Driving downtown towards the bank gave me the few couple of minutes I needed to clear my head and organize a rough plan of early preparation. Turning off the ignition, I stopped to think. According to meta knowledge, August 25, 2010, is the day the apocalypse truly hit. First objective: information. The first step in any operation is acquiring intel. Grabbing my phone and powering it on, the date was marked as morning of August 20th, 2010. Plenty of time if I don't waste it, I muttered, fishing for my laptop, my fingers flying over the keyboard. The news feed was normal, no mentions of infection yet; everything still looked clean. Powering down my laptop and returning it to the inventory, I closed my eyes briefly, letting the noise of the city outside ground me—horns honking, dogs barking, a distant siren somewhere far. Normal life—the kind of life people will soon kill for.
Opening my eyes, grabbing a notepad from my inventory, I started a list. Operation Survival: gather weapons, ammo, and cleaning supplies; stockpile perishable and non-perishable food, medical gear, and fuel; secure transportation; gather tools and renewable energy materials; identify fallback points; maintain low profile. Second objective: finances. Before the apocalypse, cash still means something.
I stood out of the truck, rolling my shoulders. No stiffness, no ache. My body felt like a well-oiled machine. "Damn, I missed this," I said under my breath.
Heading to the bank, the teller gave me a practiced smile as I handed over my ID. "I'd like to make a large withdrawal. Cash only," I said.
"How much are we talking about?" the teller asked.
"As much as the account allows," I replied.
The teller eyed me with a raised eyebrow. A few minutes later, I walked out with nearly 60 thousand dollars in cash—emergency savings from my old life now fully transferred under my name, courtesy of ROB. I stashed it all neatly into my inventory. Money wouldn't matter in a week, but until then, it could buy everything that could matter.
My first stop was a local gun shop. The bell above the door jingled as I stepped in. A middle-aged man behind the counter gave me a nod.
"Morning. What can I do for ya?" he asked.
"Looking to restock before deer season," I answered.
"Gotcha. What are ya running?" he asked with a nod.
"Winchester Model 70, .270 Win rounds—and maybe something in the 12-gauge if the price is right," I told him.
The clerk smiled, already in sales mode. While he was busy with my order, I was quickly but quietly scanning inventory—boxes of ammunition, cleaning kits, spare scopes. Even a few tactical knives disappeared into my inventory. By the time I left, I'd stocked enough ammo to outfit a small militia. The clerk waved me off, none the wiser.
"Good luck this season."
"You too," I said, sliding into my truck.
Grocery store was next. Place was still full—families shopped, kids cried, nobody knew they were days from starvation. I moved quickly, filling four carts with everything from rice, pasta, flour, sugar, salt, condiments, and cooking oils to canned meat and vegetables, water filters, lighters, batteries, propane tanks, and first aid kits. In the fresh meat section, I loaded a cart with chicken, fish, and beef—sausages, patties, ribs, etc.
A woman nearby gave me a curious look as I filled my fourth cart with bleach and rubbing alcohol.
"You running a restaurant or something?" she asked.
"Camping trip," I said smoothly. "Big family."
She nodded, seeming satisfied, and moved on.
The cashier raised an eyebrow when the total came to over three thousand.
"Prepping for a hurricane," I said before the man could ask.
"Ah, that makes sense. Lotta folks doing that after last year." His eyes lit up in understanding.
"Always better to be ready," I smiled faintly.
By the time I got home, my inventory held enough food and supplies to last a small group for months. I leaned back against the door, breathing a long sigh. "Alright, gotta keep going."
The next stop was the hardware store. I knew exactly what to buy—generators, solar panels, inverters, hand tools, fasteners, batteries, and fuel containers. Anything that could build and repair. I filled entire shelves into my inventory, discreet and efficient. Years of covert work taught me how to move unnoticed.
"Everything alright, sir?" a store clerk asked when I returned to the counter.
"Yeah, helping a buddy renovate his cabin," I said.
"Sounds fun," the clerk said while scanning the items.
"Something like that," I replied, sliding my card.
Outside, I leaned against my truck and checked the time: 14:47. I'd been working nonstop since morning. The day was halfway gone, but my momentum only built stronger. I parked at a quiet overlook, watching the distant skyline. "Atlanta will become a graveyard within a week. Staying in the city was suicide." I needed a fallback location—somewhere easily defensible, sustainable.
I unfolded a map, tracing a finger across. I marked three rural zones: old farmlands, a quarry, and an isolated gas station with a service garage—all of them viable options. "I can secure one, fortify, and then expand," I murmured.
Back in the apartment, I spent the next few hours organizing my inventory. Every item was sorted by category and weight. With a thought, I could visualize the entire space—rows of supplies stacked in perfect order, frozen in time. I tested retrieval, summoning a can of beans into my hand. It was instantaneous. I returned it with another thought. "Perfect," I said.
I sat at my desk, the faint glow of the laptop screen illuminating my face. My reflection stared back—young again, but eyes older than ever. My phone buzzed; a notification popped up: CDC issues warning over mysterious flu outbreak in Alabama. My jaw tightened. "So it begins."
It was 8 p.m. I'd spread maps across the kitchen table, marking routes and choke points with a red marker. Every main highway would be jammed by day three. Secondary routes would be slower but viable. Rail lines and river crossings could be fallback routes. I'd spent a lifetime in the military planning for disaster, but this was different. There would be no reinforcements, no command structure—only chaos.
I grabbed a notepad again and began drafting survival protocols. Group standards: recruit skilled, mentally stable survivors. Prioritize medics, mechanics, farmers, and engineers. Establish a code of conduct: no theft, no rape, no unnecessary killing. Maintain renewable food and water sources. Encourage discipline. Preserve humanity at all costs. I underlined that last line twice.
By midnight, the apartment was stripped bare; almost everything of value was stored away in my inventory. I sat by the window, sipping instant tea as the lights blinked outside. A group of teenagers passed below, laughing. Couples argued. Car horns blared. Life moved on, blissfully unaware.
"They have no idea what's coming," I murmured.
For a brief second, guilt flickered in my chest. I could warn them. I could shout, post online, try to alert someone—but my experience told me it wouldn't matter. People would never believe me until it was too late. Still… if I do this right, maybe I could save some of you.
My reflection in the window looked back at me—young face, hard eyes, faint smile.
"Let's see if I can do this right."
(To be continued…)