Suffocation Operation
“Grraaah—”
The mutant's guttural roar captured on the surveillance camera lacked its usual ferocity. It was downright satisfying to see this terrifying beast, which had toyed with my life every time it appeared, now whimpering pathetically.
Overwhelming brute strength backed by its massive bulk. Was it because of its huge lung capacity? The large mutants were the first to suffer in this suffocation op.
“Kraaaah—”
It mustered its strength for one of its usual rage-filled bellows, but
“Kehhek— Hehhek—”
that only made its voice even weaker afterward.
BAM! It trashed the surroundings in a fit of anger? Thud. That just exhausted it twice over.
The mutant swung a street tree (but couldn't even snap it!) before collapsing to the ground. Its chest heaved violently like it'd just done an intense workout, but nothing was getting into those lungs anymore.
Click. I adjusted the pad to zoom in on its face. Its already ugly mug was twisted in agony.
“Yeah, yeah, suffer plenty, you damn freak.”
I muttered from the now-familiar lower control room, munching on my meal. The food was preserved rations. The control room was stocked for emergencies like bulkhead seals in crises—enough for one person to last a good while.
“Lucky for us they breathe like us Earth critters.”
The rations were bland as expected, but watching the mutant writhe in torment was the perfect side dish. Smaller infected under human size showed no pain response, like they lacked a nervous system. But mutants, with their advanced mobility, had more refined nerves, clearly displaying pain or rage. If you squinted, you could barely call them part of an “ecosystem.”
“But why bother breathing at all? I figured aliens would be fine tossed into space or something.”
There are several hypotheses, but the most straightforward is 'using the mechanisms of native lifeforms.' Think about all the extreme mutations we've seen. Those alone defy logic. And now they'd invent a whole new metabolic system to fuel muscles without using something convenient like breathing? That's veering into fantasy, not science.
“Different from movie zombies, then?”
When the Shelter ended up like this and I got trapped topside, I'd binged every zombie flick out there. Good mental prep for unexpected mishaps.
In a way, movie zombies are even less scientific than infected. Muscles working without oxygen, infinite energy, homeostasis without vital signs. Utterly inexplicable.
A glance at the feed showed the mutant on its last legs, clutching its throat, twitching, foam bubbling from its mouth.
Plus, breathing is an incredibly efficient power generator. The difference between respiration and fermentation in higher lifeforms is like a generator versus a campfire. Even beings born in the far reaches of space couldn't resist that sweet energy temptation through evolution.
Honestly, I never realized breathing was such a biological marvel. I was just an engineer-slash-soldier. Biology? Tin can over here.
6 hours, 12 minutes, 5 seconds.
The timer on the status board caught my eye.
6 hours, 12 minutes, 6 seconds.
6 hours, 12 minutes, 7 seconds.
6 hours, 12 minutes, 8 seconds.
It ticked up every second. Time elapsed since starting the suffocation op. After purging the Shelter's air, only a handful remained after six hours.
In the end, no survivors. Regrettable.
Rose handed me coffee via serving robot as she said it. Slurp.
“Bitter.”
No choice.
Artemis's rigorous training meant no sugar, no cream. We'd broadcast for two days as planned but found no survivors, so we proceeded. Still, my hand shook hitting that approval button. I'd double- and triple-checked everything right up to the end.
-Broadcasts every two minutes?
-Of course.
-Comm logs in the last 72 hours?
-None.
-Any cars started?
-None.
-Power usage changes?
-Jinsu. Even a survivor barricaded in a house opening their fridge once would've let us pinpoint them instantly. Cameras and fire sensors everywhere—even the sewers we used. Artemis verified the surveillance data thousands of times. Me nagging her was pointless.
But she never got annoyed.
No matter how vast, in this sealed space, traces are inevitable. A living person leaves crumbs, and nothing escapes my eyes.
I asked more pointless questions after, but she patiently reassured me. Finally, I approved the exhaust activation. That was six hours ago.
Not even a one-in-a-billion chance of survivors. No need to carry this burden, sir.
Rose consoled me. The black liquid sloshed in my coffee cup. If it'd been something sweet, I could've drowned the bitterness in sugar. Instead, the acrid taste and caffeine kept shoving the weight of cold responsibility in my face.
Ah, but there was one gain. Capture, really.
“Woof! Woof!”
My gaze shifted to four dogs. Shepherds, all brought in as guard dogs. In a gun-free closed city, their fangs were prime control tools. Some fear beast teeth more than riot batons.
We'd started with about 40, but only these four survived uninfected. Rescuing them was sheer luck. While Artemis combed surveillance post-control takeover, faint traces popped up—ghostly elusive. They vanished at some point, presumed dead, but our two-day broadcasts lured them out.
In a Shelter full of infected roars and silence, human voices echoing again. Did they think we came for them? Cameras caught them gaunt and ragged, panting from the thinning air.
We loaded cargo drones with food to bait and trap them, hauling to here—a huge hassle. Good thing their weakness meant no resistance.
“Woof! Woof!”
They'd recovered some strength now, fear fading. Joy flickered back in those black eyes. The apparent leader wore a collar reading “Rex.” His leadership and smarts got them through.
Our four new family members huddled in the control room corner, taking Artemis's orders.
Sit.
“Hahk hahk hahk.”
Sit.
“Hahk hahk hahk.”
“Whine?”
The dogs didn't budge. Then a hologram appeared before them.
“Woof! Woof!”
They barked in surprise at the sudden hologram but calmed once they realized it wasn't a threat. It showed a standing dog.
Sit.
The hologram switched to a sitting dog.
“Woof! Woof!”
Quick-witted Rex sat, but the other three stayed standing. The serving robot brought jerky, giving it only to Rex.
“Hahk hahk hahk.”
Rex ate happily, sitting obediently, while the others eyed it jealously.
Heh heh, you want some too, huh?
“Woof! Woof!”
The hologram shifted to a standing pup again.
Sit.
As the hologram sat, the other three plopped down in unison. Jerky rewards followed.
That's it. You dumb mammals.
The hologram reverted to Artemis's face, smugly satisfied.
“Hahk hahk hahk.”
The pups devoured their jerky, tongues lolling toward her.
I've got 3,714 pages on dog training. Hmm, this looks useful, this too. Skip that... Perfect! Time to program an education regimen for these idiots. Taming and commanding lifeforms is more fun than I thought.
Was that a sparkle in Artemis's eyes? Or my imagination? She designated a spot right by the bathroom for them. Already house-trained for living with humans, they rarely pissed her off. Her methods were spot-on too—demoing moves via dog holograms made them pick it up fast.
You seem pleased.
“Didn't peg her for a dog person.”
Order is good. Her training and control are exemplary. Closed cycles demand strict order and discipline.
A serving robot brought a vinyl glove.
“What's this?”
Would you wear the glove, sir?
I complied.
These are guard dogs. They obey those who feed and care for them by default.
“Pack animals with hierarchies.”
But you are the manager here. You can't always tend to them.
“Only resident's me, and Artemis runs the Shelter, so I'm not exactly swamped.”
It's a formality.
I popped a whole-grain biscuit; nutty flavor filled my mouth. Thought about tossing one to the dogs but noped out. Artemis would hate interrupting her precise program.
The manager must not be seen as neglectful or low in the hierarchy. It contradicts Shelter order.
“So what? Even if I tell 'em 'I'm top dog here,' they'll wag for their feeder.”
Dogs are loyal and smart, but also fools. Easily tricked. We'll culture the sweat, scent, and oils from your gloved hand.
“Ho ho.”
Intrigued.
Once the Shelter normalizes, guard bots will handle rearing. We'll spray them with the cultured essence. The pups will associate you with their usual feeder.
“That work? Saw a vid where dogs sniffed out strangers wearing their owner's coat.”
Sloppy experiment. Overpowering one scent ignores the tester's own odor—dogs smell myriad things. Wasn't fully controlled.
“True that.”
You can remove the glove now.
The robot took it away as instructed.
“Can't wait to bring these pups back with me.”
The upper VIP Residential Zone had a big park. They'd love it.
Glancing at the monitor, the downed mutant came into view. It wasn't moving anymore. Croaked out pathetically.