February 22, 2028
The last night of calm, before duty and chaos tear Alex away again.
Late in the afternoon, Alex wiped sweat from his brow, inspecting his handiwork. Being raised first in the city and then in suburbia hadn't exactly prepared him for DIY home projects, but necessity left no room for excuses. Thanks to a half-forgotten carpentry elective in high school, and a bit of YouTube University, he'd managed to reinforce his front door with planks, extra hardware, and a steel bar that would jam the frame shut. The work was uneven, a patchwork of cheap lumber and hurried screws, but it would hold longer than an ordinary lock. A few hours earlier, he had even clambered onto his roof to bolt down solar panels. Jury-rigged, but functional.
Even though he had little time to waste, Alex had forced himself to sleep most of the night. After hitting Home Depot yesterday evening, it would've been too late for other stores anyway. Better to rest and start the day with a clear head than stumble into mistakes half-asleep. He still had plenty of cash to burn through, and soon enough that cash would be worth less than the paper it was printed on.
Earlier that morning, he'd driven all across the county, retracing his route from yesterday and adding new stops along the way. He filled his trunk with food, tools, and odds and ends: more batteries, a crowbar, duct tape, and a stack of contractor bags. At one small gun shop tucked into the edge of a strip mall, he finally caved on what he'd been debating since yesterday: a semi-automatic shotgun.
The clerk had given him the usual SAFE Act rundown: fixed stock, tubular magazine, no detachable box mags, seven-shell limit. Alex nodded along, already familiar with every line. What mattered was what left the counter with him: a Mossberg-pattern semi-auto. Nothing fancy, no rails or optics to raise suspicion. Six in the tube, one in the chamber, smooth and simple. The state was always trying to limit him. He was just glad he could get a semi-auto shotgun. Especially since he wanted a gun with another common round that wasn't .223/5.56.
By midday, his basement looked less like a young adult's house and more like the supply depot of a small militia. Rows of ammo cans glinted in the dim light. Shelves sagged under the weight of canned goods. His ARs leaned neatly in their rack, now joined by the new shotgun. For a moment, Alex let himself feel satisfied. For now, it was good. But deep down, he knew it would never really be enough.
Last night, he'd planted the seed in his family's mind that things were getting serious. He'd told them about the ShopRite parking lot: about the man he'd shot, and how the police never came. He added reports of looting and biting, layering exaggeration with just enough truth to land. To sweeten the pot, he'd even told them that the Guard was preparing to activate. Pure BS, but it had done the job. They were listening now.
Alex knew the time had come to draw them in fully. His house wasn't a fortress, but it was more fortified than his family's. And if they were under his roof, they'd be alive when everything collapsed. The truth, that he had already lived and died on Day Zero, was impossible to explain. They'd think him insane. Better to convince them step by step, until reality proved him right.
Eventually, his unit would call. He might be able to bullshit them for a while, long enough for the Belt Parkway to repeat itself, but he couldn't dodge forever. He wasn't a flag-waving patriot, not anymore, and he already despised the state that tied his hands at every turn. But he did care about the men he served with. Brothers forged in suffering, in deployment, in long nights pulling prison guard duty or sweating on Qatari gates.
And more than anyone, Arguenta. His friend had failed to cover him that first night, but Alex wouldn't hold it against him. In this world, finding ammo would be easier than finding trust. Together, they might survive. Alone, even an SF operator would be swallowed. Besides, the Guard meant gear. Plates, helmets, radios, MREs. Tools Alex could use. Tools he would need.
He picked up his phone and dialed his father. "Dad, listen," Alex said, his voice firm, a hint of agitation threaded in. "There's something really serious going on. You've seen the clips, right? The zombies?" "Alex," his father began, exasperated, "Half the videos online are fake these days. You can't trust that stuff."
"People are taking this seriously," Alex shot back. "People who would know. That's why I'm on standby to activate. That's why I've been prepping. And that's why you should bring everyone here. Just for a few days." His father sighed heavily. "So that's what this is about. We can take our chances at home. You don't need to deal with us crowding you."
"No, Dad. It's worse than that. People have died… I've already killed someone over this." There was a sharp silence. "What?"
"I was attacked. Last night. Outside our ShopRite. I shot him. The police never came. They're already overwhelmed in Albany, probably in the city too. It won't be long before my unit calls, so please. I'm begging you. For our family's sake, come stay at my house. Just two days." Another long sigh. "Haaah… alright. But your mom won't like it."
"That's fine!" Alex's words tumbled out fast, relief bleeding into them. "Tell her what I told you. Better safe than sorry. Besides, I've got my guns here." "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" his father asked dryly.
Alex laughed, tension loosening for a moment. "You'd want an umbrella if it rained, right? Last night I needed my rifle. Thank God I had it. Just come. Everyone can bring a bag or two, and don't forget the food. Perishables if Mom allows, but definitely the canned stuff."
Victory. Relief rushed through him.
Back in the present, Alex worked until his hands ached. By sundown, solar panels gleamed on the roof, sheet metal armored the doors, and crude bars hid behind curtains. He'd even put in a same-day delivery order for a water tank and a portable solar generator. If they came, great. If not, the money was worthless anyway.
While he waited, he pulled out his phone. If he had power, even post-collapse, he could make the device his greatest survival tool. He downloaded anything useful he could find: offline maps, bushcraft tutorials, foraging guides, even a recipe app with instructions for biodiesel and black powder. A nuclear safety app caught his eye too, a map of every reactor in North America marked with fallout symbols. He hoped he wasn't jinxing himself by planning that far ahead.
Then the buzz came. SSG Ray: [Stand by for activation. Not fucking around.] Another ping: [NYPD and State Police are exempt.]
Alex swore under his breath. So much for buying time. The outbreak had already accelerated. His second chance was moving faster than the first. Minutes later, another text: [Report to Fort Hamilton NLT tomorrow 0600. Bring full gear.]
Alex sighed. He thumbed out a reply, leaning on the same lie he'd used before. [Still in the Bahamas, but I can book a return flight tomorrow morning.]
The reply was instantaneous. [Fuck dude, I forgot. Wish I could say stay, but higher wants EVERYONE.] Alex narrowed his eyes. If even Ray, who was probably the chillest leader in the unit, wasn't softening the blow, command knew something big was coming.
Not long after, he heard the crunch of tires in his driveway. He stepped out into the cold and met his family with hugs that lingered longer than usual. Two cars, both stuffed with bags: food, toiletries, clothes, toys for his youngest sibling. He shouldered the heaviest loads, carrying them inside with practiced ease.
Bags thudded as they hit the ground. His parents breathed sighs of relief; perhaps they'd taken Alex's earlier words to heart, and maybe took a second look at those "fake" zombie scare clips. Once everyone was settled, Alex motioned for his father and John to follow him into the basement. He showed them the texts. "They've already activated me. I told them I was flying back tomorrow, so I bought us a day. I'll take one rifle for the drive. The others stay here. I'd rather keep them out in the open, but I know you'll want them locked up. Here's the key. Use them, Dad. Don't hesitate. There's plenty of ammo, plenty of food. If I don't come back, you protect this house. Whatever it takes."
"But you don't have to go, right?!" John's voice cracked with panic. "I do," Alex said firmly. "They're my brothers too. Same as you and Nick. Now that you're safe, I need to help them." His father stayed silent for a long moment, watching Alex closely. Not just the soldier in him, but the man he was becoming. Harder. Changed.
Aside from being the only military-aged men in the house, both had seen a rifle in their hands before. Dragging his father to the range had been an uphill battle, but at least the man could handle an AR without fumbling now. On the contrary, John was always eager, though their parents' rules kept him from going openly. Alex had snuck him out more than once, and it showed. His brother shot straighter than their dad, and likely better than most soldiers in support roles.
The rest of the night, Alex kept close to his family. He listened to his siblings chatter, endured his stepmother's skeptical looks, and laughed at John's quiet jokes about "bean rations." He knew she didn't like the guns in the house, but she hadn't protested when she saw the shelves of food. For tonight, they were under his roof, and that was enough.
He felt nostalgic as he sat on the couch, a familiar scene playing around him. His sister Carol scrolled on her phone, Nick tapped away on his iPad, and John sat with their dad watching soccer highlights while he sipped coffee, even this late. Alex yawned. Surrounded by warmth, he felt the fatigue of his day finally start to weigh on him. But he didn't want to turn in for the night just yet.
This might be the last evening he had with them. He wasn't going to waste it.