Chapter 9 : Standby
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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 9 : Standby
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[Time remaining until the Great Freeze: 16 Days]
[Location: High-Rise Apartment "The Oasis", Cikarang Industrial Estate]
[Time: 04:00 PM]
The view from the 30th floor was suffocating.
Below, the industrial heart of Cikarang pumped grey smoke into the bruised purple sky. Thousands of factories sat like sleeping giants. This was the engine of the country, and soon, it would be its graveyard.
Marco, now fully embracing the name Tank. Stood by the reinforced glass window. He wore his faded work jacket, looking out at the maze of highways he used to drive every day.
Behind him, a man in full tactical gear stood as still as a statue. This was IronClad, one of the Elites under FrostBite. A former special forces operator who had seen real war.
Yet, IronClad did not sit. He did not speak until spoken to. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, head slightly bowed, displaying absolute reverence to the man in front of him.
"The perimeter is secured, Sir," IronClad said, his voice deep and respectful. "The door has been reinforced with Grade-A steel. The panic room is stocked according to Lady Apothecary's biological hazard standards."
Tank didn't turn around immediately. He lit a cigarette, his rough hands trembling slightly. He wasn't used to being called 'Sir' by a man who looked like he could snap his neck.
"Thank you, IronClad," Tank said, his voice hoarse. "You didn't have to stay this long."
"It is an honor to serve a Pillar," IronClad replied instantly. "The Architect chose you to watch the Gate. My duty is to ensure the Watchtower stands."
Tank closed his eyes. The Architect.
To IronClad, Tank was a holy guardian.
To himself, Tank was just a man who had ripped his own heart out to save his family.
Tank exhaled a long plume of smoke against the glass. The memory of Sari’s still echoed.
"IronClad," Tank said softly.
"Yes Sir?"
"If... if the signal goes dark. If Cikarang falls and I don't make it to the Highlands."
Tank turned around. His eyes were red, but his jaw was set like stone.
"Tell the Architect I held the line."
IronClad’s expression tightened beneath his balaclava. He placed a fist over his heart and bowed deeply, a salute not for a commander, but for a martyr.
"I will witness your resolve, Pillar Tank. The Architect will know."
IronClad walked to the door. He paused, looking at the truck driver who carried the weight of a city on his shoulders.
"The Architect chose well. Glory to the Freeze."
"Glory to the Freeze," Tank muttered.
The heavy steel door clicked shut. Several heavy locks engaged automatically.
Tank was alone.
He walked to the corner of the room where he had set up his station. Multiple monitors showed CCTV feeds from the toll roads, the industrial gates, and the major intersections.
He sat down, placing his hand on the radio.
He wasn't Marco the driver anymore. He wasn't a husband anymore.
He was The Pillars.
And he would watch this city burn until the ice took him.
***
[Location: West Jakarta]
[Time: 07:00 PM]
Arlen sat on his floor, staring at his "Fortress of Cans."
He had enough calories to survive. He had water to keep his kidneys functioning.
But then he imagined eating cold, unseasoned canned food for 40 days straight.
"I won't die of hunger," Arlen whispered. "I'll die of depression."
He checked his wallet.
He found around 1.500$
It was the last of the cash from selling his things. In two weeks, this paper would be worthless. It would just be colorful kindling for a fire.
"Time to spend it all," Arlen decided.
He grabbed his backpack and stepped out into the stifling heat.
The air was thick and humid, sticking to his skin like syrup. The thermometer on a pharmacy sign read 39°C.
[Location: Local Mini-Markets & Warungs(mini-stall)]
Arlen avoided the riot-prone rice aisles. He went straight to the shelves that no one was looking at.
He didn't buy sustenance. He bought Sanity.
He swept the shelves of a small Warung:
* MSG (Micin): 5 large packs of Sasa. The white crystal of happiness.
* Chili Flakes: 10 bottles of BonCabe (Level 30). Because if he was going to freeze, he wanted his mouth to burn.
* Sweet Soy Sauce (Kecap Manis): 6 large pouches. The liquid gold of Indonesian cuisine.
* Instant Seasoning: Dozens of sachets of Rendang, Soto, and Gulai mix.
Then came the snacks.
He bought chocolates, biscuits, and fruit gummy candies. Not for hunger, but for the dopamine hit.
When the sky is black and the world is ending, a single piece of chocolate could be the difference between giving up and fighting for one more day.
***
[Location: Grand Indonesia Mall - Department Store]
[Time: 08:00 PM]
With his backpack half-full of spices, Arlen walked into a high-end clothing store.
The mall was half-empty. The AC was struggling against the heatwave. Most people were crowding the exits or the pharmacies.
Arlen walked past the T-shirts and shorts that were selling out.
He headed to the back corner. The "Clearance" section.
There, gathering dust, was the Winter Collection.
Thick wool sweaters. Down jackets. Thermal underwear (Long Johns). Fluffy socks.
A sign hung above the rack: "END OF SEASON SALE - 90% OFF."
Arlen grinned. It was the irony of the century.
In a 39°C heatwave, nobody wanted a parka.
He grabbed a cart and started loading.
* Parkas: Three thick, waterproof down jackets.
* Thermal Wear: Five sets of HeatTech inner layers.
* Socks: Ten pairs of thick wool hiking socks.
* Blankets: Two ultra-soft fleece throw blankets.
He walked to the cashier. The man behind the counter looked at him, sweating in the heat, and then looked at the mountain of winter clothes.
"Bro... The weather really hot you know.," the cashier said, confused. "Are you going abroad? Europe?"
Arlen handed over his remaining cash.
"Something like that," Arlen smiled. "Going to a very cold place."
Or rather, the cold place is coming to us.
The total bill, which would have been even more before, now, he can afford it all with the last of his money.
He had bought a king's wardrobe for the price of a cheap phone.
***
[Location: Arlen’s Apartment]
[Time: 9:00 PM]
Arlen dumped his loot onto the floor.
The spices clattered next to the cans. The soft, thick clothes formed a pile of comfort.
He picked up one of the wool sweaters. It was soft, high-quality, and warm.
He buried his face in it. It smelled like the store, clean and new.
"I love comfort."
Arlen lay back on his mattress, surrounded by his treasures. He had zero money left. He was broke.
But as he closed his eyes, imagining the snow falling outside, he felt prepared.
***
[Location: Arlen’s Apartment Complex - Hallway]
[Time: 11:45 PM]
Arlen was just about to fall asleep, wrapped in his new wool blanket (testing it despite the heat), when he heard it.
It wasn't the distant siren of a police car.
It was a scream. Right outside his door.
CRASH.
The sound of glass breaking echoed through the thin walls. Then came the shouting.
"THAT'S MINE! LET IT GO!
Arlen sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He grabbed the Tactical Hatchet from his bedside table, the one Viper had sent him. It felt heavy and cold in his sweaty palm.
He crept to the door. He didn't open it. He pressed his eye to the peephole.
The hallway, usually dimly lit and empty, was a scene of desperation.
Two men were wrestling on the dirty tile floor. Arlen recognized one of them, Pak Ujang, the quiet old man from Unit 405.
Pak Ujang was clutching a plastic bag tight against his chest. Inside, Arlen could see the shape of rice packs and a bottle of cooking oil.
The other man was younger, a stranger. He was punching the old man. Hard.
"Let go, bastard! I'm hungry!"
Arlen flinched as the fist connected with Pak Ujang’s face. Blood splattered on the white floor. The stranger grabbed the bag, ready to run.
Hissss-KA!
Suddenly, a shadow darted from the stairwell.
It wasn't a person.
It was a cat. A stray calico cat that usually slept near the garbage chute. Arlen used to feed it leftover sausage.
But tonight, the cat wasn't begging.
It moved with a terrifying, unnatural speed. It didn't hiss. It didn't arch its back in warning. It launched itself like a biological missile.
The cat latched onto the stranger’s leg.
"ARGH! DAMN IT!"
The claws dug deep into the denim jeans, shredding the fabric and the skin beneath. The stranger screamed, thrashing wildly. He kicked his leg out, sending the cat flying into the wall.
The stranger didn't wait to check.
Terrified by the ferocity of the attack, he scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding leg, and sprinted down the stairs, leaving the groceries behind.
But the cat didn't chase him.
It hit the floor, rolled, and immediately flipped back onto its feet.
It didn't care about the stranger. It didn't care about the food.
It only cared that there was still something alive in front of it.
It turned its glowing, dilated eyes toward Pak Ujang, who was still trying to stand up.
SCREEE!
The cat lunged again. It was pure, mindless aggression. It aimed for the old man's throat.
Pak Ujang screamed, throwing his hands up in a panic. The cat bit into his forearm, locking its jaw.
"Fk! Fk! Fk!"
Adrenaline flooded the old man's veins. He didn't think and just reacted. He grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and the hind legs.
With a roar of terrified strength, Pak Ujang swung the animal.
THUD.
CRACK.
He slammed the cat against the concrete wall with all his might.
The creature went limp instantly, its neck broken at an unnatural angle. It slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood.
Pak Ujang stood there, panting, staring at the twisted body of the animal. He looked at his bleeding arm. Then he looked at the dark stairwell, terrified that more were coming.
He didn't pick up the noodles. He didn't check on the cat.
He scrambled backward, fumbling for his keys, and practically fell into his own apartment.
SLAM.
He locked his door. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain.
The hallway fell silent again.
Only the dead cat and the spilled cooking oil remained.
Arlen was about to step away, thinking the violence was over.
But then he heard it.
Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik.
It was the sound of claws tapping rapidly against the ceramic floor. Fast. Many of them.
Arlen pressed his eye back to the peephole.
From the darkness of the stairwell, three more shadows emerged. They were cats. A mange-ridden, skinny strays that usually scavenged the bins.
But they didn't move like scavengers anymore, They moved like a pack of wolves.
They froze for a split second, sniffing the air. They smelled the blood.
Then, without a sound, they descended on the corpse of the dead cat.
It was a frenzy.
Arlen watched in horror as the three cats tore into their fallen kin. There was no hesitation. No sniffing of recognition. Just ... hunger and rage.
He could hear the wet, tearing sounds of flesh being ripped apart through the thin door. He heard the crunch of small bones being snapped by jaws that seemed too strong for such small bodies.
One of the cats looked up mid-feast. Its face was matted with blood. Its eyes glowed with that same unnatural, dilated madness.
It stared right at Arlen’s door.
Pak Ujang had made the right choice. If he had stayed out there for ten seconds longer to pick up his noodles or check his wound. He wouldn't be just bleeding anymore, he would be the meat they are eating.
Arlen backed away from the peephole, bile rising in his throat. The reality of the "Mutation" finally hit him. The mutation doesn't make them just aggressive, they are even cannibals.
"The lock isn't enough," Arlen whispered, his hands trembling as he gripped the hatchet.
He dropped the weapon and ran to his heavy oak desk, the one he used to write his novels on.
He shoved it. It screeched across the floor tiles.
He didn't care about the noise anymore. The sound of the desk moving masked the sickening sound of the feast happening in the hallway.
He pushed the desk until it slammed against the door. It was a solid, heavy barricade.
Then he grabbed the Type-B case. He ripped out the Gorilla Tape.
He hesitated.
He almost taped the door frame shut, sealing himself in completely.
But a thought stopped him.
What if there’s a fire? What if I need to run?
Instead, he taped the gaps.
He sealed the bottom crack of the door and the keyhole. He wasn't trying to weld the door shut but instead he's trying to stop the smell flew in and out his room
He needed to be invisible. Odorless. If they couldn't smell his fear or his food, maybe they would move on.
"They aren't animals anymore," Arlen muttered, stepping back to check his work. The desk blocked the entry, but if he pulled hard
enough, he could still open it. He intend to make a fortress with a gate, so if anything happens like the apartment catch in fire, he could still run out.
"They're monsters."
He didn't sleep that night. He sat on top of his desk, hatchet in hand, listening to the scratching and chewing that continued until dawn.
›› To Be Continue ‹‹
—KS
