Chapter Three
The motel room was small, the air conditioner humming and not particularly cold.
I leaned against the headboard with a tablet in front of me, connected to the bunker's forty-two surveillance feeds, split-screen grid, every frame crisp—cameras hidden inside ventilation ducts, responding only to my biometrics. Carlos had no idea where they were.
Barrage was already scrolling:
【They're in!! Host check the monitors!!】
【Carlos kicked Arthur's bookshelf, this idiot】
【Arthur can you still hold it together (serious question)】
Holding it together just fine.
I held my Coke and kept my eyes on the screen.
Carlos was standing on my bed—yes, on my bed, boots on the wool blanket I'd ordered from San Antonio, thick black cigar pinched in his right hand, saying: "How much did this dumbass spend digging this hole? I'm telling you, build it however nice you want, you built it for me. That's just fate." He threw his head back and laughed, rough and loud.
Robert dug a 1998 Burgundy out of my wine rack and carried it over to Carlos with both hands, head lowered like a servant presenting tribute: "Carlos, good stuff, aged, you drink first!" Carlos didn't check the label—just put it straight to his lips, then grinned: "About the only useful thing you're good for." Robert laughed along, mouth stretched to his ears.
In the master bathroom, Jessica had changed into a red slip dress, admiring herself in the mirror. Then she walked out and leaned back into Carlos's arms, chin resting on his shoulder: "Baby, we're finally together again. Tonight we have to celebrate properly~"
Barrage:
【I looked up that wool blanket brand, it's not cheap, logging it】
【Father-in-law carrying a fruit tray and presenting tribute, three seconds to switch masters—spineless evolution at its peak】
【Arthur I'm begging you to move a finger, just one】
【Recommend triggering chemical decontamination, minus twenty degrees, full-bunker coverage, NOW!!】
The bunker entrance corridor had a CBRN-standard decontamination system installed. Official purpose: nuclear, biological, and chemical washdown. It sprayed low-temperature gel disinfectant, adjustable temperature, full coverage with no blind spots.
I set the temperature to minus twenty Celsius, density to maximum, coverage to whole-bunker, and pressed the button.
What happened on the monitor took three seconds.
Sixteen nozzles opened simultaneously. White cryogenic gel poured from the ceiling, flash-freezing on contact with air.
Carlos reacted fastest, but not faster than the nozzles. He looked up and got a face full of gel. The cigar was doused mid-smoke, snapped in two with a fizzing hiss. His mouth was open when it hit—he got a mouthful and was forced to cover his nose and mouth, letting out a series of muffled roars, his entire body coated in white frozen gel. He slipped on the wool blanket, stumbling sideways.
Barrage detonated:
【HAHAHAHAHAHAHA THE CIGAR'S OUT!!!!!!】
【Jessica's false lashes are frozen!! They curled up HAHAHAHAHA!!】
【Robert's hugging the red wine but the gel sealed the cork shut and he can't pull it out HAHAHA!!】
【Mother-in-law's bowl of nuts froze into one solid block, hit the floor, bounced back perfectly intact—deeply symbolic】
【Six guys in the hallway, all turned into snowmen!!!! Arthur you're an artist!!!!】
Carlos flung gel off his hair and kicked the control panel on the wall, bellowing: "What kind of broken system is this!! Who the hell designed it!!"
Barrage:
【You did, dumbass. (answering on Arthur's behalf)】
【Master gave you a welcome ceremony, satisfied?】
【Does anyone know where the neutralizer is?】
【In Arthur's alternate space (smiling)】
The decontamination cycle ran for ten minutes then stopped automatically. The system displayed a fake error code I'd pre-programmed—from their perspective, this was nothing but a glitch. When people have no other explanation available, that's always how they comfort themselves.
Ten minutes later, the gel stopped. They started blaming each other, voices getting louder, layered with Robert's wailing, mother-in-law's crying, and the dull thud of Carlos slamming a chair into the floor.
I checked the time. Five forty-seven PM. Finished the last of my Coke.
Appetizer.
Then the barrage color changed.
Across my entire field of vision, white text switched to blood red in the same second—stark, urgent, no warning:
【MAXIMUM ALERT】
【Butterfly effect triggered! Red fungal spore snow arriving TWO HOURS EARLY!!!!】
【Arthur! Look out the window!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!】
I turned my head.
The curtain wasn't fully closed. The light coming through was wrong—not the orange-gold of evening, but a pressed, deep red.
I pulled the curtain open.
The Texas sky was seeping from the horizon downward. Not rain, not fog—fine, deep-red particles drifting through the air, descending slowly. The first one landed on the asphalt of the parking lot, deep red, adhering, not melting. A second. A third. A tenth.
In the distance, from the direction of some farm, livestock began to cry out.
Not the usual kind. A sound I'd never heard before, torn from the throat, shredding, terrible—like pain, like rage, like some primal loss of control, coming from every direction, growing denser.
Barrage went silent for two seconds, then drifted up one line at a time, all in blood red:
【It's here.】
【It's really here.】
【Arthur. The apocalypse has begun.】
I stood by the window, watching the first red snow fall on Texas soil.
