Apocalyptic Hoarding Diary

Chapter 410 Establishing Rules

They were all clutching slips of paper in their hands. Some held the slips up to the soldiers' eyes, while others muttered something under their breath, their expressions urgent and panicked.

I couldn't see their expressions clearly, but their body language clearly conveyed the feeling of "Why can't I find my number?"

The anxiety of "Did I write my number wrong?" "Did they miss me?"

The soldier was surrounded and patiently answered all the questions, pointing in the direction of the distant queue as he spoke.

It's probably telling them, "Your number is in which row and which position?", "Go that way?", "Did you see that person holding up a number sign?"

Xu Xiaoyan turned her gaze back, looking at the group of about forty people without any urgency.

Those who are meant to come will come, and those who aren't meant to come won't come no matter how anxious you are. All she can do is stand here and wait.

As more and more people left, the hillside, which was originally crowded with people, gradually became empty, revealing the trampled grass and mud below.

All that remained were a dozen or so teams that hadn't yet gathered enough members, and those who were still surrounding the soldiers in front of the makeshift tents, asking them questions.

People around Xu Xiaoyan started to get restless, some pacing back and forth, leaving deep mud puddles in their wake.

Some people kept checking their watches, even though the watches might have stopped running.

Some picked up their backpacks from the ground and put them down again, as if they were making a decision and then regretting it, and then making a new decision.

Others were stamping their feet in frustration. One of them was a middle-aged man wearing an old, faded military overcoat, the hem of which was covered in mud and the collar was frayed.

He stomped his feet not with large movements, but with a high frequency, each stomp conveying the same emotion: Why isn't it here yet? Why isn't it here yet?

The man's face was flushed red, and a glistening layer of what looked like rain or sweat was running down his nose.

Finally, he seemed unable to resist any longer, squeezed out of the line, and walked to the front.

Approaching the soldier holding the number sign, he rubbed his hands together, chuckled dryly twice, and then asked in a tone that was as polite as possible but couldn't hide his eagerness:

"Um, comrade, I have a question—" He paused, as if organizing his thoughts.

It's like that question has been bottled up for too long and suddenly came to the surface, and there's no suitable outlet for it: "If their people don't come, our team won't be able to leave."

"Will all the good spots be taken by the time we get there?"

His voice wasn't loud, but everyone around him could hear it.

Everyone unconsciously perked up their ears and turned their gazes to the soldier.

Some people even leaned forward slightly, trying to hear more clearly.

This question brought out something that everyone had been thinking about but had never dared to ask aloud.

The noise on the hillside suddenly became very quiet because of this question.

Even the people asking for numbers next to the makeshift tents in the distance glanced over here.

The soldier did not answer immediately.

He stood there, the number plate still in his hand, in the exact same posture as before, without even turning his head to look at the middle-aged man.

He only tilted his head slightly, a very small movement, as if to confirm that someone was speaking to him, and then remained silent for two or three seconds.

In those two or three seconds, everyone consciously slowed their breathing, as if afraid that their breathing would affect the answer that was about to be revealed.

Finally, the soldier spoke up: "No, only one team will be assigned to each hilltop. There's no question of seizing it. By the time it gets late, that hilltop will still belong to you."

After he finished speaking, he turned his head back without adding any further explanation.

His tone was as flat as if he were reading a document, devoid of any emotion.

But it is precisely this almost indifferent affirmation that is more convincing than any enthusiastic comfort.

Because it doesn't sound like it's trying to comfort you, but rather stating a fact that has already been decided and won't change because anyone is in a hurry or delaying.

The middle-aged man paused for a moment, then let out a long breath. He rubbed his hands together and muttered, "That's good, that's good."

I turned around and walked back to the group, found a spot that wasn't so muddy, put down my backpack, and sat down leaning against it.

The people around them also looked away. The anxiety was still there, but the panic of "if we don't leave now, we won't get anything" was gone.

Xu Xiaoyan turned her gaze away from the soldier, lowered her head, looked at the layer of gray mud on her rain boots, and her lips twitched slightly.

She never worried about the problem of "good spots being taken" from the beginning.

The deployment of troops cannot be based on "first come, first served," because this could easily lead to some people becoming independent and fighting their own battles.

Which team corresponds to each mountain was decided when the numbers were assigned.

They won't give you a better seat just because you leave early, nor will they put you in a worse one just because you leave late.

She leaned against her backpack, legs stretched out, hands back in her pockets, and closed her eyes to rest.

The people who had been surrounding the soldiers asking for their numbers at the makeshift tents finally dispersed one by one.

The last few people came running over, panting, their foreheads glistening with a layer of something that looked like rain or sweat.

Clutching the slips of paper in their hands, their faces beaming with relief that they had finally made it, they squeezed into the line, put down their backpacks, and bent over, panting.

Xu Xiaoyan didn't open her eyes, but listened to the footsteps and silently counted them in her mind.

Finally, everyone has arrived.

The soldier raised the hand that wasn't holding the number tag, palm facing outward, fingers together, to eyebrow level.

Some people in the group were talking in hushed tones, but when they saw this gesture, their voices vanished instantly, as if they had been cut off.

All eyes were on him.

The soldier leading the team introduced himself as surnamed Wu, and from now on everyone can call him Sergeant Wu.

He switched the number plate from his right hand to his left, freeing up his right hand, and gestured to his chest to indicate the position of his epaulets.

Although he was wearing a raincoat that covered most of his epaulets, the gesture made it clear: I am a non-commissioned officer, and you can call me that.

The voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear, and there were no polite opening remarks.

He stood there, his hat brim pulled low, revealing only his chin and slightly pursed lips.

Sergeant Wu explained that he would come twice a day, at 7 a.m. and 6 p.m., and everyone had to assemble at the designated time and place to wait for him to take attendance.

If you have something to do, remember to ask him for leave before these two time periods. Don't be late and ask him for leave on your behalf, and don't have someone else ask him for leave on your behalf.

Moreover, one must personally go to him before the roll call time to explain the situation and obtain his approval before being absent the following day.

He doesn't require a detailed explanation of the reason for the leave, but there must be a reason that he feels "absolutely must be present".