Chapter 17: Now the Fun Begins

A soft knock came at his suite door.

Julius pressed the release button on his chair, and the heavy door slid open.

Commander Raymond Croft stepped in, looking slightly puzzled as he held his tactical tablet.

"Excuse me, Mr. Vance," Croft said, coming to a halt near the table. "Our subterranean communications array just logged major activity across the global satellite network. The automated radio beacons at the eight secondary sites have all been activated simultaneously."

"I know," Julius said, chewing his food calmly. "I turned them on myself."

Croft’s eyebrows shot up. "You activated the beacons, sir? But that will broadcast the coordinates to any surviving military remnants or scavengers on the mainland. If refugees find those sites, they’ll swarm them."

"They aren’t for refugees, Raymond," Julius said, gesturing for the commander to relax. "They’re for the ’metahumans’ we saw on the news feeds. The ones who can throw lightning and tear through steel."

Croft stared at him, his face going pale. "Sir... with all due respect, why would you invite those monsters to our fallback shelters? If they take those bases, they’ll have access to our nuclear reactors, our food stores, and our medical facilities! They could dig in and build armies!"

Julius offered the veteran commander a faint, cold smile.

"Do you really think I would give those freaks a safe haven?" Julius asked quietly.

Croft blinked, hesitating. "You told them there’s an automated limit of thirty people, didn’t you? That’s what you broadcasted on the open emergency bands."

"Yes," Julius said, swirling the dark red wine in his glass. "I told them each bunker only holds thirty people. I told them that once thirty people step inside, the outer doors will close, the locks will engage, and the system will permanently seal them off from the storm."

He looked up at Croft, his eyes dark and completely devoid of warmth.

"What I didn’t tell them, Raymond, is what happens after the doors lock."

Croft went dead silent, listening intently.

"Those eight sites aren’t emergency shelters," Julius continued, his voice dropping to a smooth, conversational whisper. "They are containment units. The moment thirty candidates step inside each of those facilities and the primary blast doors seal shut, the system locks from the outside. The master controls are not inside those bunkers. They are routed directly to the terminal sitting on my desk right here."

Julius leaned forward, resting his elbows on the marble table.

"Once thirty players are sealed inside, they will find the pantries. They will find the clean water. They will celebrate. They will think they’ve won the game."

Julius smiled—a slow, terrifying expression that made even a hardened special forces veteran like Croft feel a cold chill run down his spine.

"And then," Julius said, "I will use this phone to shut off the ventilation systems. I will vent the air scrubbers, flood the living quarters with carbon monoxide, and trigger the halon fire-suppression tanks. If anyone’s skin is too tough to die from poison gas, I will simply cut the power to the geothermal turbines and let the subterranean water pumps stop. Within forty-eight hours, the lower chambers will fill with freezing mountain groundwater."

Croft stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat.

For months, he had viewed Julius Vance as a brilliant, eccentric young billionaire who was perhaps a bit paranoid about the world ending. He had respected him as a generous employer who paid absurd salaries and took care of his people.

Now, looking at the young man sitting comfortably in a cashmere robe, sipping expensive wine while calmly outlining the systematic extermination of two hundred and forty superhumans, Croft realized what Julius truly was.

He wasn’t an eccentric businessman. He was a cold, calculating apex predator.

"Two hundred and forty of the strongest survivors will march straight into those eight tombs," Julius said softly. "They will fight each other tooth and nail just to be the first thirty through the doors. They will butcher their own allies on the doorstep. And when the survivors finally collapse in the common rooms, exhausted and bleeding, thinking they are finally safe..."

Julius took a slow sip of his wine, letting the rich vintage coat his palate.

"I will simply press a button, and the system will announce their elimination."

Croft swallowed hard, finally finding his voice. "And... what about the ones who don’t make it inside? The ones who arrive too late?"

"The ones who arrive too late will be wounded, exhausted, and completely broken," Julius replied, setting his glass down. "They will have spent their last ounce of strength, their last drop of stamina, and all their divine powers just trying to reach the mountain peaks. When they find the doors permanently locked from the inside, with no food and no shelter, the storm will finish them off. The cold will take their limbs, the water will drown their camps, and starvation will do the rest."

He looked back at the screen of his phone, where the global telemetry map was already showing movement.

Dozens of high-speed signatures were already tearing across the North American continent, racing toward the high granite ridges of the Canadian Shield. In Europe, energy spikes were detected along the alpine highways as metahumans fought over dry vehicles and mountain passes.

The slaughter had already begun, and none of them had even reached the front doors yet.

"Go back to the command bridge, Raymond," Julius said calmly, picking up his linen napkin and dabbing his lips. "Keep the island’s radar on passive monitoring. Tell the crew that everything is proceeding according to plan. We have front-row seats to the greatest show on Earth, and we don’t even have to leave our living room."

Croft looked at Julius for a long moment, then snapped off a crisp, rigid salute.

"Yes, Mr. Vance. Right away, sir."

The commander turned on his heel and walked out of the suite, the heavy blast doors sealing behind him with an airtight hiss.

Left alone in the quiet luxury of his private penthouse, Julius Vance leaned back in his deep armchair.

He looked at the large wall display. The live camera feed from the island’s southern cliffs showed the North Atlantic thrashing violently against the black basalt rock under a pitch-black, storm-choked sky. Giant waves crashed against the stone, throwing plumes of white foam sixty feet into the air before draining harmlessly back into the abyss.

Inside the mountain, the fire in the marble hearth crackled softly, casting a warm, golden glow across the dark wood floors.

Julius picked up his smartphone, watched the countdown timer ticking away in the corner of his screen, and closed his eyes.

Let the gods fight for their thirty spots.

The king was already resting.