Kane sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the muted morning light spilling through the blinds in pale gold stripes. The quiet was almost unbearable. He could hear Reina's gentle breathing from the other room, the slow, even rhythm of a toddler still lost in the safety of her dreams.
He wasn't dreaming.
The cold morning air from the cracked window touched his skin too sharply, smelled too real. The ache in his shoulders from yesterday's wood chopping was too familiar. And the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen was something that didn't exist in those final, ruined days.
That alone made his stomach tighten.
He had woken in this house — his house — yesterday morning. A house that had been burned out, gutted, and stained in his memories of the apocalypse. Now it was whole again. Untouched.
When he'd stepped outside last evening, the sky hadn't been the bruised, ash-choked mess he remembered. No black clouds of smoke from burning cities. No distant echoes of sirens or gunfire. Only the thin hiss of wind in the pine trees and the occasional sound of a bird's call drifting from the forest edge.
It was the same location, the same mountain road that wound down toward the city. Yet it wasn't the same time.
He didn't need anyone to tell him that.
Kane had been trained to assess situations fast — a survival habit burned into him by his family long before the world ended. His grandfather, a career military officer, had drilled discipline into him from a young age. His parents, both high-ranking officers themselves, had layered tactical thinking into everyday life.
They were gone now. Plane crash. No bodies to bury. Just a folded flag and the empty echo of uniforms never to be worn again. That had been before the world collapsed. Before the undead became something more than a nightmare.
When he'd been alive — before dying — Kane had survived 14 months into the apocalypse. He knew exactly what 60 days meant. Two months before the first infected rose in the city below.
The date had been burned into his brain the same way a soldier memorizes the locations of landmines in a field. You forget, and you die.
Now?
He stood up, crossing to the kitchen. The calendar on the wall hung in its usual place, a cheap printout with pictures of mountain ranges. His eyes scanned the boxes, his pulse ticking faster when he saw the number circled in black ink.
March, 2026.
Sixty days. Exactly.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee grounds and pine-scented cleaner. His boots were still by the back door, caked with old mud from before… before everything.
He reached for the coffee canister, his hands steady, but his mind was anything but. He remembered the night he died — the swarm, the barricade holding just long enough for him to cover Reina's escape with the last rounds of his rifle.
That moment had burned so deep he could still feel the sharp recoil in his shoulder. Still hear the snap of brittle bone as one of them had latched onto his arm. The pain, white-hot and merciless, followed by a wave of cold when teeth tore flesh.
And then nothing.
No tunnel of light. No voices calling him. Just darkness.
Until yesterday.
If this was real — if he really was back — then sitting around waiting for the storm to hit would be suicide. His death had already taught him that.
But he couldn't just throw himself into preparations without raising questions. The neighbors were far enough that nobody would notice him stockpiling supplies for now, but this was a quiet community — unusual activity drew eyes.
He poured coffee, sat at the small wooden table, and started making a mental list. Not the desperate scavenger's list he'd once carried in his head, but something for the before.
The well pump was still functional, but he'd need purification tablets. And bottled reserves for redundancy. He knew from experience that when the grid went down, mountain water pressure died first.
Propane tanks, firewood, gasoline — all stored discreetly. The snow last winter had nearly buried the woodpile. He'd need more before spring.
Firearms were already here — his grandfather's locked gun cabinet in the den held two rifles, a shotgun, and a sidearm. Ammunition stocks were decent, but he'd need more.
His old pickup still ran, though it needed an oil change and tire check. He remembered the day fuel became rarer than gold — and the day roads became ambush zones.
From the hallway came the small, shuffling steps of his sister.
She appeared in the doorway, hair messy, pajamas wrinkled, clutching her worn plush rabbit. At two years old, she was still in the safest, most innocent world possible — for now.
Kane smiled faintly, forcing warmth into his voice."Morning, shortstack."
She rubbed her eyes. "Hungry."
"Yeah, me too." He rose, fixing her breakfast — toast and scrambled eggs. Watching her eat, he was reminded how in the other timeline, feeding her had become a daily battle against hunger. Every bite now felt like stolen treasure.
Later that morning, Kane drove the pickup down the winding road toward the city. The air was crisp, the mountain trees swaying lightly in the breeze.
The city itself was still alive. People moved between shops, coffee steam rose from outdoor café tables, and the streets were free of the wrecked cars that would one day choke them.
But as he parked near the supply store, Kane's eyes scanned every corner. He noticed things most wouldn't — blind spots in alleyways, security cameras, the height of building rooftops. Even in peace, he saw the battlefield under the surface.
He bought supplies that wouldn't look suspicious: canned goods, batteries, a few tools. Nothing that would scream doomsday prepper. Not yet.
That night, after Reina was asleep, Kane found himself staring at the basement door.
It was an old wooden thing, paint chipped, hinges slightly rusted. His grandfather had always kept it locked. He'd said it was where he stored old equipment, "junk from my service days."
But Kane had the key now.
He descended the creaking steps slowly, the cool air growing denser the deeper he went. The smell was a mix of dust, old wood, and faint metal oil.
His flashlight beam swept over shelves stacked with sealed crates, a folded military cot, and weathered maps pinned to the wall. In the far corner, under a tarp, sat a metal case unlike anything else.
It was matte black, the surface etched with markings that weren't standard military issue.
On top of it rested a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age.
Kane's fingers brushed the edge of the note, but he didn't open it. Not yet.
The calendar on the basement wall caught his eye.
March 2026.
The same date. The same countdown.
He stood there for a long time, the quiet pressing in, before finally turning off the flashlight and heading back upstairs.