Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 69.4: A Message from Space (4)

Another survivor exists.

Melon Musk discovered this right after killing the first zombie and securing the Water Module.

“Someone’s in the Workshop Module?”

Melon’s expression twisted in disbelief.

“That’s impossible. They’re all dead. Every single one of them—except me!”

When asked if it could be a stowaway, Melon vehemently 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, Melon 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—someone had appeared there.

Melon 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 methods involved, and how it tasted.

While Melon recovered, the Viva! Apocalypse! chat buzzed with wild speculation about the mysterious survivor.

The dominant theory? A stowaway.

If, as Melon claimed, all the crew members were dead, then the only explanation was that someone had hidden aboard.

But how could anyone sneak onto the Plus Ultra, traversing tens of thousands of kilometers through the vacuum of space at -270°C?

Vension: “Maybe one of the crew secretly brought along a family member. If they conspired to hide someone without telling Melon, it would make sense.”

Melon 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?” Melon added with a hint of pride.

Some users proposed an alternative:

Jekyll: “What if it’s a zombie? Maybe it just looks human because of the lighting or some coincidence.”

Melon 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.

Melon’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, time to find out who—or what—they are.”

Melon operated the computer terminal to analyze the recorded face from the camera.

“What the...?”

His reaction was immediate—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 same Donald who said he couldn’t work with me and left for space!”

We couldn’t answer why Donald was there.

We weren’t on the Plus Ultra. We didn’t know the environment or how external access worked. That mystery was for Melon to solve.

After pacing around, Melon seemed to piece something 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 came next.

“Donald. What’s he planning...? Oh no.”

Melon’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?”

Melon 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.”

Melon hadn’t yet considered the possibility that Donald had killed the other crew members. Someone 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 someone too. That ‘someone’ is probably Donald.”

Defender’s response was blunt:

“Why are you telling me 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 Melon through his account:

Defender: “Melon! The zombie you killed earlier doesn’t look like it was attacked by a mutation. It seems like someone killed it—most likely Donald.”

Melon 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 me next!”

The chat demanded to know why.

“Of course! He can’t leave with the rocket.”

Melon 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 immediately. 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 programmed it that way.”

Melon 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 me, it won’t move."

He muttered to himself:

"I planned for betrayal. This security measure ensures that even if someone kills me, they’ll never make it back to Earth. They’ll be doomed 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 Melon had set.

"He’ll come to kill me. Maybe even torture me."

Melon’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 merciless blue eyes darting back and forth as if searching for something.

Even through the screen, his expression was clear—displeasure, confusion, and growing irritation.

As Melon had predicted, Donald had started to suspect something.

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 Melon. But Melon’s time was running out.

"How do I deal with him? Isn’t there some way to mess with him, like I did with the zombies?"

Melon, far more desperate than before, actively sought help.

Objectively, the situation was grim.

The method that worked on zombies wouldn’t apply here—Donald was alive, stronger than Melon, and a trained soldier.

Even without a gun, Donald could easily overpower Melon, torture him for the Master Key, or kill him out of sheer amusement.

Theoretically, Donald might realize his mistake and reconcile with Melon, 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 brainstormed frantically to save Melon.

Yet, most suggestions were impractical, requiring risks that the fragile Melon simply couldn’t take.

The most viable option was to eject the Workshop Module from the Plus Ultra entirely, but that would leave Melon adrift in space forever.

Sure, Melon’s company might send another rocket to rescue him someday, but the chances of that were even slimmer than Melon defeating Donald in hand-to-hand combat.

Time 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 flamethrower. 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.

Melon, his energy drained, merely stared blankly at the chat, unable to muster the strength to argue.

There had to be another way.

Something to help the helpless Melon defeat that murderous Donald.

I stared at the CCTV feeds again, hoping for inspiration. The environment was already familiar, but perhaps there was something new to spot.

And then I saw it—a massive, brown, furry mass clinging to the skeletal framework like a spine.

Bumpy.

The mutated sloth, once deemed the root of all evil aboard the Plus Ultra.

Motionless, like any good sloth, the massive creature loomed silently. As I stared at it, a sudden thought struck me.

What if Bumpy wasn’t the bad guy?

What if Bumpy was actually friendly, a potential ally to Melon?

Like the bond I had with Gold, or the cat mom with her designer-brand-named 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 me.

This chapt𝙚r is updated by freeωebnovēl.c૦m.

It was her—the Viva! Apocalypse! mod who had banned me.

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 Melon."

The woman crossed her legs the other way, her expression sharp.

VIVA_BOT014: "It’s not just about the method. 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 me.

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?"