The temperature dropped faster than anyone had predicted. Ethan watched it happen from the safety of his bunker, monitoring news feeds on his laptop as the world above descended into chaos.
Day one of the freeze, November 20th, started with confusion. Meteorologists couldn't explain why temperatures had plummeted thirty degrees overnight. News anchors laughed nervously, making jokes about early winter while showing footage of stunned commuters scraping ice off their cars in the predawn darkness.
By noon, the laughter had stopped.
The temperature kept dropping. Fifty degrees below normal. Sixty. Systems that weren't designed for such extreme cold began failing. Power grids strained under the unprecedented demand for heating. Water pipes burst in buildings across the city. Cars stalled on highways, their fuel lines frozen solid.
Ethan sat in his command center, a room he'd set up with multiple monitors displaying different news channels and weather data. He sipped hot coffee, warm and comfortable in his climate-controlled bunker, while watching civilization begin its collapse.
The news showed crowds forming at grocery stores, people fighting over the last supplies of food and bottled water. Police tried to maintain order but were overwhelmed by the sheer number of desperate shoppers. Within hours, the looting started.
Ethan switched channels. A reporter stood outside a hospital, her breath forming thick clouds in the frigid air. "Hospitals across the region are reporting a massive influx of hypothermia cases. Emergency rooms are at capacity, and officials are urging people to stay indoors and conserve heat."
Another channel showed highways gridlocked with abandoned vehicles. A traffic helicopter provided aerial footage of thousands of cars sitting motionless, their occupants either fled or frozen inside. The reporter's voice was grim. "Rescue crews are working to reach stranded motorists, but the extreme cold is making operations nearly impossible. We're receiving reports that many people are not surviving the wait."
Ethan's phone, which he'd kept charged and connected to a satellite link, buzzed with messages. He'd unblocked the Chen family numbers just to see what they would say. The messages didn't disappoint.
Margaret: "Ethan, please. The power is out and we're freezing. We need help. I know we didn't part on good terms but you can't leave us like this."
Dylan: "Come on man, this is life and death. Whatever happened between us, we're still family. Tell us where your bunker is. There's room for us, right?"
Robert: "Ethan, I'm begging you. Your mother and brother are in danger. The house is too cold. We need somewhere safe. Please respond."
Jessica: "Ethan, I know I hurt you but Dylan is sick. The cold is too much for him. Please, if you ever cared about me, help us."
Ethan read each message carefully, then set the phone down without responding. He felt nothing. No sympathy, no guilt, not even satisfaction yet. Just a cold detachment, like watching strangers in a documentary about some distant tragedy.
They'd made their choices. Now they would live with the consequences.
By day two, the government declared a state of emergency. The president appeared on television, his face drawn with exhaustion, and announced that the National Guard was being mobilized. Emergency shelters were being set up in schools and community centers. Citizens were urged to remain calm and await assistance.
Ethan knew how well that would work. He'd lived through this before, in his previous timeline. The shelters would fail within a week. There weren't enough generators, enough fuel, enough supplies to keep people warm and fed. The government's response would be too little, too late.
He watched the news coverage of families lining up outside shelters, children crying in their parents' arms, elderly people struggling to walk through knee-deep snow that had begun falling in thick, relentless waves. The shelters accepted as many as they could, then closed their doors on the rest.
The ones left outside didn't last long.
More messages flooded his phone. The Chen family was becoming increasingly desperate.
Margaret: "The National Guard told us the shelter is full. They turned us away. Ethan, please. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for how we treated you. Just tell us where you are."
Dylan: "I can't feel my feet anymore. Jessica is unconscious. Dad is trying to keep a fire going in the fireplace but we're running out of things to burn. Please, Ethan. I'm begging you."
Robert: "We burned all the furniture. We're wearing every piece of clothing we own. The temperature inside the house is below freezing. Margaret is talking about burning the family photos, the albums from when you were young. Please, son. Don't let us die like this."
Ethan paused at that last message. Son. Robert hadn't called him that in years. It was manipulation, obviously, a desperate attempt to appeal to emotions that no longer existed. But the mention of the photo albums triggered a memory.
He remembered being eight years old, sitting with Margaret on the couch, looking through an album together. She'd pointed to a picture of him on his first day with the family, small and frightened in clothes that didn't quite fit. "You were so scared," she'd said, laughing gently. "But look how happy you became. You're our miracle, Ethan."
He'd believed her then. Believed he was wanted, loved, valued.
The memory should have hurt. Instead, it just felt empty, like something that had happened to someone else.
Ethan deleted the messages and went to check his supplies. The bunker's food storage was immaculate, organized with military precision. He had enough freeze-dried meals, canned goods, and preserved foods to last five years if necessary. The water filtration system hummed quietly, purifying and recycling every drop. The air was clean, warm, and perfectly breathable.
He prepared himself a hot meal, chicken and rice with vegetables, and ate it slowly while watching the world end on his monitors.
By day three, society was collapsing in earnest. The news showed footage of riots in major cities. People were breaking into homes, fighting over resources, doing whatever it took to survive. Police had largely given up trying to maintain order, focusing instead on protecting government buildings and essential infrastructure.
Not that it mattered. The infrastructure was failing anyway.
Power plants were shutting down, unable to operate in the extreme cold. The electrical grid, already strained beyond capacity, began failing in sections. Whole neighborhoods went dark. Without electricity, heating systems stopped working. Without heating, people died.
The death toll climbed into the thousands, then tens of thousands. Hospitals were overwhelmed, then abandoned as staff fled to be with their families. Bodies accumulated in the streets, frozen solid, too many to collect.
Ethan watched a news broadcast from a reporter who'd set up in what looked like a makeshift shelter, somewhere with a backup generator still running. The woman's face was haunted, her voice shaking. "If anyone is listening, if anyone can help, we need supplies. We need heat. We have children here, babies. Please, if there's anyone out there with resources, we're located at,"
The feed was cut out. The generator must have failed.
Ethan switched channels. Most stations were off the air now. Only a handful remained, broadcasting on emergency power. One showed a government official standing in what looked like a bunker similar to Ethan's, though larger and more official. The man was reading from a prepared statement.
"The president and key congressional leaders have been relocated to secure facilities. We are working around the clock to address this crisis. Citizens should remain in their homes, conserve resources, and await further instructions. Help is coming."
It wasn't. Ethan knew it wasn't. This wasn't a disaster that could be solved with aid packages and rescue teams. This was the end of the world as they knew it, and no amount of government intervention would stop it.
His phone buzzed. More messages from the Chens, though these ones were different in tone.
Margaret: "We tried to reach your bunker. Robert remembered the address from the real estate transaction. We drove as far as we could but the car died. We're walking now. It's so cold. Please, if you're reading these, we're coming. We're family. You have to let us in."
Ethan sat up straight, his calm evaporating into sharp focus. They were trying to reach him. They'd somehow gotten the address of the property and were attempting to get here.
He pulled up the security cameras he'd installed around the perimeter of his property. The screens showed nothing but snow and darkness. The storm had intensified, visibility was near zero. If the Chens were really out there trying to walk seventy miles through a blizzard in subzero temperatures, they wouldn't make it.
Good.
But a small part of him, some remnant of the person he'd been before his first death, felt a flicker of something. Not sympathy exactly, but curiosity. He pulled up the thermal imaging cameras, the ones that could detect heat signatures through the snow.
Nothing. The landscape was empty except for wildlife, small animals desperately seeking shelter.
Ethan relaxed slightly. They'd either given up or died trying. Either way, they wouldn't reach him.
Another message arrived, this one from Dylan: "Found a car with keys still in it. We're driving again. We're going to make it, Ethan. And when we do, you're going to let us in. You owe us that much."
Ethan's jaw tightened. The entitlement in that message, the assumption that he owed them anything after everything they'd done, ignited something dark in his chest.
He typed a response, his first communication with them since the freeze began: "I owe you nothing. I died in the cold once because of you. I won't make the same mistake twice. Stay away from my property."
He hit send and watched the message deliver. Then he pulled up his security systems, checking the perimeter defenses he'd installed. Motion sensors, cameras, and most importantly, the reinforced gate with its electronic locks. Even if they somehow made it to his property, they wouldn't get through.