I woke up with the crack of dawn, sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of instant coffee at hand, eyes glued to the muted laptop screen. The anchors looked calm—too calm, in fact.
"Authorities are investigating the series of violent incidents at several hospitals," the woman on the screen said, her professional tone betraying the unease in her eyes. "Reports suggest patients have become aggressive, attacking staff and other patients without provocation. Officials are attributing it to a possible drug contamination, but the CDC has not issued an official statement."
Pausing the feed, I sat there in silence before a long sigh escaped my lips. "And so it begins."
I grabbed my notepad. The previous day's checklist had almost every item crossed off. Moving to securing after-apocalypse trade goods, weapons and food were vital, but so were moral boosters—entertainment, the kind that could buy loyalty or defuse tension when the world went to shit.
Flipping to a new page, I started writing: Day Two Objectives: Secure luxury goods (smokes, liquor, comfort food), monitor outbreak development, scout fallback locations, determine final stronghold site.
Turning my attention to the laptop, I opened several supplier websites and began filling bulk orders: crates upon crates of cigarettes, cigar packs, and chewing tobacco; dozens of bottles of liquor—whiskey, vodka, rum, and even cheap beer. I wired them to multiple drop points around the city to avoid drawing excessive attention, with express delivery scheduled for the next morning. Delivery systems will collapse within 42 hours; if the shipments arrived on time, they would be worth their weight in gold later.
I paused for a moment before placing an order for a dozen crates of dog food and treats. "Will be useful later," I said under my breath.
I switched to the radio, tuning across different frequencies. Static cracked, then a burst of tense voices: "Emergency services responding to multiple 911 calls. Hospital lockdown in Atlanta General." I felt my heart tighten. "Full collapse within 42 hours. Maybe less."
I holstered my pistol, slipped on my jacket, and grabbed my keys. Time to pick my partner and a base before shit hits the fan. The truck rumbled to life with its familiar growl.
I drove to the nearest pet store. The clerk greeted me with a professional smile. "Hello, sir. What can I do for you today?"
"I'm looking to adopt a dog, a German Shepherd, if you have any," I said.
"You're in luck, sir. We've just received one yesterday, and it looks like you are fated with it," leading me to the back.
My eyes zeroed in on a black and brown German Shepherd, looking just as if it graduated from being a puppy. The clerk introduced it to me: "This is Ghost. He's just finished training."
"It's still young. Ghost, huh?" I said with a faint smile. The dog perked up, hearing its name, let out a bark, tail swinging.
Chuckling, I gave him a head pat. "I'll take him."
"That's wonderful," the clerk said, letting out a smile.
Ten minutes later, I walked out of the store, Ghost tailing behind me, a couple of dog food cans, treats, and supplies in hand.
I returned home to drop off Ghost to continue preparations. Ghost wandered around the house, sniffing, as I finished setting his bed. Ghost came running as soon as I set up a couple of stainless steel bowls—one for water, the other for food. He let out a happy bark when I poured a can into his bowl.
Smiling faintly as I patted him, "You stay here while I return." Ghost let out a whine as I closed the door behind me.
"Alright, let's keep going." The truck rumbled as I drove through Atlanta's outskirts, each turn of the wheel bringing back memories of the old world I once knew: quiet mornings, traffic jams, soldiers coming home from leave.
These same roads would soon be choked with corpses. The first location was a quarry west of the city.
I parked at the edge, scanning the terrain through binoculars: steep cliffs, narrow entry roads, water access nearby—a natural fortress. But it had downsides: limited farmlands, poor visibility, and nowhere to retreat if overrun—a siege deathtrap waiting to happen.
I noted the pros and cons in my notepad before turning toward the truck. "Too confined," I muttered. "Won't last for the long run."
The second site was an abandoned gas station just off a county road. The building was still intact, the metal shutters still working, and the attached garage still had tools left behind. I pried open a locked cabinet, finding a few fuel filters and unopened oil cans. All went quietly into my Inventory.
"Good backup spot," I said to myself. "Temporary shelter, maybe a refuel point, but not home."
The third was the farmstead, a little further down a dirt road, winding through trees until the land opened into sprawling green fields and a weathered farmhouse in the distance. I parked at the gate, ignition off. As I stepped out, the air smelled of grass and earth, untouched by the city's noise.
I walked the perimeter slowly, taking everything in. A nearby creek cut through the property—a fresh water source; fertile lands for crops; a barn large enough for storage or sleeping quarters; and a forest line thick enough to provide cover, yet distant enough to give sight lines. "Now this," I whispered, "this could work."
I checked the interior next. Old but sturdy, dust coated everything, but no signs of squatters or structural damage. With a bit of patching and reinforcement, it could hold.
I stood by the window looking to the horizon, my mind shifting into operational planning mode: perimeter defenses for better security, water filtration, and food production will come later. After the apocalypse starts, I can just loot what I need to start production after the chaos. Rotational guard schedules. I could turn this into a bastion if I worked smart enough.
(To be continued…)