Chapter Thirty-Nine: To Live or To Perish

“What about them?” Zhao Qiang’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. Joining the special forces had been every boy’s childhood dream, and now it lay right before him, within reach. Yet, he hesitated.

“Join us, and you can help more people like them. We will send someone to take over the defense of this place,” Yang Zining turned around, looking at Zhao Qiang earnestly.

“The People’s Liberation Army?” Zhao Qiang asked. Recently, he had realized that wherever true PLA soldiers were, no matter the circumstances, they were trustworthy. At least, every PLA soldier he had encountered so far had earned his trust.

“Mercenaries,” Yang Zining shook his head helplessly. “You can also call them contractors. As long as you pay enough, they’ll take on combat missions.”

“Mercenaries in our own country?” Zhao Qiang found it hard to believe. He had heard of this profession before, but domestically there was no fertile ground for them. The war-torn African continent was their true domain.

“Not before, but now there are many,” Yang Zining’s tone was tinged with resignation.

“Don’t you do anything about them?”

“It’s not that we don’t care, but we can’t manage them,” Yang Zining smiled bitterly. “We can wipe them out, but we can’t bear the consequences. We lack the manpower to take over those poorly defended bases.” The mercenaries controlled a population far larger than the government could handle; eradicating them would mean countless innocent civilians losing their last refuge.

“You could persuade them to surrender instead of eliminating them.”

“Let me ask you a question first,” Yang Zining didn’t answer directly.

“What?”

“If one day you became emperor, and the next day a stranger came and told you that your reign was over, replacing you with some new office manager—would you accept that?” Yang Zining’s meaning was clear: those mercenaries lived like petty kings here, enjoying luxury and power. No one was willing to give up such a “good life.”

“But we have no money!” Zhao Qiang protested. Money was just beautifully printed paper—useless for food or clothing. Boxes of cash were discarded from armored trucks just to make room for a bag of moldy rice.

“But you have people. People mean resources. Resources mean you can afford mercenaries,” Yang Zining’s voice was flat and robotic, devoid of emotion.

“But they become slaves!” Zhao Qiang knew all too well the fate awaiting survivors without protection. Little Brother Ma was the perfect example. Those rescued from his grasp were no better than slaves.

“Survival of the fittest. Nature’s law is harsh,” Yang Zining replied.

“Damn it! They’re human beings, not cattle!” Zhao Qiang snapped, already reaching for his waist, where a fully loaded Type 92 pistol was always ready.

“Sometimes, to survive, people must give up things they hold dear,” Yang Zining said, seemingly unaware of Zhao Qiang’s action, though the index finger of his right hand twitched slightly.

“Even dignity?”

“Can dignity be eaten? Or used as a bullet?”

“I know some bastards,” Zhao Qiang’s anger simmered beneath the surface. “They all died by my gun. Do you know why?”

“I know. But if you traveled like I did—from Beijing through all this—what you saw would make you numb like me.” Yang Zining smiled bitterly again, his tone heavy with helplessness.

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Along the journey, Yang Zining’s greatest discovery was that mercenaries and slavery—two of society’s ugliest blights—had become the norm in nearly every survivor camp.

Only the strongest fighters, those who controlled guns and ammunition, had access to more food and water. They swiftly became the ruling class of these camps—the slave owners. They controlled many capable men as mercenaries, assigning different tasks to exchange for bullets, food, and other resources.

The elderly were burdens, consuming precious resources without contributing. Minors fared slightly better, as they might grow into fighters or become other forms of resources. Women were commodities—the younger and more beautiful, the higher their value. Men could have wives, multiple wives even, so long as they had the strength to protect them and keep others from coveting their young, beautiful spouses.

More people sank into slavery, especially former white-collar and even gold-collar workers. Many were worse off than slaves. Their arrogant airs, cultivated in skyscraper offices, led them to believe fighting was lowly, barbaric work, beneath their elite class. They saw themselves as society’s backbone, destined to rise again when the crisis passed, unwilling to waste their precious energy battling zombies.

They soon discovered zombies couldn’t distinguish between white-collar workers and beggars. When hunger strikes, elite and pauper alike react the same. Thus, these pampered elites became the lowest slaves.

At first, Yang Zining, like Zhao Qiang, loathed this vile system. He and his Lone Wolves waged war against mercenaries and the slave system. The Wolf Fang unit had absolute superiority, winning every battle and crushing countless slave owners. Yet, from a broader standpoint, they failed.

Returning to the survivor camps they had fought in, the Lone Wolves found that liberated camps faced only two fates: total annihilation by the undead or the rise of a new dictator, often worse than the last.

Over time, Yang Zining grew accustomed to this reality. No one had the right to decide another’s life or death. No matter what lofty reason was given, it could not justify determining someone’s fate. Though civilized society might reject mercenaries and slavery, such systems allowed most to survive. Life was bitter, but it was life nonetheless.

Just as Hamlet’s famous soliloquy pondered: to be or not to be—that is the question. Yet everyone has the right to choose; no one else can decide for them.