Chapter 2

"Jack! You bastard, get out here!"

Bill's brutal roar penetrated the bulletproof glass and echoed through the office. Through the slits in the blinds, I peered outside at the police station. Over thirty tattooed bikers stood around their Harleys, each brandishing machetes or crowbars.

Bill stood at the front, his face—pitted and scarred by cigarettes and alcohol—etched with savagery. Lily cowered behind him, covering her frostbitten cheek with her hand, eyes full of terror.

"Hand over those two trucks, and pay Lily's medical bills! Or I'll tear down this shitty station today!"

Bill waved a fire axe menacingly through the air, making threatening gestures like he'd smash everything to pieces. The other bikers jeered along, howling like wild beasts.

But I noticed—not one of them dared actually approach the station entrance.

These idiots knew full well what attacking a government facility meant while social order still held. They were just small-town thugs; no matter how arrogant, they wouldn't dare wage war on law enforcement.

I picked up the radio with a cold laugh: "All units, heads up—we've got some clowns performing monkey tricks outside. Everyone ignore them. Let them play by themselves."

"Copy that, Sheriff," Deputy Davis's voice carried a mocking tone. "Want us to disperse them?"

"No need. They won't be jumping around much longer."

Sure enough, with the station doors sealed and all officers ignoring their existence, Bill's threats appeared pathetically impotent. Under the blazing sun with temperatures already hitting 95°F, the leather-jacketed bikers grew restless.

"Boss, this isn't working," a subordinate wiped sweat and sidled up to Bill. "We can't actually attack the station, can we?"

Bill's expression turned ugly. He knew damn well he was just putting on a show. Under current law, assaulting a police station was suicide.

"Jack, you better watch your back! This isn't over!" Bill roared a few final threats before slinking away with his crew.

The rumble of Harley engines gradually faded, and quiet returned to the station entrance.

I turned away from the window, completely dismissing the farce. Compared to these jumping jesters, I had more important matters to attend to.

I strode quickly to the safe in the corner of my office, input the code, and retrieved the station's financial account card. Five hundred thousand dollars lay dormant—all accumulated dirty money confiscated over the years and fine revenues.

In my previous life, that saintly fool had never touched a penny, dutifully turning it all over to the state government.

This time, this money would become my apocalypse startup fund.

I dialed Old Mike, our state's largest arms supplier.

"Mike, I need to place an order."

"Sheriff Jack? Military supplies this early? What's going on?" Old Mike's gravelly voice came through.

"State anti-terror drill. Need to replenish ammo inventory." I made up an excuse on the spot. "I need 500 rounds of 12-gauge, 1000 rounds of .45 caliber pistol ammo, 50 kilograms of TNT, and two sets of body armor."

"No problem, though the explosives need special authorization—"

"Emergency procurement, green channel. Money's no object."

After hanging up, I called the town's largest food supplier.

"I want to order premium beef and alcohol. 50 pounds of tomahawk steaks, 100 pounds of Texas barbecue, 20 cases of Corona beer. I need it tonight."

"That much? Sheriff Jack throwing a party?"

"Private gathering. Remember—only the best quality."

With both calls finished, a cold smile played at my lips. Those animals wanted to eat my flesh in the previous life? This time I'd make them watch me feast on tomahawk steaks and ice-cold beer in my 0°F constant-temperature freezer while they gnawed tree bark in 160°F hell.

I opened the basement door and began descending.

The station's basement was originally a nuclear shelter built during the Cold War, with steel-reinforced concrete walls three meters thick capable of withstanding nuclear blast waves. Later converted to an armory housing various heavy weapons and ammunition.

But now, it would become my apocalypse freezer.

I stood in the center of the basement, took a deep breath, then unleashed my "Absolute Zero Field" at full power.

Ice-blue mist surged from both hands, instantly filling the entire underground space. Numbers on the thermometer plummeted wildly: 68°F, 59°F, 50°F, 41°F... finally stabilizing at the perfect freezer temperature—0°F.

Thick frost coated the walls, moisture in the air condensing into tiny ice crystals that sparkled in the cold light. I exhaled a puff of white mist and nodded with satisfaction.

This would be my Noah's Ark. In the 160°F human hell, I would possess Arctic-level absolute cold.

The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I returned to ground level and picked up.

"Sheriff, the goods are ready. When should we deliver?" Old Mike's voice.

"After ten tonight. Come through the back door. Remember—keep it quiet."

"Got it."

Over the next few hours, I leisurely sat in my air-conditioned room, sipping ice-cold Coke while planning supply storage strategies. Memories from my previous life told me that when temperatures exceeded 122°F, all ordinary cooling equipment would fail—only my ability could maintain low temperatures.

By then, my underground freezer would become the only oasis of survival within a hundred miles.

At ten PM, Old Mike's truck quietly entered through the station's rear entrance. Cases of ammunition and explosives were moved into the basement, followed immediately by the food supplier delivering premium beef and beer to designated positions.

Standing in the center of my freezer, looking at the full warehouse of supplies, I felt an unprecedented sense of security. In my previous life, I gave everything for the townspeople. This time, I would live for myself.

Just as I was taking inventory, my phone suddenly rang.

Caller ID: Bill.

I answered. Bill's forced casual voice came through:

"Hey, Jack buddy, things got a little heated today. You know how it is—Lily got hurt, and the guys were all pissed off..."

"So?" I responded coldly.

"So I figure we should talk this through. About that shipment—maybe there's another way to handle this?"

This was a probe. The bastard wanted to gauge my attitude.

"What kind of way?"

"Look, those medications are important to us. If the price is right..."

"Bill, those are evidence. No one can take them."

Silence on the other end for a few seconds, then Bill's tone turned pleading:

"Jack, I apologize for today. Lily too—she shouldn't have treated you like that. We all grew up in the same town. No need to make this so ugly, right?"

This guy could actually apologize? Seemed like that shipment was really important to him. But the more important it was to him, the less I'd give it up—not for any grand reason, just pure revenge for the harm he'd caused me.

"Apologies don't change anything, Bill."

"Then... what do you want? Money? I can pay you. Or something else..."

"I don't want anything. The goods are in evidence lockup. You want them, go through legal channels."

Another silence, longer this time. When Bill spoke again, his voice began trembling:

"Jack... buddy... that shipment is really important. It's... it belongs to the Mexican Carlos Cartel. I'm just a middleman courier. If I can't deliver, those Mexicans will kill my whole family!"

My pupils contracted. The bastard was finally laying his cards on the table.

The Mexican Carlos Cartel—from my previous life's memories, the most brutal drug organization on the border. Those two trucks of military-grade pharmaceuticals were their goods.

"Jack, please! I'm really going to die! Those people don't negotiate—they only want results! Please make an exception, I'll agree to anything! I can even give Lily back to you!"

Pleading turned to wailing. This mad dog had been cornered.

"Heh, my answer is—absolutely not."

Heavy breathing came through the phone. After a few seconds, Bill's voice completely changed tone, filled with desperation and malice:

"Jack... you're a fucking cold-blooded bastard! Fine, very good! Since you won't give me a way out, don't blame me! I'll tell Carlos it was you who seized their goods! Those Mexican fuckers won't just come after me then! They'll come kill your cop ass! I'll be waiting for you in hell!"

A cornered dog will jump over walls.

"Whatever."

I hung up coldly.

Bill had been driven completely insane. Soon the Mexican drug dealers would come knocking too.

But I wasn't panicked at all. When the extreme heat arrived, let them survive the scorching asphalt roads first before talking about finding me.