Chapter 7

Olivia's POV

Before Chico could react, I bent down and pulled the baseball bat out from under the couch, testing its weight in my hand.

This bat was regulation Major League hardwood—perfect for what I had in mind.

Chico stared at the bat in my hands. He froze for a second, then let out a laugh through his nose, dripping with contempt for what he thought was just another girl.

He pulled a folding knife from his pocket.

"You think that's gonna scare me?"

Rexie had gone back into the kitchen, grabbed a can of soda, popped the tab, and leaned against the counter in a spot with the best view, sipping slowly.

Through the glass door, she looked like someone settling in to watch a game where she already knew the final score.

Chico glanced at the kitchen and seemed to take her retreat as cowardice. His grin widened.

I raised my hand and pointed to the camera mounted in the corner of the living room, aimed right at the couch.

"It's been recording since you started picking the lock, Everything up to this moment. That knife in your hand—it's all on tape."

Without waiting for a response, I reached over and turned on the sound system.

I cranked the volume all the way up.

The bass dropped like a wall crashing down, and the entire apartment was instantly drowned in a wave of sound.

I lunged forward. The bat cracked into Chico's right wrist—the one holding the knife.

The sound of bone breaking was almost inaudible under the music. The knife clattered loose and skittered under the couch.

Vera finally realized things weren't going her way and scrambled toward the back of the sofa.

Chico was still bent over, clutching his wrist, when I swung the bat twice more into the backs of his knees. His legs buckled and he dropped hard onto the floor with a dull thud.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, "I'm sorry, I was just bluffing, I want to go home, I want my mom—"

The curtain by the window shifted.

I turned and yanked Vera out from behind the drapes—she'd crawled from the couch to the window during the chaos, But before she could run, I'd already spotted her.

I twisted her wrists and ankles out of their sockets, and she was thrown down next to Chico, sobbing. The two of them lay on the floor obediently, neither with the strength to resist.

I walked over to the kitchen and pulled an ice cream bar from the fridge.

I peeled back the foil slowly, took a bite, and looked down at the two of them.

Chico lifted his head, his face streaked with tears and snot, every trace of his earlier swagger gone. He said he was just trying to help Vera, that he wasn't a bad guy, just some small-time hustler from Brooklyn.

This sentence is really funny. He's not a bad person, just a rash young man who thinks standing up for his girlfriend equals being responsible. Unfortunately, his scheme targeted the wrong place.

I finished the ice cream, crouched down, and snapped his bones back into place with a few quick motions. Chico gasped, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

Then I turned to Vera.

She flinched, her sobs laced with fear. I grabbed her, popped the joint back in, then reached to unfasten the gold necklace at her throat. She'd owed me this favor for far too long.

"You two want to stay for dinner?" Rexie's voice drifted out from the kitchen, as sincere as a friendly neighbor offering hospitality. "I'm making pasta. There's plenty."

They both stared at her like they'd just encountered some kind of alien life form.

Eventually, the two of them limped to the door, supporting each other.

Just before the door closed all the way, Vera let go of Chico's arm.

"We broke up," she said flatly. "You couldn't even beat a girl."

The door swung shut.

I slipped the gold necklace into my pocket and turned to see what Rexie was making for dinner.

She was chopping onions with all the finesse of someone splitting firewood—pieces flying everywhere in every conceivable size, a few tumbling straight onto the floor.

I sighed. "Let me do it."

"You sure you can cook?" Rexie turned her head, eyes full of doubt. "I've known you for twenty years. Never once seen you set foot in a kitchen."

"I learned." I stood at the stove, spatula in hand, watching meat slices tumble in the boiling water.

The first year after the apocalypse in my previous life, I'd survived on the reserves in my space.

But by the second year, I'd started experimenting with a hot plate and canned goods, trying to make something warm.

At first I burned everything—charred pots, ruined food. Eventually I got myself a little notebook and started writing down every mistake, repeating the steps methodically until I could produce something edible.

I'd also scavenged a cookbook. But the damn thing never gave real measurements—just "salt to taste," "sugar to taste," "oil to taste." What the hell does "to taste" even mean?

"One spoonful of salt," Rexie said offhandedly. "My mom always did one spoon salt, one spoon sugar. Works every time."

I followed her advice.

When the dish hit the table, I tasted it. Not bad, not great either.

But Rexie ate like it was a feast, shoveling rice into her mouth while watching a comedy on TV, laughing so hard she nearly choked.

"You've been body-snatched, haven't you?" She suddenly looked up at me. "Olivia Sterling can cook? That's more unbelievable than the end of the world."

I set down my chopsticks, my expression unchanged. "You peed your pants at summer camp when you were eight."

Rexie's smile froze.

"Confessed to a teacher in the school bathroom stall."

"Oh, fuck off!" Rexie grabbed a bag of chips and hurled it at me. "How the hell do you know all this?"

I caught the chips, tore the bag open, and crunched down on a handful.

Still seething, Rexie grabbed her phone and ordered ten meals—pizza, fried chicken, burgers, sushi, burritos. When the delivery driver arrived, she signed for them one by one, then shoved nine of them into my arms.

"Put these in your space," she said. "I'll eat one portion — keep the rest for me."

I took them all and stored them away.

After dinner, Rexie said she wanted to beat her game before the apocalypse hit and asked if I wanted to join.

I shook my head and stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the lights of Manhattan across the bay.

The windows of those skyscrapers lit up, grid by grid. But after tomorrow, those lights would go out one by one, until the entire city sank into darkness.

The blood-red aurora would tear open the sky.

Then the freeze. Then the heat. Then the ash rain, the acid rain, and the birth of the Echoes—repeating the same motions they'd made in life, over and over, until someone severed their spines.

I walked into the bedroom, opened my laptop, and logged onto Twitter.

There was a trending post about "global heat anomalies."

I clicked into the comments. The first one read: "Again? Every year they say this. When has it ever been real?"

Second: "My dog's dying from the heat. When is this going to cool down?"

I scrolled further and found a highly upvoted thread titled: "Signs of the Apocalypse? Are You Noticing These Abnormalities?"

The post listed a long string of calamities: crops withering, livestock falling sick en masse, hospital admissions for heatstroke surging, glaciers melting and sea levels rising, river water levels running abnormally low.

The replies were a mix of belief and skepticism. Hospital workers confirmed emergency rooms packed with unusual cases. Farmers verified rotting crops and mass livestock deaths. Some were stockpiling salt and grain. Others dismissed it entirely.

"Stop reading Mayan prophecies."

"I've already stocked three months of food!"

"Diet pills, anyone? Perfect for the heat."

I watched the thread devolve into chaos and closed the tab.

The whole world was guessing. Only I knew the answer.

I turned off the light, climbed into bed, and set my alarm for four a.m.

One hour before the blood-red aurora.

I closed my eyes. Images from my past life flickered through my mind—collapsed bridges, flooded streets, Echoes, bodies, flames, screams, silence.

Then me, digging through rubble, finding an expired can of beans, prying it open with a rusted knife, forcing down one mouthful after another. It tasted like rust mixed with dirt.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

I wasn't a hero. I just needed Rexie and me to survive.

The alarm clock's red numbers glowed in the darkness.

23:47.

Four hours and thirteen minutes left.