Chapter2

Rainwater dripped from my chin, staining the high-end Persian rug. I slammed the heavy canvas duffel onto the mahogany desk at "Apex Real Estate."

Davis, the agent on duty, frowned. His eyes raked over my soaked, cheap T-shirt with open disgust. "Sir, we're closed. If you're peddling something or begging, the exit is to your left."

He reached for the security buzzer on his desk. The harsh rasp of a zipper stopped him dead.

Bundles of Benjamins, still bound in bank wrappers, cascaded onto the wood, piling into a small green mountain.

"That 50th-floor penthouse downtown. The one with the independent solar and water recycling system. I want it now." I stared at his finger, still hovering in mid-air. "Triple the asking price. All cash. Hand over the keys right now."

Davis’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently. His hand jerked away from the buzzer, hovering instead over the pile of cash. Less than ten minutes later, electronic keycard in hand, I stepped back into the sticky, rain-soaked night.

Countdown: 68 hours remaining.

The car radio crackled with a news anchor's overly relaxed tone: "Isolated cases of a rabies-like strain have been reported in the East District. Infected individuals are exhibiting high aggression. The CDC advises citizens to..."

I yanked the steering wheel hard. The truck’s tires shrieked against the flooded asphalt as I swerved, heading straight for a tactical supply store on the outskirts of town.

Pushing past the jingling "OPEN" sign, I found the owner, Vince, oiling a Remington shotgun. I slapped my hunting license onto the glass display case.

"Every AR-15 in your back room. All your 5.56 mil ammo, night-vision goggles, and high-explosive crossbow bolts. Box them up."

Vince froze. His eyes swept over my pale face. "Son, you don't need explosive bolts to hunt deer. You planning on starting a war?"

I didn't bother explaining. I just shoved a brown paper bag bulging with cash across the counter.

"When that rabies on the news bites through your front door, this paper won't stop their teeth," I muttered, my eyes drifting over his shoulder to the Kevlar vests on the wall.

Vince stared down at the stacks of bills, then glanced up at the TV screen still rolling the news ticker. Without a word, he turned and headed into the back room. Half an hour later, enough firepower to equip a light infantry squad was loaded into my trunk.

Time bled away. The 72-hour countdown was ticking down like a death march.

I chartered two heavy-duty refrigerated trucks and cleaned out a Sam’s Club. Hundreds of pounds of prime Tomahawk steaks, mountains of bottled water, and a small fortune in broad-spectrum antibiotics scavenged from black-market clinics flowed into that 50th-floor penthouse.

A blonde woman with a shopping cart threw a fit about me buying out all the fresh meat, even trying to physically block my flatbed. I didn't give her a second glance. I just tossed a brick of cash to the store manager and told him to clear a VIP lane. In a city destined to become a slaughterhouse, manners were a luxury I could no longer afford.

July 4th. 11:00 PM.

Blinding welding sparks showered the 50th-floor corridor, the air thick with the acrid stench of ozone. A black-market contractor crew I’d paid a small fortune was currently welding a multi-ton, blast-proof titanium bank vault door directly into the load-bearing walls.

The stairwells leading to the roof and the lower floors had already been sealed shut with high-grade industrial concrete.

Pete, the foreman, yanked off his welding mask. His eyes lingered greedily on the mountain of supplies visible inside the apartment as he wiped grease from his hands and strolled over.

"Welding fire exits shut... that's a major felony, man." Pete’s gaze roamed over the ribeyes and stacked water cases. "And my boys worked up a sweat today. The agreed rate? Might not be enough to buy our silence."

A classic shakedown. Behind him, three workers dropped their torches and picked up heavy wrenches and steel pipes, subtly fanning out to box me in.

The atmosphere instantly dropped to absolute zero.

With my back still turned, I reached into a freshly opened tactical crate and pulled out an AR-15. The sharp, mechanical clack of a round being chambered echoed down the empty concrete corridor.

I turned around. The muzzle was pointed at the floor, but my thumb had already flicked off the safety. With my free hand, I pulled out twenty grand in cash and tossed it into the welding slag at Pete’s boots.

"Take the cash. Get in the elevator. Or I’ll mix you into the concrete outside that door." My voice was so deadpan it surprised even me. The old Lucas—the pushover who used to quietly sweep up broken glass at frat parties—had died two days ago.

Pete stared at the black void of the barrel. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently. Swallowing hard, he snatched up the money, signaled his boys, and squeezed into the service elevator without looking back.

11:55 PM.

As I dragged the final crate of ammo into the foyer, I slapped the red lockdown button on the wall.

The hydraulic system groaned heavily as the massive titanium door swung shut. Eight solid steel deadbolts fired outward simultaneously, biting deep into the alloy frame with a deafening, incredibly reassuring CLANG.

I peeled off my sweat-drenched T-shirt and stepped up to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The city below was still a sea of brilliant light. Neon signs blurred through the rain, and pedestrians scurried along the sidewalks under their umbrellas, completely oblivious.

Suddenly, a piercing siren tore through the night sky.

Then a second. Then a third.

Starting from the East District, the wailing sirens spread across the city grid like a highly contagious plague. Down on the main avenue, several cruisers with flashing red and blues tore through an intersection in a frantic, out-of-control swerve, smashing headlong into a fire hydrant. A geyser of high-pressure water erupted into the air, raining down on a crowd of people who were suddenly running for their lives.

I twisted the cap off an ice-cold club soda, savoring the slight, sharp sting of the carbonation popping against my tongue.

On the wall, the vintage clock gave a soft click. The hands aligned perfectly at midnight.

Hell had opened its doors, right on schedule.