C14 Who Is the Biggest?

The red light district once housed a bustling casino, where inebriated survivors lingered, recklessly wagering their very lives. The oligarch in charge permitted gamblers to take out loans, but those unable to settle their debts had no choice but to toil away in the explosion zone—not just at its periphery, but right at the epicenter. Such perilous labor was often a one-way ticket, with the rare returnee quickly succumbing to bizarre illnesses and meeting an untimely death.

Horace paid no mind to the casino, intent on descending the stairs past a row of slot machines, but his son paused, his curiosity piqued by something in the distance. At the casino's chip exchange counter, a poster was prominently displayed. The graphic was designed to grab attention: two blood-soaked arms, one muscular and clearly human, the other blistered and unmistakably belonging to a nuclear zombie. The advertisement's tagline was as gruesome as it was impactful: "Whose fist is mightiest?"

The poster advertised the casino's signature event—the black boxing matches, which, rumor had it, were the foundation of the gang leader's wealth. The poster left no doubt that the matches pitted humans against nuclear zombies in a grim, gory spectacle that survivors found thrilling.

The competition's rules were brutally straightforward: combatants fought to the death against nuclear zombies, with victors advancing to the next round and the vanquished meeting their deserved fate. The tournament was a series of elimination rounds, culminating in the crowning of an annual champion. Prize money was drawn from ticket sales and the total wagers placed on the fights.

Advancing contestants could opt out of further combat, taking their winnings and walking away. As a rule, the further a fighter progressed on the stage, the larger the purse they could claim. The grand prize for the overall champion was the most enticing: a lifetime exemption from black market housing fees and an everlasting pass, ensuring lifelong security—provided, of course, that the black market continued to exist.

Should the overall champion harbor other ambitions, they could forgo the aforementioned rewards in exchange for a ticket out of the city. Indeed, despite the city's severed ties with the outside world, clandestine routes like the runner remained, offering a rare escape.

The black market kingpin maintained a tight-knit relationship with the runner, as the semi-finished radioactive black diamonds always needed to be smuggled out, while essential supplies, including some exceedingly rare items, had to be brought in.

Take, for instance, a type of canned meat sold on the black market, with production dates within the last two years and labeled "Made in China." This led survivors to cling to the belief that there was still a pure land out there, a place everyone longed for.

Yet, the true state of the outside world remained unknown, shrouded in endless speculation. Some whispered that the Third World War had concluded, with humanity in a phase of recovery and healing. Others claimed the apocalypse had already descended, with humankind merely clinging to existence, doomed to eventual extinction. The most outlandish rumor suggested that the city was the sole casualty of a nuclear blast, quarantined by the government out of fear of spreading contamination, left to survive or perish on its own.

Truthfully, the external world's fate was of little concern to those fighting for their lives. While hope lingered in their hearts, immediate survival took precedence. A person teetering on the edge of death couldn't afford to dream about the future; their primary worry was where the next meal would come from.

Despite the high mortality rate among competitors in the arena, the allure of substantial rewards tempted some survivors to gamble with their lives in the contests. Winning a round or two, they'd cash out while ahead, using their winnings to live out their days in idle comfort.

This gave rise to a new vocation among the survivors—the professional contestant. There were those who aimed higher, and over two years, three champions emerged. Only one remained to reap the black market's lifetime perks, while the other two ventured off, never to return, their fates unknown.

For those unable to leave, the struggle for daily sustenance was paramount, yet they also sought solace for their weary souls. The underground boxing matches provided this solace, offering both ticketed live events for outsiders and cable broadcasts for black market residents. Those dwelling beyond the market's confines could purchase recorded discs of the bouts.

Horace, however, never indulged in watching these brutal contests. He refused to let such opiates dull his senses.

He took his son's hand and walked away, imparting a lesson: "Who has the biggest fist? It sounds good, but surviving is what truly matters."

The father and son duo left the black market behind, cycling toward their home.

Two barrels of water were secured on the bike's rear seat, while Frank sat on the crossbar up front, nestled as if in his father's embrace—a feeling he cherished.

Their home wasn't in the black market, yet it was close enough for comfort. The area's nuclear zombies were routinely cleared out by the security team, providing a semblance of safety.

Furthermore, should trouble arise, they could quickly take refuge in the black market.

Humans are inherently social creatures; Horace didn't wish to stray too far from the community.

Frank had once been jealous of his peers living in the black market, with their freedom to play and game within the confines of a secure neighborhood.

Horace reassured his son that life shouldn't be burdened with excessive survival stress. Safety was paramount, and home was wherever they were together—a place of warmth.

Indeed, the pair only needed to scavenge the wasteland bi-monthly. The resources they bartered for were sufficient, even allowing for a surplus to stockpile for winter.

This was in stark contrast to the black market dwellers, who faced daily scavenging or mining to avoid eviction, constantly worrying about next month's fees for maintenance, water, and electricity. Their lives were marred by unease, akin to bondage.

The beep of his watch alarm signaled the time—just four in the afternoon, an early return.

As dusk approached and the temperature fell, Horace, soaked with sweat, navigated his way home, ensuring they weren't followed before arriving at Sunshine Estates.

The community, named "Sunshine", left Horace wondering if he and Frank would ever witness the sun's resurgence.

Sunshine Estates was modest in size, comprising only a handful of multi-story and low-rise buildings, but its prime location offered picturesque views of mountains and water.

The house remained unchanged, perched on the fifth floor of a multi-story building. It consisted of three bedrooms and a living room, modest in size but exuding a warm, homey atmosphere.

From this vantage point on the fifth floor, one could clearly see a large river to the south. The water, a stark black and gray, stood out vividly against the white road that ran alongside it.

This river was known as the Great Qing River. It was once not only clear but also teeming with large fish.

Now, the river still harbored large fish, even larger than before. However, these fish were no longer fit for human consumption; rather, they posed a threat to humans.

Across the river lay two mountains, one large and one small, oriented east to west, known as the East Big Mountain and the West Little Mountain, respectively.

At the entrance to Sunshine Estates, there were two more 'mountains,' which were in reality mounds of garbage resembling small hills. One was situated outside the gates, the other inside, facing each other across the entrance. They were remnants of the chaos that ensued after the nuclear explosion, a testament to the breakdown of social order.

With the dwindling population of Sunshine Estates and years of exposure to the elements, the once foul-smelling garbage mountains had lost their pungent odor. Now, they served as an effective disguise, a silent confirmation that the neighborhood had long been forsaken.