It started with a spreadsheet.
Clean, color-coded, obsessive.
Each row labeled, prioritized by survival tiers: Essential, Tactical, Long-Term, and Psychological Stability.
Julyah didn't shop anymore, she hunted.
Over the course of six days, she crisscrossed the outer zones of the city, avoiding malls and big chains, instead favoring independent wholesalers and warehouse auctions. No loyalty cards. No names. Just cash and unremarkable clothing that blended in with truckers and prepper dads who eyed her with polite curiosity.
The storage containers arrived first, five of them, delivered under the name "J. Anderson Logistics." Each was the size of a small bedroom, industrial-grade, weatherproof, lined with insulation. She placed them across four different rural locations and one underground rental lot two hours north.
Then came the food.
She filled one entire container with vacuum-sealed packs of meats, beef, venison, turkey, each flash-frozen and sealed for ten-year shelf life.
Rice by the 50-pound sack.
Pasta, lentils, pinto and black beans.
Pallets of canned vegetables, fruits, soups.
Dozens of high-calorie protein bars, military-grade MREs, and powdered milk stacked like bricks.
Another crate held salt, sugar, honey, spices. She knew better than to ignore the small comforts. Salt could preserve. Honey never expired.
From a seed bank out of state, she acquired a full set of non-GMO heirloom vegetable seeds—the kind that could be planted season after season, not the sterile hybrids sold in stores. Lettuce, kale, carrots, tomatoes, zucchini, corn, soy, medicinal herbs. Labeled, sorted, wrapped in moisture-proof foil and stored in temperature-stable boxes.
The next list was colder.
First-aid kits—real ones.
Military surplus tourniquets, surgical-grade antiseptics, wound staplers, sutures, burn gels, quarantine masks, N95s.
Antibiotics ordered from a veterinary loophole: amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin, doxycycline.
Water purification tablets by the thousands.
Two industrial water filters capable of cleaning sewage into drinkable water.
Then came fire.
Drums of gasoline, sealed and stored with stabilizers.
Propane tanks in multiple sizes.
Batteries, solar panels, crank-powered flashlights.
Chargers. Radios. Emergency beacons. EMP-proof bags.
Each with backup, then backups of the backups.
She included cold-weather gear, even though the forecast said the season would be mild. She didn't trust it.
Insulated coats, waterproof boots, gloves, socks, thermal layers in multiple sizes. If she had to take in others, children, injured people, she wouldn't let cold be the reason they died.
The weapons cache grew, too.
Tactical knives in every size and shape.
A machete.
Four more handguns.
Two rifles with custom sights.
More ammunition than she could carry at once, packed carefully in labeled cases.
She'd started sleeping with one pistol under her pillow and another taped beneath the sink.
But not everything she packed was lethal.
In the corner of one container sat a weathered wooden box filled with books, old ones. Not just for knowledge, but for sanity.
Manuals on survival, farming, off-grid medicine.
Diagrams on how to set a bone, birth a child, build a water wheel.
Books on edible plants.
Field guides.
A dog-eared novel or two she couldn't leave behind, just in case there were still nights she could read by firelight.
By the seventh day, her body ached and her knuckles were bruised from lifting crates. Her apartment looked abandoned, furniture sold off to pay for the next supply run. She hadn't seen herself in a mirror in days.
But the bracelet still pulsed, faintly, always.
She took that as a sign she wasn't alone. Not truly.
Adrian was somewhere out there.
Moving, preparing.
And if she was right, they'd meet soon.
Just not before the sky burned.