Chapter 78: Population
When Merle propped his boots up on the coffee table, Wu Fan frowned slightly but didn't say anything.
The coffee table was new; the previous one had been cracked when Merle stepped on it. This one had been found by Jackie in a warehouse. It was made of sheet metal and wouldn't break.
Merle knew he wouldn't damage it, so he stretched out even more boldly.
"Boss, we can't just let the Woodbury matter go like this."
He had a cigarette in his mouth but didn't light it. "Let me drive a tank, or that Puma, and blast it to smithereens."
Wu Fan didn't reply. Instead, he stood up and walked to the window.
Merle added, "My Humvee got blown up too."
Downstairs, the construction team was pouring the final section of the wall.
The drum of the concrete mixer truck turned slowly, making a dull rumbling sound.
Several new workers pieced the forms together and hammered them into place. The sound of the nails couldn't be heard through the glass, yet it seemed faintly audible in his mind.
In the distant town, people moved about, unloading their belongings from trucks. Children chased balls by the roadside, and an old man watered flowers outside his door.
The water was recycled and somewhat murky, but the flowers were thriving.
"Merle..."
Wu Fan turned around. "What's the thing most lacking in the apocalypse?"
Merle paused for a moment, then lowered his feet from the coffee table.
"Weapons and ammunition?"
"Weapons and ammunition can be made again if they run out."
Wu Fan walked back to his desk and sat down, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "When a person is gone, they're truly gone."
Merle opened his mouth but couldn't say anything.
Wu Fan took a piece of paper from the drawer and pushed it over.
It was a statistical report filled with dense numbers. Merle gave up after looking at it for three seconds.
"What's this?"
"The CDC's population growth curve showed a 40 percent increase last month and is projected to be 25 percent this month. The growth rate is slowing down. It's not that no one is coming anymore; it's that people from the surrounding areas have already arrived. People from farther away can't get here, and information can't reach them either."
Merle pushed the paper back, still not understanding.
Wu Fan stood up and walked to the map of Georgia hanging on the wall.
The area was densely marked with red dots and blue lines, and there was one more marked section than the last time he looked at it.
His finger landed on Atlanta.
"Here. Three million Walkers. At our current pace, it will take several years to clear them out. After that, the buildings will have gone without maintenance, the roads unrepaired, the electrical systems degraded, and the water pipes burst. By the time we can move in, it will be a useless wasteland."
He turned to look at Merle.
"We need people—lots of people—not for fighting, but for working, farming, building roads, and constructing houses. Those few dozen people in Woodbury are labor, not enemies. If we drive tanks in and bombard them, what will be left? A few corpses, a pile of rubble, and a group of people who hate us."
Merle scratched his head.
He understood, but he still wasn't fully convinced.
"So what if they blew up my Humvee? Was that just supposed to be forgotten?"
Wu Fan didn't answer immediately.
He walked back behind his desk, sat down, opened a drawer, took out a document, and placed it on the table.
Merle glanced at the cover, which read: "Woodbury Receipt Report."
He turned to the first page and saw Rick's signature dated yesterday.
"The Governor issue has already been resolved."
Wu Fan said, "The people in Woodbury are now under Rick's control."
Merle's eyes widened.
He stared at the report several times, looking up at Wu Fan, then back down again, his mouth hanging open as he tried to figure out where to begin.
How had he solved it?
Who had been sent?
When had this happened?
He was at the base every day, so how had he not heard a thing?
He remembered hearing the sound of a helicopter in the middle of the night yesterday, but he had assumed it was some routine mission and rolled over to go back to sleep.
Looking back now, he realized the sound had been heading south.
Wu Fan offered no explanation.
He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and watched the fascinating changes in Merle's expression.
Merle put down the report, stood up, placed a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it.
"Okay, I'll head back then."
He walked to the door, placed his hand on the doorknob, and paused for a moment.
He wanted to ask questions, but he knew he wouldn't get any answers.
He opened the door and left.
In the hallway, Guillermo stood ramrod straight and nodded to him.
Merle nodded back and walked away.
He decided that the next time he passed by the prison, he would definitely ask Rick for clarification.
After the door closed, the office became quiet.
Wu Fan smoked his cigarette while looking out the window at the wall rising higher and higher.
Some members of his Group of Sages were too extreme, completely disregarding the consequences. After venting their anger, they would simply pack up and leave, which was no different from refusing to acknowledge their mistakes.
He was somewhat afraid that the Group of Sages would eventually replace him. Their methods were suitable only for small-team survival, not for someone trying to build a force of ten thousand people.
He liked reading the five volumes of Mao Zedong's Selected Works, especially the emphasis on mobilizing the masses and prioritizing production.
When the apocalypse began, he didn't act too aggressively. Instead, he developed step by step because moving too quickly would have backfired.
The radical faction of the Group of Sages believed Woodbury should be bombarded with missiles or artillery shells and razed to the ground. There were many extreme voices in that group.
The more rational members, however, remained relatively quiet because they understood the situation clearly.
Artillery shells had no eyes. Bombing the Governor's residence was no different from bombing nearby homes, especially since the buildings were closely connected.
In the end, Wu Fan made the final decision, telling the radical members of the Group of Sages to reread the five volumes of Mao Zedong's Selected Works before speaking again.
The radicals were completely convinced. They were patriots who deeply respected Mao Zedong. They regained their senses, apologized for their extremism, and admired Wu Fan for remaining rational.
He recalled Merle's expression earlier—unconvinced, but suppressing it.
Merle was relatively obedient. Someone else might have already secretly driven a tank out.
That's why he needed people.
Not the kind who only knew how to shout for violence, but people who could think things through, manage operations, and maintain stability—as well as provide labor.
People brought in through exploitation and oppression would inevitably resist. As the saying went: where there is oppression and exploitation, there is resistance.
Rick was one. Sandra was another. Glenn was half a good manager. These were all useful administrators.
Merle didn't count. He was a henchman, but he was obedient, and that was enough.
Woodbury's original few dozen people, plus those from the CDC, plus those arriving from surrounding areas, now brought the population under his command to more than a thousand.
How much food did more than a thousand people consume every day?
How much water?
How much medicine?
How much ammunition?
But those people were also a source of productivity.
Someone had to farm, someone had to build walls, someone had to construct houses, and someone had to clear Walkers.
With every additional person added, Atlanta moved one day closer to being reclaimed.
Once he gathered the entire population of Georgia, and once he had the strength to support a population of ten thousand, he could confront other forces of similar size head-on.
If he lost, he could simply run away. On his own, he would never worry about food or survival.
If he won, he could annex their population, continue expanding, and integrate everyone into a small state with institutionalized operations.
He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the window.
Downstairs, the bombed Humvee had been towed back and now lay crooked in the repair area, with a large charred hole in the hood.
Jim and Morgan, the mechanics, stood around it, some shaking their heads while others gestured as they talked.
He watched for a while, then turned around, walked back to his desk, opened the census form, and wrote a number in the remarks column.
1,237.
That was the population as of noon today.
Population determined reserves, and the effectiveness of bombardment depended on the target.
If the target was truly hateful, there was no need to show mercy—annihilation was the only outcome.
While the Governor was certainly despicable, it was entirely understandable that his people had been deceived by him.
Those people could still be brought in and turned into a workforce capable of rapidly expanding operations to a scale of ten thousand, ensuring production continued smoothly.