3
We were taken into an underground bunker by an organization called FEMA.
The underground elevator is slowly descending.
The heavy metal box emitted a dull hum, one meter, ten meters, fifty meters, one hundred meters... My ears ached from the changes in air pressure.
Edmund gripped my neck tightly, his face growing paler and paler.
Crawford, the commander of the fortress, stood beside us, dressed in a crisp military uniform, still sporting that formulaic smile.
"A Boston University student?" Crawford said gently. "I saw your fraternity jacket. It's not easy to escape Boston."
Edmund nodded, his voice trembling. "Yes, sir. We were just lucky."
"No, young man, this isn't luck. It's your intelligence that saved you." Crawford looked at me. "And your dog. A German Shepherd? A very intelligent breed."
He crouched down and reached out to touch my head. I resisted the urge to bite off his finger and simply took a step back.
Crawford stood up, unperturbed. "It's alert, which is a good thing."
The elevator was still descending. The space was cramped and oppressive, with a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with some other indescribable odor.
My nose kept twitching. The smell of spores decaying was faint, but definitely there.
"Welcome to Aurora Bunker," Crawford said, his voice brimming with pride. "This is the largest FEMA shelter on the East Coast. One hundred meters underground, it's strong enough to withstand any external threats."
The elevator finally stopped.
The door opened, revealing a vast underground space. Bright LED lights illuminated the wide corridors, where uniformed staff were busy at work. It truly looked like a shelter.
But the spores tasted stronger.
Crawford led us out of the elevator. "First, register and have your medical check-ups, then you can go to the cafeteria for your meal."
We were led to a medical area. A doctor approached, holding a tablet. "Name?"
Edmund Wright.
"What is the dog's breed and name?"
"German Shepherd, Dafu."
The doctor took out a handheld scanner. "Please stand still, I need to do a basic biometric scan."
The scanner emitted a faint blue light, sweeping from Edmund's head to his feet, then aimed at me. The blue light stung my skin. The hairs on my body stood on end, and a low warning growl escaped my throat.
"Good boy, Dafu," Edmund pressed my head down, "Don't move."
I endured the discomfort and let the blue light sweep over my entire body.
A few seconds later, the scan was complete. The doctor glanced at the data on the tablet, his brow furrowing slightly, but he quickly returned to normal.
"There are no external injuries, and their vital signs are stable," he said. "You can go to the cafeteria for lunch."
We were led deeper into the corridor.
As I walked, I observed my surroundings. People were coming and going in the corridor, but the more I looked, the more something seemed off.
Ordinary people dressed in refugee clothing were few and far between, but fully armed soldiers and uniformed staff were everywhere. Of every three people, at most one was a true survivor.
This is not the proportion that a shelter should have.
Edmund noticed it too. I felt his hand press lightly on the top of my head, harder than usual—he was telling me that he had seen it too.
What would a shelter that claims to be rescuing people need so many armed personnel for?
The mess hall was at the end of the corridor, a spacious hall. Long tables and chairs were neatly arranged, and groups of survivors sat there eating. Several armed soldiers stood in the corner, their eyes scanning everyone.
The food was already laid out on the table: stewed beef, bread, and a bowl of dog food specially prepared for me.
Edmund sat down at the corner table and placed the food on the floor. He didn't pick up his chopsticks immediately, but instead looked down at me.
I leaned closer and sniffed the food carefully. The smell of beef, the aroma of bread, the dry scent of dog food. No spores, no decay, nothing unusual.
These foods are clean.
I looked at Edmund and gently wagged my tail.
Edmund then picked up the bread and took a big bite.
We hadn't eaten properly for almost two days. He wolfed down the stewed beef, then tore off large pieces of bread and stuffed them into his mouth. I buried my head in my dog food, which, although not as tasty as the bacon my owner made, at least filled my stomach.
While eating, Edmund discreetly observed the other people in the canteen.
The survivors were mostly silent, their eyes vacant, as if all their vitality had been drained. They ate mechanically and slowly; no one spoke, no one cried, and no one even looked up at the others.
Edmund put down the bread, leaned closer to me, and spoke in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.
"The people here... their eyes are off," he said, "like walking corpses."
I nuzzled his wrist with my nose. Yes, Master. Nothing here is right.
We were led to room 203. The walls were concrete, and there was only a simple bed and a sink. The door was closed, but not locked.
Edmund sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me close. "We'll go see what's hidden here late at night."
Time ticked by. The bunker's lighting system simulated a day-night cycle; as "night" approached, the lights dimmed. Fewer and fewer people lingered in the corridors, and the entire bunker fell silent.
Edmund waited until dawn.
He quietly opened the door and peeked into the hallway. It was empty.
We slipped out of the room.
Using my night vision and sense of smell, we groped our way deeper into the bunker. The smell of spores grew stronger and more nauseating, as if guiding us to some terrifying place.
We arrived at an area marked "Restricted." The heavy metal door was ajar, and a low, mechanical hum could be heard from inside.
Edmund pushed open the door a crack and peered inside through the blinds.
Then he froze.
It was a huge underground space, as high as three stories. Hundreds of people were stripped naked, their bodies covered in tubes, and hung upside down in mid-air like pigs.
They are still alive.
I could hear their faint heartbeats and see their chests rising and falling. But they had lost consciousness, their bodies shriveled up like mummies.
The tubes were connected to their bodies, drawing blood and nutrients and transporting them deeper underground. Their bodies were covered in dark green mycelium; the spore mothers clung to their skin like parasites, slowly wriggling and feeding on their lives.
Edmund covered his mouth, fighting off the urge to vomit.
His fear vanished, replaced by a pure, intense killing intent.
He quietly closed the door and turned to leave. We returned to the room, where Edmund leaned against the wall, trembling.
"Those people..." he muttered to himself, "they were used as fertilizer..."
I nuzzled his hand.
Edmund's eyes changed; they became cold and sharp.
"I'm going to kill Crawford," he said, "and burn this damn place down."
Meanwhile, in the monitoring room on the top floor of the bunker.
Crawford sat in front of the holographic screen, staring coldly at the data on it.
That was Dafu's bio-scan report.
"Interesting," he licked his lips, which parted to reveal dark green tentacles. "This dog... it's not infected. No, not just not infected, it has some kind of gene that can devour spores."
His eyes gleamed with greed.
He pressed the communicator.
"Make your move at three in the morning tonight," his voice was icy, devoid of any humanity. "Chop that college student up and use him as fertilizer. Inject that dog with tranquilizers and drag him alive into the lab."
The communicator responded with "Received".
Crawford leaned back in his chair, a twisted smile on his face.
"Soon," he murmured to himself, "soon I will become a perfect life form."
