90 Days Before the Apocalypse: My Neighbor Is the Wasteland King

Harper's POV

The nightmare always ends the same way. My own name, half-spoken, swallowed by the detonation before the second syllable clears his teeth.

I woke at 2:51 with the extraction line yanking at my arm and my back soaked through. Matte titanium on four sides, light calibrated to a white that made day and night mean nothing. Apex had been pulling markers out of my quantum fold sequence for a year now, the way other people draw water out of a well. I waited for my breathing to settle. It refused.

Tyler went first. Six months into the collapse, in the middle of the Absolute Zero phase — a fever he never mentioned, a supply run that was supposed to take two hours, and me standing in the airlock letting him go because arguing would have cost more time than the trip itself. The outer gates sealed before the team made it back, and when the doors finally opened, three people were missing. They brought his thermal suit in frozen into the shape of a man. My parents came after him, at the end of that first year, when the first surge of Silica-Blighted pushed into the outer ring and the Resource Committee called an early shutdown and filed three pages of weather reports to justify it. One family of four walked into that year. I was the only one who walked out.

Damian Thorne took the rest. When I pulled the authorization logs from that shutdown, his name was sitting in the operator field — not a clerical error, not a second signature tucked under someone else's. Just his. He signed the order that left my parents outside. Then he spent five years building the Purple Vault Haven beside me and calling it ours.

The end came on a routine run into the underground conduits. Twenty minutes in, my plasma sequencing cut out under a nanite suppression field tuned precisely to my band, which is not a thing that happens by accident. He was standing in the entrance shadow with an Apex researcher at his shoulder. He watched me go down on one knee and did not raise his voice or hurry a syllable.

I'm sorry, Harper. The sequence is too rare. Apex needs it, and I need Apex.

Then the year. Draws, dose schedules, frequencies I have no name for, kept conscious whenever the schedule allowed, because the fold sequence behaves differently under cognitive load and nobody in that building ever had to explain a method to anyone who might object. He had me priced before I said yes to anything at all. I let go of the frame. Four dents pressed into my knuckles where the metal had been.

I want to burn this place off the face of the earth.

I said it out loud. The answer came back through the partition before I registered having spoken — a body shifting its weight, and nobody in this wing shifts anything anymore.

Charles sat against the far wall with his eyes half-open, and those eyes were red. Not the red of burst vessels — deep crimson bleeding out of the iris, the way it looked in the old footage, back when the Anvil Vanguard fed forty thousand people because he had decided they would eat. Then Julian Cole sold his identity, and the people he had protected turned on him. Three weeks ago a suppressant overdose left him striking a wall for no reason at all, and I wrote him off. Tonight he was watching me, and something behind the red was pulling itself back together from a long way off.

"You said." Each word came out like corroded metal forced to turn. "You wanted to burn this place down."

I had been muttering, the way people do once they stop expecting anyone to listen. He hadn't caught the words so much as the voice saying them, and I could see him deciding what that meant.

I smiled, and there was nothing soft left in it. "That's right. Burn it down and take everyone inside with me."

He was quiet. Then the corner of his mouth moved, barely. "Sounds reasonable. Let's go start a fire."

His right palm went orange — not combustion, but the five-dimensional manipulation the whole wasteland feared him for, forced open through a Genesis Core already damaged past repair — and the restraints rated past three thousand degrees dissolved to gray powder in front of me. My wrists and ankles came free. I said nothing about the cost. Burning a Core means burning your own days, and he knew that better than I did.

The alarm went off the instant he tore the door out of its housing. Subjects 001 and 002, breached. Terminate on sight. Charles walked point and cleared the corridor the way a pressure wave clears debris — thirty-five armed guards, and none of them got a shot off. I took the flanks, plasma coming back the way feeling returns to a numbed limb. Two people walking out of the same fire, and neither of us had to ask what the other was.

"How long does your Core hold?"

"Long enough. To the control room."

Three blast doors, then the control room. I found the manual melt trigger in under two seconds, because a year in a place teaches you its corners whether you want them or not. Authorized personnel only. Irreversible. I held my hand over it and looked at him, and neither of us said anything about what the next ten seconds would cost.

I pressed it.

The signal took 0.3 seconds. The floor moved — low resonance first, then structure letting go — and the light came up through the levels the way a physical law enforces itself, taking corridors and benches and culture dishes and everyone who had been running toward us. Charles stood beside me, the crimson dimming out of his eyes, and made no effort to stop it.

"Was it a good fire?"

"Very good. Thank you, Charles."

"Don't thank me. I wanted it too." A pause. "One regret, though."

"What regret?"

He turned his head, and the last of the reactor light moved across his eyes. "You know my name. I never learned yours."

I laughed, bright and unguarded, a clear day arriving over the wasteland with no warning. "My name is Har—"

The record says melt-critical failure at 03:14, November 19, 2297. Most of the Haven above it, gone. No remains of Subjects 001 and 002 ever recovered.

I came back to myself the way I always do afterward. Sound first, then ceiling, then mattress, then the temperature of air on my face. The display on the wall read 7:19 AM. March 14, 2291.

Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed in a gray hoodie that hadn't been washed recently enough, both hands on his knees, and he had clearly been talking for at least two minutes.

"— you were crying, I heard you from the hallway, and then you wouldn't wake up, and I know the Damian thing is rough, but you can't keep doing this to yourself over some guy who—"

My right hand moved before I finished deciding to move it. The impact was clear and real — weight, temperature, resistance, the bloom of it across my palm. No dream I ever had carried that much resolution. Dreams soften the edges of contact. The world does not.

Tyler sat down hard on the floor with both hands over his cheek. "Harper — what the hell —"

I wasn't listening. I was looking at my hand, turning it over once and then back. He is real. This room is real. I am in a body, in a specific moment.

My hands started shaking, and I recognized the shaking, because it wasn't fear. I had catalogued fear across six years of situations that warranted it. This was the thing that had been pressing against the inside of my chest through all six of them.

Tyler got back to his feet and retreated, one cheek bright red, his expression swinging between wounded and wary. "Harper, you're looking at me like — I don't know what that look is, but it's a little bit—"

My left hand moved.

"AH — HARPER —"

He backed into the wall with both hands up, both cheeks red, eyes wide and so irreducibly alive that the shaking climbed through my forearms into my shoulders, and I could not have explained to anyone what it felt like to look at a person I had carried frozen in my memory for six years and find him standing there instead.

March 14, 2291. Ninety days before the first stage of the Cascade. Ninety days to do everything differently.

The clock was already running.