Chapter 23: Enjoying the Luxuries Part 3

Down in the Australian Outback, deep inside Site 7 carved into the ancient red granite, the scene was a full-blown rave.

The survivors there had discovered the facility’s central recreation hub, complete with a pool table, an automated bowling lane, and a massive walk-in cold storage room packed with Australian craft ales and prime ribeye cuts.

Someone had rigged the multi-channel speaker system to blast heavy electronic dance music. Colored disco lights, installed by the eccentric contractors months ago for crew morale, spun across the stone floor in flashing patterns of green, red, and electric blue.

A player who had the ability to generate localized heat sat in the center of the lounge with his shirt off, using his bare fingertips to sear strips of raw marbled wagyu beef directly onto a hot iron skillet. Around him, eight men and women were dancing with bottles in their hands, laughing hysterically as they tossed beer caps at the walls.

"Hey! Check the system chat!" a girl with short dyed hair shouted, waving her smartphone in the air.

The music volume was turned down slightly as everyone pulled out their devices to look at the [World Chat].

The contrast was staggering.

Outside, the world chat was a graveyard:

— [LoneWolf]: My fingers are black. I can’t feel my hands. The rain is turning to sleet. Why won’t someone open the gate?!

— [Swift]: The flood reached the second ridge in the Alps. There’s no dry land left below two thousand meters. If you’re outside, you’re dead.

— [WaterStrider]: I have hypothermia. Does anyone have a spare tarp? Just a piece of plastic. I’m begging you.

A chorus of cruel, drunken laughter filled the underground room.

ThunderG, posting from Site 1 in Canada, sent a message into the global feed:

— [ThunderG]: Stop whining, losers. Should’ve run faster. The beds in here are memory foam and the water is seventy degrees. Sucks to suck.

Viper added her own message from the Swiss Alps:

— [Viper]: Dinner was fantastic. Fresh asparagus, sirloin, and a nice 2015 pinot noir. Enjoy the puddle outside.

— [Bloodhound]: Thanks for the house, Vance! We’ll be sure to leave a five-star review on your corpse when we find you!

The survivors outside cursed them with their dying breaths, their texts filled with garbled, desperate hatred. But to the players inside the bunkers, those messages were just background noise.

They closed the chat apps. The plight of the people dying on the other side of the six-foot titanium doors didn’t matter to them anymore. In fact, knowing that hundreds of others were freezing to death in the dark only made the dry sheets, the warm food, and the burning liquor feel that much sweeter.

They were the elite. The survivors. The rulers of the new world.

A young man in Site 7 leaned back on a plush leather sofa, a cold beer resting against his forehead as he grinned up at the ceiling.

"God," he sighed, his voice dripping with pure bliss. "I could stay in this bunker forever."

Four hundred meters beneath the cold North Atlantic seabed, in the dead silence of his private penthouse, Julius Vance watched it all.

He sat in his dark leather armchair, holding a thin porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea. On the massive panoramic display spanning the wall in front of him, thirty-two internal camera feeds were laid out in a clean, high-resolution grid.

Feed 04 showed ThunderG passing out drunk on a king-sized mattress in Canada, his arm draped over an empty bottle of bourbon.

Feed 11 showed Bloodhound laughing by the fireplace in the Swiss Alps, waving a half-eaten chicken leg as he mocked the camera lens in the corner of the ceiling.

Feed 23 showed the dancing crowd in the Australian redoubt, spilling foam across the floor as they jumped to the heavy beat of the music.

Commander Croft stood quietly at the edge of the carpet, holding an encrypted telemetry tablet. He looked at the screens, then down at his data pad, his weathered face showing no emotion.

"All eight sites report identical activity, Mr. Vance," Croft said quietly. "The occupants have completely let down their guard. Over ninety percent of them are intoxicated or asleep in their quarters. None of them have attempted to inspect the primary maintenance conduits or the master ventilation sub-levels."

"Why would they?" Julius asked, his voice smooth and calm as he took a gentle sip of his tea. "When a starved dog finds a bowl of meat, it doesn’t look around to see if the bowl is sitting inside a bear trap. It just eats until its stomach bursts."

Julius set his teacup down on the small marble table beside him.

He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out his black smartphone, and unlocked the screen.

The interface was open to [Project Sirens: Master Override Console].

Eight green indicators pulsed steadily:

[SITE 01: CANADIAN SHIELD] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 02: PATAGONIA] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 03: SWISS ALPS] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 04: SAHARA MASSIF] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 05: SIBERIA] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 06: EAST ASIA] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 07: AUSTRALIA] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) [SITE 08: ANTARCTICA] - 30 OCCUPANTS (STATUS: VULNERABLE) TOTAL CONTAINED TARGETS: 240 / 240 ALL INTERNAL LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS: UNDER CENTRAL REMOTE COMMAND

Julius looked up at the screens one last time.

He watched Bloodhound pour another glass of whiskey. He watched a young woman in Canada pull a warm, clean duvet over her shoulders, smiling in her sleep as she drifted off into safety.

They were happy. They were warm. They were full.

Julius let out a quiet breath, a faint, razor-thin smile touching the corners of his lips.

"Enjoy your party, champions," Julius whispered to the quiet room. "Sleep well."

He locked the phone, set it face-down on the table, and leaned back to watch the monitors in silence.