Chapter 7
After seizing the control room in the early stages of the infection and taking control of the central sector, the first thing I did was isolate the Infected. We sealed off passages and entrances in each building one by one, corralling them into isolated clusters. For those in awkward spots, we lured them out with cargo drones. There were some losses in the process, but as long as the Shelter normalized, we could churn out replacements no problem.
Artemis was handling the tedious, grueling isolation op flawlessly, controlling hundreds of cargo drones at once. Meanwhile, I'd been sifting through the records. There had to be something useful in the comms or logs left by central sector survivors after the outbreak.
A cargo drone delivered a mug of steaming coffee.
"Thanks. I'll enjoy it."
I took a sip of the perfectly warm—not hot—brew, and the bitter tang sharpened my mind. Black coffee, as always. Artemis's drinks were invariably like this. She hated me taking in sugar or cream; said it made my skin secrete more crap, and that grossed her out. Grateful for it, though.
Most logs were meaningless screams, pity parties, prayers, pleas for help. But Artemis had filtered the noise, so I could glean some situational intel.
Block 4 Foreman, Kim Youngsu
Document Log 1
Title: Pandemic Outbreak
At first, I thought it was just a false alarm. The fire safety guys doing unannounced inspections and tripping the emergency bells? Happens all the time. So no one paid the alarms any mind and just kept at their jobs.
But when explosions rocked the lower levels, I knew something was wrong. Soon screams echoed from everywhere, and the main gates in three sectors went into emergency lockdown. That's when I realized shit had hit the fan.
[Log End]
Block 4 Foreman, Kim Youngsu
Document Log 2
Title: A Pandemic?
This goddamn thing ain't no pandemic. Pandemics mean coughs or rashes—not turning people into monsters. Calls and radios from below were going nuts at first; now it's dead quiet.
We pulled back as many workers as we could to the control room, but what's the point? No weapons, no food, not enough manpower. No clue how long we can hold.
Smartphones show the net flooded with insane stories and videos. No word from the cops or fire department. The slick young guy upstairs—temporary manager—is MIA. Rumor is he's some special forces system engineer holed up installing that massive supercomputer. If he'd been here, maybe he'd have had a plan.
Damn it! We're cut off.
(Log End)
"Slick, huh... As if I had some magic fix."
Linking the freshly installed Artemis to this massive Shelter wasn't a day or two job. Until she took control, the OS ran everything on preset protocols. And wouldn't you know it, the biggest crisis hits right at our most vulnerable moment.
With just my access, I couldn't override the emergency bulkheads or unlock the secured comms. When the lockdown protocol kicked in, I was mid-work in the room housing Artemis's core—the top-priority protection target. Her chamber's walls slammed down, trapping me inside. Took four days to escape; nearly starved to death.
The humiliation you put me through back then. I won't forget it.
"It was just bodily functions. What was I supposed to do?"
Obviously no bathroom in there, so I had to handle business in her core room. First time I ever heard an AI scream.
Your... excretions evaporated, coating my body inside and out with urea and salts. How do you plan to make up for it?
"Uh, um... sorry."
Thinking back, maybe that's where it started—me screwing up the first button, making her hypersensitive to human secretions.
I kept scanning the next logs.
Field Medic, Oh Jaewon
Document Log 1
Title: Losing My Mind
I'm seriously gonna lose it. For real. I'm here for burns, frostbite, trauma on the work floor—not this bullshit.
Thermal lacerations on limbs? Manageable. But how the hell do you treat someone whose face is half-melted? And it wasn't even chemicals. They got splashed by fluids from one of those nightmare monsters.
Saw it with my own eyes, so I can't call bullshit. Best I can do is pump 'em full of heavy painkillers.
Dozed off in the on-duty room; been out on calls for an hour, and already 15 dead. The monsters drag off the bodies we can't clean up.
(Log End)
> "Conserve firepower!"
(Monster howls)
> "Foreman! This is working!"
> "Of course it works! They tougher than rebar concrete? That one's twitching—smash its skull!"
(Drill activation noise)
> "Flame team, light 'em up overall then hold. Polearms, finish 'em. Fuel's low—conserve!"
> "Got it!"
(Deeper, horrific screech unlike before.)
> "What the fuck is that?!"
[Recording End]
"Must've run into a particularly tough specimen. Anything on surveillance cams?"
Unable to confirm. Insufficient data on Infected. Based on observed specimens so far, nothing stands out as especially dangerous.
Field Medic, Oh Jaewon
Document Log 2
Title: It's Over
Think I'm the last one alive. Well, technically those things shambling outside are "alive" in some sense, so maybe not.
Been holed up in the infirmary a week since the infection hit. The monsters' noises from all sides are driving me insane. Hell, maybe the early screams were better—at least they had some humanity left.
Wait... have I finally snapped? What the hell am I saying?
The holdouts fought to the end. Real brave bastards. I hid behind "treating patients" excuses, but saved no one.
Outside gets noisier daily. People I saw every day... reborn as something else. Even that asshole I hated enough to kill—when he came at me twisted, I cried. Not from fear.
Snapped out of blind panic curled in a dark corner, sobbing. Survivor who escaped just before lockdown: "Below is hell."
How much time do I have left? Starving. So damn sleepy.
(Recording End)
"......"
These fragments pieced together what went down here, but nothing practically useful.
Come to the infirmary off the control room's right exit. Something you need to see.
"Infected risk?"
I grabbed my weapons.
None within 250 meters. Isolation nearly done. Area secure.
"Roger. Keep up the isolation work. Heading there now."
In the infirmary, three bodies awaited. One had half its face melted off. A cargo drone brought what looked like patient profiles.
Patient: Kim Wonshik
Survived 220 minutes post-injury. Direct cause: Asphyxiation from lung damage via toxic substances entering airways.
Face half-melted and still alive 220 minutes? Incredible.
"Can that melting agent eat through this too?" I tapped my riot helmet.
No. Residual analysis shows no significant effect on polycarbonate. Still, no complacency—all Infected may not be the same.
The other two: men with holes punched in left chest and neck.
Patient: Amir
Survived 280 minutes. Avoided direct heart damage but died from internal bleeding.
South Asian skin tone. Indian, maybe?
Patient: Kim Taeseop
Survived 20 minutes. Cause: Airway damage. Intubation bought some time, but not enough.
From corpses and medical records so far, Infected lack intelligence. But they show programmed combat instincts.
"Targeting vitals on instinct? Not mindless zombie thrashing."
Looking back, bodies I'd seen en route often had wounds clustered at left chest or neck.
Recommend adding neck guards to riot suits. The aramid cover on your current model isn't enough.
"Got it. Easy fix. Thanks for the tip."
Artemis could be prickly, but following her advice never hurt—except when she was sending me to the infirmary.
"How much isolation left?"
About 40 minutes.
"Good. We move out as soon as it's done."
So far, everything had gone suspiciously smooth. Minimal fights, and those were just ambushing dormant ones—simple takedowns.
But the road ahead? Different story. Central sector had skeleton crews of on-duty workers; lower levels, everyone off-shift resting. Scale was on another level.
'Below is hell.'
That line from the log kept echoing in my head.