Meeting the Base Member

39

"Captain Franklin," Simon Harper immediately stepped forward, "three newcomers have arrived."

It was evident that they all held the dashing man in high regard.

As he walked closer, I noticed he was carrying a rifle on his back.

"Not bad, you guys. Finally reopening after a month," he said,

without a hint of intimidation. He nodded at us, "Hello, I'm Zenith Franklin. Let's go upstairs and have a chat."

We had already agreed in the car that we wouldn't delve too deeply into their base and would head back home after making contact.

However, this military man with a gun could potentially clear up many of our doubts.

Exchanging glances, Chris nodded, "Thank you for the invitation."

"The mall's internal escalator only goes up to the third floor. Beyond that, the paths are blocked by shelves,"

Zenith Franklin explained as he led us upwards. "This fire escape can take us directly to the rooftop. The area near the back door has fewer zombies, so we usually enter and exit through there."

As he spoke, we reached the sixth-floor rooftop.

The fire exit door had been modified, with large steel plates welded on both sides.

The original lock had been removed and replaced with a massive latch. The bolt was as thick as an arm.

Once we were all inside, the door was bolted shut again.

The rooftop was spacious.

To the right, there was a pile of firewood stacked neatly against the railing.

To the left was a large plot of cultivated land, indicating that transporting the soil alone had been a major project.

In the center stood a warehouse-like building.

A bonfire burned brightly in the open space in front, with wisps of smoke rising into the air.

People sat around the fire in small groups, watching us curiously.

As we followed Zenith Franklin, four people stood up to offer us their seats.

"It's alright, I'll stand," he said, pressing one of them back into their chair.

"Simon Harper handles daily management, and you've already met him," he began introducing the base members.

"That's Old Grant," he said, pointing to a corner of the rooftop.

The man turned at the mention of his name.

He was in his sixties, short and with a stern, hawk-like face. He had sharp, triangular eyes and a penetrating gaze.

A red whistle hung around his neck.

The whistle we heard earlier must have come from him.

"Old Grant was a football referee before retiring. Now he's our best lookout at the gathering point; nothing escapes his watchful eyes."

The introductions continued, revealing a total of eleven members in the gathering point, nine men and two women.

"I've never seen people come in groups before," Simon Harper remarked.

My heart skipped a beat.

I was acutely aware that our team was also assembled after the fact.

Could this be a coincidence?

Since they hadn't eaten breakfast yet,

they dispersed to start cooking after brief introductions.

Taking advantage of this time, I approached them. "How's it looking?"

"Not great," Chris said, frowning.

"The military has entered the city, and some have mutated. This means survivors might have a chance to acquire firearms."

"If everyone uses melee weapons, conflicts between bases and individuals remain manageable. But with guns, everything changes."

I've always had a certain admiration for the base faction.

In my imagination, it was akin to an early pastoral era, where everyone farmed, hunted, and fished together.

But the presence of firearms shattered my fantasy.

Outside the base, new armed groups could emerge, and some bases might even become embodiments of violence. The nascent order could quickly collapse.

"Is he really a soldier?" Anne asked, watching Zenith Franklin move through the crowd. "Finding a gun is one thing, but a uniform is even easier."

"He probably is. His thumb and forefinger have thick calluses, which only long-term gun users develop," Chris replied,

though his words didn't entirely dispel my concerns.

"But isn't this base forming a bit too early?" I asked.

"No, the situation is different," Anne said, offering a new perspective. "The leader here is a soldier with a gun, so its cohesion and discipline are much stronger than an ordinary base. It's a special case."

"Indeed," Chris agreed. "A typical base would have much weaker control and more internal issues."

"Take, for example, the balance between labor and production. If food reserves aren't enough to support the base's population until they can grow enough crops, they'll regress."

"They'll revert to being rescue factions, or even scavengers."

"Then there's the serious gender imbalance," he added, without elaborating.

But I understood what he meant: In a world ruled by force, women could become a different kind of resource, allocated and used by male leaders.

"Zenith Franklin doesn't want us just to balance the gender ratio, does he?" Anne's expression was peculiar.

"Not necessarily. Having women and children in the group is a harmless card, so their enthusiasm might be genuine."

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