In the two days that followed, the group chat grew unusually quiet.
Miles half-suspected the residents had starved to death, but later learned they'd banded together to rob Grant's food supply—and somehow, they'd succeeded.
Through the villa's external surveillance, he saw a group of people hauling a battered Grant to a nearby unit in Block E.
None of this concerned Miles, though. He continued to eat and drink well, passing time by calling Ryan, the two of them trading banter that went on endlessly.
Today marked the fourteenth day of the frozen era's dawn.
Miles knew exactly what that meant.
By tomorrow morning, the blizzard would subside, but the temperatures wouldn't improve—and worse, the undead would soon emerge.
The food that the residents fought so hard to steal wouldn't be their salvation; instead, it would be the spark that ignited the next battle.
In times like these, selfishness reigns supreme.
With every morsel in short supply, that stash from Grant's hands became the final hope for survival.
Though only seventy or eighty residents had taken part in the raid, there were still over seven hundred left in Cloud City, all on the brink of death.
Seven hundred against eighty—the outcome was obvious.
The starving majority wouldn't stand by as a few hoarded the last scraps of salvation.
Sure enough, tension soon surfaced in the chat.
"Bob, just how much food did you manage to get?"
Someone tagged one of the raiders, and soon a reply came back: "Almost nothing! Just one measly carton of milk, and I ended up with a broken arm."
"Didn't they say Grant had at least a truckload of supplies? He's just one person—there's got to be plenty left!"
Bob cursed, "There is a stash, but you should've seen how everyone was grabbing at it! I got hurt the worst and ended up with the least."
The ones who had taken more, however, remained conveniently silent.
"Lucy, I saw you stuffing a bunch of food when the door opened. Don't act like I didn't see it!"
"Lies! I only took two loaves of bread."
"That's impossible…"
"Dammit, share what you've got! You can't hog it all!"
The chat quickly descended into chaos again.
Without resources, survival had become a battle of desperation.
The residents' hearts were changing, hardening under the strain of scarcity.
...
Meanwhile, in Andrew's villa.
Anthony wiped blood from his face, casting a casual glance at the lifeless Andrew sprawled on the floor, before he turned to the safe and emptied it of its stash: guns, ammunition, and food, everything he could find.
Ripping open a pack of Oreos, he ravenously devoured them, then looked up with a malicious grin at his two companions. "Andrew's gone now. Stick with me, and we'll share every bit of what's left."
The two lackeys, grateful for the food they'd been given, eagerly agreed, "Don't worry, Anthony. We'll do whatever you ask."
Though Andrew's stash was meager, Anthony knew that feeding these two would ensure their loyalty.
Then he noticed the chat, left open on Andrew's phone.
Anthony's gaunt face twisted into a cruel smile. "Looks like our next meal just showed up."
With that, Anthony led his men out of the villa, their first stop being the nearby home of the chubby woman who lived next to Miles.
The three men burst in without hesitation.
"What are you doing?"
The woman cowered in fear, while her thin husband stood trembling as Anthony's gang, guns drawn, demanded their food.
Forced to comply, they handed over their last few packets of crackers and milk.
"See? It's not so hard to get food," Anthony sneered, stuffing the provisions into a large sack. "On to the next!"
He and his crew moved from villa to villa, raiding the remaining homes and quickly accumulating a decent haul.
"Anthony, where to next?"
The two lackeys were thrilled with their new leader, relieved to have left Andrew behind.
"Enough for now—let's head back."
Anthony had no intention of pushing their luck. The residential blocks were far from their current position, and the densely packed population there posed a risk.
For now, what they'd collected in the villa area would be enough to sustain them for a few days.
Anthony had been with Andrew long enough to have learned patience. He cautioned his lackeys, "Right now, we have to be careful. Picking a fight with everyone is suicide… we'll go step by step. Most of the villas around here are empty. If we're patient, there's bound to be food somewhere."
Seeing Anthony's clear-headed leadership reassured his companions.
Miles, watching the whole ordeal on his monitors, chuckled. "Looks like Anthony has some brains. He may prove useful in the future."
The undead would arrive soon. While Miles himself was safe, he knew he couldn't stay holed up forever.
He would need to eliminate obstacles outside, bit by bit.
Anthony and his men returned to Andrew's villa. Unlike Andrew, he didn't hide the food but divided it generously, even promising to live and eat with his followers.
After a hearty meal, the three drifted into a deep sleep.
Who knew how long had passed when Anthony, in his sleep, suddenly felt something cold and wet on his face.
He opened his eyes, only to find himself staring into a pale, lifeless face.
"Ah!"
Instinctively, Anthony lashed out, kicking the figure across the room.
As his phone cast a dim light on the scene, he finally saw the figure clearly and shuddered.
"An… Andrew?"
Standing before him, unmistakably, was Andrew—the same man they had killed that day.
The commotion woke his two lackeys, who also froze in fear, staring at their former leader.
Anthony, in disbelief, stammered, "This… this can't be! You were dead—cold and lifeless! How can you be standing here?"
Andrew didn't respond. His unblinking eyes, lifeless and bloodshot, locked onto them with chilling intensity.
One of the lackeys pointed a shaking finger at Andrew. "Boss… his… his…"
It was then that Anthony noticed the ghastly transformation—Andrew's skin had drained of all color, covered in dark, web-like veins.
A terrifying realization dawned upon him.