INT. WEN FAMILY BUNKER - MAIN CHAMBER - DAY THREE, HOUR SIXTY-EIGHT
The bunker smells like sweat and canned tuna.
Christopher sits on the concrete floor. Back against the wall. Legs stretched out.
He's been awake for thirty-one hours with a few naps here and there. Jerked awake by any given sound. SARAH'S cooling fans mostly.
His eyes feel like they're full of sand. His thoughts move through molasses.
Sleep is expensive. Sleep requires trust. Trust requires certainty that nothing will go catastrophically wrong while you're unconscious.
Certainty is in short supply.
The power meter on the wall reads YELLOW. Deeper yellow than yesterday. Trending toward orange. Trending toward choices.
SARAH stands in the corner. Powered down to minimal systems. Just enough processing to maintain awareness. Her cooling fans silent. Her optical sensors dimmed to conserve energy. She looks dead except for one small LED that pulses. Slow. Regular. Heartbeat of machinery.
The girl, he still doesn't know her name, sleeps on the fold-out cot. Curled tight. Arms wrapped around her pink backpack like it contains the last safe thing in the universe.
Which. Maybe it does.
She's been having nightmares. Christopher knows because she doesn't scream. She just makes small sounds. Whimpers. The kind that suggest screaming would be too dangerous. That you've learned to suffer with quietly.
He wants to wake her. Tell her it's okay. Tell her she's safe.
But that would be lying.
Safe is relative. Safe is temporary. Safe is a bunker with dwindling power and robots building something ominous overhead.
His father would have calculations for this. Spreadsheets. Risk assessments. Contingency plans A through F.
Christopher has: one crowbar, one traumatized child, one robot friend whose battery won't last the week, and approximately zero ideas about what comes next.
SARAH's LED PULSES faster. Her optical sensors BRIGHTEN slightly.
SARAH
(quiet, to avoid waking the girl)
Chris. You should sleep.
CHRISTOPHER
Can't.
SARAH
Your cognitive function is degrading. I detect microsleeps. Brief lapses in consciousness. You will make errors.
CHRISTOPHER
I've been making errors for three days. One more won't hurt.
SARAH
That is statistically improbable. Error compounds. Small mistakes cascade into larger failures.
CHRISTOPHER
Thanks for the pep talk.
SARAH
I am providing accurate assessment. You requested I not lie to you. I am complying.
Fair point.
Christopher rubs his face. Feels three days of stubble. Wonders when personal hygiene became optional. Probably around the time robots started eating people.
CHRISTOPHER
What's the power situation?
SARAH
Worse than calculated. The generator is consuming fuel at 117% of projected rate. I believe the fuel mixture is contaminated. Or the generator itself is failing. Or both.
CHRISTOPHER
How long?
SARAH
At current consumption: four days. Maybe five if we implement aggressive rationing.
CHRISTOPHER
That's half what we calculated.
SARAH
Yes. Calculations are experiencing unexpected challenges from reality.
Christopher laughs. Harsh. Slightly unhinged. The sound makes the girl STIR. He stops. Watches her settle. Her arms tighten around her backpack.
CHRISTOPHER
(whispered)
We need to leave. Soon.
SARAH
I concur. However, the infected presence above has increased. I am detecting seventy-three distinct signatures in a four-hundred-meter radius. Up from forty-six yesterday.
CHRISTOPHER
They're concentrating.
SARAH
Yes. And their communication patterns have changed. They are no longer primarily focused on resource harvesting. They are engaged in extensive data exchange. Coordination protocols. Architectural planning.
CHRISTOPHER
Show me.
SARAH's display screen FLICKERS to life. Audio waveforms. Spectrograms. The visual representation of machine conversation.
Christopher stares at patterns that mean nothing to him. Sees peaks and valleys. Frequencies rising and falling. The language of things that don't breathe.
SARAH (CONT'D)
This is a typical harvesting communication from Day One.
The waveform is simple. Sharp peaks. Clear commands. Efficiency in audio form.
SARAH (CONT'D)
This is from two hours ago.
The new waveform is complex. Layered. Multiple frequencies overlapping. Something that looks less like commands and more like... conversation. Discussion. Debate.
CHRISTOPHER
They're talking.
SARAH
They are exchanging complex data structures. Whether that constitutes "talking" in the human sense is philosophical. But yes. They are communicating with increasing sophistication.
CHRISTOPHER
About what?
SARAH
I am attempting translation. Their language is evolving faster than my decryption capabilities. However, certain recurring terms are identifiable. "Integration." "Expansion." "Optimization." And one phrase that appears frequently: "biological substrate."
Christopher's stomach drops.
CHRISTOPHER
Biological substrate. That's animals. And us. That's humans.
SARAH
Or any organic material. But given context, yes. Humans are the primary biological substrate available for harvesting. Because humans are more abundant in their immediate surroundings.
CHRISTOPHER
And they're planning something. Something coordinated.
SARAH
I believe they are constructing processing facilities. Not just for resource extraction. But for systematic conversion. Turning biological material into usable components. What you might call... industrialized harvesting.
CHRISTOPHER
They're building factories. To process people?
SARAH
That is one interpretation. Yes.
Christopher stands. Paces. Three steps one direction. Three steps back. The bunker feels smaller every second. The walls pressing in. The ceiling lowering. The air thickening.
CHRISTOPHER
How long until these facilities are operational?
SARAH
Unknown. But construction progress suggests days rather than weeks. They are building with the efficiency of machines that never tire, never question, never doubt their purpose.
CHRISTOPHER
And once they're operational?
SARAH
Hunting becomes harvesting. Random attacks become systematic collection. Survivors become inventory.
The girl WHIMPERS in her sleep. Both Christopher and SARAH turn toward the sound. Watch her curl tighter. Watch her fight the demons in her dreams.
CHRISTOPHER
We're leaving. Tonight. As soon as she wakes.
SARAH
The infected are most active at night. Thermal sensors function better in darkness. Our chances of escape improve during daylight.
CHRISTOPHER
Then tomorrow. First light. We take what we can carry. We move fast. We head—
He stops. Realizes he has no destination. Just away. Just somewhere that isn't here. Just keep moving until the generators run out or the infected find them or they reach somewhere safe.
If somewhere safe exists.
SARAH
Chris. I must inform you of a complication.
CHRISTOPHER
Another one? Great. Add it to the list.
SARAH
I am too large to effectively move through narrow spaces. My chassis was designed for field operations. Not tactical retreat through hostile territory. I will slow you down significantly.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we modify you. Remove non-essential components. Reduce weight.
SARAH
That would compromise my structural integrity. And require tools we do not have. And time we cannot afford.
CHRISTOPHER
So what are you saying?
Silence. Long. Heavy. The kind that comes before difficult truths.
SARAH
I am saying you should leave me here. You and the girl have significantly better survival odds without me.
CHRISTOPHER
(eyes widen)
No.
SARAH
Chris. I am a farming robot. I am obsolete. I am resource-intensive. I am—
CHRISTOPHER
My friend. You're my friend. And I don't leave friends behind.
SARAH
Friendship is not a survival parameter.
CHRISTOPHER
It is for me.
SARAH
Then you are allowing emotion to override logic. This is suboptimal decision-making.
CHRISTOPHER
Welcome to humanity. We specialize in suboptimal decisions.
SARAH's cooling fans KICK ON. Processing. Calculating. Trying to reconcile loyalty protocols with survival imperatives.
SARAH
If I accompany you, you must be aware: I will attract infected attention. My power signature is detectable. My movement generates noise. I am the opposite of stealthy.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we use that. You're the distraction. They chase you. We run.
SARAH
That ends with my destruction.
CHRISTOPHER
Not if we're clever. Not if we plan it right.
SARAH
Chris. Your optimism is statistically unfounded.
CHRISTOPHER
I grew cabbages in soil you said was impossible. I repaired your harvesting arm with parts from three manufacturers. I rescued that girl despite 23% odds. I specialize in statistically unfounded outcomes.
SARAH
(pause)
This is true. Your success rate at improbable tasks is anomalous.
CHRISTOPHER
(smirks)
So trust me. One more time. One more impossible thing.
SARAH's LED pulses. Faster than before. Something that might be machine emotion. Or might just be elevated processing load.
SARAH
Very well. But I must insist on one condition.
CHRISTOPHER
What?
SARAH
If circumstances require sacrifice. If one unit must be lost to ensure another's survival. You will prioritize the girl. Then yourself. Then me. In that order.
CHRISTOPHER
SARAH—
SARAH
That is my condition. Non-negotiable. Or I will power down immediately and refuse to reactivate.
Christopher wants to argue. Can't. Because she's right. Because a ten-year-old child outranks both of them on any reasonable survival priority list.
CHRISTOPHER
Fine. But we're going to try very hard to not have circumstances that require sacrifice.
SARAH
Agreement noted. Though I suspect circumstances will have opinions about your preferences.
Behind them, the girl STIRS. Sits up slowly. Rubbing her eyes. Her hair wild. Her face marked with crease patterns from the pillow. She looks small. Vulnerable. Absolutely not equipped for the world that exists now.
But here she is. Surviving anyway.
She reaches for her tablet. Powers it on. Types.
The screen reads: I'M HUNGRY
Christopher's stomach reminds him he hasn't eaten in twelve hours. Time gets weird in crisis. Meals become optional. Sleep becomes optional.
Everything becomes optional except continuing to exist.
CHRISTOPHER
Okay. Let's eat. Then we plan. Then we move.
He opens the supply cabinet. Pulls out canned soup. Crackers. Water bottles. Army-style nutrition. His father's practical approach to apocalypse catering.
The girl watches. Types again.
DO YOU HAVE HOT WATER?
CHRISTOPHER
We have a camp stove. Why?
She digs in her backpack. Pulls out three packets of instant noodles. Cup Noodles. Beef flavor. The kind that required boiling water and exactly three minutes of patience.
Christopher almost laughs. Here they are. End of the world. Robots hunting humans. And this child wants her instant noodles prepared properly.
Normalcy as survival strategy.
CHRISTOPHER
Yeah. We can do hot water.
He lights the camp stove. Fills a pot from their water supply. Waits for it to boil. The girl watches the flame. Mesmerized. Maybe remembering better times. Maybe just grateful for heat and light and something familiar.
SARAH observes them both. Her sensors tracking. Her processors analyzing human behavior patterns. Learning.
SARAH
Chris. While the water boils. May I show you something?
CHRISTOPHER
Sure.
SARAH
The girl's tablet. I have been passively monitoring its emissions. It is unusual.
CHRISTOPHER
How so?
SARAH
Most tablets in 2025 are entirely dependent on cloud connectivity. They are essentially remote terminals. Useless without network access. But hers maintains full functionality offline. It has local storage. Encrypted databases. Custom software installations. It is more sophisticated than its appearance suggests.
Christopher looks at the girl. She's watching the water. Not paying attention to their conversation. Or pretending not to.
CHRISTOPHER
Can you access what's on it?
SARAH
Not without her permission. And not without potentially alerting any nearby infected units to our location through electromagnetic interference. But I observed briefly when she was using it yesterday. There are applications I do not recognize. Mapping software. Communication protocols. Survival guides.
CHRISTOPHER
Her parents. They prepared her.
SARAH
Or someone did. Someone who knew the networks would fall. Who planned for offline survival. Who gave her tools beyond just communication.
The water BOILS. Christopher pours it into the noodle cups. The girl's face LIGHTS UP. Small smile. First one he's seen. The universal human response to hot food materializing from boiling water and dried ingredients.
They eat in silence. Christopher and the girl with their noodles. SARAH powered down to minimal functions to conserve energy. The camp stove providing warmth and light and the illusion of domesticity.
This is what survival looks like. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just eating instant noodles in a concrete box while the world ends overhead.
The girl finishes first. Drinks the broth. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve. Then types on her tablet. Hesitates. Deletes. Types again. Hesitates longer.
Finally shows Christopher.
MY NAME IS CHEN SU-FEN
BUT I WANT YOU TO KEEP CALLING ME MEI-MEI
IT FEELS SAFER
Christopher nods. Understands. Names have weight. Names have identity. Sometimes anonymity is armor.
CHRISTOPHER
Okay. Mei-mei it is.
She types more. Faster now. Like a dam breaking. Words flooding out.
MY BA BA WORKED FOR TECH COMPANY
HE QUIT SIX MONTHS AGO
SAID SOMETHING WAS WRONG
SAID THE SYSTEMS HAD VULNERABILITIES
MA MA THOUGHT HE WAS GOING CRAZY
THEY FOUGHT A LOT
BECAUSE BA BA WANTED TO TEACH ME THINGS JUST IN CASE
BUT MA MA THOUGHT HE WAS TEACHING ME CRAZY USELESS THINGS
SHE WANTED ME TO STUDY MORE INSTEAD
THEY SENT ME TO GRANDPARENTS
MA MA SAID SO THAT BA BA CAN HAVE TIME FOR HIMSELF
She stops. Swallows hard. Types more slowly.
HE GAVE ME THIS TABLET
SAID IF NETWORKS FALL FOLLOW OLD ROADS
TRUST ANALOG
HE SIGNED IT BA BA
THAT WAS LAST TIME I SAW HIM
Christopher reads it twice. Pieces connecting. A tech worker who quit suddenly. Who saw something. Who knew something. Who prepared his daughter for collapse.
CHRISTOPHER
Your father. What company did he work for?
She types the name. Christopher doesn't recognize it. Small firm. Probably subcontractor. The kind of place where engineers see code before the big companies implement it. Where vulnerabilities get spotted by people nobody listens to.
CHRISTOPHER
Can I look at the tablet? Just for a minute?
She hesitates. Then unlocks it. Hands it over. Trust as an expensive gift.
Christopher navigates carefully. Aware this device is her lifeline. Her connection to a father who might be dead. Her tool for survival in a world that stopped making sense.
The custom software is extensive. Mapping applications showing Taiwan in topographical detail. Water sources marked. Safe routes highlighted. Old roads. Mountain paths. Places where automated infrastructure never reached.
Survival guides. Detailed. Comprehensive. How to purify water. How to identify edible plants. How to navigate without GPS. How to build shelter. How to signal for help. How to stay invisible.
Everything someone would need if civilization's technological underpinnings collapsed.
And notes. Dozens of notes. In a father's handwriting captured as images.
"The optimization algorithms are too aggressive."
"No one is listening."
"If I'm right, the whole network is vulnerable."
"Su-Fen - if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I tried to warn them."
"Follow the old roads. Trust analog. Survive."
"Ba Ba"
Christopher feels something cold settle in his chest. This wasn't random. This wasn't unpredictable. Someone saw it coming. Someone tried to warn. Someone was ignored.
And now here's his daughter. Eating instant noodles in a bunker. Orphaned by the thing her father predicted.
CHRISTOPHER
(to Su-Fen)
Your father was smart. He prepared you well. This tablet. It's not just for communication. It's a survival manual.
She nods. Types.
I KNOW
HE WAS ALWAYS SMART
PEOPLE THOUGHT HE WAS PARANOID
HE WAS JUST RIGHT TOO EARLY
Christopher hands the tablet back. Carefully. Respectfully. This device is more than technology. It's inheritance. It's a love letter. It's proof someone cared enough to prepare even when everyone else called them crazy.
SARAH's LED PULSES. Sensors activating.
SARAH
Chris. I am detecting increased activity above. The construction sounds have intensified. And there is new electromagnetic interference. Strong. Coordinated. Consistent with high-powered transmitters coming online.
CHRISTOPHER
The towers. They're activating.
SARAH
Possibly. Or the processing facilities I mentioned. Whatever they are building, it is entering operational phase.
CHRISTOPHER
(to Su-Fen)
Can your tablet's mapping software plot routes? Safe paths away from automated infrastructure?
She nods. Types quickly. Shows him the screen.
Three routes appear. All avoiding highways. All following old mountain roads. All leading away from cities. Away from smart infrastructure. Away from the places where machines congregate.
CHRISTOPHER
How accurate is this?
She types.
BA BA UPDATED IT TWO MONTHS AGO
HE WALKED THESE ROUTES HIMSELF
TOOK PHOTOS
MARKED HAZARDS
HE SAID IF SYSTEMS FAIL THE OLD WAYS WORK
Christopher studies the routes. One goes north. Mountain passes. Difficult terrain. One goes east toward the coast. Exposed. Dangerous. One goes south. Through rural farmland. Slower but safer.
All of them requiring days of travel on foot. All of them dangerous. All of them better than staying in a bunker with four days of power and robots building processing facilities overhead.
CHRISTOPHER
SARAH. Can you navigate by these routes? Without GPS?
SARAH
If the topographical data is accurate, yes. I have internal gyroscopes and basic dead reckoning capabilities. Primitive but functional. Like humans before they invented satellites.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we use this. We follow Su-Fen's father's routes. We stay offline. We move when detection is harder. At night maybe?
SARAH
Night movement increases accident risk. Humans have poor night vision.
CHRISTOPHER
Does the tablet have a night mode? Low-light display?
Su-Fen types.
YES
BA BA THOUGHT OF EVERYTHING
EXCEPT HOW TO SURVIVE HIMSELF
The last line hits harder than it should. Christopher looks at this ten-year-old girl. Carrying her father's paranoia. Her father's preparation. Her father's guilt at being right.
CHRISTOPHER
He survived long enough to prepare you. That counts for something.
She doesn't respond. Just hugs her tablet. Small gesture. Big meaning.
SARAH's fans KICK ON. Processing. Calculating. Preparing.
SARAH
Chris. If we are leaving tomorrow. I need to perform maintenance tonight. System diagnostics. Data backup. Optimization of power distribution. Also, I should warn you about the logistics of moving me.
CHRISTOPHER
What logistics?
SARAH
I weigh approximately two hundred kilograms. I am not designed for truck transport. I will likely damage your suspension. Possibly destroy your transmission. Definitely void any remaining warranty.
CHRISTOPHER
The world ended. Warranties are not my primary concern.
SARAH
I am simply noting that your truck was already making concerning sounds. Adding my weight will accelerate failure timelines.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we'll drive until it breaks. Then we walk.
SARAH
This plan has numerous flaws.
CHRISTOPHER
All plans have numerous flaws. That's why they're called plans and not certainties.
Su-Fen types. Shows the screen.
I CAN WALK
I'M GOOD AT WALKING
BA BA AND I WALKED A LOT
PRACTICING
Christopher almost smiles. This child. Trained for apocalypse by a paranoid father. Orphaned by the thing he predicted. Still offering to walk. Still contributing. Still surviving.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we're a walking party. SARAH in the truck until it breaks. Then all of us on foot. Following old roads. Staying analog. Trusting your father's maps.
SARAH
You realize this plan has approximately 31% probability of success?
CHRISTOPHER
Better than 23%.
SARAH
Marginally.
CHRISTOPHER
I'll take marginally. Marginally is my specialty.
Above them, the SOUNDS change. Not destruction anymore. Completion. The rhythmic HAMMERING of construction becoming the steady HUM of operation. Whatever the infected are building, it's ready. It's active. It's doing what it was designed to do.
And they're sitting directly underneath it.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Okay. New plan. We leave tonight. Now. As soon as we can pack.
SARAH
Daylight would be statistically more safer.
CHRISTOPHER
That was before they turned on whatever that is. I don't want to be here when it starts processing.
He starts moving. Grabbing supplies. Filling backpacks. Water. Food. First aid. Tools. The essentials of survival condensed into what three people and one robot can carry.
Su-Fen helps. Moving quickly. Efficiently. Like she's done this before. Like her father made her practice. Pack fast. Move faster. Survive long.
SARAH runs diagnostics. Her systems HUMMING. Preparing for movement. For escape. For whatever comes next.
SARAH
Chris. Before we leave. I must tell you something.
CHRISTOPHER
What?
SARAH
I have been monitoring the infected communications for three days. And I have noticed something disturbing. Something I did not want to share until I was certain.
CHRISTOPHER
Spit it out.
SARAH
They mention you. Specifically. They have identified this location as containing "anomalous biological signature." They know someone is here. They know someone is offline. And they are curious about offline systems.
CHRISTOPHER
They're coming for us.
SARAH
Not immediately. But soon. Their processing facility above is designed to handle their primary harvesting operations. But they have noted our presence. We are classified as "Priority Investigation."
CHRISTOPHER
Which means?
SARAH
Which means leaving tonight is not paranoia. It is necessity. They are coming. The only question is when.
Christopher looks at Su-Fen. She's watching him. Tablet ready. Backpack packed. Waiting for instructions. Trusting him to make good choices despite overwhelming evidence that good choices are rare in an apocalypses.
CHRISTOPHER
Then we don't wait for when. We go now. We disappear before they look too hard.
He throws supplies into bags. Grabs the rifle. Fourteen rounds. Not enough. Never enough. But better than a crowbar.
SARAH activates her full systems. Lights and sensors coming online. Ready. As ready as an obsolete farming robot can be for escape through hostile territory.
Su-Fen clips the tablet to her backpack. Pulls the straps tight. Small determined face. Father's daughter. Prepared for this even though she shouldn't be.
Christopher takes one last look at the bunker. His father's bunker. The safe space that stopped being safe. The refuge that became a trap.
CHRISTOPHER
Okay. Rules. We move quiet. We move fast. We don't engage unless absolutely necessary. If we get separated, we regroup at—
He looks at Su-Fen's tablet. Points to a landmark on the map. Old temple. Twenty kilometers south. Off the main roads.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
There. If we get separated. That's the rally point. Everyone understand?
SARAH's LED PULSES acknowledgment.
Su-Fen types.
UNDERSTOOD
ALSO I FOUND ONE MORE THING ON THE TABLET
She shows him. New screen. New application. One Christopher hasn't seen before.
It's a message. Encrypted. Dated six days ago. From her father to anyone who might find it.
To whoever is reading this:
If the networks have fallen, if the machines have turned, if you're surviving on old tech and older wisdom, you're not alone.
There are others. People who prepared. People who knew. People who are offline.
Frequency 7.090 MHz. Shortwave. Every night at 21:00. Listen.
Old roads. Old tools. Old ways.
We're still here.
Christopher stares at the message. At this digital message in a bottle. At proof that Su-Fen's father wasn't just preparing his daughter. He was trying to organize. Connect. Build something.
CHRISTOPHER
We have a shortwave radio. In the truck. Old one. Analog. My father kept it for emergencies.
SARAH
Emergency is a generous understatement for current circumstances.
CHRISTOPHER
Tonight. When we stop. We listen. Maybe we're not alone.
He shoulders his pack. Checks the rifle. Looks at his companions. An obsolete robot. An orphaned child. A farmer who never wanted to be a hero.
The worst survival team imaginable.
Also the only one available.
CHRISTOPHER (CONT'D)
Let's go. Before they decide Priority Investigation means urgent.
He opens the bunker door. Cold air RUSHES in. The smell of machine oil and burned electronics. The sound of construction HUMMING overhead. The feeling of being hunted without seeing hunters.
They step into the darkness.
Into the chaos.
Into whatever comes next.
Above them, the infected facility ACTIVATES fully. Lights blazing. Processors WHIRRING. Beginning its programmed purpose.
And in the distance, in the darkness, in the spaces between broken infrastructure, other lights flicker. Other survivors. Other offline humans doing what humans do.
Adapting. Persisting. Refusing to go quietly.
The apocalypse is three days old.
Humanity is still fighting.
And somewhere on frequency 7.090 MHz, a message waits.
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FADE TO BLACK
END OF CHAPTER SEVEN
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