Chapter 4 : The Almost Unhelpful Cherub System…

You know what's worse than preparing for the zombie apocalypse?

Preparing for the zombie apocalypse with a system that thinks it's a passive-aggressive fitness trainer.

It's been a month since that weird golden light show in Daniel's office. A month since I committed fraud (which still gives me anxiety sweats, thanks past-Amanda's conscience), and a month since my mysterious "helper" decided to reveal its identity.

The Cherub System. Because apparently the apocalypse needed a cutesy name.

"LIFTING DETECTED: 2.3 KG. STRENGTH MILDLY INCREASED".

I grunt, hauling another box of canned soup through the warehouse. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."

The system's golden symbols flutter around me like annoyed butterflies.

Most of the time, it just... exists, hovering at the edge of my vision like those floaters you get when you stare at the sun too long.

But occasionally, it springs to life with these absolutely riveting observations.

"CURRENT PHYSICAL CAPACITY: 12% ABOVE BASELINE"

"Fascinating," I mutter, stacking the box with the others.

My arms burn from the repetitive motion, sweat making my t-shirt stick to my back.

The warehouse smells like dust and cardboard, with hints of whatever leaked from that box of pickles last week.

Yesterday, I got ten notifications about my "mildly increased strength" just from moving supplies. Today, I'm betting on twelve. It's like having a very persistent gym buddy who only knows three phrases.

The worst part? I can't even complain about it to anyone. Try explaining to your therapist that you're getting fitness updates from a supernatural AI while preparing for a zombie outbreak. Yeah, that'll go well.

"ATTENTION: TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED IN VICINITY"

I freeze, nearly dropping the can of corn I'm holding. "What? Where?"

Silence. Because of course, when I actually want information, the system clams up.

"Hey, Cherub? Little more detail would be nice."

"ANALYZING... TEMPORAL SIGNATURE FADED. CONTINUE CURRENT ACTIVITY."

Great.

Super helpful.

Could be another regressor planning to mess everything up, could be someone microwaving leftovers.

Who knows?

I check my watch: 6:45 PM.

Daniel thinks I'm at a wedding planning meeting. Lillian thinks I'm having dinner with Daniel.

And here I am, building my apocalypse pantry one box at a time.

"LIFTING DETECTED: 3.1 KG. STRENGTH MILDLY INCREASED."

"You don't say," I grunt, hefting another box.

My muscles protest, but I can feel the difference from a month ago.

The boxes that used to leave me winded barely register now.

Small victories, I guess.

The warehouse creaks, metal walls expanding in the evening heat. Through the dusty windows, I can see the bank's imposing silhouette a few blocks away.

My workplace.

My future fortress.

Currently occupied by my cheating fiancé and backstabbing best friend.

"EMOTIONAL SPIKE DETECTED. CORTISOL LEVELS ELEVATED."

"Yeah, no kidding." I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the task at hand.

Can't let anger cloud my judgment.

Not when there's so much left to do.

The next phase is going to be trickier; moving everything from this temporary storage to the bank's underground vault. It'll take weeks of careful planning, precise timing, and probably about a thousand more "strength mildly increased" notifications.

"CANDIDATE STATUS UPDATE: SURVIVAL PROBABILITY 32.8%"

I pause, wiping sweat from my forehead. That's... actually an improvement. Last week it was 29.4%. Maybe these "mild increases" are adding up after all.

A distant siren makes me jump, and for a second, I'm back there; running through streets filled with the undead, hearing those final emergency broadcasts. But no, not yet.

I still have time.

Two months until everything falls apart.

Two months to get stronger, smarter, ready.

Two months to move several tons of supplies into a bank vault without getting caught.

"LIFTING DETECTED: 2.8 KG. STRENGTH MILDLY INCREASED."

I sigh, reaching for another box. "Thanks, Cherub. Really couldn't have figured that out without you."

The golden symbols swirl, and I swear it looks smug. Like it knows something I don't. Maybe it probably does, the cryptic little bastard.

But hey, at least I'm not doing this alone anymore.

Even if my only company is an AI with the personality of a particularly unhelpful fortune cookie.

As I load up another box, I catch movement outside the warehouse window.

Just a shadow, gone so fast I might have imagined it. But my post-apocalyptic instincts; the ones I technically haven't developed yet, scream for vigilance.

"ATTENTION: SURVEILLANCE DETECTED"

Oh, now you tell me.

…

My knees hit the concrete floor of the bank vault, and I swear under my breath as another box of canned vegetables threatens to spill everywhere.

"IMPACT DETECTED: MINOR JOINT STRESS. RECOVERY TIME ESTIMATED: 2.3 MINUTES"

"Thanks for the medical report," I mutter, rubbing my kneecap. "Any other brilliant observations?"

As if on cue;

"CURRENT LOCATION: SUBTERRANEAN VAULT.

SECURITY RISK: MODERATE.

RECOMMENDED ACTION: INCREASE VIGILANCE."

I roll my eyes.

The system's gotten chattier over the past few days, but its idea of helpful information is... questionable at best.

Yesterday, it spent twenty minutes calculating the exact angle of my elbow while lifting a box of spam. Because apparently, that's vital apocalypse knowledge.

"LIFTING DETECTED: 12.4 KG. STRENGTH SIGNIFICANTLY INCREASED."

I pause mid-lift, nearly dropping the box. "Wait, what? 'Significantly'? That's new."

The golden symbols dance excitedly, like they're pleased I finally noticed something important.

But of course, when I wait for elaboration, they just hover there, useless and pretty.

"PREVIOUS NOTIFICATION STANDARDS NO LONGER SUFFICIENT. PARAMETERS ADJUSTED."

"What does that even mean?" I grunt, shoving the box onto a shelf. The vault's looking better now – organized rows of supplies reaching toward the ceiling. My private apocalypse supermarket, courtesy of Daniel's banking credentials and my newfound criminal tendencies.

"ANALYZING QUERY... RESPONSE: YOU GOT STRONGER."

"No shit." I wipe sweat from my forehead, leaving a dusty streak behind. "Could've told me that without the cryptic fortune cookie act. But a win is a win… I guess"

"I'm seeing these symbols move in a way that I think looks offended. Ugh, now I'm even imagining that the system (which might not even be real) is offended. I'm giving human emotions to something that probably can't feel them.".

"ATTENTION: SCHEDULED SECURITY PATROL IN 7 MINUTES."

Now that's actually useful information. I check my watch… 1:53 AM.

Right on schedule.

Old Mr. Harris makes his rounds like clockwork, probably hasn't changed his routine in twenty years.

I start gathering my things, mind already mapping out my escape route. Up the stairs, through accounting (always empty this late), past the break room, and..

"ANOMALOUS BEHAVIOR DETECTED: SECURITY PERSONNEL ROUTE DEVIATION."

"What?" My heart skips. "Where?"

"ANALYZING... SUBJECT APPROACHING FROM EASTERN CORRIDOR. ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: 45 SECONDS."

"Shit...."