I wake the next day at nine in the morning. The first thing I do is pull up the main monitor screen.
The world outside has been completely transformed. The entire city lies buried under snow. The streets are packed with wrecked, abandoned cars. A billboard by the roadside has cracked from the frost, dangling precariously in midair. The convenience store entrance is a total wreck. A few infected drift slowly through the snow. The moment they hear the slightest sound, they snap their heads up, hunting for the source.
I glance at the outdoor readout. Minus seventy-two degrees, dropping even faster than it did in my past life.
Just then, the bunker's external communication system suddenly pings. Someone is approaching the mall's entrance.
I pull up the camera feed and see three men bundled in thick blankets, scarves wrapped around their faces, hands tucked into their sleeves, only their eyes visible. They stumble through the storm toward the entrance.
I recognize one of them. Gary Walsh, the property manager from a nearby residential complex. In my past life, early in the apocalypse, he organized survivors from several nearby complexes, claiming mutual aid on the surface while secretly stealing supplies from plenty of people behind their backs. This kind of person is more dangerous than any infected.
Right now, Gary is pounding hard on the metal shutter outside the mall. "Anyone there? Open the door. We're freezing to death out here. Is somebody in there? Open the door. Let us—"
I say nothing. I just watch the monitor in silence.
Gary pounds for a while, and when there's no response, his expression sours instantly. "I know someone's in there. This place has been under construction for days, hasn't it? Open the damn door. It's an emergency. Resources are meant to be shared."
Hearing that, I switch on the outdoor speaker. A crackle of static, and then my voice comes through the entrance speaker.
"Says who?"
Gary snaps his head up toward the camera. "Who are you then?" Then, as if it suddenly clicks. "You're that fool who bought this underground mall a few days ago."
"Still think I'm a fool?"
Gary's face stiffens. The two men beside him eye the newly installed camera at the entrance, then the heavy blast door, and their expressions shift instantly. They realize this place has already been renovated. The trucks that kept driving into the mall over the past few days tip them off about what might be inside. Electricity, heating, supplies.
Gary immediately shifts his tone. "Brother Ethan, we're all neighbors here. It's dangerous out here. You can't just watch us die, can you? Just let us in to warm up for a bit. Don't worry, we won't stay for free. We'll help guard this place together."
"Not taking anyone in."
"Ethan, don't be so selfish. Look at the state of things out here. Is it really fair for you to hog a place this size all by yourself?"
I don't take the bait. I just say calmly, "I can give you directions. Three hundred meters east, there's a community clinic. Thick walls, multiple doors. It'll block the wind for now. Five hundred meters north of that, there's an underground parking garage entrance. Easier to get into than this place. Leave now and you still have a chance. Keep pounding on this door and you'll only draw the infected here."
But Gary won't listen at all. He jabs a finger at the camera. "Don't try to fool me. You just want to chase us off. When official rescue arrives, I'll be the first to report you."
I watch the storm thickening behind him, my voice cooling a few degrees. "Then you'd better survive long enough for that rescue to arrive."
The words barely leave my mouth when a low growl echoes from somewhere far off. All three men freeze at once.
On the monitor, a few swaying figures emerge slowly from around the street corner. Frost clings to their bodies, their pupils pitch black.
Gary's voice changes instantly. "Ethan, open the door. Open it now."
I don't open the door, because I know full well the moment that first door opens, endless trouble follows right behind it. The outer buffer zone hasn't even completed decontamination yet. Anyone carrying spores from the snow could tear the whole bunker apart.
I give one final warning. "Run east. There's still time."
With that, I cut the broadcast.
Outside, Gary pounds on the door in a frenzy, but the blast door doesn't so much as budge. The next second, several dark figures lunge into the storm, and the camera feed shakes violently.
I don't keep watching. Not because I've gone soft, but because I already know the answer the apocalypse gives to everything. Shouting louder doesn't obligate anyone else to risk their life saving you. And guilt-tripping someone doesn't mean they owe you their only way out.
At noon, the outdoor temperature reads minus eighty-six degrees. The snow keeps falling. The whole city looks buried under a thick shroud of ice. Barely a living soul remains on the streets. Only the infected drift slowly through the snow, their movements stiffer than they were last night, but their hearing seems sharper.
A car alarm suddenly blares. Over a dozen dark shapes nearby all turn their heads at once, converging toward the source of the sound.
I watch this unfold, my brow tightening slightly. Just like in my memory, creatures infected by the spores in the snow keep evolving. On day one, they're drawn to loud, sudden noises. Starting on day three, they grow sensitive to faint sounds and heat sources, becoming far more perceptive. By day seven, mutated variants appear, capable of climbing, capable of ramming through doors.
Which means my bunker has exactly seven days to survive its first real trial.