Slater's Predicament

At the stadium, the revival camp organized by Slater.

In the box, Slater stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the survivors in the stadium, his face showing signs of exhaustion. The number of survivors flocking to Slater had been increasing steadily.

Slater's personal prestige and the fame of the revival camp had grown significantly. The entire stadium was nearly filled with people. Some pitched tents, others simply sat directly on the ground, and still, others chose to lie down in the spectator seats. At first glance, it looked like a refugee camp.

As the number of survivors grew, managing them became increasingly difficult. In the beginning, when there were only a dozen people, everyone knew each other. They collected supplies, fought, and ate together. Now, the number had increased more than tenfold, including many frail women and elderly. These individuals had virtually no combat ability but added more mouths to feed.

Incidents of fighting, injury, and even severe crimes like assault were becoming frequent within the camp. Slater was not a police officer; he lacked the capability and energy to root out the culprits. Defending against zombies, strengthening the camp, and scavenging for supplies were already overwhelming tasks.

To describe the current state of the camp as a mess was an understatement.

And all these were not even the most troubling issues for Slater. What troubled him most was a pervasive sense of negativity that had begun to spread throughout the camp. Nobody wanted to fight the zombies anymore. They would rather eat less and lie on the ground than participate in combat training or step outside the camp.

Knock, knock, knock!

There came a knocking at the door.

"Come in!"

Slater adjusted his emotions, trying to appear confident as he prepared to face whatever was next.

As the leader of the camp, if I show a face of despair, the members below are bound to panic even more. So, even if it's just an act, I have to put on a relaxed appearance.

The door opened, and Robertson walked in, holding a ledger. 

"There are two things I need to report to you," Robertson said with a grim face.

"Is it good news or bad news?" Slater asked with a smile.

"It's all bad news!" Robertson clearly wasn't in the mood for jokes and went straight to the point.

"First, our stock of supplies is running low."

"What? Didn't we just raid a supermarket a few days ago? How can it be gone so quickly?" Slater was startled.

He knew that with more people, supplies would be consumed faster, but he hadn't anticipated they would be used up this quickly, which was far beyond his expectations.

"Originally, the supermarket didn't have much to begin with, and we ended up giving half of it to Henry. According to our current system, those who go on missions can take priority in taking meat and can take multiple portions. Those who don't participate in missions only get the minimum guarantee."

"But now, there are too many people not participating in missions; basically, at least 150 people are just waiting to eat."

"Initially, after allocating supplies to the mission teams, the remainder was supposed to sustain the camp for at least a month."

"But you know how much our numbers have increased, and each day we're adding double-digit numbers of new survivors."

"At this rate, our supplies will last at most another five days!"

"And that's not even the worst part... The second issue I'm about to mention is actually the most severe!" 

Robertson didn't care if Slater's heart could take it; he reported everything straight out.

"Many survivors have joined recently, but very few are participating in the scavenging teams."

"Most of the people in the camp are just waiting around to be fed."

"And we've already searched nearby convenience stores, supermarkets, and restaurants."

"If we want more food, we need to venture further out."

"The farther the journey, the more difficult our support becomes, and the more accidents occur!" Robertson explained. "Currently, the losses in our scavenging teams have exceeded the number of new members!"

"The members of the scavenging teams are highly discontented, feeling like they are the ones keeping the entire camp alive. Some have even started to disobey orders." With that, Robertson sighed deeply before continuing, "That scoundrel Frank is again enticing survivors in the chat channel to go to North River."

Slater nodded and responded, "I've seen that, it's indeed very provocative."

"But it's obviously sending survivors to their deaths!"

"Surely no one is foolish enough to believe that, especially since we were just robbed a few days ago!"

Robertson chuckled bitterly and said, "You really overestimate some people's intelligence."

"Some really lack intelligence, while others simply can't resist the temptation..."

"Don't tell me people in the regional channel believe that..."

"I just passed by the shelter area and overheard people secretly discussing it."

"They complain that our mandatory combat training is like physical punishment and inhumane."

"They say that those close to us eat meat generously while they have to munch on chips and other snacks, which are giving them stomach aches..."

"It infuriates me, those close to us are from the scavenging teams; they risk their lives to bring back food to feed everyone. Why shouldn't they eat well?!"

"These people are just living off others and still have the nerve to complain when they get chips to eat?!"

"Do you think these people have no conscience?" Robertson was so angry that his face turned bright red.

Slater quickly handed him a flat Coke to help him calm down. In these times, a drink that could provide both energy and hydration was a luxury. It had to be sipped slowly, not guzzled down in one go since the fizz was long gone.

Even so, after taking a sip of Coke, Robertson's mood visibly improved.

He paused for a moment, then continued:

"The craziest part is yet to come!" 

"I heard them planning to meet up and make a run for it at dawn."

"I just checked the map, and we're only two kilometers from the bridge!"

"If they walk, it could take them no more than half an hour to get there, which is tempting many."

"Should we prepare in advance to prevent them from escaping?"

Hearing Robertson's words, Slater could hardly know whether to laugh or cry.

Really? Are there actually people naive enough to think it's paradise over there?

So, I squeeze out food for them to eat, and end up being cast as a cruel lord, while those unknowns are seen as saviors?!

"No, besides the early warning zombie scouts, everyone else should pull back in the morning."

"Also, use the walkie-talkies to inform the teams searching to the north to make sure they clear all the zombies from the road."

"I want these people to have a smooth journey."

As Slater spoke, a sly twinkle appeared in his eyes.