The days after Kane's return blurred together, yet each morning still felt sharp and unreal, like a blade resting on the back of his neck. His mind replayed that moment of death over and over—the cold bite of the air, the press of rotten hands on his throat, the metallic tang of blood pooling in his mouth. Every time he closed his eyes, it was there again.
But now… he woke in his own bed. The faint creak of the ceiling fan, the distant rustle of pine leaves outside the mountain home—sounds that, in the apocalypse, had long since vanished into silence.
He should have felt relief. Instead, there was a gnawing in his gut.
Sixty days.Sixty days until the first wave.Sixty days until the smell of burning flesh and the distant gunfire would return.
The first week, Kane didn't touch the basement.Instead, he focused on small, methodical actions—anything to stop his thoughts from spiraling.
He made a list.A soldier's habit. Clear objectives, ordered by priority.
Secure food – long shelf-life, calorie dense, protein heavy.
Secure water – filtration, storage.
Fortify home – locks, barriers, vantage points.
Acquire weapons – blades, firearms, ammunition.
Gather tools – repair kits, medical supplies.
Scout escape routes – city roads, forest trails, choke points.
Every day, Reina played in the living room, humming to herself as she clutched the little stuffed bear their grandfather had given her. Kane's eyes kept drifting to her—small, fragile, blissfully unaware.
That alone hardened his resolve.
On the second day, Kane drove down into the city.The streets were alive with life—vendors shouting prices, children running along sidewalks, car horns blaring in the distance. The world didn't know yet. They had no idea.
His first stop was a military surplus store tucked between a pawn shop and a closed laundromat.
The shopkeeper recognized him immediately."Kane Wylder? Haven't seen you since before your… family's accident."Kane's grip on the counter tightened. "Yeah. Just… picking up some things."
He walked out with three heavy duffel bags—two filled with MREs, the other with tactical gloves, rope, paracord, and two KA-BAR knives.
From there, he moved through a strict route—hitting hardware stores for nails, hammers, crowbars, and plywood. A camping shop for water filters, tents, and portable stoves. Finally, a gun store. His military ID, though inactive, still carried enough weight to bypass certain restrictions.
He drove home with the truck bed loaded and covered with a tarp.
By the third day, the house no longer looked like a quiet mountain retreat.Kane had reinforced the front and back doors with steel plates bolted into the frame. Every window had a pre-cut plywood cover ready to be screwed in at a moment's notice.
The living room rug now hid a hatch he'd cut into the floor—an emergency crawlspace stocked with first aid kits, rations, and a small rifle case.
Reina's room stayed untouched. He couldn't bring himself to change the warmth of her space—not yet.
The basement was different.
Every time Kane passed the heavy oak door leading down, there was… something. Not a sound exactly, but a pressure. Like the faint hum you feel before a storm breaks.
He told himself it was just his nerves. That the basement was only a basement—just tools, an old workbench, some boxes.
But deep down, he knew that wasn't true.
Three years before the crash, Kane had visited during winter. His grandfather had been at the basement workbench, working on something metallic, small enough to hold in two hands.
"You'll inherit this one day," the old man had said without looking up. "Not yet, though. Not until you're ready to bear the responsibility."
Kane had laughed it off at the time. His grandfather's words often sounded like riddles—half military discipline, half quiet mysticism.
Now, after seeing the world die once, Kane wondered if the old man had known something.Kane's prep work no longer felt cautious—it was deliberate, aggressive.
He mapped every grocery store within a 30-mile radius, noting entrances, exits, and rooftop access points. He buried fuel canisters in the woods behind the house. He even began running early morning drills with Reina—turning them into games—so she'd instinctively follow certain commands without hesitation.
The date on the calendar ticked forward relentlessly: March 4th, 2026.Fifty-two days left.
It was late when the tension finally broke.Reina was asleep, the soft sound of her breathing drifting through the half-closed door of her room. Kane stood in the kitchen, staring down at a half-empty glass of water, feeling that pull again.
The basement.
This time, he didn't ignore it.
The oak door creaked open under his hand. The smell hit him first—dust, oil, and something metallic. He flicked on the light, the single bulb casting long shadows over the clutter.
At the far end, under an old canvas tarp, was a rectangular metal case about the size of a briefcase. Heavy latches sealed it shut.
Kane stepped closer. His pulse was steady, but his breathing had slowed—trained control. He set the case on the workbench and brushed off the dust.
On top of it, tucked under the leather handle, was a folded piece of yellowed paper.
It was his grandfather's handwriting.He didn't open it. Not yet.
For now, he just stared at the case, its cold surface reflecting the light in muted glints. Something about it felt… alive.
The basement seemed quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Kane placed his hand on the first latch.
And stopped.
The night held stillness like the pause before a trigger pull.Somewhere deep in his gut, Kane knew—once he opened this case, there would be no going back.