Chapter 4
The temperature in the warehouse was plummeting visibly. Although the nuclear winter had only just bared its fangs, the concrete walls of this sealed iron box began to sweat with a bone-chilling frost.
I sat in the command pod, the monitors before me like a frigid pantheon. This was no longer a workplace; it was a miniature hell of my own design.
Greg clearly hadn't given up on his schemes. Through Camera 8, I saw him pacing in the shadows of the loading dock. He clutched a spare uniform and an ID badge I’d left in my locker, a sycophantic deputy standing by his side.
"Just plant these under the baling machine to fake a death scene; we can file a massive insurance claim," Greg hissed, his voice reeking of disgusting greed. "In this chaotic world, paper money may be worthless, but if a rescue team clears a path, this payout can buy us a life later on."
Even as the world ended, this fat parasite was still trying to use the scraps of the old rules to maintain his delusional power. It filled me with an anger so sick it felt like art. He wasn't just vying for control now; he was planning his escape from a "judgment" that would never come.
But I wouldn't let him have it.
I tapped into the warehouse’s internal PA network and typed a command string, loading a file of pre-recorded dirt into the audio queue.
A screech of static tore across the vaulted ceiling—the piercing sound of a tuned-in radio broadcast—instantly silencing the shivering workers in the hall.
"Alright everyone, listen to me, there will be rescue coming soon!" Greg was just finishing his pitch of empty promises.
The moment he finished, his own voice—familiar, yet dripping with spite and malice—blared from the speakers:
"...Those rats? Ha, don’t worry about whether they’re fed or not. As long as that guy Jack is still working in the elevator shaft, I can write up the compensation report for a 'broken pulley' perfectly. Make them work harder; rats don't get tired. If one dies, I’ll just hire another."
The recording looped in the frozen warehouse, clear enough that even the sound of Greg’s wheezing breaths sounded monstrous. It was a conversation I’d recorded in my past life while hiding outside the manager’s office during the company banquet.
The atmosphere in the hall solidified, then erupted with the agitation of a waking beast. The workers looked up, their eyes shifting from sheer terror to a bloody, crimson rage.
"Greg... what did you just say?" A veteran mover grabbed a heavy crowbar and took a step forward.
Greg’s face drained of color. He looked around, stammering, trying to find an excuse, but his voice was drowned out by the low, guttural roars of the men.
I sat back in my leather chair, gently swirling the metal mug in my hand, steam rising into the freezing air. It was a visual feast—watching the man who had controlled my fate beg despairingly while surrounded by the "rats" he had created.
"It’s edited! That lunatic Jack is trying to frame me!" Greg shrieked, fumbling for the backup folding knife at his waist.
But the defense was too flimsy. The workers were no longer the passive group they once were. Hunger, cold, and despair had stripped away the facade of civilization; all that remained were the raw, violent genes of survival.
In a chaotic scramble, the loading dock lights flickered violently. The workers swarmed. Nobody listened to Greg’s orders anymore. Miller tried to restore order but was tackled and slammed into a conveyor belt by a worker who’d had enough.
I coolly switched off the emergency lights for that sector, plunging them into a chaotic, mindless darkness.
Screams, the thud of blunt instruments against flesh, and Greg’s shredded pleas coalesced into a unique symphony. I watched the grainy, high-contrast images on the monitor with a cold, hollow sense of relief.
Their brawl passed right by the baling machine—the very object Greg had intended to use to fake my death; now, it became his own grave. In the scuffle, pushed by unknown hands, the massive steel plate slammed down with a thundering CRASH, pinning Greg’s right leg firmly to the floor.
Blood spread rapidly across the concrete. Greg roared in agony, while the others scattered, looting food cabinets in the dark. Humanity had utterly collapsed here.
I cranked the volume of the speakers higher, letting those agonized wails fill every corner of the warehouse, a funeral march for the end of order.
"Greed always comes with a price, Greg," I whispered to the surveillance screen, as if speaking directly into his ear. "You wanted an accident? You got one. And it’s absolutely 'perfect.'"
I pushed open the vent of the command pod, letting the sub-zero air—thick with radioactive dust—blow in. The biting pain in my skin sharpened my mind. I took a canned ration from the cold shelf and peeled it open, one bite at a time.
The judgment had only just begun; the true winter hadn't even arrived yet. This warehouse was destined to become a tomb of cold iron, and I would be the only witness left standing.
