February 21, 2028
Alex woke drenched in sweat, his body shivering despite the room's warmth. For a few moments, he just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself it had all been a nightmare. But the phantom pains didn't fade. His arms burned where he remembered teeth tearing through flesh. His neck twitched involuntarily, recalling the hot spray of blood as his throat gave way. The memories were too vivid, too cruel, to dismiss as a dream.
If that was real, then he had no more than a week. A week until the world fell apart.
The thought spun his mind into chaos. How should he prepare? What if nothing happened? Could he risk his savings on supplies he might never need? But if he hesitated and the outbreak came sooner…
He sat up, forcing himself to breathe. His journal sat on the nightstand, untouched since his return from Qatar. He pulled it open, the pages stiff, and began scribbling. Writing steadied him, calming the storm in his mind.
Action Plan:
1. Liquidate savings and investments.
2. Try to stay within three months of savings.
3. Stockpile food, water, and medical essentials.
4. Confirm rumors as soon as possible.
5. Adjust daily as new signs appear.
The words gave him focus. His pulse slowed. Then sped up again, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to excitement. For years he had absorbed prepper manuals, zombie survival guides, after-action reports from collapsed societies, and training in a myriad of weapon systems with his unit. Now all of it mattered.
If he was wrong, he could rebuild. Being only nineteen, he had his whole life to make back lost money. But if he was right, hesitation would be fatal.
He forced down a light breakfast, no games, no distractions. His workouts would shift to cardio-heavy: lungs and legs mattered more than lifting right now. Then he grabbed his keys. The black Mazda in his driveway, bought with deployment tax breaks, gleamed faintly in the morning sun.
The gun store was his first stop. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed over racks of rifles, shotguns, and pistols. The air smelled faintly of oil and cardboard. He walked straight to the counter.
"Morning, Joey," Alex said. "Morning," the clerk replied, glancing up from paperwork. "What's it today, more range ammo?" "Not exactly. Thinking bulk. Four or five cases if you've got them. Half 5.56 green tip, half .223." Joey raised his brows. "That's… a lot. I've only got a case or two on hand. I'd have to order the rest." "I'll take what you have now," Alex said without hesitation. "Put me down for the rest. If it gets here by mid-week, I'll pick it up."
The clerk studied him. "Something going on?" "Nothing dramatic," Alex said evenly. "Just know prices are about to spike. Same with groceries. Best to get ahead of it."
Joey frowned but nodded. Alex loaded the two cans into his trunk and drove on. Two more stores, two more conversations, two more clerks giving him curious looks but handing over what they could spare. At one shop, the shelves looked thinner than usual.
By noon, he had managed to piece together four thousand rounds; a mix of green tip 5.56 and 55-grain .223 FMJ. This 62-grain 5.56 wasn't the military's M855A1, but it was the closest thing a civilian could get to deal with armored opponents; in this case, it would likely be against both the living and the dead.
He added bottles of gun oil before leaving the last shop. The Army might scoff at drowning rifles in lubricant, but Alex swore by it. He'd soak his rifles in CLP if he could. A dry gun was a dead gun. By the time he pulled onto the highway again, his trunk was heavy with metal. Next stop: gear.
He drove the long road to Fort Drum, flashing his military ID at the gate. Soldiers could come and go on most posts, even off duty, to use the gym or shop the PX. The guard, not an MP but a contractor, barely glanced at his CAC card before waving him through. The PX parking lot was crowded, but calm. Families moved between cars with shopping bags, oblivious to the storm Alex knew was coming.
Inside, he moved fast. He picked out a headlamp with white and red modes, his current one a cheap hand-me-down from a soldier who already got out. He grabbed a new pair of NFS boots that felt closer to sneakers than most regulation footwear, and a KA-Bar knife with a multicam sheath. The blade was heavier than what he usually carried, and would be illegal to carry in the city off-duty, but it would fit perfectly on his kit.
He thought about magazines as he walked past the display. New York's law capped them at ten rounds, but Guard infantry were always exceptions in practice. "For work" or "training" was usually good enough. Even cops made allowances for their trade. The shelves looked well-stocked now, but Alex knew they wouldn't be for long.
By the time he rolled back into Albany, the afternoon was waning. The ShopRite lot near his house was his last major stop.
He grabbed a cart and attacked the aisles like a mission. Jasmine rice. Black beans. Spam and tuna by the dozen. Ramen stacked high. Honey, sugar, spices. Oatmeal and cereal, thinking, damn, no more eggs for breakfast. A single case of bottled water; no need to waste money when he had containers at home ready to fill.
Then perishables: meat and vegetables for hotpot, fruit, butter, and his favorite Portuguese bread rolls. Multivitamins to make up for whatever nutrition gaps might arise. Finally, bandages, blister care, antiseptic, painkillers. Enough to patch holes, not heal them. He hesitated in the aisle, staring at shelves of cold medicine and antibiotics, then moved on. Too suspicious to stock up now. Looting would be easier later if it came to that.
At checkout, he knew he had gone over budget. But phantom pains along his arms silenced the guilt. He remembered being torn apart, and the fear of repeating it. The money didn't matter. Outside, he loaded groceries into the trunk, stacking them against ammo cans and PX bags.
He was shutting the hatch when he heard the scream.
"Help us, please! Someone!" A man in a suit was wrestling with another man, his wife screaming a few steps back. The attacker thrashed with feral strength, teeth snapping, eyes glassy.
Alex reached into the trunk. His Daniel Defense AR-15 came up, sleek and expensive, topped with a Viper 1-6x scope and angled foregrip. He crouched beside his car, bracing an elbow to his knee. Thirty meters out, the reticle found the attacker's head. He squeezed.
The man dropped in a heap. Alex ran forward. "You okay? Did he bite you?" The husband shook his head, chest heaving. "No, no. Jesus. Thank you. I—why did he attack like that? You said bite… you thought he was one of them too?"
Alex frowned. "One of who?"
The man blinked, still catching his breath. "The clips. They've been everywhere since yesterday. People attacking like animals. Biting. I thought they were fake."
Alex's stomach lurched. He hadn't checked social media. He thought he had a week. Now it was already happening. He forced his face steady. "Yeah. I didn't believe them either. Guess they're actually real."
The man swore again. His wife clutched his arm. Alex's head buzzed. He already lost days. He might lose a few more hours if he has to answer to the cops. Worse yet, he's probably already been flagged for buying thousands of rounds in the same day.
The man nodded shakily. "We'll tell the cops you saved us."
Alex forced a smile, but dread twisted his gut. Cops meant questions. Questions meant wasted time. And his unit. If they called him in, he'd be in Brooklyn, not Albany. Fighting someone else's battle while his family fended for themselves.
He pulled his phone and texted SSG Ray. [Flying to the Bahamas tonight. Back in time for drill.]
The reply came quick. [No problem, dude.]
Alex sighed. At least that bought him cover.
Minutes passed. No police arrived. "They're already stretched thin," Alex said to the couple. "Go home. Lock down. Get food. Get water. Get a gun if you don't have one. Body shots won't stop them. Head shots will. When it turns, your friends will be strangers, and your neighbors will be enemies."
They nodded numbly. Alex climbed back into the Mazda. The sun was low, sky burning orange. The groceries and ammo shifted in the trunk, a reminder of how much he'd already spent and how much more he still had to do. All the money in the world wouldn't matter if he ran out of time.
"Fuck," he muttered, slamming the wheel. "Ammo's somewhat covered. Guns maybe later. Maybe a shotgun? Too late. Stores are closed. Fine. Home Depot it is."
He needed barricades: for his doors, his windows. Planks, nails and tools. Sure, he needed weapons, but tools could also be weapons. Without a pistol, or at least a short barrel rifle, he'd need something for CQB until he could get his hands on either.
He spun the wheel into a sharp U-turn, racing the last light of day, the phantom pain in his arms reminding him of how little time he truly had.