Aris
The name hits my mind like a bullet. Caelan Huxley.
Back in my apartment, the city’s oblivious hum a distant mockery, I pull up everything I can find on Vanguard Solutions. The public profile is sterile, corporate. They specialize in logistics, security, and risk mitigation for Fortune 500 companies. The real story, the one I remember from whispered rumors in survivor camps, is that they build black sites. Fortresses for corporations and paranoid billionaires.
I find the number for their headquarters. I know I won’t get through. But I have to try.
A crisp, professional voice answers on the first ring. “Vanguard Solutions, this is Evelyn speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“I need to speak with Caelan Huxley,” I say, my voice steady. I’ve practiced this. Pitch it low, confident.
“Mr. Huxley does not take unsolicited calls. May I ask the nature of your business?” Her tone is polite but impenetrable, a velvet-covered steel wall.
“My name is Dr. Aris Thorne. I’m representing a private investment consortium. We have a proposal for a large-scale continuity project.” I use their language. ‘Continuity’ is the corporate euphemism for apocalypse planning.
There’s a pause. I can hear the soft clicking of a keyboard. She’s looking me up. She’ll find my research history with Aethel. Respectable, but not nearly enough to warrant a direct line to the CEO.
“I see, Dr. Thorne. While we appreciate your interest, all such proposals must be submitted through our acquisitions department. I can give you that email address.”
Dismissal. A dead end. My heart sinks.
“Evelyn,” I say, changing tactics. I let a sliver of the ice I feel seep into my voice. “My clients are not interested in the acquisitions department. They are interested in Mr. Huxley’s specific expertise in subterranean construction and long-term supply chain autonomy. This project has a preliminary budget of nine figures and a timeline that is non-negotiable.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“The proposal,” I continue, pressing the advantage, “includes predictive modeling for cascading infrastructure failures that your current risk-assessment algorithms are not accounting for. Specifically, the fragility of the North American power grid in the face of a cascading viral outbreak.”
The silence on her end is absolute. I’ve said a magic word. Not ‘virus’. ‘Cascading’. It implies I know something about his business. Something specific.
“Hold, please,” she says, her tone no longer polite. It’s sharp.
I wait for three minutes that feel like three years. My hand grips the phone, knuckles white. This is it. The entire plan hinges on this woman’s decision.
“Mr. Huxley’s schedule is quite full,” she says, her voice returning, now laced with a professional curiosity. “But he has a cancellation tomorrow. Ten a.m. Can you be at our downtown office?”
“I’ll be there,” I say, my voice betraying nothing of the tidal wave of relief washing over me.
“Bring your proposal,” she says, and hangs up.
I stare at the phone. Step one is complete. Now I have to walk into the lion’s den.
***
The Vanguard Solutions office is an exercise in minimalist intimidation. Polished concrete floors, black steel beams, and glass walls that offer a panoramic view of the city I’m trying to escape. There are no paintings, no plants. Just function and strength.
Evelyn, a woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that miss nothing, leads me to a conference room. Caelan Huxley is already there, standing by the window, his back to me.
He’s taller than I expected. His suit is tailored perfectly, but he wears it like it’s a temporary inconvenience. He moves with a stillness, a contained energy that screams military discipline, not corporate leadership.
He turns. His eyes are a startlingly pale gray, and they lock onto mine instantly, analytical and unblinking. There is not a shred of warmth in them. He doesn’t offer to shake my hand.
“Dr. Thorne,” he says. His voice is a low baritone. “You have thirty minutes.”
I place my encrypted tablet on the massive black table between us. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Huxley.”
He sits, gesturing for me to do the same. “Evelyn said you mentioned our risk-assessment algorithms. An interesting way to get my attention. Start there.”
“Your models are the best in the private sector,” I begin, bringing up the first file. “They account for economic collapse, natural disasters, conventional warfare. But they have a blind spot. They assume a baseline of societal function. They don’t account for a catalyst that removes ninety percent of the population and turns another five percent into predators.”
His expression doesn’t change, but a muscle in his jaw tightens. “That’s a bold and unsubstantiated claim.”
“It’s the core assumption of this project.” I slide the tablet across the table to him. “My clients have tasked me with developing a blueprint for a fully self-sustaining subterranean facility. One capable of housing two hundred individuals for a minimum of ten years, completely isolated from the outside world.”
He picks up the tablet, his fingers swiping through the pages. I watch his face, looking for any crack in the stoic facade. He’s silent for a long time, his eyes scanning the technical schematics, the supply chain logistics, the geological surveys of potential sites I’ve already flagged.
“This is not a proposal,” he finally says, looking up. His pale eyes are narrowed. “This is a finished blueprint. The engineering specs, the geothermal power requirements, the hydroponics, the air filtration systems… this is years of work.”
“My consortium is thorough,” I lie. Five years of scavenging for these exact details in a dead world was nothing if not thorough.
“Who are they?” he asks, the question sharp as a knife. “You list the funding source as a numbered Swiss holding company. That’s not a client. That’s a wall.”
“My clients value their privacy above all else,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Their anonymity is a non-negotiable condition.”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze intense. “So let me get this straight. You, a researcher from Aethel Corp with no independent profile to speak of, walk in here with a plan more detailed than most government continuity bunkers, backed by a nine-figure ghost, and you expect me to build it without knowing who I’m working for?”
“I expect you to recognize the brilliance of the plan,” I counter, my own resolve hardening. “Look at the supply chain projections. I’ve predicted the exact failure points of the pharmaceutical and manufacturing industries. The timeline for the collapse of the electrical grid. The contamination vectors for ninety-eight percent of North America’s surface water.”
He swipes to that section, his eyes moving faster now. I know what he’s seeing. He’s seeing data that is impossible to have. He’s seeing a detailed roadmap of the end of the world.
“Your predictions are… specific,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Uncannily so. Where is this intelligence coming from?”
“It comes from the best analytical minds on the planet,” I say, the lie tasting like ash. “The consortium has resources you can’t imagine.”
“I can imagine quite a bit, Doctor,” he says, a dangerous edge to his voice. He sets the tablet down gently. “What I can’t imagine is why these brilliant minds would send a biotech researcher to hire a security contractor. Why you?”
My breath catches in my throat. This is the question I feared most. The one I don’t have a good answer for.
“Because the primary threat vector is biological,” I say, forcing the words out. “They needed someone who understands the nature of the catalyst.”
He stands up and walks back to the window, staring down at the city below. “The risk is astronomical. Your anonymous clients could be anyone. A rival nation. A terrorist cell. A corporate entity looking to disappear its leadership after committing a global crime.”
My blood runs cold at how close he is to the truth.
“They are none of those things,” I say, my voice tight.
“How would I know that?” he shoots back, turning to face me. “You’re asking me to bet my entire company, my life’s work, on a ghost story. Vanguard does not take jobs without vetting our clients. We don’t build fortresses for shadows.”
“Then don’t see it as a job for them,” I plead, my composure finally cracking. I stand up, my hands gripping the back of the chair. “See it as a job for you. For your people. The proposal includes private wings for your core staff and their families. This isn’t just a shelter for my clients. It’s an ark for anyone smart enough to get on board.”
He stares at me, and for the first time, his analytical gaze softens into something else. He sees the desperation I’m trying to hide. He sees the fire. The raw, terrified certainty in my eyes.
“You believe this is going to happen,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.
I can only nod. Words fail me.
He walks back to the table and picks up the tablet one last time, his thumb hovering over the screen.
“My company was built on one principle, Dr. Thorne,” he says, his voice quiet. “Eliminating variables. And you… you are the single biggest variable I have ever encountered in my life.”
He looks from the tablet to my face. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken possibilities. My entire future, the future of anyone I might be able to save, hangs in this single moment, balanced on the decision of this one man.
“I need to review this with my internal team,” he says finally, his expression unreadable. “Evelyn will be in touch.”
It’s a dismissal. Not a yes, but not a no.
He doesn’t walk me out. He just stands there, holding the blueprint for survival in his hand, watching me as I turn and leave his office. The steel and glass door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
