The heavy steel doors of the conference room sealed shut with a hiss, drowning out the steady hum of generators that powered the bunker deep beneath the earth. The survivors, engineers, and leadership of Stillwater filled the long chamber, the air tense with unspoken questions. Overhead, dim lights buzzed against the concrete ceiling, reflecting off cold metal walls.

Gussa’s group took their place along one side of the room — Michelle sitting protectively beside her father, James Bellamy. Milo and Taylor flanked her, their expressions sharp and wary, while Natalya lingered near the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping the room like a watchful predator.

At the head of the table sat John, James, and Hartman — the chief engineer, his lined face heavy with sleepless fatigue.

Hartman cleared his throat, laying out a scattered assortment of charts and aged maps. His voice was low, uncertain.

“I’ve gone over the site, what little remains of it now that the Hellmouth’s closed. I… I don’t know what it really was. The readings are inconsistent — things that shouldn’t exist on any of our instruments. It’s ancient, and our tech wasn’t made to measure this sort of phenomenon. It’s as if it was deliberately buried beneath us centuries ago, hidden where no one would ever think to look. And now, it’s reacting… to something.”

The room fell into silence. The kind of silence that hung thick, as if the bunker walls themselves held their breath.

John leaned forward, his fingers brushing over the battered, weather-stained notebook he’d set on the table. His expression was grave.

“It’s time you all knew what I’ve found.”

The notebook opened, its pages crowded with notes, ancient symbols, and translations.

John let the silence settle, then continued. “Back before the collapse… I spent years researching this, chasing scraps of lost knowledge. The deeper I dug, the more buried it was. And it always pointed to the same two places: the Vatican, and the Library of Alexandria.”

Hartman furrowed his brow. “Alexandria burned down centuries ago.”

John shook his head. “Not everything was lost in the fire. What survived — documents, tablets, grimoires — was taken. The Vatican absorbed it, and with it, the knowledge of magic, ley lines, etheric energy, and ancient power systems. They’ve been hiding it for over a thousand years. Working with it. Working with them.”

Gussa stiffened. “With who?”

John’s voice dropped lower.

“Demonic forces.”

A cold, collective breath filled the room.

“I found proof — fragments of letters, old rites, even ritual blueprints hidden in Vatican catacombs, preserved for centuries. The church’s highest order made deals with these things long ago. In exchange for power, they sealed away the world’s knowledge of magic, silenced bloodlines, destroyed texts, murdered practitioners. Magic didn’t die — it was buried.”

James Bellamy’s jaw tightened. “And the apocalypse?”

John nodded grimly.

“I believe it was triggered — not by chance, not even by these demons themselves, but by us. By C.E.R.N.”

He stepped closer to the center table, laying out a series of worn, marked maps and half-burned documents.

“They’ve been experimenting with dimensional physics for decades, trying to tear through the veil between worlds. Ripping at the seams of reality in search of what they call ‘the God Particle.’ But what they actually found… were rifts. Thin points. Dormant Hellmouths buried beneath ancient cities, mountains, oceans — some sealed since the days of Babylon. When they opened that first unstable tear… those dormant gates started to awaken. Every unstable anomaly, every surge of demonic activity… it started near a C.E.R.N. site or experiment run.”

Michelle stared, pale. Even James tensed.

“I believe that’s what triggered the apocalypse.”

A sickening, stunned silence filled the room.

James was the first to break it. His voice was tight with disbelief, and a kind of restrained fury. “You’re telling me this… this wasn’t an accident? That those scientists opened the damn gates to Hell without even realizing it?”

John met his gaze. “I can’t prove they intended it. But the evidence is there. The pattern of dimensional ruptures… it lines up with ancient maps of sealed sites, religious strongholds, and lost cities. They’ve been playing with fire, James. And now the whole world’s burning.”

Michelle’s face was pale, her hand gripping the table’s edge. Martina gasped in disbelief. Milo and Taylor exchanged a grim look, while Natalya finally pushed off the wall, standing straight.

“So what now?” she asked flatly.

James turned to Gussa. “Then we can’t survive alone. Stillwater can’t stay isolated anymore. We need an alliance.”

Gussa gave a short nod, his voice steady. “Agreed.”

John didn’t hesitate. “A secured supply route between New California City and Stillwater. We can establish joint search teams to locate more survivors, share resources, and begin rebuilding.”

James rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion showing in the deep lines there. “And expand our defenses. If what you’re saying is true, we’re going to need more than walls and bullets.”

“There’s more,” John said. “Your people need to understand what they’re up against. Jonathan will start training your personnel in magic — real magic, not stories. If we’re going to survive, they’ll need to learn what was stolen from us.”

James hesitated, clearly weighing the weight of it, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Hartman shifted, clearing his throat. “I’ll keep studying the site,” he added. “I don’t know much yet, but… something’s still down there. Something ancient. I’ll report what I can, when I can.”

James let out a long breath, nodding again. “Good.”

The room settled into a cold, determined quiet.

Later that night, John prepared to return to New California City. The plans had been drawn up, roles assigned, and the first joint patrols scheduled. Before he left, James handed Gussa a manifest — weapons, medical supplies, field gear — a sizable haul.

“Payment,” James said simply. “For protecting my daughter. For Stillwater. And for what’s coming.”

Michelle gave her father a teasing grin. “Guess you’re finally getting soft, Dad.”

“Not a chance,” James smirked, though there was a rare softness in his eyes as he looked at her.

Gussa’s group spent the remainder of the evening securing supplies and preparing to move out at first light. The bunker was heavy with the scent of oil, steel, and the hum of machinery. Survivors gathered supplies, weapons were checked, and final checks were made.

By morning, John was gone, heading back to New California City to brief the other leadership councils on what had transpired here.

Gussa’s team loaded up their vehicles, bringing along several survivors rescued from the countryside. The roads were dangerous, but with Stillwater’s resources and better equipment, the trip was manageable.

Over the next few days, they encountered stragglers — frightened, half-starved survivors — and took them in. Word of safe havens spread faster than fear in a dying world.

When they arrived at New California City, the survivors gathered at the gates, welcoming them as returning heroes.

Supplies were unloaded. The rescued were cared for.

And then — in the central yard, where the ground was hardened earth and old asphalt — Jonathan waited for them, arms folded, his expression serious.

“Time to get to work,” he called.

And so it began.

Training weapons clashed in the cool dusk light. The scent of dust and sweat filled the air. Sparks of magic flickered, crude at first — but real. Tangible. The old ways, reborn.

The chapter ended with the steady hum of defiance. A people unwilling to fall.