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What? My "Information Club" is Actually an All-Knowing Secret Society?
Genre : Apocalypse, Fantasy, Superpower, Action
Tag : Misunderstanding, Secret Organization, Wolrd-Freezing, Super power
Chapter 5 : Radar
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[Time remaining until the Great Freeze: 24 Days]
[Location: Arlen's Apartment, Jakarta]
[Temperature: 36°C (Morning)]
Arlen woke up with a pounding headache. The humidity was already 85% at 8:00 AM. His apartment felt less like a home and more like a swamp inside a concrete box.
He dragged himself to his laptop. He had anotherz day off from the car wash, unpaid of course. Which meant he had time to check on his "community."
He opened the Information Club. The member count had ticked up again.
[Members: 42]
"Forty-two people," Arlen muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "And they are all spamming my chat."
The chat room was a mess. The new members were flooding the feed with panic.
> [User_Newbie09]: Why is the sky purple? Is it pollution? <
> [User_Kilo]: My GPS is dead. Anyone else? <
> [User_Mountain44]: Is this a political group? Are we protesting the government? <
"It's too noisy," Arlen sighed. "I need to get them to shut up so I can post the lore update. If I let them spam, the story gets lost."
He didn't want to type a long rulebook. That wasn't his style. The Architect speaks in riddles, not in bullet points.
He typed a single line.
> [The Architect]: The noise of the world is deafening. Do not bring it inside the sanctuary. Order is the first wall against the cold. <
He hit send.
Then, he waited.
What happened next made Arlen blink. Because Viper immediately took over.
> [User: Viper]: SILENCE.<
> [User: Viper]: The Architect has spoken. Discipline is required immediately. <
> [User: Viper]: From this moment, the Chain of Command is active. <
Arlen watched as Viper, the guy Arlen assumed was roleplaying an ex-military. Started typing out a complex organizational structure in real-time.
> [User: Viper]: TIER 1: THE PILLARS <
Holders of the Manuscript. Direct line to The Architect. Their command is absolute.
> * [Viper] - Defense & Strategy (Page 1) <
> * [Tank] - Sentinel & Observation (Page 2) <
> * [Seraph] - Internal Affairs (Page 3) <
> * [Apothecary] - Research & Development (Page 4) <
> * [FrostBite] - Logistics & Treasury (Page 5) <
Arlen nodded slowly. "Right. The five people who found the Main Pages. It makes sense to make them the Admins. Even if Tank is just a random guy who found the paper while walking his dog. Lucky guy."
> [User: Viper]: TIER 2: THE ELITES<
> [IronClad], [Vector], [NightOwl]. <
> [User: Seraph]: And for the rest of you... the new souls seeking shelter. You are not just members. You are the resonance of the Architect's truth. <
> [User: Seraph]: You are The Echoes. <
> [User: Seraph]: Your duty is to listen. Speak only when spoken to. <
Arlen chuckled. "The Echoes? Catchy. Seraph has a flair for dramatic branding."
The chat went dead silent. All the new members stopped typing instantly. The authority the Pillars projected was terrifyingly effective.
> [User: FrostBite]: [System Message: Permissions Updated. 'Echoes' set to Read-Only. Main Hall Locked.] <
"And FrostBite locked the chat," Arlen laughed, sipping his warm tap water. "These guys are the best mods I've ever had. Even paid community managers aren't this efficient."
Then, the screen flickered. FrostBite wasn't done. He was re-coding the channel structure in real-time.
> [User: FrostBite]: [System Message: Opening Sub-Frequencies. Organizing query traffic based on The 5 Pages. Select your channel. Do not clutter the feed.] <
Five new chat rooms appeared on the sidebar, each marked with a specific icon.
* [⚔️ WAR ROOM] (Managed by Viper)*
* [👁️ THE BESTIARY] (Managed by Tank)*
* [🕊️ THE SANCTUARY] (Managed by Seraph)*
* [⚗️ THE LAB] (Managed by Apothecary)*
* [📦 THE VAULT] (Managed by FrostBite)*
"Wow," Arlen whistled. "They categorized the lore topics. This is better organized than my actual manuscript folder."
The Echoes, now realizing they had specific places to ask their burning questions, began to type. But this time, it wasn't chaotic spam. It was terrified curiosity, channeled into order.
Arlen clicked on the first room.
CHANNEL 1: [WAR ROOM]
› Subject: Civil Unrest & Defense
> [User: City_Drifter]: Reporting from North Jakarta. The police are overwhelmed. There was a riot at the ice cube factory in Pluit this morning. People were fighting with hammers over a block of ice. It's getting violent. Should we arm ourselves? <
> [User: Resident_Block_A]: My neighbor smashed my window last night because he saw my fan running. He thought I was hiding AC units. I don't even have one. The heat is making people aggressive. <
Arlen frowned. "Fighting over ice? Yeah, the heat makes people cranky. But hammers? That's intense. And poor Resident_Block_A, getting his window smashed for a fan."
> [User: Viper]: [Response]: Aggression is a symptom of the fever. Do not engage the desperate. Reinforce your doors. If they breach, retreat to the inner room. Your weapon is obscurity, not confrontation. <
CHANNEL 2: [THE BESTIARY]
› Subject: Animal Anomalies
> [User: Coast_Watcher]: I need to ask Tank. I live near the coast (Ancol area). The seagulls... they aren't flying anymore. They are walking into the sea and drowning themselves. Hundreds of them. It's like a mass suicide.
> [User: Home_Monitor]: The ants in my house are gone. Usually, with this heat, my kitchen is full of sugar ants. But today? Empty. Not a single fly or cockroach either. Where did the insects go? <
Arlen tapped his chin. "Insects dying? Probably the fogging from the complex. But birds drowning themselves... that's creepy. Tank must be freaking out reading this."
> [User: Tank]: [Response]: ...My dog is doing the same. Hiding. The insects know before we do. If the bugs are gone, the air is bad. Seal your vents. <
CHANNEL 3: [THE SANCTUARY]
› Subject: Mental State & Family
> [User: Father_1985]: My wife thinks I'm crazy. She won't look at the sky. She says the purple light is just a laser show from the stadium. How do I save her if she refuses to believe? <
> [User: Static_Mind]: I feel it too. I can't sleep. I feel a vibration in my teeth. Is that the 'Silence' Lady Seraph talks about? <
> [User: Seraph]: [Response]: Denial is the mind's last shield. Do not force them to see. Build the ark around them while they sleep. When the cold comes, their eyes will open. Until then, you bear the burden of belief alone. <
CHANNEL 4: [THE LAB]
› Subject: Health & Environment
> [User: Dermis_Check]: Apothecary, please answer. I went outside for ten minutes to buy water. My skin is red and blistering, but it doesn't feel like a normal sunburn. It itches deep inside the muscle. Sunblock SPF 30 isn't working. <
> [User: Aqua_Source]: The tap water smells like sulfur. Is it safe to boil and drink? Or should we use the filters? <
Arlen winced. "Deep muscle itch? That sounds like severe UV exposure. And Dermis_Check needs to upgrade to SPF 50. The ozone layer isn't what it used to be."
> [User: Apothecary]: [Response]: Do not drink the tap water. The sulfur indicates crustal leaking into the groundwater. Distill everything. As for the skin... the UV index is exceeding critical levels. Cover every inch of skin. The sun is now a laser.
CHANNEL 5: [THE VAULT]
› Subject: Resources & Tech
> [User: Store_Owner]: The power grid in West Java is flickering. We had a 4-hour blackout today. My frozen stock is melting. How do we store food without electricity? <
> [User: Fuel_Gauge]: Gas stations are running dry. The lines are three miles long. What fuel should we prioritize? <
> [User: FrostBite]: [Response]: Forget the fridge. Learn to cure meat with salt (See Page 4). If you can't get any gasoline, forget it. Stockpile propane and charcoal. The grid will fail completely within 14 days. Prepare for the dark. <
Arlen leaned back in his chair, scrolling through the endless stream of reports.
To him, it looked like a group of paranoid netizens complaining about a really bad heatwave and spicing it up with his ARG lore.
"They are so immersed," Arlen chuckled, shaking his head. "They're taking every piece of bad news on TV, blackouts, water issues and weaving it into The Frozen Era universe. It's... honestly inspiring."
He typed a general message to all channels.
> [The Architect]: You ask the right questions. The world is unraveling one thread at a time. Do not try to stitch it back together. Prepare a new garment for the cold. <
He hit send.
Every channel flooded with: Understood, Architect.
"Hierarchy established. Information flowing. Order restored," Arlen smiled, closing his laptop.
He stood up and walked to his small kitchen. He turned on the tap to fill his glass.
The water sputtered, hissed, and came out cloudy with a faint yellowish tint. It smelled faintly of rotten eggs.
"Ugh, old pipes," Arlen grumbled, dumping the water down the drain.
"Aqua_Source was right, the water quality in this city is getting worse. Landlord really needs to fix the plumbing."
He grabbed a bottle of soda instead, completely dismissing the fact that the sulfur smell was coming from magma moving miles beneath his feet.
"At least the soda is cold," he sighed.
Outside the window, a bird, a small sparrow fell from the sky. Dead.
It hit Arlen's balcony railing with a soft thud. Its feathers were singed, as if burned by an invisible magnifying glass.
Arlen didn't see it. He was too busy opening his soda and humming a tune.
***
[Location: Marco's House, Cikarang]
[Time: 11:30 PM]
Marco stared at his phone screen until his eyes watered. The icon for [👁️ THE BESTIARY] stared back at him. Underneath it, his username Tank glowed in a distinct gold color, separating him from the grey text of the "Echoes."
"Pillar," Marco whispered, testing the word. It tasted ridiculous.
He was a logistics driver. His highest educational qualification was a vocational high school diploma in automotive mechanics. He spent his days dodging potholes on the Pantura highway and eating nasi padang at rest stops.
And now, apparently, he was a high-ranking officer in a secret society preparing for the end of the world. This thought buggering his mind the whole day, even until the nights come.
He felt like a fraud. A massive, sweating imposter sitting in a house with peeling paint, pretending to lead people who were asking him about suicidal birds.
He couldn't take it. He switched to the [PILLAR ONLY] private channel, a chat room hidden from the eyes in the main feed.
> [User: Tank]: Guys? Look, seriously... are you sure about this? <
> [User: Tank]: I'm not a scientist like Apothecary. I'm not a soldier like Viper. I don't even know what 'The Architect' is really planning. I'm just a guy who found a paper while walking his dog. Maybe you should pick someone else? <
He waited, half-hoping they would kick him out. Please, tell me to leave. Tell me this is a mistake.
The reply came from FrostBite.
> [User: FrostBite]: Lol, imposter syndrome? Classic early-game jitters. <
> [User: FrostBite]: Relax, Tank. You don't need a PhD to see the sky is messed up. <
> [User: Viper]: There are no accidents in the Architect's design. You found Page 2 because you were looking down when everyone else was looking at their phones. <
> [User: Viper]: You have the 'Ground Eye'. We have the 'Sky Eye'. We need you. You're the canary in the coal mine. You'll get used to it. <
> [User: Seraph]: Do not question the selection, brother. The Architect does not choose based on resume. He chooses based on Resonance. Your fear is your qualification. It keeps you alert. <
Marco read the messages. Canary in the coal mine.
He knew what that meant. Miners used to bring canaries into tunnels. If the bird died, it meant the air was toxic, and the humans had to run.
"Great," Marco muttered, tossing his phone onto the sofa. "I'm the bird that dies first."
[The Living Room - 15 Minutes Later]
He couldn't sleep. The heat was unbearable, but he couldn't turn on the AC because FrostBite had warned about power surges damaging electronics.
Marco looked at the floor. Specifically, at the wooden floorboards near the kitchen where Bruno had tried to dig earlier.
"Thermal buffer," he mumbled, remembering IronClad's advice.
He felt stupid, but his body moved on its own. He grabbed a roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil and the leftover construction plastic from his truck.
He started taping the foil over the cracks in the floorboards.
"What are you doing?"
Marco jumped.
His wife, Sari, was standing in the bedroom doorway. She was seven months pregnant, rubbing her swollen belly, looking tired and sweaty.
"Oh," Marco stammered, hiding the chat log on his phone. "Just... uh... patching some holes. I saw some termites. Don't want them getting in."
Sari frowned. "At midnight? Marco, come to bed. It's too late to work."
"I will," Marco lied. "Just let me finish this patch. Go back to sleep, hon. I'll turn the fan on for you."
She sighed, shook her head, "Just don't force yourself okey? Come to bed when you are done. I love you," after she said that, she went back inside.
"Okey honey, love you!" Marco response.
Marco let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked at the clumsy patch of foil and tape on the floor. It looked insane. If anyone came into his house right now, they'd think he was a meth addict.
"I need to prove them wrong," Marco decided, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He stood up and walked to his desktop computer.
"I'm going to research this until I find proof that this is all fake. Then I can delete the app, rip up this foil, and sleep like a normal person."
He sat down and opened Google.
He remembered the report from [User: Home_Monitor] in his channel: "The ants are gone. Where did the insects go?"
Marco typed: Insect disappearance Indonesia heatwave 2024.
The results were mostly generic articles about climate change. Nothing specific.
Marco frowned. "Okay, let's test it."
He walked to the kitchen. He opened the sugar jar.
Usually, in this house, if you left a single grain of sugar on the counter for five minutes, a battalion of tiny black ants would swarm it. It was a constant battle.
Marco took a spoonful of sugar and poured it directly onto the kitchen counter. A chaotic, sticky pile.
Then he waited.
[Time: 00:15 AM]
The sugar sat there.
[Time: 00:45 AM]
The sugar was undisturbed.
[Time: 01:30 AM]
Marco stared at the white pile.
No ants. No flies. No mosquitoes buzzing in his ear.
The kitchen was dead silent.
In a tropical country. In a house with old wood. In the middle of a swampy heatwave.
The absence of life was louder than any siren.
Marco felt a cold dread settling in his stomach, heavier than the heat.
He went back to the computer. His fingers flew across the keyboard, no longer looking for "fake news," but looking for correlation.
He search: "Birds flying into ocean" -> Result: Report from Bali, mass whale stranding on the beach. Report from Ancol, dead sparrows found with ruptured eardrums.
Search: "Magnetic field animals" -> Result: Scientific paper from 2019: "Magnetoreception in insects is linked to solar radiation levels. Field collapse would render them catatonic."
"Catatonic," Marco whispered. "They aren't dead. They're paralyzed. The radiation is frying their navigation systems."
He looked at the sugar again.
It wasn't that the ants were gone. It was that they were hiding deep underground, too terrified to surface for food.
"They know," Marco realized, his skepticism shattering like glass.
"The bugs know the sky is dangerous."
He slowly picked up his phone. He opened the [PILLAR ONLY] chat again.
He didn't ask "Are you sure?" anymore.
He typed with trembling fingers.
> [User: Tank]: I tested the insect theory. I put sugar out for two hours. Nothing. <
> [User: Tank]: The biological radar is silent. <
> [User: Tank]: What is the next step? I need to secure the windows. <
He hit send.
He wasn't playing a stupid roleplay anymore.
He was the Pillars. And he had a job to do.
›› To Be Continue ‹‹
—KS