Chapter 4

Seventy-two hours until the apocalypse.

The monitor screen cast a pale blue glow across the underground bunker, drowning it in an eerie, deep-sea light. I wore the listening headset, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I switched the feed to my mother-in-law Carol's city apartment.

Through a micro-camera pre-installed on the rooftop across the street and a directional audio pickup, every breath in that living room was crystal clear.

On the screen, Carol clung to those few cans of expired military rations like a feral dog guarding a bone. She glanced around nervously, confirmed the door was locked, then tiptoed to stuff the cans into the deepest corner of her wardrobe, burying them under several old coats.

The camera panned. My brother-in-law Derek and his pink-haired girlfriend were sprawled on the sofa like two lumps of lard. Derek slammed his phone onto the coffee table; the vibration crackled through the pickup into my eardrums.

"Fucking hell! My pizza's forty minutes late! Delivery drivers deserve to be bottom-feeders for life!" Derek yanked at his collar in frustration, completely oblivious to the storm about to break.

I stared at his face on the screen—arrogance and stupidity written all over it—my fingers tracing the edge of the desk. They had no idea that, mixed in with the "supplies" I'd sent, there was a carefully prepared "gift."

It was a heavily modified Bluetooth speaker, disguised as an ordinary power bank, casually tossed onto the TV stand by Carol. Inside, it had been fitted with an irreversible buzz-program. At hour forty-eight of the outbreak—when order had fully collapsed and the most sound-sensitive early-stage infected began to roam in force—it would activate automatically.

At that moment, the speaker would blare a three-minute loop of simulated human screams at maximum volume.

In the past life, Carol had excelled at milking others' sympathy in chaos, paving her own way with other people's lives. This time, she would experience firsthand exactly what kind of hell a so-called "distress call" could summon.

The sound of a cheesy variety show still echoed from the screen when the wooden door above the bunker slid open with a heavy scrape.

I pulled off the headset and hurried up the stairs into the living room. Lena had just returned from the post office in town, clutching a crumpled airmail envelope. Her face was ashen, her chest heaving with barely restrained fury.

"What happened?" I stepped forward and took her coat.

Lena said nothing—she just slammed the letter onto the dining table. The sender's name on the envelope burned my eyes: Carol.

"She smelled a hint of panic from the rising prices on the news." Lena's voice was hoarse, her knuckles white from gripping the paper. "She's demanding—in writing—that I drive into the city immediately to pick up her whole family."

I unfolded the letter. Beyond the pickup demand, Carol had even attached a long "shopping list"—thirty cans of premium tuna, two cases of imported whiskey, and a specific brand of sanitary pads for her son's pink-haired girlfriend.

The absurdity reached its peak at that moment.

Lena stared at the letter, then stepped forward, snatched it from my hand, and marched straight to the fireplace. Without a second's hesitation, she crumpled the greedy letter into a ball and hurled it into the flames.

The fire devoured it instantly, its glow reflecting in Lena's brown eyes—sharp as blades.

I walked over and gently wrapped my arms around her shoulders. Through her sweater, I could feel her trembling.

"I understand," I murmured, resting my chin on her hair. "She gave birth to you. Blood ties are the most insidious trap. But you have to remember that rainy night in the past life—remember how she pulled your hand back..."

"Stop." Lena spun around and buried herself in my chest. Her eyes were bloodshot, brimming with tears—but not a single drop fell.

She looked up, the last trace of warmth in her gaze extinguished, replaced by absolute clarity and resolve.

"From now on, Carol is nothing more than a physical target requiring close surveillance." Lena's voice was deliberate, like passing an irreversible sentence. "I will watch them pay for their selfishness with my own eyes."

Before the ash in the fireplace had fully cooled, two sharp whistles came from outside—the tactical signal my father and I had arranged.

"Go. They need you outside." Lena took a deep breath, collected herself, and turned toward the medical supply cabinet.

I pushed open the heavy bulletproof oak door. The biting night wind carried the scent of dry hay. My father stood in the darkness at the farm's perimeter, holding a modified high-powered flashlight.

"Pipeline's laid, pressure test passed." He patted the cast-iron valve box beside him—sturdy enough to withstand small-arms fire. "Now we'll see how it works in practice."

I nodded, gripped the cold metal valve, and turned it counterclockwise with force.

A deep rumble of liquid flow echoed through the pre-buried pipes beneath our feet. High-purity gasoline surged through the underground lines, flooding the shallow trenches encircling the entire farm. The acrid stench of fuel filled the air—the smell of death and destruction, yet also the smell of life and safety.

"Stand back." My father barked, pulling a windproof lighter from his pocket and flicking it.

The moment the blue flame sparked, he tossed it precisely into the trench three meters away.

"WHOOSH—!"

No hesitation. The instant the flame touched the gasoline, it roared to life like a furious dragon. A two-meter-high wall of fire raced along the trenches at blinding speed, encircling the entire farm in the blink of an eye.

A ring of searing heat rolled outward like a tidal wave. The intense airflow forced my father and me back three or four steps before we could steady ourselves. The flames lit up the wilderness for hundreds of meters around—even startled night birds in the distant tree line were visible against the glow.

My father raised an arm to shield his eyes, squinting at the absolute physical barrier before him. A grim, satisfied smile spread across his rugged face.

"Enough." He brushed the ash from his sleeves, his voice as steady as the rock beneath the roar of flames. "This will slow them down better than half an infantry company's crossfire."

I said nothing. I quickly shut off the main fuel valve and activated the fire-suppression sand cover. The flames struggled for a few seconds before slowly dying into the night, leaving only the lingering scorch in the air and waves of distorted heat.

The farm sank back into deep darkness.

I stood alone on the rise, staring into the distance. The stars above were unusually serene. On the interstate at the edge of my vision, occasional headlights still flickered—the last commuters heading into the city for work.

The world was still turning on its familiar axis.

No one knew that when the sun rose three days from now, everything they'd taken for granted would be reduced to a bloody mire of gnashing teeth—including Derek, sprawled on his apartment sofa, laughing at stupid videos.

I pulled out the satellite phone and confirmed the final intelligence summary from the dark web channels.

The storm was here. And we were ready.