Chapter 115 Let's Go Plant Some Corn
Steven gazed out the window on the 13th floor, surveying the pandemonium below. Over a thousand frantic residents scrambled aimlessly, drawing an involuntary gasp from his lips.
This was his first time using a grenade.
Truth be told, Steven had underestimated their sheer power. His assumptions had been colored by too many implausible TV shows where protagonists brushed off grenade blasts as if they were mere firecrackers.
Reality, however, painted a far more brutal picture. The lethal potential of modern armaments on ordinary people was beyond comprehension. The detonation of a single grenade had reduced over a thousand people to frenzied scatterings of survival instinct, resulting in nearly twenty casualties, both directly and indirectly.
Initially, Steven had contemplated hurling a few more grenades. Yet, after the initial explosion, the crowd dispersed like spooked wildlife. Subsequent grenades would be pointless. Recognizing their diminished utility, Steven chose to conserve his arsenal. With only twenty boxes of grenades at his disposal, prudence dictated frugality.
He reclined in a chair, awaiting the arrival of Samuel, Owen, and the others. Minutes later, a handful of breathless individuals staggered in.
In the biting cold, climbing nine flights of stairs in one go was a herculean effort for most. Only Owen, accustomed to the rigors of construction work, and Luke, the robust manager of Building 15, maintained some semblance of composure.
Steven knew Luke's background well; a former boxer who had once owned a gym, he was reputedly formidable.
But Steven remained unfazed. He had a gun.
Beyond seven steps, the gun would certainly dominate; within seven, it was both swift and precise.
“Is it just you guys?” Steven asked flatly, his voice tinged with disappointment. He had been expecting more. If he couldn't neutralize all the building managers at once, he’d have to resort to his backup plan.
The once-arrogant few had been humbled, panting heavily after scaling nine floors. They now faced a man who would throw a grenade without hesitation—a grim reminder of their own vulnerability.
Chase, while catching his breath, said, "Yes, we are... representatives!"
"Alright." Steven responded indifferently, "Then let's talk."
They found places to sit, but none dared approach Steven. The knowledge of his armaments kept even the bravest at bay.
Chase took the lead. "Steven, you know the situation is dire. People are suffering—short on clothes, food, and many are on the brink of starvation or freezing to death,” he began, his tone markedly more respectful. “I’ve even heard rumors of cannibalism in certain buildings. If this continues, we’re all doomed. So understand, it's nothing personal. Everyone is just trying to survive, which is why we’re here."
Had it not been for the grenade, his tone would have likely been sharper, more demanding. But the explosion had shifted the dynamics entirely.
Steven remained unmoved. “Spare me the sob story. Just tell me your terms.”
Despite their efforts to remain composed, the grueling climb had sapped their energy, putting them at a clear disadvantage—exactly as Steven had calculated. The building managers exchanged glances before Samuel nodded, signaling Chase to continue. “Mr. Gray, you handle this.”
Now, forced to negotiate, and with Steven holding all the cards, Chase took a deep breath and spoke. “We need essential supplies. First, we need food, gathered from outside. Second, we need materials for heating—clothes, blankets, the basics.”
He paused, eyes on the others for reassurance before continuing. “If our cooperation is successful, we can even offer manpower to help you gather supplies. More supplies means a win-win situation.”
Chase, believing he had made a reasonable case, looked to Steven. “Mr. Rogers, what do you think?”
While Chase’s words were skillfully crafted, Steven wasn't fooled. He saw through the rhetoric to the raw demands lying beneath.
Steven considered Chase’s proposal before speaking, his voice edged with sarcasm. “So, let me get this straight—you want me out there, gathering food and supplies indefinitely. And when you talk about 'helping gather supplies,' you mean using my snowmobiles for your benefit, don’t you?"
Chase opened his mouth to explain, but Steven's demeanor abruptly shifted. Without a word, he pulled out his gun and slammed it down on the table. The five men's faces paled, instinctively recoiling, but Henry and his crew had already blocked the exit.
Trying to appear tough, Samuel barked, "Steven, what are you playing at? Even if you kill us, the whole community won’t let you get away with it!"
Chase, attempting to defuse the tension, raised his hands. "Mr. Rogers, let's not get heated. We can discuss this like rational men."
Steven offered a faint, mocking smile. "Relax, folks. The gun was just in the way—I needed to air it out. No need to be so jumpy! Sit back down, and let's keep talking."
Despite their obvious discomfort, the five settled back into their seats. Steven wasted no time. "Firstly, let me make it clear: I cannot and will not agree to your terms."
They started to protest, but Steven's raised hand cut them off. "Hold your objections. Let me finish. You expect me to single-handedly ensure the survival of the entire community? That’s a laughable notion. With thirty buildings housing over a thousand people, just scavenging enough for everyone daily would be a herculean, if not impossible, task."
He scanned their faces, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "And let’s be real—none of you are altruists worrying about your neighbors when you can’t even secure your own skins."
Quiet fell over the group. Only Chase’s frown deepened as he weighed the options. His building’s harmony was a fragile balance, maintained by shared supplies and mutual aid, and he recognized the danger in Steven’s terms.
Seeing no immediate objection, Steven pressed on. "Now, here are my terms. You can take them or leave them—but I won’t change them. Refuse, and we’ll settle this another way."
The five exchanged uneasy glances. They knew better than to underestimate Steven’s resolve and capability.
"First," Steven continued, "I’m willing to supply food, but it’s limited. Each building gets enough for ten people. How you distribute that within your building is your business, not mine. That’s already stretching to over three hundred people daily."
The group murmured among themselves, clearly unsettled. Caitlin was the first to voice dissent. "Ten people’s worth of supplies is insufficient. We have 76 people alive in our building alone. My company’s employees make up over twenty by themselves. How are we supposed to divide that?"
Steven's cold stare silenced her. "So, you're saying there's no room for negotiation?" His tone carried a menacing edge, reminding Caitlin of the earlier threat: failure to agree meant conflict.
Owen saw an opening. "Wait, Caitlin, don’t speak for all of us!" His faction, the decimated Rapids gang, now numbered just eight, including him. Ten people’s worth of supplies suited them perfectly. "I’m sure we can find a middle ground."
Samuel, though burdened with sixteen followers, recognized a dire choice. As ten people’s rations wouldn’t suffice, the hard decision would be who would go. Still, he attempted to bargain. "Ten people’s worth is insufficient. How will we explain this to the other buildings?"
Steven’s patience thinned. "You think feeding over three hundred daily is too little?"
His words sowed discord. Larger factions worried, but smaller ones like Owen’s saw advantages. The room’s atmosphere brimmed with tension.
Chase looked worried. The reason he could be the building manager was because of the system of equal distribution of benefits. Once the eighty-plus people in the building could only get ten portions of supplies, his leadership position would be instantly lost.
Troubled by the implications for his own delicate leadership, he sought clarity. "Let us consider this. What are your other conditions?"
Steven declared with measured indifference, "Alright, let's discuss the payment required for the supplies I'm providing."
His right hand rested on the table, a mere fraction of an inch from the gun, lightly drumming the surface. "Given we need to sustain three hundred people, ensuring sustainable growth is paramount. We can't solely depend on scavenging supplies; no one knows how long this winter will endure. So, we must adopt self-sufficiency and get to work!"
As Steven spoke, he deftly produced a bag of corn seeds and tossed it before them. "While I was out, I stumbled upon a batch of seeds. I think cultivating crops is our best bet for a reliable food source."
Steven quipped, "Just like the good old days. Food has to be earned through hard work!"
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