Chapter 3

The cold began as needle-like ice crystals clinging to my eyelashes, a sharp sting; soon, it assumed the form of a physical Reaper, forcing its way into every crevice of the world.

I stood on the command platform in the deepest level of the missile silo, facing a massive monitor connected to a dozen infrared thermal sensors. The internal clock sat at 3:00 AM. The thermometer’s needle had long since exceeded the limits of its mechanical gears, cowering far below the -70°C mark.

CRACK.

Even behind thirty meters of frozen earth and heavy reinforced blast walls, I could hear that bone-aching snap above the surface. It was the sound of the town’s primary power grid shattering under the absolute zero temperatures. With that single report, Montana winked out like a candle in a gale, plunging into a near-eternal silence and darkness.

"Jack, did you hear that?" My mother, Elaine, stood behind me, wrapped in a wool blanket, her eyes betraying an unmasked terror. The electric heaters stayed on, sustained by the silo’s independent grid, radiating a steady, comforting heat. The crimson indicator lights burned like baleful eyes in the dark.

"Don't look at the monitors, Mom." I didn't turn back, my fingers adjusting the frequency of the generator matrix. "Go help Dad with the greenhouse circulation lines."

I didn’t want her to see what was happening on the screens. But I knew I couldn't deceive myself.

On the infrared display, the once-orderly town streets were now dotted with countless tiny, fading "heat-signature fragments." Those were the neighbors who hadn't managed to evacuate in time.

One figure staggered toward the impregnable steel door of the missile silo. He was knocking. He was begging. In the -70°C environment, his movements were slowed to the pace of a black-and-white documentary. With every strike against the door, the red dot on my screen dimmed a fraction. His pleas were carried in through the external mics—shattered, piercing shrieks of frozen air grating against raw throats.

I watched the screen calmly, my fingers hovering over the control panel.

"Please... Jack... I know you're in there... we have children..."

It was Old Tom’s voice. He’d worked the site for twenty years, a decent man. But in the laws of the apocalypse, empathy is a resource more expensive than oxygen.

Without a flicker of hesitation, I pressed the orange button.

HUMMM—

The silo’s external defense matrix engaged. The infrared sensors masked all heat signatures, and the triple-locking hydraulic mechanism let out a heavy, satisfied thud, sealing away that final sliver of life. The begging outside ceased abruptly. That sudden, absolute silence was more suffocating than any roar.

I knew that in five minutes, that red dot would be fully absorbed into the howling wind, becoming yet another immortal ice sculpture on this wasteland.

Meanwhile, three kilometers away in the basement of an abandoned machinery shop, Mike was curled up behind a pile of moldy tires.

I switched the monitor to that preset hidden surveillance node.

Mike looked wretched. His parka had frozen into a rigid shell; the left side of his face bore the necrotic, black-purple decay of severe frostbite, oozing dark pus. He was trying to thaw a frozen can with a lighter, but the weak blue flame was like a star about to flicker out in this deep freeze.

He coughed violently, as if trying to hack his lungs out. In his clouded eyes, the raw hunger for food had been entirely displaced by something else—pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Jack... damn you... Jack..."

He gnawed on a biscuit shard as hard as stone. Teeth cracked, and blood flowed into the necrotic corner of his mouth. He wasn't waiting for death in despair. Instead, in this basement filled with the stench of rot and frost, he clutched a rusted crowbar, scratching something into the wall.

He wasn't trying to survive; he was turning himself into a beast. His eyes shone with a manic glint—that hatred was the only fuel he had left to sustain his vitals. He knew I was here. He knew I held everything. He was beginning to plot how to tear open this "fortress" that made him feel so choked.

I shut off the monitor, my heartbeat steady and firm.

"What’s wrong, son?" My father approached, handing me a cup of strong coffee.

"Nothing, Dad." I drained the scalding liquid in one gulp. "Just thinking about how some debts are best collected, piece by piece, in the middle of winter."

I turned toward the blast door and checked the locks. I knew Mike would find help; a man like him, even in hell, would find his own kind. And that was exactly what I wanted. The stronger the "help" he brought, the more devastating his despair when everything finally collapsed.

This wasn't just hoarding; it was a game two lifetimes in the making. In this frigid funeral, I was the only officiant, and Mike was the protagonist of his own tragedy. I looked at the "window"—which showed nothing but an endless, churning white of the eternal blizzard.

"It’s going to be a long winter," I whispered to myself.

"What was that?" Father asked.

"I said, get ready for dinner, Dad. Tonight, we’re having roast turkey."

As long as the silo doors remained shut, all the hell outside was nothing more than the howling of a wind that couldn't reach us.