Chapter 2: The Library of Last Chances
The Seattle Public Library became my sanctuary and my university.
I discovered it on day two of my new life—ten floors of glass and steel and more books than I'd ever seen. The librarian at the reference desk, an older woman named Margaret, looked at my unwashed clothes and hollow eyes and asked just one question:
"School project?"
"Something like that," I said.
She didn't press. Just wrote down call numbers for survival guides and said there was a dayroom on the third floor where people could rest. Her eyes said what her mouth didn't: I know you're homeless, and I'm not going to make it harder.
I almost cried right there in the reference section.
For two weeks, I lived in the library's shadows. During the day, I studied. The SAS Survival Handbook taught me which plants were edible and how to purify water. First Aid for Families showed me how to treat wounds without a hospital. YouTube videos on the public computers taught me knife fighting basics—clumsy practice in bathroom stalls, but better than nothing.
At night, I slept in the dayroom until Margaret quietly gave me a key to the basement storage room. "Don't make me regret this," was all she said.
I wouldn't. Couldn't. Kindness like hers was rarer than gold, and twice as valuable in the world that was coming.
My $247 dwindled fast. Gas station hot dogs. Day-old bread. Cheap calories that kept me moving but left me constantly hungry. By July 10th, I was down to $89 and making hard choices.
That's when I started stealing again.
The sporting goods store was called Mountain Peak Outfitters, and their security was a joke. I walked in like a customer, browsed like I belonged, and walked out with a hunting knife, water purification tablets, a multi-tool, and enough adrenaline to power a small city.
The knife was the tricky part. I had to ask to see it, then just... run. Sprinted four blocks with an alarm blaring behind me and a employee shouting "Stop that kid!"
I didn't stop. Couldn't. In 49 days, I'd need that knife to survive. Right now, I needed it more than I needed a clear conscience.
Ji-woo would have been horrified, I thought, hiding on a rooftop while a police siren wailed past. But Ji-woo died following the rules.
Ethan was learning new ones.
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By July 27th, I had:
• One hunting knife
• One multi-tool
• Water purification tablets
• Fire starter
• $23
• A notebook full of apocalypse knowledge
• No allies
• No home
• And 19 days left to fix both problems
That's when I met Maya.
She showed up at the library on a Tuesday, and I noticed her immediately. Not because she was pretty—though she was, in a tired, wary way—but because she moved like someone who understood danger. Her eyes swept the entrance before she stepped inside. Her backpack was military surplus. And her hands, when she pushed hair behind her ear, were covered in thin white scars.
Fighter's hands. Or survivor's hands.
She went straight to the computers and started searching. I was three terminals down, pretending to look at apartment listings while actually watching her screen's reflection.
Her search history made my heart race:
• Seattle emergency evacuation routes
• Wilderness survival skills
• How to purify water without equipment
• Self-defense for smaller opponents
Either she was paranoid, or she knew something.
When she printed a document titled "SafeZoneAnalysis_v7.pdf," I made my decision.
I had to talk to her.
---
I caught her at the exit, "accidentally" walking into her path.
"Watch it," she snapped, sidestepping with reflexes that confirmed my suspicions.
"Sorry. But... safe zone analysis?" I kept my voice low. "Version seven means you've been planning this a while."
She froze. Turned slowly. Gray eyes assessed me with uncomfortable intensity.
"You were spying."
"The screen was visible. I'm not trying to steal your plans. I'm just... also preparing."
"For what?"
The test question. The one that would determine if she was potential ally or potential threat.
"For when things get worse," I said carefully. "A lot worse. August 15th. Something big is coming."
"Things are always bad." Her tone was flat. "Be specific."
I took a breath. This was it. "Dead rising. Society collapsing. Monsters. I know how it sounds, but I also know it's true. And I know people who prepare now will be the ones who survive."
Maya studied me for ten long seconds. Then: "You're either crazy or you know something. Can't tell which."
"Can't I be both?"
Almost a smile. "What's your name?"
"Ethan."
"Maya." She adjusted her backpack. "You have somewhere we can talk? Not here."
---
We met at a park three blocks away. Maya sat with her back to the trees, positioned to see anyone approaching—tactically smart. I sat beside her, leaving space. Neutral territory.
"So," she said. "August 15th. Why that date?"
"Why do you think something's coming at all?" I countered.
She pulled out a notebook—similar to mine—filled with observations. Animal behavior patterns. Technology failures. Power outages increasing. "I don't believe in coincidences," she said. "My foster father was a Marine. He taught me to recognize threats before they arrived." Her expression darkened. "Then he proved why I needed those skills."
I understood immediately. The scars. The wariness. Foster care could be a lottery where safety was the prize and everything else was loss.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be. I got out." She looked at me directly. "Now tell me why August 15th."
This was the moment. I could lie, or I could offer partial truth and hope it bought trust.
"I have information I can't explain," I said slowly. "But I know August 15th, early morning, the dead will rise. Technology will fail. It'll be chaos. And something called the System will appear—like a video game interface. Points for killing monsters. Skills you can buy. Levels and stats."
Maya didn't laugh. Just processed. "Zombies and RPG mechanics. That's what you're telling me."
"Yes."
"That's impossible."
"Three weeks ago, I would've agreed."
Long silence. Then: "Show me your supplies."
I laid out everything. The knife. The multi-tool. The fire starter. My notebook with its timeline and preparations.
Maya examined each item, her face neutral. When she reached my notebook, she read in silence. I watched her eyebrows rise at the specific details—dates, events, patterns I shouldn't know.
"This is very specific," she said finally.
"I told you. I have information."
"From where?"
"Would you believe me if I told you?"
"Probably not."
"Then instead of explaining, let me make a deal," I said. "It's July 27th. I'm saying August 15th is when everything falls apart. That's nineteen days. If I'm wrong, you've lost nothing by preparing. If I'm right..."
"I'll be ahead of everyone else." Maya handed back my notebook. "What do you want? Partnership?"
"I want to not die alone," I said honestly. "I want people who are smart enough to prepare, capable enough to fight, and sane enough to build something instead of just surviving."
Maya smiled—the first real smile I'd seen from her. "You're very brave or very stupid."
"Still can't be both?"
"Oh, you're definitely both." She stood. "Okay, Ethan-who-knows-too-much. Meet me here tomorrow, same time. Bring your notebook and whatever plan you have for August 15th. I'll bring mine. We'll see if we're compatible."
"Compatible for what?"
"For not dying alone." She started walking away, then called back: "And Ethan? If this is a con or you're actually crazy? I know seventeen ways to hurt someone without leaving permanent damage."
I believed her.
That night, lying in the library basement, I wrote:
July 27th
Days until apocalypse: 19
First potential ally: Maya
Trust level: 40%
But 40% is better than 0%
For the first time since this nightmare started, I felt something dangerous:
Hope.
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