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What? My "Information Club" is Actually an All-Knowing Secret Society?
Genre : Apocalypse, Fantasy, Superpower, Action
Tag : Misunderstanding, Secret Organization, Wolrd-Freezing, Super power
Chapter 18 : Calamity (5-End)
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[Location: Arlen's Apartment, 4th Floor - West Jakarta]
[Time: 08:45 AM]
Absolute darkness swallowed the room.
Arlen sat motionless on the floor, his back pressed hard against the concrete wall. A few minutes ago, the thin gaps around his taped-up window had leaked a sickly, bruised violet light. Now, those cracks offered nothing but a suffocating, impenetrable blackness. The morning sun had been entirely erased from the sky.
A new sound replaced the violent grinding of the earthquake.
Hiss. Scrape. Hiss.
Millions of tiny, coarse particles drummed against the exterior glass. The volcanic ash from the Megaplume had arrived. It fell in a continuous, heavy shower, burying the ruined city under a blanket of pulverized rock and sulfur. The abrasive friction of the ash grinding against the remaining windowpanes sounded like sandpaper rubbing directly against Arlen's eardrums.
The sudden absence of solar radiation triggered an immediate, brutal atmospheric shift.
Arlen felt the change in his own sweat. During the frantic moments of the earthquake, his body had been drenched in perspiration from the 40°C heatwave. Now, that same sweat turned into a layer of freezing moisture clinging to his skin.
He exhaled. A thick plume of white vapor materialized in the beam of his tactical flashlight.
The temperature in the room was plummeting in real-time. The tropical heat evaporated, chased away by a deep, biting chill that seeped straight through the concrete walls. The "Great Freeze" had officially breached the equator.
Arlen shivered violently, his teeth clicking together. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the ache in his bruised knees. He aimed his flashlight at the corner of the room where he had dumped his massive haul from the mall's clearance section.
He stripped off his damp, sweat-soaked t-shirt, shivering uncontrollably as the frigid air kissed his bare chest. He moved with frantic purpose. He grabbed a set of thick, thermal inner layers, the HeatTech long johns, and pulled them on. The fabric clung to his skin, immediately trapping his body heat. Over the thermals, he pulled on a heavy wool sweater, the thickest one he had bought.
He didn't stop there. He reached into the Type-A Pelican case Viper had sent him and pulled out the tactical bodysuit. He wrestled his way into the Kevlar-reinforced fabric, zipping it up to his chin.
Finally, he donned a massive, waterproof down parka, pulling the fur-lined hood over his head. He slipped two pairs of thick wool hiking socks onto his feet, jamming them into his heavy boots.
Wrapped in layers of heavy winter gear, Arlen finally stopped shaking. The ambient temperature in the apartment had already dropped below 15°C and was continuing its steep descent, but inside his cocoon of wool and down feathers, Arlen felt a fragile, localized warmth.
He walked over to his heavily barricaded door. The heavy oak desk sat firmly against the wood. Arlen aimed his flashlight at the floor. The bottom crack of the door was still sealed with the black Gorilla Tape, but the dropping temperature caused the wood of the doorframe to contract. Tiny new gaps appeared along the hinges.
A faint, metallic smell leaked through those microscopic cracks. It was the scent of the mutant cats' feast from the hallway, preserved perfectly by the sudden cold.
Arlen grabbed the roll of heavy-duty tape. He methodically sealed every single seam around the doorframe, pressing the thick adhesive hard against the wood and concrete. He sealed the keyhole. He sealed the hinges. He cut off his apartment entirely from the air circulation of the building, relying solely on the massive internal volume of his room and the P-100 gas mask filters for his oxygen supply.
He needed to check the outside world. He needed to know what lay beyond his buried tomb.
Arlen crept toward the window. The mattress remained firmly taped against the glass, blocking the majority of the frame. He found a small, triangular gap in the corner where the tape had peeled slightly. He pressed his face against the cold plaster and peered through the crack.
The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness outside, illuminating a monochromatic nightmare.
The world was painted in shades of dead grey. Thick, heavy ash fell continuously, accumulating rapidly on every horizontal surface. The ash coated the massive, sloping rampart of debris—the pulverized remains of floors six through ten—that currently hugged the exterior of Arlen's level.
Through the dense, swirling flakes of ash, Arlen saw movement.
Fifty meters away, navigating the jagged, unstable mountain of concrete rubble, a pack of wild dogs moved in eerie silence. There were six of them. Their fur was entirely coated in grey ash, turning them into phantom-like silhouettes against the ruined landscape.
They moved with terrifying precision. Their heads snapped left and right in unison, scanning the ruins for thermal signatures. In the pitch-black environment, their dilated pupils glowed with a faint, unnatural red luminescence.
The alpha of the pack is a massive, muscular Rottweiler mix. Suddenly paused atop a slab of broken concrete. The beast raised its head, opening its jaws wide. A thick cloud of vapor escaped its mouth as it tasted the air. The radiation had completely rewritten their neural pathways, turning frightened scavengers into highly coordinated apex predators.
Arlen held his breath, terrified that the sound of his own heart beating would draw their glowing red eyes toward his window. He slowly pulled his face away from the crack, retreating into the absolute darkness of his room. He clicked his flashlight off, refusing to give them a visual target.
He navigated his apartment by memory, stepping carefully over the spilled cans of corned beef and tuna. He reached his corner sanctuary, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his towering boxes of water and emergency supplies.
He opened his laptop. The screen cast a pale, ghostly glow across his masked face.
The local internet infrastructure was dead, but the encrypted sub-network established by FrostBite remained active, a single digital lifeline weaving through the apocalypse. Arlen opened the Information Club application.
The main channel was exploding with activity.
> [User: SilentWatcher]: The sky is gone. The cold is here. The Architect's prophecy is fulfilled. He cleanses the canvas. <
> [User: Father_1985]: I sealed my family in the basement. The dogs outside tore my neighbor apart. We hear them scratching at the walls. Guide us, Architect! Deliver us! <
> [User: Resident_Block_A]: We hold the line! We await the Prophet's next command! <
Arlen stared at the endless cascade of messages praising his name. The words scrolled rapidly across the screen, a digital monument to his online persona.
A strange, nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat, muffled by the rubber of his gas mask.
And then, the amusement faded instantly, replaced by a crushing weight of panic.
They were asking for guidance. They were asking for the next step. They expected him, the "Prophet," to lead them through the freezing, mutant-infested ruins of the world.
Arlen looked at his trembling hands, clad in the heavy tactical gloves. He looked at the plywood door, the cracked ceiling, the meager pile of canned food.
He didn't know how to lead anyone. He barely knew how to survive his own apartment. He was sitting on the fourth floor of a structurally compromised building in the middle of a hunting ground. A single structural failure, a single breach by a mutant pack, a single mistake with his water supply, and he would die.
"I can't do this," Arlen realized, his breathing quickening. "I can't be responsible for them. I am terrified. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. If they wait for my instructions, they're going to get themselves killed, and I'll probably starve to death trying to come up with a cool-sounding riddle."
He needed to cut the cord. He needed an excuse to drop the leadership burden immediately. He needed them to stop asking him for help, because he had no help to give.
But a secondary, highly pragmatic thought stopped him from just deleting the app.
Wait. Arlen looked at the heavy Pelican cases Viper had sent him. He thought about FrostBite's endless warehouse of supplies. He thought about Apothecary's medical knowledge.
"I might need them," Arlen thought, a sliver of cunning piercing through his panic. "I have food for a month. But what happens on day thirty-one? What if I get sick? What if the door breaks?"
He couldn't abandon the group entirely. He couldn't destroy the "Prophet" persona, because that persona was his only leverage. He needed to step down from the daily management, absolve himself of all responsibility to save them, but maintain his high-ranking status. He needed to be a silent VIP, someone who could occasionally break his silence to demand a supply drop if he was dying.
He placed his hands on the mechanical keyboard. He closed his eyes, channeling the cold, detached persona of the cryptic messenger one last time. He would give them exactly what they expected from a mysterious prophet.
A dramatic, lore-heavy exit.
He opened the Global Announcement channel, overriding all other feeds.
Arlen typed slowly, ensuring every word carried the weight of an ancient decree.
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: The canvas is wiped clean. The first layer of frost settles upon the earth. The sky has closed its eyes. <
He paused, gathering his thoughts, carefully constructing the narrative that would set him free.
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: You have received the Pages. You have built the fortresses. You have gathered the seeds of the old world to plant in the snow of the new. The Pillars stand tall, and the Echoes are secured within the walls. My duty as the Descendant is fulfilled. <
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: The prophecy is delivered. The preparation phase is officially concluded. <
Arlen stared at the glowing letters, his heart pounding a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He was shedding the responsibility.
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: The Era of Ice demands isolation for true evolution. A messenger does not walk the path for you, he merely points the way. Therefore, my direct guidance ends here. <
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: From this moment forward, I step back into the shadows. I transition from the Guide to the Watcher. I will observe your struggles. I will witness your triumphs. I will no longer issue commands. I will not intervene in your survival. The burden of the future now rests on your shoulders. <
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: Do not seek my voice in the dark. Seek the strength within yourselves. Trust the Pillars. Survive the test. <
He added one final, crucial line. The safety net.
> [THE_ARCHITECT]: I remain above you, watching the board. I shall only break the silence when the foundation of my design requires adjustment. Until then, the silence is your only teacher. <
Arlen hit Enter.
The message blasted across the encrypted network, appearing simultaneously on the screens of every surviving member of the Information Club.
Arlen immediately locked his account permissions, setting his status to 'Offline'. He stripped away their ability to direct-message him, severing the digital umbilical cord that tied him to their panic.
He leaned back, his breath fogging the glass of his respirator. He watched the chat room. He needed to see if the lie held.
The silence on the network lasted for exactly sixty seconds.
Then, the Pillars responded.
> [User: Seraph]: [Global Broadcast]: The holy scripture is complete! He leaves us the world to conquer in His name. Rejoice in the Silence, for it is the sound of His absolute trust in our devotion! <
> [User: Viper]: [Global Broadcast]: Orders received and understood, Architect. The training wheels are off. We hold the line independently. We will prove ourselves worthy of the knowledge you passed down. <
> [User: FrostBite]: [Global Broadcast]: Damn, the Gm has left the server. It's full sandbox mode now, guys. PvP and PvE are fully active. The GM is just spectating now, so let's get the high score. <
> [User: Tank]: [Global Broadcast]: I hold the Gateway. I will not look for your shadow. Thank you for the warning. <
> [User: Apothecary]: [Global Broadcast]: The variables are set. The experiment runs on its own. We will deliver the results, Messenger. <
Arlen let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
They bought it. They swallowed the narrative completely. Seraph saw it as a holy sacrament. Viper saw it as a military graduation. FrostBite saw it as the ultimate endgame mechanic.
He had successfully secured his position. He was free from the crushing pressure of guiding them. He could focus entirely on not freezing to death in his own living room. And if things went terribly wrong weeks from now, the "Admin" could always log back in and request an extraction.
The myth of the Architect was permanently cemented in their reality.
Arlen slowly reached out and closed the laptop lid. The screen went black, plunging the corner of his apartment back into total, unforgiving darkness.
The digital world was gone. Only the physical world remained.
He sat alone in the freezing blackness, clutching his tactical hatchet. The abrasive hiss of the volcanic ash continued to grind against the glass outside. In the distance, carried through the frozen air, he heard the faint, high-pitched howl of a mutant hunting pack echoing through the ruined canyons of the city.
The Long Night had truly begun, and Arlen was finally, entirely, on his own.
›› To Be Continue ‹‹
—KS