Preparations

Jonathan's expression cycled rapidly through disbelief, fear, and skepticism, finally settling on guarded wariness. "Are you serious right now?"

"Absolutely," Arthur replied without hesitation. "Here, let's do a quick test. Put your hand behind your back and show me a number with your fingers."

"What?" Jonathan's brow furrowed.

"Just humor me."

With obvious reluctance, Jonathan placed his right hand behind his back, forming a number with his fingers. Thanks to the camera's full range of view into the kitchen, Arthur clearly saw three fingers extended.

"Three," Arthur answered without hesitation.

Jonathan's eyes widened, the color draining from his face. "How did you—?"

"No time to explain that right now," Arthur cut him off, aware of the timer steadily counting down in the corner of his screen. "Want to try again? Maybe move to another room or even hide your hand in your pocket?"

Intrigued and increasingly convinced, Jonathan tested Arthur several more times, each attempt more complex than the last—hiding in different rooms, using both hands to form numbers, even writing a word on a scrap of paper and hiding it in his fist. Each time, Arthur provided the correct answer immediately.

Gradually, Jonathan's skepticism melted away, replaced by a growing acceptance of their bizarre situation. Across from him, Javier watched intently, his expression darkening with each successful demonstration. Deep down, he'd known from the first word that Arthur was genuine—perhaps because he'd already sensed the approaching danger before the voice had manifested, like animals that grow restless before earthquakes or storms.

With both brothers now convinced and twelve minutes remaining on the counter, Arthur swiftly refocused on the tactical situation. Every second was precious.

"The first thing I need you to do is call the police," Arthur instructed. "Any excuse that would make them respond quickly—home invasion, gunshots, anything."

Jonathan nodded, already pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen, then frowned. "No signal." He held the phone up, moving it around as if searching for reception.

Javier took out his own phone with his free hand, the shotgun still cradled in his right arm. "Same here. No bars." His face darkened further. "And the Wi-Fi's not connecting either."

They were completely isolated.

"They're jamming your signals," Arthur concluded grimly. "That means we're on our own."

The weight of the situation settled over all three of them. Arthur examined the ranch layout carefully, his mind automatically entering the strategic mode that had served him so well in hundreds of virtual campaigns. His eyes cataloged key tactical elements: main house with multiple rooms and two exit points, guest house about fifty yards away, large barn with unknown contents, and scattered outbuildings whose purposes he could only guess at. The terrain offered both challenges and opportunities.

"Running immediately is risky," Arthur explained, his voice clear and steady. "We don't know enemy numbers or entry points. Your best chance is luring them into a trap and escaping during the confusion."

Something shifted in Jonathan's expression as fear gave way to determination, his jaw setting in a hard line remarkably similar to his brother's. "What kind of trap?"

"What do you have available?" Arthur asked, already formulating multiple tactical scenarios. "Anything flammable, explosive, or that could be used as a weapon?"

The brothers exchanged a quick glance, a lifetime of communication compressed into a single look. Jonathan began mentally cataloging the contents of the house, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he worked through an inventory.

"Got plenty of stuff in my workshop," he offered, gesturing toward what Arthur assumed was another room. "I do metal sculptures, welding, that kind of thing."

"Acetylene torch," Javier added, already moving toward a closet near the back door with purposeful strides. "Propane for the grill." He pulled open the closet door, revealing a jumble of outdoor equipment. 

Arthur nodded to himself, satisfied. A plan was already forming clearly in his mind. This game resonated with him—it allowed tactics other games denied due to technological constraints: leveraging terrain, exploiting resources, maximizing damage, minimizing risk.

It seemed the only limit were time and imagination.

"Jonathan, you said you're an artist?" Arthur asked. "What materials do you work with?"

Jonathan was already pulling open kitchen drawers with quick efficiency, retrieving various items and placing them on the counter. "Metal mostly. Got welding gear, cutting tools." He lifted a plastic container. "Some chemicals for patinas and etching. Acids, oxidizers, that sort of thing."

"Fertilizer in the supply shed," Javier called out as he returned with a battered toolbox, its metal surface dented and scraped from years of use. "For the cattle fields. Ammonium nitrate."

Arthur's mind raced, piecing together components of multiple traps from the available materials. The brothers might not realize it, but they'd just described the ingredients for a series of deadly defensive measures. His years of consuming military documentaries, studying historical battle tactics, and mastering every strategy game on the market converged in this moment of perfect clarity.

"Here's the plan," he said, his voice automatically taking on the commanding tone he used when directing raid teams online. "We're going to create a series of cascading traps. First, set a delayed incendiary device with aerosol cans—like hairspray or WD-40. Puncture small holes in the cans, seal them with duct tape, then attach them to entry points. When a door opens, the tape pulls off, spraying the pressurized gas toward a lit candle or lighter—instant fireball."

He paused, assessing their reactions. Both brothers were listening with intense focus, not questioning his expertise.

"Or place multiple cans in a metal bucket, cover them in a flammable liquid, add nails or metal shards as shrapnel, and you've got yourself an improvised claymore mine."

Jonathan nodded, his artist's mind clearly visualizing the construction. Without further prompting, he began gathering the needed components—cooking spray cans from the kitchen, a bottle of WD-40 from a utility drawer, a roll of gray duct tape, a half-empty box of nails, and a metal bucket from under the sink. 

Meanwhile, Arthur directed Javier to dump Jonathan's art supply box onto the kitchen table. The jumble of items looked innocuous at first glance—metal files, wire cutters, a soldering iron, various bottles of chemicals used for metalwork. But Arthur's tactical mind transformed these everyday tools into components of destruction.

"Etching acid," Arthur pointed out, noticing several bottles with hazard symbols. "What concentration?"

"Strong enough to eat through quarter-inch steel plate," Javier recited, clearly remembering something his brother had told him previously. "Jonathan uses it for his more detailed work."

"Perfect," Arthur said, his mind already calculating explosive radii and casualty probabilities as if this were simply another tactical simulation. "Fill some glass jars with it, and you've got yourself improvised chemical grenades."

He paused for a second, deep in thought. "Delay tactics will buy us time, but we need something with more stopping power for the main event."

His gaze fell on the propane tank Javier had mentioned earlier—standard grilling equipment, but deadly when repurposed. Arthur had seen enough action movies and read enough books to know exactly how to weaponize it.

"That propane tank—how full is it?"

Javier hefted the blue cylinder, judging its weight. "About three-quarters."

"Perfect," Arthur said, feeling the familiar thrill of a plan coming together, the same rush he got when executing a flawless strategy in competition. "Here's the kill box. We position the tank as our last line of defence, surround it with those metal shavings from Jonathan's workshop to create additional shrapnel, and rig your acetylene torch as an ignition source. When detonated, it'll create an explosion powerful enough to level half the house."

Javier paused in his preparations, reality suddenly crashing down on him. His eyes swept across the kitchen—the worn wooden table where his family had shared meals for generations, the height markers on the doorframe tracking his and Jonathan's growth through childhood, the collection of magnets on the refrigerator from places their parents had visited.

"What about our home?" he asked quietly, his voice tight with emotion.

Arthur's response came without hesitation, cold and pragmatic: "Would you rather your parents came home to find you two, or the carpet well vacuumed?"

The stark choice, laid out in such blunt terms, seemed to cut through Javier's hesitation. His expression hardened into resolve, and he returned to his work without further objection.

As the brothers executed his instructions while stealing looks at the world outside the windows, Arthur continued scanning the property through the video feed, searching for approach routes and potential weaknesses. The timer now read 8:32, each second ticking away with merciless precision.

Outside the ranch house, the night remained still and silent. But somewhere in that darkness, Arthur knew, something was coming. Something inhuman, relentless, and hungry.

And he would be ready for it.