Frozen Metropolis E-Book

Sascha Vennemann

• Herausgeber: Bildner Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 306

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Frozen Metropolis – A Permafrost Novel When everything falls apart, the fight for survival begins. In the near future, the world descends into chaos: for reasons unknown, the moon shifts off course, tides surge unpredicatbly, natural disasters sweep across the continents and a new ice age descends upon humanity. As governments collapse and order fades, the residents of the former megacity Metropolis struggle to survive. Among them are Sheriff Ethan Cane, his daughter Robyn, the soldier Anna, the doctor Richard Sonenberg, and the ruthless businessman Logan Boyce. Each of them must face the deadly cold and new threats: armed looters, a fanatical cult and a merciless natural world that offers no second chances. Frozen Metropolis is the atmospheric novel based on the survival game PERMAFROST by Toplitz Productions—the gripping prequel full of secrets, intrigue, and raw survival. The rules of the old world no longer apply. Only those willing to fight have a future. Dark, uncomprmising, and chillingly realistic!

Leseprobe

FROZEN METROPOLIS

A PERMAFROST Novel

The prequel to the hit game by Spacerocket Games and Toplitz Productions

By Sascha Vennemann

BILDNER Verlag GmbH Bahnhofstraße 8 94032 Passau Germany http://www.bildner-verlag.de [email protected]

ISBN: 978-3-8328-5719-6

Author: Sascha Vennemann Publisher: Christian Bildner

Image Sources:Cover: © Toplitz Productions Author Photo: © Sascha Vennemann

© 2025 BILDNER Verlag GmbH Passau, ID 735_01_EPUB The work including all parts is protected by copyright. The license terms of ­BILDNER Verlag GmbH Passau apply.

For questions regarding product safety, please contact us at: [email protected] or visit our website at: www.bildnerverlag.com/produktsicherheit.

For Coco (2010–2024), the best dog companion in the world, and all the other animal companions who stand by us on our journey through this dark, cold world.

PROLOGUE

The screams echoed from every direction. Robyn shut her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears. Yet, no matter what she did to block out those terrible sounds, they still reached her somehow, even through her thick gloves.

Robyn’s heart raced with anxiety and exhaustion as she sat on the cold floor of the church, her back pressed against a pile of hastily stacked benches that she and about a dozen other settlement residents had used to barricade the church doors.

They were safe for now. Outside—there was no mistaking it—their friends were dying.

Tears welled up in Robyn’s eyes. She blinked them away. As the liquid ran down her cheeks, it formed tiny ice chunks on her skin, despite the salt content, potentially leading to severe frostbite.

She wasn’t even sure whether the sounds of horror filtering in from outside were new or merely echoes bouncing back and forth between the roof beams, dimly lit by candlelight.

No, they were always different screams—sometimes filled with mortal terror, other times with rage, and sometimes, with absolute despair. Robyn wondered how the tortured cries could still be heard so clearly in here.

The wooden walls of the old church effectively kept the deathly cold at bay. The thick layer of snow outside usually muffled all sounds, although the freezing air might also carry sound far and wide.

Hopefully, it’s distant enough not to attract more attackers drawn in by the sounds of gunfire and dying screams.

Robyn flinched as Mule suddenly appeared beside her, crouching on the floor. The trader with the unusual name—a kind soul in the settlement and part of their community for a long time—had wrapped a dirty cloth around his head and face, leaving only his ever-kind eyes visible. But today, Robyn saw in them what she felt herself: fear.

“We should pile up more benches in front of the doors,” Mule whispered, gesturing at the barricaded furniture behind him. Like the front entrance, they’d blocked off the other doors, hoping it would keep the cultists out.

Several gunshots rang out from the south, coming from one of the gates in the settlement wall that faced the high-rise ruins at the center of Metropolis. That’s where they came from: the fanatics of the Moon Cult. Rapid gunfire struck what sounded like metal and wood. Then, it seemed they hit a target, and judging by the screams, it was a young woman.

Please don’t let it be Anna…

Robyn pressed her lips together so tightly that all the blood drained from them. Unconsciously, she rubbed her hands. The cold seemed to creep even into the gloves she’d bought from Mule’s shop not long ago, as she now remembered.

Anna Ivashchenko, her friend, was out there, along with Robyn’s father, Sheriff Ethan Cane. He knew how to handle weapons. Everyone in the settlement did—had to. Not just to fight the cult, but to survive in this world of eternal ice.

Robyn knew she could be a deadly threat with an axe or a bow and arrow. Had happened often enough. Far too often… Although it was usually animals she had to kill.

But the cultists weren’t just wild game you could shoot at calmly, holding your breath. They were like wolves, hunting in packs trained for combat. They lived solely for their twisted religious ideals and their relentless crusade against anything that didn’t align with their worldview.

That’s why these monsters were here. That’s why they killed. That’s why they aimed to destroy Robyn’s community and everything it stood for.

Robyn dismissed the thought and focused her attention on the other residents of the settlement inside the church.

They were wrapped in blankets. Friends and family clung to one another for warmth and comfort. Someone had laid out a few dirty mattresses from a side room on the floor.

A dozen thick candles provided a faint light in the otherwise pitch-black church. The windows had been boarded up long ago.

Dr. Richard Sonenberg moved through the shaken people, checking for injuries, speaking softly to them, and trying to calm their fears.

Robyn didn’t envy the medic for his task. As long as the fighting continued outside, no one could rest. Her heartbeat pounded so loudly in her ears that she feared it might even be audible outside the church.

She pictured one of the cultists pressing their ear to the church door and hearing her racing pulse. Another victim, just waiting to be torn apart by the nail-studded baseball bat…

Rein in your imagination, Robyn! She shook off her daze and finally responded to Mule’s question, which he had asked nearly half a minute ago.

“The barricades will hold.” She stood up. Sitting too long wasn’t good. The cold made her limbs stiff, and lighting a fire inside the church so they could all warm up, even a little, wasn’t an option—unless they wanted to poison themselves with carbon monoxide before the attackers even got to them.

Mule looked up at her from his crouched position. He clicked his tongue softly. “I wish I could share your optimism,” he muttered. “But after what I saw those animals do to my shop…”

“Our people are still out there!” Robyn cut him off sharply, loud enough to make Mule flinch in surprise but still quiet enough that the others couldn’t overhear. “What if survivors bang on the door, asking to come in? Are we supposed to just leave them to their fate?”

Robyn’s breath formed a thick cloud of vapor behind her scarf. “They’re out there fighting for us, Mule. My father, Anna—even Jeremiah Crow, and that guy usually only cares about himself.” Robyn shot the trader a piercing look.

Mule averted his eyes. “Damn it, Robyn… We barely made it in here. We don’t have any weapons with us and can’t risk letting the cultists get in.” He lowered his head and buried his face in his gloves. “So many months of hard work. And those monsters destroy everything in a matter of moments. It just isn’t right!”

Seeing him in such desperation shocked Robyn more than the anonymous screams echoing outside the church, which were now much less frequent and farther away.

Hopefully, not because everyone’s dead, she thought, but because they managed to flee.

Some shacks still offered shelter at the Red Tower, up the slope toward the mountains. Beyond that, past Hunter’s Clearing, there were even a few caves where one could hole up for the night, assuming they found wood dry enough to start a fire.

Maybe, and Robyn silently hoped this was the case, the Moon Cult didn’t want to stray too far from their inner-city hideouts and would be content with having caused enough chaos in the settlement that it wouldn’t recover anytime soon, if ever.

Bam! Bam! Bam!!

Something was pounding violently on the church door from outside.

“That’s them!” groaned a young man lying on one of the mattresses in the middle of the church, a bleeding wound on his thigh. “They’re coming to get us!”

Immediately, several other refugees began to whimper and huddle even closer together. Parents formed a living shield around their children. In the adults’ eyes, Robyn saw a glint of defiant bravery.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Robyn? Are you in there?” The door handle rattled, but the door didn’t budge. The stacked benches were too heavy.

“Dad?” That was the Sheriff’s voice! Robyn leaned over the barricade. “Dad? Is that you?”

Mule also jumped to his feet. “Sheriff?” he called. “What’s the situation out there?”

There was a brief pause, followed by a loud sigh. “You really are in there,” Robyn heard her father say, immense relief in his voice. “How many of you are there?”

Robyn looked around and did a rough count. “Not many,” was her sobering reply.

Not enough to suggest only a few casualties outside—more like a damn massacre.

“What about the cultists?” Mule asked. “Are they...?”

“Gone. Yeah. At least, I think so.” From Ethan Cane’s quieting voice, Robyn guessed he’d turned around to look. “They took some of our wounded or dead. Up toward Hunter’s Clearing and Ice Lake. God knows what they’re planning to do with them out there.”

Robyn shuddered. She’d seen the cult’s victims before—impaled on fences or stakes, frozen into gruesome monuments of madness. Icy statues smeared with dark, frozen blood, serving only one purpose: to spread fear and terror.

“We’ll clear the barricades so you can come in,” Robyn finally made the call. If her father said the danger was over for now, she believed him.

“Good.” Ethan Cane’s voice had regained the firm tone he’d used to face many a threat. “Dr. Sonenberg should get ready—with a few helpers—to set up some kind of infirmary inside the church. We’ve got some pretty badly injured people out here—and I’m afraid this church will have to serve as a home for everyone left.”

He paused. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so much red snow,” Robyn heard him add, lost in thought.

PART I – COLLAPSE

Chapter 1

Article from the daily newspaper “Voice of Metropolis,” edition of Monday, August 19, 2024, page 3, section: “International”:

“Global Tidal Phenomena Puzzling Scientists” (Author: Max Gondrom, East Coast Editorial Desk)

The unusual changes in tidal heights across the planet, first confirmed by leading scientists last week, continue unabated. After the indigenous peoples of Polynesia reported irregular flooding of their stilt houses along the shallow island beaches several months ago, the phenomenon now appears to be spreading more and more widely.

“We’ve joined forces with researchers from around the world because we’re facing a complete mystery,” said Dr. Clemens Sammorra, head of the geology department at the University of Metropolis, during a weekend press conference. “We’ve been able to observe these fluctuations even in local bodies of water,” the geophysicist told reporters. “So it’s not just the oceans being affected but rivers and streams, lakes and ponds as well. The water is no longer behaving the way we’re used to.”

When asked what the current working theory of the international scientific community was regarding the cause of these unusual events, Sammorra gave a noncommittal answer. “The moon’s gravitational pull usually causes tides,” he explained. However, no usable data suggests Earth’s satellite is responsible for the changes.

Is there any immediate danger to the population of Metropolis, or even globally? “At this point, I would say no,” Sammorra replied to our readers. “But if the phenomenon doesn’t subside, or if, once we’ve identified the cause, we’re unable to counteract it, then the situation could change,” he added. Nevertheless, he said he remained confident that the cause would prove to be a natural one.

Thursday, January 23, 2025 – about five months later

With a sigh, Ethan Cane scraped the last remnants of coffee grounds from the storage tin and dumped them into the French press. The kettle next to him on the kitchen counter bubbled noisily. It would click off on its own in a moment, and Ethan could finally make his morning dose of caffeine, something he’d grown accustomed to.

“Could be the last time for a while, old friend,” Ethan muttered as he poured in the water, careful not to splash any onto the top of his police uniform. At the moment, he only had two sets he wore in rotation. And since he’d helped a family change a tire on a broken-down RV yesterday, crawling underneath the thing to do it, the other uniform was, well, in less-than-presentable shape.

I’ll throw a load in tonight, he promised himself. Hopefully, there was still some of that special cleaner left that could even get out oil stains. Ethan vaguely remembered an unlabeled bottle somewhere in the cleaning cupboard. Claudia had bought that stuff. Unlike him, she’d always known about things like that. He’d only had to start figuring it out after she left.

Ethan wasn’t proud of how little he’d contributed to the household chores when they were still married. Maybe we could’ve worked it out if that had been the only thing wrong between us. Maybe even for Robyn’s sake…

The cop heard his daughter clattering around in the upstairs bathroom and glanced at the kitchen clock. Already a little past seven! If she kept dragging her feet, she’d be late for her shift at the mall.

He shrugged. Not my problem.

Ethan slowly pressed the plunger down on the French press. The grounds swirled through the water before being pushed to the bottom by the mesh. A tempting aroma rose from the brew. He poured himself a mug and nearly burned his tongue on the first sip.

“Much better,” he murmured as the bold taste spread across his mouth.

He turned toward the window above the sink and pulled back the curtain. Outside, the settlement was slowly coming to life. Under the dull glow of the streetlamps, Ethan could see neighbors walking their dogs and parents getting their kids ready for school. A few houses still had Christmas lights up, even though the holiday had been nearly a month ago.

He took another sip of coffee and smiled. He still remembered getting Robyn ready for school with his ex-wife—either he’d drive her there on his way to the station, or Claudia would drop her off on the way to her office downtown.

His wife used to commute nearly an hour to her job and hated it. Almost as much as Ethan had hated living in a cramped city apartment surrounded by high-rises and constant noise. So when they were young and freshly married, they agreed to move out here to the suburbs and build a life together.

That had worked out for about ten years. Well, ‘worked out’ was relative. Sure, they’d had their issues, and he hadn’t always been thrilled by how often she made him feel like he was holding her back and her career ambitions down.

But there was Robyn, and they both loved her. It was only when Claudia was sure that her daughter and the husband she still cared about, though she could no longer tolerate his stubbornness and manage without her, that she left.

What would it be like if she were still here… not over there? Ethan looked toward the downtown skyline, rising like a mountain range on the horizon. Claudia worked in one of those towers. Ethan didn’t know whether she was currently in her office, closing the next big deal for the company that built and operated solar farms worldwide, or if she was off on another international trip to oversee a project. Maybe Robyn knew. She kept in touch with her mother more often than he did.

“Hey, what about the coffee? Can I have some too?”

Ethan blinked, startled. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed Robyn coming down the stairs.

She had tied her dirty blonde hair into a short ponytail and wore an oversized maroon hoodie, loose-fitting jeans, and white sneakers with such thick soles she could probably walk across a bed of nails without feeling it. She shuffled toward the fridge, pulled out a carton of milk, grabbed a bowl from the half-open dishwasher, and tucked a box of cornflakes under her arm before plopping down at the small kitchen table.

Ethan slid a cup and the French press over to her. “But only if you appreciate this fine beverage,” he warned, nodding toward the milk. “Don’t even think about watering it down with that stuff.”

Robyn set the milk and bowl on the table, dumped the cereal into the bowl, and poured the milk. Then she yawned—and somehow shoveled the first spoonful of flakes into her mouth mid-yawn without ever fully closing it again.

“Don’t worry. I need it black today to even get moving.”

After she filled her cup, only a little coffee was left in the press. Ethan poured it into his half-empty mug.

“That was the last of our supply. We might be out for a while. We could still grind up the beans we bought for the espresso machine…”

“Ugh, no way!” Robyn made a face. “How old are those things? I wasn’t even drinking coffee when you bought them.”

Ethan shrugged. “There’s nothing in the stores. No grounds, no beans. Maybe those freeze-dried crystals, but honestly, you might as well pour hot water over dirt.”

And yet, people would probably fight over them. Just like with canned tropical fruit, which hadn’t been available for three months now, unless you were willing to pay prices that were nothing short of insane.

The increasing environmental catastrophes—floods and earthquakes—had hit the Global South especially hard and brought supply chains to a standstill. Anything produced domestically still made it to the shelves somehow. Everything else had become a luxury item—or disappeared entirely.

“Mmm,” Robyn said, slurping loudly. “See? I’m savoring it. I want to remember this taste in case it really is the last cup of coffee I ever have!”

Ethan chuckled softly, even though he didn’t really feel like laughing. Robyn was young, mid-twenties. She was smart, but sometimes she seemed to forget that. Ethan thought you could tell just by how she dressed: even though she wasn’t a teenager anymore, she still dressed like one.

Sure, it had to do with her job. The casual look fit the brand and the youthful customers at the sporting goods store where she always worked the shifts no one else wanted. But Ethan felt she was selling herself short. There was more to her than just a sales clerk.

He hoped it was just a phase, and she’d still decide to go to college one day. Maybe study art, like she’d wanted to when she was younger, before her mother left and upended her carefully structured life.

Ethan’s gaze fell on the fridge, where Robyn’s faded, self-drawn pictures, drawings from elementary and high school, still hung. He’d always admired her talent and wondered where she got it. He and Claudia had no artistic ability whatsoever. But, hey, people say two negatives make a positive, right? Maybe that was the explanation.

Instead of going to school, Robyn had spent the last few years working the kind of jobs most people did on the side: retail, waitressing… Once, she’d even painted an album cover for a friend’s band.

Not exactly lucrative. And even though many of her friends had already moved out and started their own lives, Robyn showed little interest in leaving the house she grew up in. Ethan was pretty sure it had more to do with the cost of living than with any great love for her dad.

She took after her mother in some ways, which frustrated Ethan doubly. Firstly, because of what it meant, and again, it reminded him of his ex and all their old fights.

“Speaking of memories…” The cop nodded toward the ­kitchen clock, now at 07:25. “Am I remembering right that you’re supposed to be at the mall by eight?”

Robyn looked up, her eyes going wide. “Crap! That’s gonna be close!” She gulped down the rest of her coffee and dashed into the hallway, grabbing her jacket and backpack.

“I’ll be home late tonight!” she called over her shoulder as she rushed toward the door. “Meeting up with Emma for a bite after my shift!”

“At the mall?”

“Yeah, she’s picking me up from the store. Later—or tomorrow, maybe!” she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

Ethan watched her run down the sidewalk toward the subway station, one arm half in her jacket, the other gripping her backpack. Then she was gone.

The cop glanced again at the clock and decided it was time for him to leave, too. He gathered up the dirty dishes and set them in the sink. He’d take care of them tonight, along with the dirty uniform.

If Robyn was hanging out with her old school friend Emma, it might actually be late. The girl came from one of the nicer neighborhoods and didn’t have to worry about money. She’d probably be happy to buy Robyn dinner—maybe even a cocktail or two, if Robyn wasn’t too proud to let her.

A grin spread across Ethan’s face as he locked the door behind him.

He’d just remembered: there was still coffee at the station.

And that meant the day was saved—for now.

Logan Boyce was in a bad mood.

Business at his import-export company had been struggling for months. Yet, in previous years, he had excelled at identifying what people abroad wanted, sourcing goods that he could purchase cheaply here and from producers in other countries who were eager to offload goods, allowing him to sell them domestically for a solid profit.

If you played it right.

And Logan always played it right. So well, in fact, that the company he’d started in a rented garage had grown steadily over fifteen years. Today, he owns multiple warehouses in the Metropolis Business Park near the industrial harbor.

Everything had been going great until the moon went haywire and plunged Logan into disaster. Natural disasters, floods, earthquakes… death tolls in the hundreds of thousands. Several companies he’d done business with in the Global South were wiped out by monstrous waves or swept away by violent tropical storms.

Since then, the domestic market had focused solely on essentials. No one was buying cheap plastic toys from Asia anymore, or packaged sweets from Central America, or canned Polish sauerkraut—aside from a few immigrant communities, maybe.

The shipping companies that used to bring in and haul away his well-stocked overseas containers had shut down after some of their ships ran into brutal storms and sank in waves the size of buildings.

Since the start of the year, everything seemed to have come to a complete halt. Logan could now only rely on the stock he had in his warehouses and try to sell it off as profitably as possible.

So yeah—he had every reason to be in a bad mood.

Whenever Logan was in a bad mood, he would leave his office on the upper floor of the warehouse, stroll across the mezzanine to the spiral staircase leading down to the back area of the main hall, and wander through the maze of shelves and pallets until his mood improved.

That didn’t help as much as it used to.

That’s why he had the tennis balls now.

Logan clenched his jaw. Capitalism had been such a beautiful thing! You came up with some dumb idea, produced it, ensured people wanted it, and paid big money for it. But that only worked when people weren’t worried about their future.

Global environmental disasters caused by the moon going off-course didn’t make for a healthy economic climate.

Whichever way you looked at it—everything was screwed up right now.

Time for the tennis ball, Logan thought. He reached into the right pocket of his leather vest. His rage had to go somewhere. So, he pulled the ball out and squeezed it as hard as possible.

Then he tensed his whole body and hurled the ball to the floor with all his strength.

The tennis ball slammed against the concrete and bounced high into the air.

Logan followed it with his eyes. At a height he estimated to be about five meters, gravity finally won, and the ball dropped—right into his outstretched hand.

The manager walked a few steps farther, and the game started again.

He’d been performing this ritual for about three weeks now. Sometimes, it took hours before his anger over the overall situation subsided. His employees had quickly learned it was best to leave him alone when he was like this.

Logan looked around. He’d wandered into the aisle filled with goods from India and Bangladesh without realizing it. The items stored here were difficult to sell these days, so he rarely came by to check what was still on the shelves.

But now, a few odd bundles caught his attention. They were pushed toward the back of a shelf and about the size of shoeboxes, although they were much more misshapen. They looked like someone had mashed together smaller packages and wrapped them in paper.

Logan pulled one of the odd packages toward him. It wasn’t heavy. Under the warehouse lighting, he could see the pale pink wrapping paper.

Unfamiliar Hindi characters—undecipherable to Logan—appeared to describe the contents in more detail. He had to search but eventually found a few Latin letters that revealed what was inside.

Logan grinned.

Even as he’d pulled the bundle forward, he’d noticed the spicy aroma it gave off. And once he read what it was, the situation in which he’d acquired this special product came flooding back.

He rechecked the shelf.

Yes, six of the packages that had arrived in that first overseas container from Bangladesh were still there. A gift from his business partners there: a total of three hundred small packets of something called beedies.

Beedies were dried plant leaves rolled around a perfumed tobacco mixture, tied off at one end with a string. They could be smoked like cigarettes, but were much stronger since they had no filters and were more like mini-cigars or cigarillos.

In Bangladesh, these smokes were widespread—over here, almost no one knew about them. And you couldn’t sell them legally without a tax stamp.

But it’s tobacco. And that will become scarce too, just like coffee, making it all the more valuable.

Logan immediately knew what to do with the bundles. He pulled a handheld radio from the inner pocket of his vest.

He always carried the device with him since the cell network had become unreliable—another side effect of that damned moon messing with communications satellites.

“Miller,” Logan said, holding down the transmit button. “Bring a large box to aisle 42. I’ve got something here that needs to be delivered to customer number 22-2806.”

A burst of static crackled from the speaker, then came Robert Miller’s voice:

“Copy that, boss. I’ll handle the delivery myself.”

Logan nodded with satisfaction. “Wouldn’t expect anything else. Boyce out.”

Miller was one of Logan’s warehouse clerks and had worked for him nearly as long as Logan had been in the business.

They were on the same wavelength, as the saying went. That’s why Miller knew full well that “customer number” didn’t mean a company or a retail store. The number sequence was code for a secret stash.

Logan had set up several of those when it became clear the world was sliding into an unprecedented crisis.

He’d hidden smaller and larger caches in garages, rental storage units, basement apartments, and even lodges outside the city.

That’s where he stored things he believed would rise in value in the future, like the beedies, which Miller would now deliver to an apartment near the city park where several large boxes were already stored: a selection of cheap booze and over-the-counter painkillers.

None of Logan’s employees knew about all the caches—not even Miller. Only Logan himself kept the complete list in his head.

That list might well save his life if things got any worse.

Logan noticed that his foul mood had actually lifted for a moment. That’s why he only lightly patted the tennis ball resting in his vest pocket as he strolled back toward his office.

The calming services of the ball were no longer needed, for now.

Dr. Richard Sonenberg relished the silence as he closed the maintenance room door behind him. He leaned back against the wall, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. That quiet was blissful!

The basement level of Metropolis City Hospital was off-limits to the public. Only with a special access chip could one unlock the doors to this floor or activate the corresponding elevator button to go down. And if you did run into anyone down here, it was likely just a few janitors—or the orderlies tasked with the unpleasant job of bringing deceased patients to the cold storage chambers, where they’d remain until the undertakers arrived.

The maintenance room where Richard now stood was located directly behind the room containing the refrigerated compartments. He could hear the low hum of the cooling unit, which radiated a mild warmth into the space. The soft hiss of the ventilation system carried the warm exhaust outside and brought fresh air back in.

But Richard found these sounds soothing, unlike the endless cries of pain from the injured in the emergency ward, next to the operating rooms where he had just finished his shift. That place rang with the yelling of spouses, the wailing of children, the sobbing and lamenting of relatives… a chorus of despair that rang in his ears every day, without pause.

So, Richard always felt an immense sense of relief when he could finally peel off his surgical gloves, toss them into the trash along with his face mask, and make his way to this small retreat he had carved out for himself, after a long search for just the right room.

The facility technicians left him alone here, even though they knew of his ‘secret’ refuge. Richard brought them a case of Scotch during the company holiday party once a year. He knew they had stashed it down here somewhere and occasionally helped themselves to a few glasses after their shifts.

He didn’t snitch on them, and they didn’t snitch on him. That was the deal.

Richard took off his white coat and tossed it over the back of a small couch, which he had brought in one night through the underground delivery ramp, used only by suppliers.

He’d brought in the rest of the furnishings the same way, like the two large terrariums, which stood on a table near the ventilation system.

Richard flipped on the lights inside the glass enclosures, and movement stirred within immediately. Startled by the sudden brightness, countless small creatures scurried over the soil, branches, and moss that lined the terrariums.

The doctor leaned in and watched them. “Well, my little friends? How are we doing today?”

Of course, the insects didn’t respond. Cockroaches weren’t great conversationalists. Neither were mealworms.

Richard pulled out a few wilted lettuce leaves from his coat that he’d snagged from the cafeteria earlier that afternoon. The buffet had been practically picked clean. No one noticed that he grabbed a bit from the salad bar.

He tossed the greens into both enclosures and watched as the roaches and worms pounced on the food. Within seconds, they had devoured everything.

Feeling reassured, Richard flopped onto the couch. With his arms folded behind his head, he gazed up at the ceiling, where the brown edges of a large water stain had formed. There must have been a leak here at some point. He hoped it hadn’t been a sewage pipe.

Whatever. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to relax. He didn’t have much time. Another surgery was scheduled in thirty minutes. An amputation, if he remembered correctly.

Usually, the doctor didn’t know much about the backstories of the people who ended up on his operating table. But this time, he had been there when the young man was admitted, the one whose lower left leg he would soon have to remove.

The guy wasn’t even twenty and apparently belonged to a street gang from one of the city’s poorer districts. He’d been shot in the lower leg during a firefight with a rival gang. The bullet had passed clean through, but the wound had become infected.

The injured man hadn’t sought treatment, likely out of fear of doctors or the police, and the antibiotics his gang buddies had given him had probably expired years ago and done nothing.

Now, the gangrene had eaten through the flesh, and the lower leg couldn’t be saved.

Richard felt no sympathy for the boy. He couldn’t afford to, not in this line of work, especially in times like these.

With the rising hysteria about the end of the world, violent crime spiked. More victims meant more people flooding the ER and operating rooms, where Richard and his colleagues had to deal with them.

Hospital beds had been in short supply for months. Patients were often parked on mobile stretchers in the hallways.

Medications were running out, too. Painkillers, fever reducers, antibiotics—all increasingly rare. Even basic bandages were getting hard to come by.

Richard had seen it coming. As soon as it became clear something was wrong with the moon, he started setting aside the good stuff whenever he had the chance.

If a patient were supposed to get opioids, Richard would note in the file that two pills had been administered, but only give them one. The other he’d slip into a Ziploc bag he always carried in his lab coat. And he did the same with other medications.

By now, Richard had built up an impressive stash. It was stored safely in the compartment beneath the seat of the couch he was lying on. Well hidden. His reserve for the hard times he was sure were coming.

That’s why he was breeding the roaches and ­mealworms.

Whatever happened to the world, these insects would find a way to survive. Didn’t people say cockroaches could even make it through a nuclear war?

Most people failed to realize that insects were an excellent source of protein.

In the Western world, eating bugs was frowned upon, even considered disgusting. But everywhere else, people had been snacking on them forever—fried, freeze-dried, whatever.

They didn’t taste great, and you had to chew them thoroughly… but if it came down to starving or eating bugs, well, it was time to let go of some prejudices, wasn’t it?

The terrariums helped Richard figure out what conditions made the insects thrive, what they liked to eat, and what temperatures boosted their growth.

The warmth from the cooling system seemed to help with reproduction. The mealworms preferred vegetables, fruit, and grain-based foods.

The cockroaches, on the other hand, ate pretty much anything they could chew through.

The surgeon was sure he could scale up the operation if necessary. But that time hadn’t come. Not yet.

Richard opened one eye and pulled his right arm out from beneath himself to check his watch. Damn—it was time to head back upstairs. Reluctantly, he sat up, pulled on his white coat, and turned to leave.

That’s when he felt a stray lettuce leaf in his pocket he’d missed.

Richard walked back over to the terrariums and pulled out the wilted leaf. “Who wants dessert?” he asked with a smirk before tearing it in half and tossing one piece to the mealworms and the other to the cockroaches.

He closed the lids, headed for the door, and flipped off the light as he left. He’d check in on the insects again after his shift.

For now, the bone saw was waiting.

When Ethan Cane arrived at the station, he quickly realized he’d gotten his hopes up too soon: Deputy Barnes informed him that the last of their coffee supply was gone here, too.

“Sorry, Sheriff. Looks like we’ll have to start making it through the day without the stuff.” Charlene Barnes gave him an apologetic smile as she noticed his disappointed expression. The red-haired woman in her mid-forties, with her pretty face and short haircut, sat behind her desk stacked high with paperwork and gestured toward the kitchenette in the corner of the small police station. “We still have a bunch of herbal teas Brandon brought in ages ago, but never touched.”

Ethan made a face. “Might as well mow the front lawn and steep that. No thanks, Charly,” he grumbled as he squeezed through the narrow gap between the filing cabinets and the desk of his second deputy, Brandon Yates.

Behind that sat the door to Ethan’s office. As sheriff, he had his own room, while Barnes and Yates shared the front office area, which was separated from the public lobby by a chest-high wooden counter directly across from the main entrance.

Ethan usually kept his office door open. Officially, he was in charge, but he got along well enough with his deputies that he didn’t need to throw his weight around.

He sat down and booted up the computer. A few handwritten reports still needed to be typed up, and since the station didn’t have a secretary, that task fell to each officer, including the sheriff.

Ethan frowned when he looked at the duty roster tacked to a bulletin board beside his desk.

“Where’s Brandon, anyway? He’s supposed to be on shift, but I don’t see his civvies on the hook or any patrol cars missing.”