A day later, in the basement. Riku had ordered the citizens of the camp to gather in counter 1, one of the biggest counter receptions for the customers prior to the zombie apocalypse.
He was standing behind the counter like he was some sort of a figurative president, he swept his gaze over them, noting their facial expressions. And as expected, most of them are reluctant and suspicious of him.
Riku understood it, after all, he was some sort of an invader to an established group.
"I know some of you don’t trust me completely but that’s understandable," Riku began. "After all, we are thrown into this godforsaken world where there are monsters out there who would devour any living beings. In this world, it matters who you trust. To be honest I don’t even trust you guys, but I hope we set that feeling aside because we are all in this together."
"Why did you gather us?" Murata asked.
"Even though we have cleared the supermarket floor there’s still more zombies on the second and third floor. As you all know, the second and third floors house the electronics and construction hardwares, which we would need to strengthen our camp because I believe the zombies aren’t the only threat we should worry about, it’s the people too. Sooner or later, other survivors would aim to reach this camp in hope of finding food and supplies. They could be friendly or hostile but do you want to take that chance?"
All of them were silent, processing his words.
"Now, I need volunteers to clear those zombies out upstairs. Of course, those who participate will receive compensation in the form of food and water."
"What do you mean by that?" one of the survivors asked.
"Our supplies are finite and I don’t want it being consumed by someone who lacks and only hides in the corner," Riku said flatly, his voice slicing through the murmurs. "From this point forward, food and water are earned. You work, you eat. You fight, you drink. That’s how we make this place last."
The crowd erupted in protest.
"What?! That’s unfair!"
"We’ve survived just fine without your rules!"
"You can’t starve us!"
Some even surged a step forward, voices rising, fists clenched. Riku raised his hand, calm but firm. Miko, who had been standing off to his side, subtly angled her Glock toward the ground—visible enough to remind them it was there.
Riku didn’t flinch. "You think this is unfair? You’re alive right now because I stepped in. You’re standing here because I risked my life clearing this floor while you cowered in the basement. But let me be clear—this isn’t charity anymore. This is survival. If you want to live, then you contribute."
Murata’s eyes narrowed, arms folding as he studied Riku. "So you mean to ration food depending on labor?"
"Yes," Riku answered without hesitation. "Equal shares for equal effort. We need builders, fighters, scavengers, guards. If you refuse to help, then you get the bare minimum to survive. No more hoarding, no more freeloading."
A wave of angry mutters rolled through the crowd. Takuya, the construction worker, barked out, "So now we’re your slaves? Work or starve, is that it?!"
Riku’s jaw tightened, and without warning he pulled his suppressed Glock from its holster. He raised it toward the ceiling and fired.
The muffled crack echoed through the chamber. Dust fell from the beams above. Every voice died in an instant. Even Hana, clutching Suzune’s hand in the back, flinched at the sound.
Riku lowered the weapon, eyes sweeping across the stunned faces. "Listen carefully. I’m not asking you to be slaves. I’m telling you to be survivors. The dead don’t care if you think it’s unfair. They don’t care if you think I’m too strict. They’ll eat you whether you’ve worked or not. What I’m offering is a chance—not just to survive, but to build something that lasts."
The silence held for a beat too long. Then someone muttered, "He’s right..." Another, quieter voice added, "If we don’t clear the other floors, we’ll run out of space anyway."
Still, resistance lingered in the faces of many. Murata’s gaze locked on Riku, sharp, unreadable. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Volunteers only, you said?"
Riku nodded once. "Yes. I won’t drag anyone by force. But those who step forward will have priority in food distribution. You bring in supplies, you eat better. Simple as that."
A tense pause followed. Then, reluctantly, a young man from the back raised his hand. Kenji, the bespectacled salaryman, stepped forward. His legs trembled, but he managed to say, "I’ll go. I’m... I’m not a fighter, but I’ll help however I can."
Another followed—an older teenager clutching a metal pipe. Then two more men, grim-faced but resolved.
It wasn’t many. Barely a handful. But it was enough to break the wall of silence.
"Good. Those who volunteered, stay after. We’ll prepare. The rest of you—think about what I said. This isn’t about me ruling you. This is about whether this camp survives the month."
He holstered his Glock, gaze sweeping them one last time. "Decide if you’re going to live like dead weight... or like survivors."
Then, he watched the survivors standing up and forming a line to volunteer.
It was slow at first, hesitant. But as the line grew, something shifted in the room. The tense, brittle air of defiance thinned, replaced with uneasy determination. These weren’t soldiers, not even close. Most clutched pipes, bats, or makeshift weapons scavenged from the store shelves. Their hands shook, their jaws were tight, but they were stepping forward—and that was enough.
Riku gave a short nod. "Those who’ve stepped up, stay after. We’ll organize and prepare. I’m sure most of you have experience dealing with zombies?"
Some nodded their heads, others didn’t.
"I see, I need to teach you how to kill a zombie then," Riku sighed. "Very well, I’ll get a zombie, you guys wait here and Murata, since you volunteered to be in this job, you watch them over while I get a zombie."