The Man Who Bought The Apocalypse

Chapter 5: The Journalist

"Camille! Leave the riot gear alone and get me three hundred words on why Tasha and Kevin broke up at the mall yesterday!"

Bambang’s voice cut through the hum of the newsroom like a rusty chainsaw. Camille Bautista didn't look up from her monitor. Her eyes were fixed on a property data overlay of Central Java.

"Kevin is a bore and Tasha has a shopping addiction, Bambang. There's your story. Now shut up."

"I pay you to find out which brand of shoes Tasha threw at him! Why are you looking at topographic maps of shale deposits?"

"Look at this," Camille said, beckoning him over with a flick of her wrist. "Small-time student profile, Radit Atmodjo. Sells a PC for ten million. Suddenly, he’s buying high-altitude plots in the middle of nowhere."

"Maybe he wants to farm goats. People do that."

"He didn't buy farmable land. He bought Plot 44-B. It's basically a giant rock. But here’s the kicker—he bought it six hours before a zoning rumor for a toll road hit the local blogs. Except, the toll road is a dud."

Bambang leaned in, smelling of instant coffee and desperation. "So? A kid made a bad investment. Big deal."

"He also shorted Malindo Unggas right before a Ministry raid," Camille whispered. "And an hour ago, there was a high-speed chase at the University of Indonesia. Armored SUVs. Blacked-out windows. A student got snatched."

"Was it Radit?"

"I don't know yet. But the landlord of his apartment says the police were tossed aside like paper dolls by guys in expensive suits."

Bambang straightened his tie. "Sounds like military business. Which means we don't touch it. Give me the celebrity shoes, Camille."

"Not happening," Camille said, grabbing her bag. "I’m going to talk to the landlord."

"You leave this office and you’re on unpaid leave!"

"Tell Kevin I hope he gets hit by another shoe!"

Camille swung through the glass doors before he could finish his threat. Twenty minutes later, she was standing in a narrow, sun-bleached hallway that smelled of over-fried garlic and old cigarettes.

A man with a sweat-stained undershirt and a permanent scowl stood guard over a pile of broken furniture.

"You another cop?" the landlord growled.

"Journalist," Camille said, flashing her ID just fast enough that he couldn't read the small print. "What happened to Radit’s room?"

"What didn't happen? Two cops came in, started digging through his books. Then four goons in suits walked in like they owned the place. Next thing I know, the cops are looking like they’re about to wet themselves and Radit is walking out with a smile."

"He was smiling?"

"The kid looked like he’d just won the lottery and a war at the same time. Weirdest part? He looked me in the eye and said, 'Clean the fan, it’s a fire hazard.'"

"The fan?" Camille frowned. "Is that all?"

"He paid three months of back rent in cash. Then he told me to get a generator by the end of the year if I didn't want to rot in the dark."

"A generator?"

"Kid’s lost his mind. I tell you, he’s either selling high-grade narcotics or he’s a prophet. Either way, I'm glad he's out. He was always typing at three in the morning. Clack-clack-clack. Drove the neighbors nuts."

"Did he have visitors?"

"None. Until today. Then it was like a convention of people who look like they eat raw steaks for breakfast."

Camille looked at the remains of the desk. "Did they leave anything?"

"Not a scrap. Even took his old mousepad. But hey, if you see him, tell him he left his laundry soap in the communal bin."

Camille turned to go, but stopped. "Wait. One more thing. Did he say where he was going?"

"He mentioned UI. Engineering. Something about a guy who builds dams."

Camille sprinted back to her car. Her phone buzzed. It was a message from an anonymous source—a shaky, low-resolution photo taken outside the gates of Pindad-Aegis, the high-end joint-venture arms manufacturer on the outskirts of the city.

In the corner of the frame, a young man was stepping out of an armored SUV. Even blurred, the posture was unmistakable.

"What are you doing at a weapons plant, Radit?" she muttered.

She reached the Pindad-Aegis entrance forty minutes later. Security was tight—metal detectors, iris scanners, and guards with submachine guns that didn't look like they were for show.

"Identification?" a guard barked as she approached the gatehouse.

"Temporary clerical assistant. Team Alpha-Nine," Camille said, her heart hammering against her ribs. She’d swapped her journalist's jacket for a stiff, corporate blazer she kept in the trunk for emergencies.

"Wait here."

He checked his tablet. Camille adjusted her glasses, praying the forged digital credentials she’d bought through a contact in IT five months ago still held up.

"Alpha-Nine is on floor twelve," the guard said, handing her a plastic visitor pass. "Don't wander off. Level Four clearance is restricted."

"Thanks. I know the drill."

She hurried through the lobby, a cavernous space of glass and polished steel. Every wall was covered in diagrams of armored carriers and missile guidance systems. This wasn't where a university student belonged.

She turned a corner and saw him. Radit was walking with a tall, frantic-looking student with glasses—the one from the news report. Behind them was the man in the charcoal-gray suit.

"We need the prototype ready by Friday, Khanh," Radit was saying, his voice cold and rhythmic.

"Friday? Radit, I haven't even seen the power grid for the facility yet!"

"The grid is offline. We’re using the kinetic reservoir from the aquifer blueprints."

"That’s insane! The pressure differential alone will blow the seals!"

"Then use the carbon-braided seals from the tank prototypes," Radit countered without missing a beat. "I’m not paying you to tell me why things fail. I’m paying you to prevent it."

"Radit, wait," the charcoal-suit man said. "The ministry is breathing down our necks. They want to know why we’re rerouting sixty percent of our steel alloys to a shale plot in Central Java."

"Tell them it’s for a deep-space research bunker. They’ll love that. It’s too expensive for them to double-check."

"And if they send an inspector?"

"By the time they send an inspector, there won't be a Ministry left to complain."

Camille’s breath caught. She ducked into a small alcove as they passed. There won't be a Ministry left? What kind of plan was this?

The group reached the bank of elevators.

"I'm heading to Sub-Level Three," Radit told the suit. "Keep the police in the lobby busy. If they show a warrant, tell them to call the General."

"The General’s already nervous, Radit."

"Then buy him a drink and tell him the blueprints for the 2025 bunker will be on his desk by midnight. He’ll keep his mouth shut."

Radit stepped into the silver elevator. Khanh and the suit stayed back, arguing over a tablet.

Camille saw her chance.

She walked out of the alcove, her head down, clutching her clip-board like her life depended on it. She looked like just another overworked intern.

"Hold the door!" she called out, pitching her voice slightly higher.

Radit’s hand snapped out, catching the sensor. The doors slid back open.

"Floor?" he asked, his voice neutral.

Camille stepped in, her shoulder inches from his. The smell of ash and cheap detergent clung to him—a strange contrast to the five-thousand-dollar suit guy he’d just been talking to.

"Sub-Level Three," Camille said, her finger hovering over the panel.

Radit looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes were amber in the harsh LED light of the elevator, far deeper and more tired than a university student’s should be.

"Sub-Level Three is engineers only," he said softly.

"I’m with the logistics team," Camille lied, her voice steady. "We’re tracking the alloy shipments."

Radit didn't move his gaze. He didn't press the button either. The doors finished closing, sealing them inside the tiny, soundproof box.

The elevator began to descend.

"You're not tracking alloys," Radit said.

"Pardon?"

"Your blazer still has the price tag on the inside of the collar. And you’re holding that clipboard too tight. You’re about to crack the plastic."

Camille felt a cold sweat prickle her hairline. She didn't look at him. "I'm just new."

"You're not new. You're Camille Bautista. You write the lifestyle column for The Jakarta Daily."

The elevator hummed, the floor counter ticking down slowly. 1... 0... -1.

Camille’s heart rate spiked. She reached for her bag, her hand sliding toward her voice recorder. "How do you know my name?"

Radit took a half-step closer. "I know your name because in six years, you’re the woman who writes the last article on the internet before the satellites go dark."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The elevator came to a sudden, jarring stop between floors. The lights flickered, turning blood-red.

"I’m talking about the fact that you’re ten years too early for this interview, Camille," Radit said. "And now that you’re here, I can’t let you leave."

He hit the emergency stop override and the screen on the control panel glitched out, showing a string of numbers Camille recognized from her research: Plot 44-B coordinates.

"Who are you?" Camille whispered, her back hitting the cold metal wall.

"I'm the guy who knows exactly what happens when those doors open," Radit said.

A heavy, metallic thud sounded from the top of the elevator car. The entire ceiling rattled as if something—or someone—had just landed on it.

Radit looked up, then back at her with a terrifyingly calm smile. "And if we don't move right now, you're going to see what I mean."