lay in complete ruin.