L*st and Death

50 minutes before the scheduled explosion, in the corridor connecting the research lab and the cafeteria.

Standing in a puddle of bloodstained water, Isaac bent down and picked up a rifle that had fallen to the floor. Its owner lay face-down with a bullet hole through his skull. Bone fragments and brain matter were scattered along the trajectory of the bullet. Without a doubt, the man had lost all brain function before he could even register pain.

Isaac removed the magazine from the rifle clenched in the corpse’s stiff fingers and shoved it into his back pocket, then stepped over the body and kept moving.

With every step, each time he shifted his weight onto the ground, muscles long unused creaked in protest. Isaac ignored the throbbing pain in his lower body and pushed open the cafeteria door.

Inside, Siron stood aiming a gun at the door, eyes sharp with suspicion.

“D-Don’t move—huh? Isaac!”

Shock and alarm washed over his face—followed immediately by a mix of certainty and suspicion.

“I knew it! You could walk, couldn’t you?”

Isaac gently pushed the barrel of the gun aside with his fingertip and answered,

“Lucky me, recovering at just the right moment.”

The truth was that his spinal cord had healed long ago. He’d only pretended otherwise to avoid being branded as a high-risk subject. He hadn’t even hesitated to inject paralytics directly into his spinal nerves to maintain the ruse.

Siron stared at him, eyes still full of doubt, then reluctantly changed the subject.

“It’s loud outside. ...There was gunfire, wasn’t there?”

It had been less of a gunfight and more of a one-sided slaughter by snipers, but Isaac nodded calmly.

“Things here seem to be well in hand.”

Alphas were collapsed all around—on the floor, beside tables, even by the entrances. Most were unconscious, though a few were still faintly aware. Isaac looked down dispassionately at the alphas blinking sluggishly like fish, trapped in paralyzed bodies.

“The drug worked well. How many are down in here?”

“Thirty-one.”

There were 31 alphas unconscious in the cafeteria, and 14 more whom Isaac had dealt with outside. According to Siron’s previous count, the island had 52 alphas in total. That meant only 7 were still roaming free.

Isaac and Siron passed through the kitchen and entered the storage room. Inside a temporary space partitioned off by a wall, an older woman lay in a deep, deathlike sleep. Siron looked uneasy, as though he wanted to say something about her, but Isaac pressed forward into the storage area.

On the shelves of the cold storage unit were rifles, radios, and other items Siron had confiscated from the alphas. Their teamwork was amateurish, but their weapons were solid. They were armed with MP5Ks and HK415s—the kind favored by counterterror and rapid-response units around the world.

Isaac removed some magazines and stuffed them into his bag, then gathered useful supplies and exited out the back with Siron.

Instead of taking the dimly lit walkway, they moved toward the lab through a pitch-dark back path. Off in the distance, clothing appeared to be strewn across the pavement. But they were no actors faking death—they were real corpses, fallen from gunfire. Siron focused solely on following Isaac, afraid the scene would haunt his dreams.

The place they arrived at was a laboratory at the far end of the fourth-floor hallway. This was the rendezvous point previously arranged between Isaac, Siron, and Baekgyeong—the designated site for disarming the bombs.

“I’ll be right back.”

“What? ...The bomb’s going to go off soon.”

“I won’t be long. There’s something I need to retrieve.”

“W-What is it? Should I come with you?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. Stay here.”

Isaac put special emphasis on the words stay here. And it was during his brief absence that the bomb at the power plant went off. No matter how far away it was, no matter how violently the wind and rain screamed like beasts, the overwhelming force of the explosion couldn’t be hidden. The windows shook so violently it seemed they’d shatter, and then came the earsplitting roar of the blast.

Siron rushed to the window and yanked the blinds open. What he saw was a towering pillar of flame, so bright it could be seen from afar.

Stunned by the sheer scale of the blast, Siron soon realized that all the island’s lights had gone out. Only the inferno, burning like a second sun, remained as the sole source of light. But the massive burst of energy at the moment of explosion rapidly consumed its fuel, and the blaze soon dwindled from a noonday sun to a torch illuminating the night.

He moved to the west-facing window. The satellite tower that had stood tall near the island’s western edge had gone completely dark. Isaac returned not long after, drenched from head to toe. He pulled a flashlight from his back pocket, dimmed its brightness, and handed it to Siron.

“Can you check if the countdown has been activated?”

Siron carefully examined the bomb locked around Isaac’s neck. On the smooth surface of the tube-like device was a shallow groove, and next to it, a small LCD screen displaying four digits. Like the display on a bank’s OTP security card, the digital numbers shifted by the second—simple, clear, and cold.

“It’s really running. Sixteen minutes and twelve seconds left... until it explodes.”

Siron nervously ran a hand through his hair.

“Where the hell is Baekgyeong? There’s barely any time left.”

Isaac pulled a black object wrapped in plastic from his bag. It looked like a hybrid of a radio and a DIY walkie-talkie—an EMP device meant to disrupt electronic systems.

“Will it work?”

“It stopped my phone. But I can’t give you a hundred percent... guarantee that it’ll unlock the bomb.”

Before he could finish, thunderous footsteps echoed down the hall.

Baekgyeong burst through the door like he was going to rip the building apart. Steam rose from his rain-soaked body, radiating heat.

Panting like a marathon runner, he barely managed to lift his head and ask,

“Is the countdown started?”

“Yeah. Only twelve minutes left.”

“That piece-of-shit machine—this is the bomb disarming device you were talking about?”

Baekgyeong approached and shined his flashlight on the crude DIY contraption.

“Probably.”

“‘Probably’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can’t be certain. I believe it’ll disarm the bomb. But if I’m wrong, your head’ll blow off.”

“Are you insane? You started all this without being sure?”

“Too late for regrets now. Time’s still ticking.”

Baekgyeong went quiet for a moment, then spoke with grim resolve.

“Give it. I’ll go first.”

But Isaac refused flatly.

“I’ll do it first. You take Siron out to the hallway. If this thing goes off, you could get caught in the blast.”

Siron and Baekgyeong exited to the hall. Siron, without realizing, was gripping Baekgyeong’s arm tightly. Outside, the storm raged so loud it felt like they were inside a giant drum—but inside Siron’s mind, it was strangely calm. Then, faint and irregular, came a soft electronic tone.

No explosion followed.

Both Siron and Baekgyeong’s faces lit up with relief. Siron exhaled in a shaky breath and quickly let go of Baekgyeong’s arm, which he’d been clinging to in desperation. When they entered the lab again, they saw Isaac removing the deactivated bomb from his neck.

“It worked!”

Siron ran to him, voice thick with emotion.

“We’re alive. We’re really alive!”

For someone who had never once crossed the emotional chasm between them, the joy in Siron’s voice was nearly unbelievable. Isaac stepped forward, trying to see Siron’s face more clearly in the dim light, but Baekgyeong blocked his path.

“My turn. Hand it over.”

With a tense expression, Baekgyeong reached out his hand. Isaac, after a brief moment of hesitation, passed him the EMP device.

“You hesitated. You weren’t sure you wanted to give it to me, right?”

“I can’t say you’re wrong.”

Baekgyeong glared at Isaac with all the force he could muster, then grudgingly calmed himself and took the crude device in hand.

“How does it work?”

“Touch the bomb casing. There’s a shallow groove. Bring the antenna close to that, then press the button in the center of the radio.”

Baekgyeong followed the instructions without delay. He stood, waiting anxiously for the sound of the bomb disarming—but nothing happened.

“What the hell... Why isn’t it working?”

Siron, voice tight as if his throat were being squeezed, asked,

“Hey, you! D-Did you do it right?”

“I did! I did exactly what you said! Bazelli! This is the right button, right?”

He shone his flashlight on the device and held it out toward Isaac. Isaac glanced at it lazily and replied.

“Yeah.”

Baekgyeong took a deep breath and tried again—bringing the antenna to the groove and pressing the button with deliberate care.

Still, nothing.

Siron and Baekgyeong stared at him, waiting for an answer.

Isaac finally spoke.

“Well. Looks like the battery’s dead.”

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