The wind and the snow howled; riding any faster on the snowmobile would risk flipping them over. Zhang Yi and Uncle You kept a steady forty to fifty kilometers per hour. It took them more than two hours of whiteout and frozen road to reach the northwest wasteland.
Once they passed the last high-rises, everything flattened into a broad, seamless field of snow. Dozens of meters of drift had buried roads and landmarks; navigation without local knowledge was a hopeless task. Uncle You stopped, checked his bearings several times, and pointed to a raised white hill on the horizon. "Thank God for that hill. We're close—about five kilometers."
Zhang Yi nodded. Anticipation tightened his chest. After a short run they reached the hill's base; here and there rooflines still cut weakly through the drifts.
"It's around here," Uncle You said, running his eyes across the whiteness. "But I need a better fix if we're to find the barracks."
They parked the bike and began to search on foot. Military compounds don't look like cities—low dormitories, broad layouts—so when everything's buried, the area becomes a maze. If not for Uncle You's memory of the countryside, Zhang Yi would be wandering in circles for days.
After a while Uncle You brightened. "Found it!" he said.
"Found the barracks?" Zhang Yi hurried up.
Uncle You waved his hand and pointed at a gold sign above a low building. "Found the bathhouse."
Zhang Yi blinked and gave him a sideways look.
Uncle You chuckled. "Don't be so impatient. If I can find this, the barracks is close. An old comrade of mine ran this place; I used to drop by once in a while."
The sign read Hidden Universe Bathhouse. Zhang Yi grinned despite the gale. The owner had picked a clever location—soldiers have cash and cabin fever; places like this thrive next to bases. Uncle You explained that the bathhouse was the sort of local business officers turned a blind eye to because the men needed somewhere to blow their stipend.
Pointing north again, Uncle You squinted through the snow. "There—see that dark dot? A watchtower."
Zhang Yi peered, finally making out the tiny silhouette. "I see it."
"That's the barracks," Uncle You said.
"The barracks is big," Zhang Yi said. "Even if we know where it is, how do we find the armory?"
Uncle You shrugged. "I went inside the gates years ago. I remember roughly where the armory sits."
"Let's go check," Zhang Yi said. If they could pin the layout, they could return later with equipment to dig.
They rode toward the watchtower. From the tower and the officer's office—those few features poking through the drifts—Uncle You could reconstruct the compound's skeleton. Then his face fell.
"It's buried," he admitted. "Completely. I hoped we'd be lucky, but no—the snow took everything. I'm sorry, Zhang Yi. I might've dragged you here for nothing."
Zhang Yi stared at the smooth white field, memorized the relative positions—the watchtower, the office, the bathhouse sign—and let the map settle in his head. He smiled at Uncle You. "Doesn't matter. We can come back when the snow melts, or dig. Knowing where to start is half the job."
Uncle You returned the smile, a little sheepish. "Yeah. We tried."
Zhang Yi clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go. It's late—two, three hours back. No point wasting daylight."
They mounted the snowmobile and headed for home. The sky was already bruising into dusk.
Back in the community, Li Chengbin and a large group were retreating from Building 21. The strike had collapsed into chaos: unfamiliar floors, prepared traps, and ruthless defenders turned the assault into a costly rout. Over a dozen of Li Chengbin's men lay dead; they'd managed to kill five or six of the enemy, but the price had been steep. Exhausted and cold, the survivors decided to withdraw.
Li Chengbin, marching at the front, counted casualties and mentally tallied rewards—he expected Zhang Yi to compensate the losses. Others, older and more cynical, had different complaints.
"What was the point? Over a dozen of us dead and for nothing!" one muttered.
"We've done this twice—Tianhe Gang, Mad Wolf. We lose more than we kill. Keep this up and we're finished."
"Zhang Yi told us to go, then rode off with Uncle You. They were the strongest—where were they when we needed them?"
Middle-aged men murmured most loudly; they'd done the least in the attack but felt entitled to complain. Between the bitter cold and the brutal fight they'd been pushed to the edge.
Li Chengbin heard the grumbling and snapped, "Shut your mouths! Watch what you say!" He turned on them with the blunt logic that kept small groups together in the apocalypse: "If Zhang Yi hadn't brought food, half of us would already be dead. Don't forget that."
Arguments flickered across the party—strategy, leadership, sacrifice—but beneath each was the same hard truth: this was a war of survival, and Zhang Yi, for better or worse, still controlled the boots and the guns.