Another survivor exists.
lon Musk discovered this right after killing the first zombie and securing the Water Module.
“Soone’s in the Workshop Module?”
lon’s expression twisted in disbelief.
“That’s impossible. They’re all dead. Every single one of them—except !”
When asked if it could be a stowaway, lon vehently denied it.
“Impossible. Even the most skilled stowaway couldn’t hide in this sealed space for half a year without being spotted by six other people.”
One user, ohio, suggested:
ohio: “How about closing all the shutters for now?”
Following the suggestion, lon sealed the shutters of both the Living Module and the Water Module. As the shutters descended, spreading the dark, viscous zombie blood into spherical droplets in zero gravity, we all stared at the circular window of the Workshop Module, waiting.
But nothing appeared at the window again.
Still, the fact remained—soone had appeared there.
lon Musk was visibly shaken. The thrill of killing a zombie and the fear sparked by an unknown survivor were too much for his weakened body to handle. He slumped against a wall, nibbling on newly secured space rations to recover his strength.
Despite his exhaustion, his attention-seeking nature persisted. As he ate, he rambled about how the space food was made, the thods involved, and how it tasted.
While lon recovered, the Viva! Apocalypse! chat buzzed with wild speculation about the mysterious survivor.
The dominant theory? A stowaway.
If, as lon claid, all the crew mbers were dead, then the only explanation was that soone had hidden aboard.
But how could anyone sneak onto the Plus Ultra, traversing tens of thousands of kiloters through the vacuum of space at -270°C?
Vension: “Maybe one of the crew secretly brought along a family mber. If they conspired to hide soone without telling lon, it would make sense.”
lon rebutted this theory, explaining that for six months prior to the incident, all food, water, and supplies were strictly monitored. Furthermore, the CCTV feed we were watching was equipped with facial recognition technology—directly sourced from China.
“And you know how good they are at that stuff, right?” lon added with a hint of pride.
So users proposed an alternative:
Jekyll: “What if it’s a zombie? Maybe it just looks human because of the lighting or so coincidence.”
lon Musk dismissed this but decided to wait and see. For now, recovering his strength and resupplying his nutrients took priority.
Thus, the space mukbang began.
lon’s appetite exceeded my expectations. For quite a while, he diligently devoured space rations, chewing with gusto. Finally, he patted his stomach and stood up.
“Alright, ti to find out who—or what—they are.”
lon operated the computer terminal to analyze the recorded face from the cara.
“What the…?”
His reaction was imdiate—he recoiled from the screen in shock.
“Donald?!”
He leaned back toward the monitor, practically pressing his face to the screen to confirm.
“It’s him. It’s Donald. The sa Donald who said he couldn’t work with and left for space!”
We couldn’t answer why Donald was there.
We weren’t on the Plus Ultra. We didn’t know the environnt or how external access worked. That mystery was for lon to solve.
After pacing around, lon seed to piece sothing together. He nodded to himself and murmured:
“He must’ve cut the lifeline and jumped straight to the Workshop Module. From my perspective, it looked like he drifted into space, but with the Plus Ultra’s donut-shaped structure, he must’ve moved to another module and entered through its hatch.”
The mystery unraveled surprisingly quickly. The real issue was what ca next.
“Donald. What’s he planning…? Oh no.”
lon’s body trembled.
“He’s going to take the rocket and return to Earth—alone!”
The chat erupted with questions:
“Isn’t the return rocket secured with strict protocols?”
lon nodded.
“It is. But before he went into space, I gave Donald the Master Key. Why? To repair the communication system. He fixed it, and that’s why I can talk to all of you now.”
lon hadn’t yet considered the possibility that Donald had killed the other crew mbers. Soone needed to bring him back to reality.
I contacted Defender via the communicator.
“The zombie’s state doesn’t look like the work of a mutation. It seems more like it was stabbed or attacked by a person. Based on what I’ve seen, aside from one exception, the other zombies might’ve been killed by soone too. That ‘soone’ is probably Donald.”
Defender’s response was blunt:
“Why are you telling this?”
“?”
“Post it in the chat! It’s a great observation. Don’t you want the recognition, Skelton?”
“N-no! I… I can’t post in the chat right now.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
Defender relayed my theory to lon through his account:
Defender: “lon! The zombie you killed earlier doesn’t look like it was attacked by a mutation. It seems like soone killed it—most likely Donald.”
lon was shocked but not as much as when he first learned of Donald’s survival. Gradually, his expression shifted to one of grim realization.
“Damn it. It was Donald all along. The communication failure… Bumpy’s rampage… the engineers’ deaths…”
He clutched his head and curled up like a child.
“Damn it! Donald orchestrated everything!”
His pale face was filled with panic as he bit his thumbnail.
“He’s coming to kill next!”
The chat demanded to know why.
“Of course! He can’t leave with the rocket.”
lon explained that the return rocket, the Plus Ultra’s most vital asset, was secured with multiple layers of security. The Master Key was one of them.
“Even with the Master Key, the rocket can’t be activated imdiately. The screen Donald will see when he tries to launch it will say, ‘Initiating orbit calculation.’
“Sounds reasonable, right? Even in space, a rocket needs the right trajectory and timing to reach its destination on Earth.
“When Donald first inserted the Master Key, the countdown he would’ve seen was 7 days and 12 hours. That’s because… I programd it that way.”
lon Musk let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
"But even when that countdown finishes, the rocket won’t launch. Want to know why? Because it requires confirmation that I’m alive. Without , it won’t move."
He muttered to himself:
"I planned for betrayal. This security asure ensures that even if soone kills , they’ll never make it back to Earth. They’ll be dood to drift forever, becoming cosmic dust."
The problem, however, was that the countdown was nearly up.
"…There’s about three hours left."
In three hours, Donald McGarry would realize the trap lon had set.
"He’ll co to kill . Maybe even torture ."
lon’s face turned pale as he nervously bit his nails.
"That guy… There were rumors back in his special forces days that he’d do 'canoeing' on Taliban fighters—blowing holes into people’s skulls with gunfire..."
The chat fell silent as everyone’s eyes turned to the screen's lower-left corner.
One of the six CCTV feeds—specifically, the one focused on the Workshop Module entrance—showed a shadow once again.
The shadow took form.
It was Donald McGarry.
The man, who had likely killed every engineer except for one, pressed his face close to the window, his rciless blue eyes darting back and forth as if searching for sothing.
Even through the screen, his expression was clear—displeasure, confusion, and growing irritation.
As lon had predicted, Donald had started to suspect sothing.
He realized that the rocket, his only way back to Earth, wasn’t functioning as it should.
Donald wasn’t part of Viva! Apocalypse!—a small blessing for both us and lon. But lon’s ti was running out.
"How do I deal with him? Isn’t there so way to ss with him, like I did with the zombies?"
lon, far more desperate than before, actively sought help.
Objectively, the situation was grim.
The thod that worked on zombies wouldn’t apply here—Donald was alive, stronger than lon, and a trained soldier.
Even without a gun, Donald could easily overpower lon, torture him for the Master Key, or kill him out of sheer amusent.
Theoretically, Donald might realize his mistake and reconcile with lon, but the odds of that happening were as slim as finding breathable air in the vacuum of space.
Three hours.
As the final countdown ticked away, the Viva! Apocalypse! users brainstord frantically to save lon.
Yet, most suggestions were impractical, requiring risks that the fragile lon simply couldn’t take.
The most viable option was to eject the Workshop Module from the Plus Ultra entirely, but that would leave lon adrift in space forever.
Sure, lon’s company might send another rocket to rescue him soday, but the chances of that were even slimr than lon defeating Donald in hand-to-hand combat.
Ti flew by in the rising tension. One hour passed, then two.
The chat continued to fill with user suggestions:
ohio: "Turn an oxygen tank into a flathrower. Ignite it as soon as Donald steps in."
Daniel Flix: "What about the net strategy? It worked on the zombies. If you throw it just right..."
dongtanmom: "Yum."
HashireV4: "Why not use the vacuum of space? Secure yourself with a tether and open the external hatch to eject him into space."
X’Ds_Grrrrr: "Lure him into the Mutation’s room. Sure, you might die, but it’s a 50/50 chance, right?"
mmmmmmmmm: "What if we exploit the incline?"
None of the ideas were promising.
lon, his energy drained, rely stared blankly at the chat, unable to muster the strength to argue.
There had to be another way.
Sothing to help the helpless lon defeat that murderous Donald.
I stared at the CCTV feeds again, hoping for inspiration. The environnt was already familiar, but perhaps there was sothing new to spot.
And then I saw it—a massive, brown, furry mass clinging to the skeletal frawork like a spine.
Bumpy.
The mutated sloth, once deed the root of all evil aboard the Plus Ultra.
Motionless, like any good sloth, the massive creature lood silently. As I stared at it, a sudden thought struck .
What if Bumpy wasn’t the bad guy?
What if Bumpy was actually friendly, a potential ally to lon?
Like the bond I had with Gold, or the cat mom with her designer-brand-nad felines.
Maybe the solution lay there—with Bumpy.
But first, I had another problem to solve.
Click-clack.
[Would you like to request unban privileges?]
Click-clack.
SKELTON: YES.
Click-clack.
SKELTON: YES.
A video chat window opened.
On the screen was a dimly lit office. A woman in a suit sat silhouetted against the light, her piercing gaze fixed on .
It was her—the Viva! Apocalypse! mod who had banned .
She leaned forward, typing:
VIVA_BOT014: "Explain yourself, Skelton. Why should I lift your ban after three counts of disruptive behavior?"
I typed back:
SKELTON: "I’ve found a way to save lon."
The woman crossed her legs the other way, her expression sharp.
VIVA_BOT014: "It’s not just about the thod. It’s about your credibility. Who are you?"
She leaned closer, her face now fully visible—a striking mix of Asian and Western features, no older than her early twenties.
Her face was pretty enough, but her dominant expression was one of contempt.
She looked down on .
I removed my cap—a $69 black one from my beatboxing days—and stared at my phone, synced to the Obelisk system.
Click-clack.
SKELTON: "How do I prove it?"
The woman, in slightly broken Korean, spoke:
"Are you a hunter?"
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