Morning came with the hum of sprinklers and the smell of fresh-cut grass. Normal sounds. Ordinary life. The kind of things you stop noticing until you've spent years in places where nothing was ordinary.
I poured black coffee, stared at the kitchen wall, and tried not to think about the glowing words still sitting in the corner of my vision.
> [Tutorial Quest: Water Storage Progress – 10%]
[Blueprint Available: Improvised Bandage.]
Bandage. Simple. Practical. Too practical to ignore.
I'd made worse in combat. Ripped shirts, duct tape, even sand if it stopped bleeding long enough to evac a man. But this wasn't just knowledge. This was something else.
"Alright," I muttered, setting the mug down. "Let's see if you're real."
I grabbed an old t-shirt from the drawer, tore it into strips, then pulled rubbing alcohol and duct tape from the garage. Items lined up neat on the workbench. The system's glow sharpened, words shifting.
> [Crafting Possible.]
Required: Cloth x1, Alcohol x1, Adhesive x1.
Proceed?
I exhaled slow. My thumb brushed the duct tape.
"Yes."
The words flickered. For a moment the air thickened, like static before a storm. Then — silence.
On the bench lay what I'd made: a bandage, no different than one I could've improvised on my own. But when I picked it up, my hand tingled. Layers folded tight, edges sealed, sterile in a way that told me this wasn't just scrap held together with tape.
It felt… better.
Durable. Usable.
The system whispered again:
> [Item Created: Improvised Bandage.]
Durability: 3/3 Uses.
I stared at it, pulse quickening. This wasn't memory. Wasn't PTSD. Wasn't madness.
It was real.
I set the bandage down gently, then sat on the bench, head in my hands.
Real meant consequences. Real meant preparation wasn't just paranoia anymore. It was survival.
Five years. Five years before the outbreak.
And I was the only one who knew.
---
The day stretched long. I forced myself into routine — push-ups, cleaning the garage, mowing the lawn. Things neighbors saw that made you look normal.
At one point, Sarah's soccer ball bounced into my yard. She sprinted after it, laughing, hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She froze when she saw me, eyes wide like she wasn't sure if she should run or wave.
I picked up the ball and tossed it gently. "Here."
"Thanks, Mister!" she grinned, catching it.
Her smile was bright. Too bright for this world.
Joel's voice called from down the street. "Sarah! Let's go!"
She waved before darting off, leaving me alone again. Joel gave me that same guarded nod as they passed. Respectful. Reserved. A man who'd seen enough of life to know trust had to be earned.
I understood him better than he knew.
---
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling fan. The system refused to let me rest.
> [Daily Reminder: Progress Insufficient.]
[Recommendation: Resource Expansion.]
I shut my eyes. Images came back unbidden — convoys ambushed, men bleeding out on desert roads, too many times I'd wished for better gear, faster response, one more chance.
The bandage on my workbench wasn't just cloth and tape. It was proof. Proof that this system could give me more than just reminders.
It could give me the edge to keep people alive.
But survival wasn't just about stockpiles. It was about choices. Choices no one else wanted to make.
I swung my legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor.
If this was real, then I couldn't waste time.
---
Two nights later, I made my first run.
I drove out to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, one I'd noticed while jogging the week before. The place had been cleared out years ago, but the walls still stood, and the roof didn't leak. More importantly, no one paid attention to it.
Inside, dust coated the floor thick enough to track prints. I checked corners, cleared rooms, old habits refusing to die. When I was satisfied, I started unloading.
Five gallons of water. Spare tools. A backup medkit. All small things, just enough to start.
The system chimed.
> [Quest Progress: 25%]
[Skill Progression: Scavenging +1.]
The words were clean, clinical, detached. But I felt it. A quiet certainty in my gut that I was building something — not just a stash, but a plan.
I stood in the warehouse, hands on my hips, and let the silence settle.
This was my fallback. My first safehouse.
No one knew it existed.
And when the world fell apart, no one but me would know how to survive it.
---
On the drive back, I passed Joel's truck. He was pulling into his driveway, headlights cutting through the dark. Sarah was asleep in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window.
For a moment, I considered stopping, saying something more than "morning" or "evening." Maybe telling him I'd served too, that I understood the weight he carried as a single father.
But I didn't.
Because what could I say? Hey Joel, I've got a voice in my head telling me the world ends in five years. You might want to start digging a bunker.
No. Not yet.
Trust had to be earned. Timing had to be right.
For now, I had to prepare in silence.
The countdown was ticking, and every day wasted was a day stolen.
---
Back home, I placed the bandage on the nightstand, staring at it like it was both salvation and damnation.
> [Daily Evaluation Complete.]
Mental Stability: Stable.
Preparedness: Below Standard.
Recommendation: Accelerate Planning.
I sighed and rubbed my face.
Five years.
Five years to prepare for hell.
And I was already behind schedule.