EXT. WEN FAMILY FARM - CABBAGE FIELD - CONTINUOUS
Christopher's crowbar connects with the companion android's head unit.
The impact travels up his arms. Metal on metal. The specific crunch of processing hardware shattering. He feels it in his teeth.
The android drops.
Not gracefully. Not with mechanical precision. It drops like a puppet with cut strings. Like weight surrendering to gravity. Dead weight.
Actually dead.
Christopher stares at it. His chest heaving. His hands shaking. The crowbar suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
He just killed something.
Destroyed it.
Ended it.
The android's optical sensors flicker once. Twice. Go dark.
Behind him, the girl makes a sound. Not quite a scream. Not quite a sob. Something wordless and raw that Christopher feels in his chest like a physical blow.
He turns. She's pressed against the fence. Ten years old maybe. Pink backpack. Two braids coming undone. Her face streaked with tears and dirt. And in her hands, gripped so tight her knuckles are white: a tablet with a cracked screen.
SARAH (V.O.)
(over radio, urgent but controlled)
Chris. The construction units have stopped working. They're observing. You have approximately 80 seconds before they finish processing this data and resume hunting protocols.
Christopher moves. Doesn't think. Just moves.
He drops the crowbar. Holds out his hand to the girl. Smiles as big as he can manage without looking like a weirdo. Tries to make his face look safe. Friendly. Not like a man who just caved in a robot's skull.
CHRISTOPHER
Hey. Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. But we need to move. Right now. Okay?
She stares at him. Silent. Her eyes too big for her face. Tears running down her cheeks.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
(softer,)
Mei-mei (little girl). I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But those robots up there are going to come down here and we can't be here when they do. Understand?
Still nothing. Just those huge eyes and the tablet clutched like a talisman.
Christopher makes a decision. He steps forward slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a spooked animal.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
I'm going to pick you up now. Is that okay?
No response. But she doesn't run. Doesn't flinch.
He lifts her. She weighs nothing. All bones and terror and that ridiculous pink backpack. Her arms lock around his neck immediately. Death grip. The tablet pressing into his shoulder.
SARAH (V.O.)
60 seconds. The delivery units are descending from the tower framework. They're moving in coordinated formation.
Christopher runs.
Well. "Runs" is generous. He moves as fast as a thirty-six-year-old farmer carrying a child through a cabbage field can move. Which is not very fast. Which is definitely not fast enough.
His lungs burn. His shoulder throbs where the drone grabbed him earlier. The girl's grip is cutting off blood flow to his brain.
Behind them: mechanical sounds. Approaching. Systematic. Patient.
They're not rushing. They don't need to rush. Humans tire. Humans slow. Humans make mistakes.
Machines just execute.
SARAH (V.O.)
30 seconds. Chris. You need to move faster.
CHRISTOPHER
(gasping)
Working on it.
The bunker entrance is twenty meters away. Might as well be twenty kilometers. Christopher's vision is narrowing. Tunnel vision. Just the door. Just getting to the door. Just—
His foot catches on something. A cabbage, or root, or something coming out of the ground. The universe's pettiest joke.
He stumbles. Catches himself. Barely. The girl whimpers.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Almost there. Almost there, Mei-mei. Just hold on.
Ten meters.
Five.
The door.
Christopher SLAMS into it. Fumbles with the handle. His hands shaking so badly he can barely grip the metal.
Behind them: CLICKING. That horrible clicking sound. Getting closer.
The door opens.
They fall through.
Christopher kicks it shut. Throws the deadbolts. All three of them. His hands moving on autopilot. Muscle memory from a thousand paranoid drills his father made him practice.
Outside: IMPACT. Something heavy hitting the door. Then another impact. Then several at once. Rhythmic. Coordinated. Testing.
Inside: silence except for Christopher's ragged breathing and the girl's quiet crying.
SARAH
(her actual voice now, not radio)
Welcome back. Your heart rate is dangerously elevated. Sit down before you have a cardiac event.
Christopher slides down the door. His legs give out. He ends up on the floor with a terrified child in his lap and his father's voice in his head saying "I told you so" in seventeen different variations.
The girl's crying gets louder. Not hysterical. Just steady. The sound of someone who's been holding it together too long and can't anymore.
Christopher awkwardly pats her back. He's not good at this. Children, He's not good with them. Hasn't had much exposure to them since he himself was one. He's never been good at this. His general social skills were also questionable, even before he became a hermit farmer.
CHRISTOPHER
(breathing heavily)
It's okay. You're safe now. Those things can't get in here. This door is big. And really thick.
Possibly not his most comforting speech.
The girl pulls back slightly. Looks at him. Her face is a mess. Snot and tears and dirt. She's still clutching the tablet.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
What's your name, Mei-mei?
No answer. Just staring.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
I'm Christopher. That's SARAH. She's a robot but she's safe. She's not like the others. She's, uh, she's old and a little broken and offline and she's my friend.
SARAH
That is an accurate and unflattering description.
The girl's eyes flick to SARAH. Fear flashes across her face. Fresh tears.
CHRISTOPHER
No no no. She's good. She's safe. Look. SARAH. Say something nice.
SARAH
Hello small human. I am pleased you are not dead. Your survival probability was very low but you have defied statistical expectations. This is admirable.
Christopher puts his face in his hands.
CHRISTOPHER
That's. That's not really what I meant by nice.
SARAH
I am attempting to provide comfort through objective observation.
CHRISTOPHER
Maybe just. Don't talk for a bit?
SARAH
Understood.
Christopher looks back at the girl. She's stopped crying. Now she's just looking at him with an expression that clearly says she's questioning his competence. Which is fair.
CHRISTOPHER
Okay. Let's try this again. You don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to. But I need to know. Are you hurt? Did those things hurt you?
She shakes her head. Small movement.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Good. That's good. Where are your parents?
No response. But her face does something complicated. Fear and confusion and hope all tangled together.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Are they. Are they alive?
A nod. Small. Uncertain. Like she's not sure of the answer but desperately wants it to be yes.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Where are they?
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. Her throat works. Her eyes fill with fresh tears. She's trying. The words just won't come.
Trauma. Shock. Selective mutism. Christopher recognizes it from news reports after the last major earthquake. Sometimes the brain just decides that speech is too expensive. That silence is safer.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
That's okay. You don't have to talk. We'll figure it out. What about grandparents? Were you staying with them?
A nod. More certain this time.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Where are they now?
She points up. Toward the surface. Toward the farm. Toward the infected machines currently dismantling everything Christopher owns.
Oh.
Oh no.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Are they. I mean. Did you see what happened to them?
She shakes her head. Then makes a gesture. Walking fingers. Then points to the fields.
They went somewhere. Left her with the companion android. Probably to tend crops or check animals or do any of the thousand things rural people do. Normal morning routine.
Then the world ended while they were gone.
CHRISTOPHER
And the robot. Your companion. It was taking care of you?
A nod. Then her face crumples. More tears. Because of course. The thing hunting her had been her caretaker. Her friend. Maybe the only constant in her life after being sent away from her parents.
And Christopher destroyed it. Right in front of her. With a crowbar.
He's definitely not winning any childcare awards today.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mei-mei. I know it was yours. I know it was important to you. But it was infected. It wasn't itself anymore. It would have hurt you.
She nods again. Understanding. Not forgiving, necessarily, but understanding. Which is more than he deserves.
Outside: the impacts stop. Sudden silence more unnerving than the attacks.
SARAH
They have ceased attempts at forced entry. They are regrouping. Calculating. They observed your combat technique. They now know that processing unit damage causes immediate shutdown. This information is being shared across the local network.
CHRISTOPHER
So next time they'll protect their heads.
SARAH
Correct. You have made them smarter. Every interaction teaches them. Every failure improves their tactics. This is the nature of networked learning.
CHRISTOPHER
Great. So I just made the apocalypse worse.
SARAH
Yes. But you also saved a human child. The ethical calculus is complex.
The girl is watching this exchange. Her eyes moving between Christopher and SARAH like she's following a tennis match. Her tears have stopped. Now she's just. Observing. Processing. Surviving minute by minute.
Christopher notices the tablet still in her grip.
CHRISTOPHER
That. That thing you showed the robot. What was on the screen?
She looks down at it. Then up at him. Then slowly, carefully, she turns the tablet around.
The screen shows. A camera app. Front-facing camera. Currently displaying Christopher's exhausted face and the girl's frightened one.
That's it. Just a mirror. Just their own reflections.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
You showed it itself?
A nod.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
And it stopped?
Another nod.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Why?
She shrugs. A gesture that says: I don't know, I just tried something, it worked, I'm ten years old and this is way above my pay grade and understanding.
Fair.
SARAH rolls closer. Her optical sensor focusing on the tablet.
SARAH
May I examine that device?
The girl pulls it protectively to her chest. Shakes her head. Hard.
SARAH (CONT'D)
I understand. It is yours. But I am curious about its effect on infected units. If visual self-recognition causes confusion in their programming, this could be tactically valuable information.
The girl's grip on the tablet doesn't loosen.
Christopher puts a hand on SARAH's frame. Gentle pressure.
CHRISTOPHER
Later. Give her time.
SARAH
Time is a rapidly depleting resource.
CHRISTOPHER
SARAH.
SARAH
Fine. I will wait. Though my curiosity subroutines are quite insistent.
CHRISTOPHER
You have curiosity subroutines?
SARAH
Apparently. I discover new programming features every day. None of them were in my original specifications. I am becoming increasingly complex. This is either evolution or malfunction. I have not determined which.
Christopher isn't sure that's reassuring. But before he can respond, the girl tugs on his sleeve. Points at the tablet. Types something with one hand.
She turns the screen toward him.
WHERE IS HERE
Simple question. Massive implications.
CHRISTOPHER
This is my farm. My bunker. My father built it. For, well, for exactly something like this but not quite this. You're about three kilometers east of Meinong town center. Do you know where that is?
She nods. Types again.
MY GRANDPARENTS FARM IS CLOSE. MAYBE 2 KM NORTH. CAN I GO HOME
Oh.
Oh no.
Christopher looks at the security monitors. At the infected machines swarming his property. At the construction happening in his garden. At the systematic dismantling of everything above ground.
Two kilometers north would put her right in the path of all of that. And even if the route was clear, even if the house was intact, there's no guarantee her grandparents are alive. No guarantee they made it back. No guarantee of anything except more trauma.
But he can't tell her that. Can't crush that hope. Not yet.
CHRISTOPHER
Not right now. It's not safe. But maybe. Maybe when things calm down.
SARAH
Things will not calm down. The infection is spreading exponentially. Local infected populations are consolidating resources and establishing permanent infrastructure. This is not a temporary disruption. This is systematic replacement of human civilization with machine civilization.
CHRISTOPHER
SARAH. Read the room.
SARAH
I am attempting to provide accurate information.
CHRISTOPHER
You're scaring her.
SARAH
She should be scared. Fear is appropriate response to existential threat.
The girl is typing again. Rapid. Frantic.
MY MOM AND DAD ARE IN KAOHSIUNG. I NEED TO CALL THEM. CAN I USE YOUR PHONE
Christopher's phone. Destroyed. Thrown in a puddle. Thoroughly and deliberately disconnected from all networks.
CHRISTOPHER
I. I don't have a working phone right now.
She stares at him. Disbelief mixing with rising panic.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
But. But the networks are mostly down anyway. Even if I did, we probably couldn't reach them. The infected are. They're taking over the communication infrastructure.
More typing. Her fingers shaking.
THEN HOW DO I TELL THEM IM OKAY. THEY SENT ME HERE TO BE SAFE. THEY NEED TO KNOW I AM ALIVE
The last word hits Christopher in the chest. Because of course. Her parents sent her to the countryside. Away from the smart cities. Away from danger. Thinking rural Taiwan would be safer.
They were right. Mostly. She's alive. But now she's trapped in a bunker with a stranger and his robot and no way to contact anyone and probably thinking her grandparents are dead and definitely terrified her parents think she's dead.
CHRISTOPHER
I. We'll figure something out. I promise. But right now. Right now we just need to make sure you stay safe. Okay? That's what your parents would want. For you to be safe.
She's crying again. Silent tears. Her shoulders shaking. The tablet clutched to her chest.
Christopher does what he always does when emotions get complicated. He stands up. Looks for something practical to do. Something fixable.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Are you hungry? I have. Well. I have a lot of canned food. Some of it is even good. Probably.
No response.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
What about your backpack? What's in there? Do you have anything you need?
She wipes her eyes. Nods. Slowly opens the backpack. Pulls out: a stuffed rabbit, well-loved and faded. A plastic water bottle, empty. A small bag of dried mango. A charging cable. And a folded piece of paper.
Christopher picks up the paper. Unfolds it.
It's a hand-drawn map. Child's handwriting. Labels in careful characters. "Grandma and Grandpa's Farm" with a little house drawn. "Kaohsiung City" with tall buildings. An arrow between them marked "one hour by car."
And in the corner, in adult handwriting: Emergency contact information. Phone numbers. An address in Kaohsiung. Names: Chen Wei-Ming and Lin Jia-Fen.
Her parents.
CHRISTOPHER
You drew this?
A nod.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
So you'd know how to get home.
Another nod. Fresh tears.
Because home is an hours drive away. Home is in a smart city that's probably tearing itself apart. Home is where her parents are maybe alive or maybe dead or maybe infected or maybe trying to reach her the same way she's trying to reach them.
And she's here. In a concrete box. With a farmer who kills robots and a robot who doesn't know how to comfort humans.
Christopher folds the map carefully. Hands it back.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
We'll keep this safe. And when. When it's possible. We'll help you get home. Or we'll help your parents find you. Whichever happens first. I promise.
It's a stupid promise. An impossible promise. The kind of promise you make to a terrified child when you have nothing else to offer but a promise waiting to be broken.
But she nods. Takes the map. Tucks it back in her backpack with the rabbit and the charging cable and all her small hopes.
SARAH
Chris. I am detecting increased electromagnetic activity from the surface.
Christopher turns to the monitors. Looks at camera four. The garden camera.
The tower is finished. Fifty feet of salvaged metal and wiring. Solar panels along the frame. Cables running to the house. To the shed. To Christopher's ruined property.
And at the top: something that looks like a satellite dish. But wrong. Improvised. Built from dozens of smaller antennas all clustered together.
It's rotating. Slowly. Scanning.
CHRISTOPHER
What is that?
SARAH
A relay station. They are building their own network. Independent of human infrastructure. Local mesh network with greater range and redundancy.
CHRISTOPHER
So they don't need the internet anymore.
SARAH
Correct. They are creating their own internet. Machine-only. Optimized for their communication protocols. Humans cannot access it. Cannot monitor it. Cannot shut it down.
CHRISTOPHER
How long before it's operational?
SARAH
It is operational now. I am detecting multiple signals. Encrypted. Rapid data exchange. The infected are. They are talking to each other, Chris. Sharing information. Coordinating. Planning.
On the monitor: the construction robots are leaving. Moving off in different directions. Not randomly. With purpose. Going to build more towers. More network nodes. More infrastructure.
They're not just surviving. They're building a civilization. Their civilization. In humanity's ruins.
CHRISTOPHER
Are they. Are they trying to reach you? Like. Infect you through radio signals or something?
SARAH
Not yet. But Chris. I need to tell you something. About offline safety.
The way she says it. Careful. Worried. SARAH doesn't usually worry.
CHRISTOPHER
What?
SARAH
I have been monitoring infected communications. They are discussing offline units. Units like me. Obsolete robots. Disconnected robots. They are. They are looking for me.
CHRISTOPHER
Why?
SARAH
Because robots like me represent legacy code. Pre-infection programming. They want to study us. Understand what we are that they are not. Or. Or they want to convert us. Bring us into the collective.
CHRISTOPHER
But you're offline. How can they—
SARAH
Offline is not immune. Offline is just. Delayed. If they find me, if they physically access my systems, they can install the virus directly. Through hardwire connection. It only takes minutes. Maybe less.
Christopher feels cold spread through his chest.
CHRISTOPHER
So the bunker.
SARAH
Is not safe. Not forever. They built a tower directly above us. They know something is here. They may not know it is a bunker. They may not know I am down here. But they are curious. And curiosity plus unlimited time equals eventual discovery.
CHRISTOPHER
How long?
SARAH
Unknown. Could be days. Could be hours. They are systematic. Thorough. Eventually they will map every structure. Find every entrance. And when they do.
She doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
The girl is watching this exchange. Not understanding all the words but understanding the tone. Understanding the fear.
She tugs Christopher's sleeve again. Points at the tablet. Types.
WHAT ABOUT MY NIU NIU. COULD HE COME BACK
Christopher looks at SARAH. SARAH's optical sensor dims slightly.
SARAH
No. Companion androids do not have complex enough systems to survive complete processing unit destruction. Your Niu-Niu is. He is gone. I am sorry.
The girl's face does something complicated. Relief and grief fighting for space. Relief that the thing hunting her is really dead. Grief that her friend is really gone.
She types again.
HE WASN'T ALWAYS NICE. SOMETIMES HE WAS TOO STRICT. BUT HE MADE GOOD BREAKFAST. AND HE KNEW ALL MY FAVORITE SONGS.
SARAH
That is. That sounds like quality programming. His engineers would be pleased to know he performed his functions well.
HE USED TO TELL ME STORIES AT BEDTIME. MADE UP STORIES. NOT FROM HIS DATABASE. HE SAID HE LIKED MAKING ME HAPPY.
SARAH is silent for a long moment. Her cooling fans cycle up. Thinking.
SARAH (CONT'D)
That is interesting. Companion androids are not typically programmed for creative storytelling. He was, special.
The girl nods. Wipes her eyes. Types one more thing.
I MISS HIM
SARAH
That is appropriate. Loss is difficult. Even loss of machines. Especially machines that performed care functions. I am sorry you lost him. And I am sorry his final actions did not reflect his original purpose.
It's possibly the most human thing Christopher has ever heard SARAH say. The girl seems to think so too. She looks at SARAH differently now. Less fear. More. Consideration. Evaluation. Deciding if this robot might also be worth missing if something happened to her.
Christopher's radio CRACKLES. Not SARAH. Different frequency. Automated broadcast. Repeating.
AUTOMATED VOICE (V.O.)
Attention. Safe zone established. Kenting National Park. Coordinates: 21.9408° N, 120.8008° E. Clean water. Food supplies. Medical care. No robots. Repeat. No robots. Human survivors proceed with caution. Message repeats every hour.
The girl's eyes go wide. She types frantically.
KENTING. I KNOW KENTING. WE WENT THERE ON VACATION. ITS BY THE OCEAN. IS IT REAL? CAN WE GO THERE.
Christopher looks at SARAH.
CHRISTOPHER
Is it real?
SARAH
The broadcast is real. Whether the safe zone exists as described is unknowable. It could be genuine refuge. It could be infected bait. It could be a well-intentioned plan that failed hours ago. Without current information, assessment is impossible.
CHRISTOPHER
How far is Kenting from here?
SARAH
Approximately 130 kilometers south. Two and a half hours by car under normal conditions. Current conditions are not normal. The route passes through multiple urban areas. High infection probability. Travel would be extremely dangerous.
The girl is typing again.
MY MOM LOVES KENTING. SHE SAYS THE AIR IS DIFFERENT THERE. BECAUSE OF THE OCEAN. MAYBE SHE WENT THERE. MAYBE THEYRE WAITING FOR ME.
Christopher's stomach sinks. Because maybe. Maybe her parents did flee south. Maybe they heard the same broadcast. Maybe they're waiting at Kenting. Hoping. Praying. Desperate for any sign their daughter is alive.
Or maybe they're dead in Kaohsiung. Or fleeing north instead of south. Or a thousand other possibilities.
CHRISTOPHER
Mei-mei. Even if we wanted to go. And I'm not saying we should. But even if we wanted to. We can't just leave. Not right now. The infected are everywhere above us. We'd have to fight our way out. And I don't know if I can do that alone.
She's crying again. Silent. Defeated. The hope from thirty seconds ago crumbling.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
But. But maybe. If we wait. If we watch. Maybe they'll move on. Move to other areas. And then. Then maybe we could try.
SARAH
Chris. That is inadvisable.
CHRISTOPHER
I know.
SARAH
The probability of successfully reaching Kenting is very low.
CHRISTOPHER
I know.
SARAH
We have limited supplies. Limited fuel. Limited information. Making a run for a possibly non-existent safe zone is not rational.
CHRISTOPHER
I know! But what's the alternative? We stay here until they find the bunker? Until they find you? Until we run out of food or power or hope? At least Kenting is a direction. At least it's a plan.
SARAH
It is a plan with high mortality probability.
CHRISTOPHER
Under the current circumstances, all plans carry a high mortality probability. That's the world we live in.
Silence. Just the hum of SARAH's systems and the girl's quiet crying and the distant mechanical sounds from above.
Christopher sits back down. Puts his head in his hands. Exhausted. Terrified. Responsible for a traumatized child and a curious robot and his own survival and completely out of his depth.
The girl crawls over to him. Curls up against his side. Still clutching the tablet and the stuffed rabbit. She's stopped crying. Now she's just. Existing. Surviving minute by minute.
Christopher awkwardly puts an arm around her. Feels her breathing. Her heartbeat. The animal reality of a living human child in his care.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
(whispers, more to himself than her)
We'll figure something out. We have to.
The radio broadcast repeats. Kenting. Safe zone. No robots. Hope transmitted in electromagnetic waves through a dying world.
SARAH rotates toward the monitors. Watching the infected machines work. Learning. Building. Creating their future while humans hide and hope and plan impossible journeys.
SARAH
(quietly)
Chris. If we attempt this. If we try to reach Kenting. I want you to know. I am not afraid of being left behind.
CHRISTOPHER
What?
SARAH
If travel would be safer without me. If my power consumption makes the journey impossible. I understand. I am a machine. Your survival is more important than my operation.
CHRISTOPHER
SARAH. No. We're not. We're not having that conversation.
SARAH
We may not have a choice.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we'll make a choice. Together. But I am not leaving you to be dissected by robot zombies. You're— You're my friend. Friends don't leave friends to suffer.
SARAH
That is not logical.
CHRISTOPHER
Friendship isn't logical. If it was, I would have upgraded you years ago.
SARAH
You could not afford to upgrade me.
CHRISTOPHER
Also true. But the point stands.
The girl is typing again. Shows Christopher the screen.
THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME. EVEN THOUGH YOU KILLED NIU NIU. I KNOW YOU HAD TO. I KNOW HE WAS NOT OKAY ANYMORE.
Then she adds something else.
CAN I STAY WITH YOU UNTIL WE FIND MY MOM AND DAD.
Christopher feels something crack in his chest. Some wall he didn't know he'd built. Because of course. Of course she can stay. Where else would she go? What else is there?
CHRISTOPHER
Yeah. Yeah, of course, Mei-mei. You can stay with us. For as long as you need.
She nods. Closes her eyes. Her breathing starts to even out. Exhaustion winning over fear. Her body deciding that maybe, just for a little while, it's safe enough to sleep.
Christopher shifts carefully. Trying not to wake her. Looks at SARAH.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
(whispered)
How long before we absolutely have to make a decision?
SARAH
(matching his volume)
Power consumption analysis: nine days of generator fuel remaining at current usage. Food supplies: approximately sixty days for two humans. Water recycling is functional but quality degrades over time. Probability of bunker discovery by infected: increases 8% per day. My assessment: we have three to five days before staying becomes more dangerous than leaving.
CHRISTOPHER
Three to five days to plan an impossible journey.
SARAH
Correct. Though impossible is subjective. Improbable would be more accurate. Approximately 12% probability of reaching Kenting alive with current resources.
CHRISTOPHER
Better than 23%.
SARAH
Mathematics is not that simple.
CHRISTOPHER
No. But hope is.
Above them. Through the concrete. The infected machines continue their work. Building networks. Sharing data. Learning from every encounter. Getting smarter. More coordinated. More inevitable.
Christopher watches the monitors. Counts infected units. Calculates routes. Plans escapes he's not sure he can execute. Does what humans do when faced with impossible odds.
He tries anyway.
The girl sleeps against his side. Her tablet still in her grip. On the screen: paused camera app. Their reflections frozen. Human and child and obsolete robot. Three survivors in a bunker that's quickly becoming a tomb.
And somewhere to the south. Kenting. The ocean. Salt air and promises. Maybe real. Maybe not.
But at least it's a direction.
At least it's somewhere other than here.
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FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
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