Chapter 2

The farm's heavy iron gate clanged shut behind my parents' Ford, the metallic thud of the lock like a hammer blow.

No hugs. No pleasantries. I grabbed my father's arm and pulled both of them into the main house, pressing them down at the kitchen table.

"What's wrong? Is Lena going to—" My mother's smile froze the moment she saw the bloodless faces of Lena and me.

I braced my hands on the table, leaning in, eyes locked on theirs. No water, no buffer—I laid it all out: the apocalypse in seven days, the zombie hordes, the collapse of order, my mother-in-law Carol's betrayal, and the suffocating agony of being torn apart as I fell into the horde.

Every word dripped with blood.

My mother's frail body lurched, knocking over a glass. The shatter echoed through the dead-silent living room. Her face went pale; she clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.

My father's gaze was fixed on me, his chest heaving, his calloused hands slowly clenching on his knees. The air turned to lead.

Would he think I was crazy? My back tightened; cold sweat beaded on my palms.

"BANG!"

My father's palm slammed onto the solid oak table, sending shards of glass flying. He shot to his feet, eyes red-rimmed—but instead of doubt, there was the fierce, stubborn fire of an old-school farmer. "Those bastards! Then we fight! I've weathered every storm in my life—we'll turn this farm into a fortress!"

His resolve ignited the room. Lena slapped a hand-drawn farm blueprint onto the table, red marks glaring like wounds.

"Split up." I rapped my knuckles on the map. "Lena, you hit every pharmacy in town. Call in every connection you have with the pharma reps—cash, no receipts, fast."

"On it." Lena grabbed the car keys and walked out without a backward glance. The engine faded into the distance.

"Mom—seeds, poultry, fermenters." I turned to her trembling yet focused eyes. "When the grid goes down, your pickling and preserving skills will keep us alive."

My mother took a deep breath, nodded, and rushed to the pantry to inventory supplies.

"Dad, the scrap yard west of town." I shoved a thick stack of cash into his hand. "Buy every beat-up pickup and off-road vehicle you can. Drag them to the perimeter—I want a steel wall."

My father pocketed the money and strode toward the garage.

With everything set, I pulled on a cap and stuffed several fake IDs into my jacket. Building materials and weapons—that was the real work.

Over the next forty-eight hours, I moved like a ghost through five neighboring towns.

At the building supply depot, I kept my cap low and slapped a pile of cash on the counter: "High-grade cement, reinforced barbed wire, heavy-duty door braces—keep the change, no receipts, load it now."

In the back alley of a hardware store, I watched the owner load custom ballistic steel window panels onto my truck. After checking for tracking tags, I floored it down the dirt road.

By day, the scorching sun beat down. My father and I, shirts off, swung pickaxes deep in the barn.

On the surface, we were repairing the tool shed—but beneath, a four-meter-deep hidden cellar was slowly being carved out. Soil mixed with sweat was hauled out in baskets, concealed under hay and thick planks.

"CLANG—" My shovel struck a rock. Outside the fence, a dry cough cut through the air.

Every muscle tensed. My right hand instinctively went to the tactical knife at my waist; my gaze shot toward the sound.

Old Dr. Howard, our retired neighbor, stood hunched over, peering through the wooden slats. His cloudy eyes swept over the scattered supplies; he squinted slightly. "Making quite a racket? Building a bunker?"

I tucked the knife under my shirt, put on a helpless smile, and walked over, offering him a cigarette. "Lena's parents are moving in for good. They're fussy about space—forcing me to build a greenhouse."

Howard took the cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. His gaze paused for a second on my tensed shoulders. He nodded, asking no further questions.

"By the way, there's a nasty flu going around." I flicked ash casually. "You might want to stock up on those anti-inflammatories in your medicine cabinet—never hurts to be prepared."

Howard's fingers paused around the cigarette. He gave me a long, knowing look, an odd smile curling at the corner of his mouth, then turned and shuffled away.

Watching his back, I quietly released the knife handle. The apocalypse couldn't be escaped just by being warned—everyone had their own fate. That hint was the last of my conscience.

Once Howard's footsteps faded, night fell—and the real frenzy began.

Behind the town's big-box store, my father and I worked like machines, heaving cases of freeze-dried rations, high-calorie biscuits, and bottled water into the truck.

One trip. Two. Three.

Tires carved deep ruts into the dirt road. Supplies, wrapped tight in waterproof tarps, were crammed deep into the barn cellar like stuffing into a duck.

My father dug three hidden foxholes on the farm's perimeter slopes overnight, mounting the night-vision scopes I'd bought. The cold lenses were fixed on the road leading to town. In the greenhouse, my mother's mud-caked hands were already planting the first batch of cold-hardy vegetables.

On the sixth night, wind and dead leaves lashed against the windows. In the basement's dim light, the four of us stared at what we'd amassed.

Ammunition stacked neatly in moisture-proof cases—enough for three months of sustained fire. Canned goods gleaming with reassuring metallic shine—enough to feed four people for two years. Two steel cabinets in the tool shed stuffed so full of antibiotics, morphine, and medical supplies that the doors wouldn't close.

I grabbed the modified pump handle on the well and pressed down.

"GUSH—" Clean groundwater burst out, splashing into the basin. Even if the state lost power, the hand pump would keep this well from ever running dry.

Everything was ready.

In the early morning air, the scent of blood was already palpable.

I climbed alone onto the barn's sloped roof, the wind slicing across my face like blades. In the distance, the town still glimmered—scattered car lights drawing long red lines along the highway.

Those sleeping soundly in their warm beds had no idea that sea of lights would soon become a graveyard of limbs.

I slowly worked the shotgun's action. The crisp metallic click echoed in the night.

When the sun rose tomorrow, the world would descend into hell. But I swore to myself—everyone in this farmhouse would live to see the sun rise again next year.