Anyone who'd survived into the third year of the apocalypse had already been through hell. Some of them had been billionaires before the end, and when doomsday hit, everyone knew just how much the government had seized.
Some of the biggest tycoons had vanished overnight, like they'd been wiped off the map. Others had disappeared for a while, only to come back into the circle stronger than ever. But nobody ever talked about what happened during that time, or about the "missing" friends. It was like they'd all silently agreed to keep their mouths shut.
And those who'd climbed higher than ever, well, it was all thanks to clutching the government's thigh for dear life.
Still, anyone with half a brain could see the truth. If you had too much food, supplies, or anything scarce, chances were, the government would come and "requisition" it. Don't be fooled by Wu City's richest energy barons being in step with the authorities, those guys had been forced into it too. Which was why no one dared to show off their wealth anymore.
The man in the suit slowly wiped his pen and placard with a handkerchief, lost in thought.
The fat officer stood up, patted the shoulder of the dazed old man in the first row, and bellowed while demonstrating, "Write down how much you can donate!"
"Write what?" the old man blinked, confused.
"Write down how much money you have!" the fat officer shouted.
"What money?"
"Write!" This time, the fat officer leaned right into his ear and yelled.
"Write what?" The old man opened his eyes wide, lifted the pen, and waved it around.
"How much you have!"
"Oh… how much I have, right?"
Everyone: "…"
The fat officer's face turned crimson. In front of everyone, he just grabbed the pen, scribbled 3 million on the old man's placard, and set it down.
The moment everyone saw the number, they sucked in a sharp breath.
Three million. That wasn't the old world's three million yuan. In the apocalypse, that amount could buy mountains of food and supplies, thousands of guns, even cannons and rocket launchers. Hell, even military helicopters that used to cost tens of millions were now about that price.
Someone raised the earlier question again. "You said what happens to the one who spends the least?"
The fat officer nudged the thin officer, who'd been dozing off. He startled awake and mumbled, "Oh, to encourage enthusiasm and contribution to the people, the last place gets a special honor."
Everyone exhaled in relief. For a second, they thought not spending today meant they'd be leaving their lives here.
But Jing Shu held her breath. Those two old foxes, one played good cop, the other bad. If they didn't dig a fat profit out of today's crowd, she'd rename herself Shu Jing!
The fat officer leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide, grinning. "That honor is the honorary president of Wu City's Donation Association. It'll go in the records. You'll become a government civil servant, with a nice salary and benefits. Plenty of people would kill to get in, and look at you, lucky enough to win it."
Jing Shu raised a brow. Such a good thing, and they were giving it to last place?
The room stirred, whispers and doubts flying.
The fat officer laid it on thick, praising the post until some actually thought being last wasn't too bad. But then the thin officer added, "The responsibility's simple. You'll need to bring in one million worth of donations every month. If you fall short, you'll have to make up the difference yourself. And if you can't, well, there's nothing we can do. We can't exactly force donations, right?"
People tensed up again, but when the fat officer added, "If you don't meet the quota, we won't push too hard, don't worry," they relaxed a little.
Then the thin officer dropped the real bomb. "We'll just deduct your credit score, blacklist you in the big data system, erase your ID and phone number, and block you from all communication. From then on, the system won't recognize you. You won't be able to trade, chat, buy anything, or receive legal protection."
In this era, where even money was all digital, that was a living death sentence. Without an account, you'd need to drag your own kid everywhere just to buy anything. And without the ability to even chat, if you got killed on the road, nobody would even know.
For business people, it was basically career suicide.
One by one, faces turned ugly.
Jing Shu's face darkened too. Losing trading functions wasn't the end of the world for her, but losing access to everything else? She'd suffocate. Every little thing would become a nightmare.
"Officer, we don't wanna be dishonest, but we don't wanna be that so-called honorary president either."
The fat officer smiled kindly. "Then just don't be last."
"Captain Yan, you see, I'm the management director of Lingshan District. Shouldn't this be handled by you? Don't drag me into it, I've got more important things to do."
The fat officer waved him back down. "Sit, sit. Don't worry. Every district's having the same donation meeting. No one's left out, no one's running away. Whatever business you've got can wait until after."
The Lingshan director sat back down, looking miserable.
Then a fur-draped noblewoman stood up and strode toward the exit. "Donations should be voluntary, shouldn't they? Didn't you say this was a survey? Since when did a survey turn into forced donations? I've got video proof, and I'll make sure this goes public. Let's see what others think. Why should we, the consumers, be forced to give?"
The fat officer laughed. "Go ahead, ask them. See whether the straight-talking netizens support us or you. They'll see if they'd rather take the supplies we've collected from you, or let you keep everything for yourself. Sit down, madam. Aren't we fair? You give us supplies, we give you guns and bullets. And it's still a survey. We're just checking what resources you've got left, so the higher-ups can adjust prices. We're civilized people, aren't we? We can't just rob you, right? What's there to worry about?"
Right now, the government still played at being reasonable, always coming up with excuses. They'd let you donate "willingly," even throw in a few guns in exchange. Later, when things got worse, when tens of thousands starved to death every day, there'd be no excuses left. No trades, no benefits. Whoever had supplies would hand them over, plain and simple.
And this so-called "honor" for last place? It wasn't an honor at all. It was a punishment with teeth. You couldn't refuse it, and once it was on record, you were trapped. Fail the quota, and the system would erase you. You'd be alive, but good as dead.