Chapter 3

The silence before the storm had the tactile quality of cold metal pressing against skin. I sat in the cheap leather chair at the security console, faced with a wall of monitors where every screen resembled a window into an abyss. At this very moment, the warehouse’s gargantuan outer armored gates were emitting a low, guttural roar—the hydraulic system struggling to seal the world away.

"Jack! You maniac! What the hell are you doing? We have orders to ship! Do you think this is your personal fortress?" Greg’s voice blared through the warehouse’s internal intercom, laced with uncontrollable panic.

In the cavernous main hall of the warehouse, dozens of oblivious workers had been herded together by him for an absurd "emergency mobilization meeting." Flickering, dingy lightbulbs buzzed overhead. Greg brandished a stack of now-meaningless invoices, looking like a priest trying to exorcise a plague in this sealed, signal-jammed space. He roared at his staff, promising "quarterly bonuses" that would never be paid.

My gaze, however, remained fixed on a thin sliver of space outside the gate.

Just as the steel plates were about to lock tight, a signature yellow cargo tricycle flashed like a bolt of lightning, careening toward the gate. It was Kurt, an independent logistics courier. He clearly hadn't heard the news of the impending disaster; he was just racing against the biting, freezing rain to deliver a few urgent packages.

He was sprinting toward the closing gap, desperate to reach the warehouse—the only thing that looked like "shelter."

My finger hovered over the red "Force-Seal" touch-key. A thought zipped through my mind like a spark: Should I let him in? If I let him in, the order of my sanctuary would be broken. He would introduce an unknown variable, perhaps even leading to the depletion of my stockpiles.

No. In Jack’s dictionary, there is no role for a "saint."

I watched the young man sprinting on the screen with icy detachment. If he entered, he would simply become another piece of "inventory" in this iron coffin. Without a second’s hesitation, I slammed my finger onto the reset key.

BOOM—

The massive basalt gates slammed down with enough force to crush anything in their path. The roar of the impact sent Kurt stumbling back three steps. He froze, staring at the wall of cold steel that had slammed shut before him, his face a mask of bewilderment and confusion.

Do I feel pity? Perhaps. But in the apocalypse, compassion is a poison more lethal than nuclear fallout.

I navigated the external screens used for company advertising and typed in a line of cold, white characters: "EVACUATE. HEAD FOR HIGH GROUND. DO NOT LOOK BACK."

Beneath the screen, I had used the automated delivery system to pneumatically blast a printed copy of my "Apocalypse Survival Guide"—a manual on anti-freeze techniques, water purification, and coordinate warnings—directly into a trash can outside the gate. It was my only, and final, gift to him.

Kurt stood paralyzed before the screen, a tiny, humble symbol against the cold, digital text. Finally, he picked up the documents, cast a complex look back at this steel jungle, and turned away, vanishing into the gray shroud of the freezing horizon.

I watched his back disappear off the edge of the monitor, feeling no guilt—only the calm of a burden lifted.

The gates were locked tight.

I looked through the bulletproof glass at the bustling crowd in the hall. Greg was still delivering his impassioned speech, sweat streaming down his fleshy chin, glistening under the stage lights. They had no idea that the warehouse had become an isolated island. I had set the oxygen circulation system to the minimum threshold, and I had diverted every heating conduit into my core sanctuary.

I picked up the microphone, locked the frequency to the building-wide speakers, and curled my lips into a cruel smirk:

"Mr. Greg, regarding your mobilization meeting: on a scale of one to a hundred, I give you a zero."

My voice reverberated through the vast space, carried by massive stereo speakers, cold as a judge’s verdict.

The meeting in the hall came to an abrupt, dead halt. Dozens of pairs of eyes, as if pierced by an electric shock, snapped upward to glare at the impenetrable observation window of security.

Miller recoiled in terror, his face pale as parchment in the flickering light. Greg’s speech notes slipped from his fingers. In those fat-encased, beady eyes, a flash of pure, primal dread finally sparked—the realization of the End.

"Jack? Is that Jack?" Greg shrieked. His signature arrogance had shattered, replaced by raw survival instinct. "Open the door! This is illegal confinement! This is a crime!"

"Law?" I chuckled into the microphone, my voice echoing hollowly in the vast space. "An hour ago, human order went to zero along with that first flash of nuclear light. There are no contracts, no salaries, and no managers here."

With a flick of my finger, I switched the entire electrical system to auxiliary battery mode. The warehouse plunged into pitch darkness, save for the emergency lights in my security room, glowing like a gravedigger’s lantern.

"There is only a freezer, and a long, cold winter ahead of you all."

In the dark, a frantic scramble began—the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled, desperate prayers. I cut the speaker feed, sat back in my leather chair, and watched the red surveillance blips pulsing in the dark. I lit a cigarette and looked out the window. On the horizon, the first mushroom cloud blossomed with the sunset of the apocalypse, announcing the end of the old world.

I didn't turn back. The gates of hell were shut, and I was the only gatekeeper left.