Chapter 4
The contractor arrived at dawn—a crew of four guys who bolted hurricane-rated steel shutters over every window in six hours.
I tipped them an extra five hundred. One of the guys paused at his truck, squinting at the sky.
"You know something we don't?" he asked, half-joking.
"Just a feeling," I said. "Get your families inland. Stock up on water. Don't wait for the official warning."
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
I hoped he listened. I couldn't save everyone, but I could try.
While the shutters were going up, I installed the surveillance system—eight weatherproof cameras covering every angle of the property, wired to a monitor station in the basement. Motion-activated floodlights on all four corners. A heavy-duty steel bar reinforcement on the front and back doors.
Then I set up the two feeds from Derek's beach house on a separate screen.
The living room camera showed Megan lounging on my old couch, scrolling her phone, feet up on my coffee table. She was wearing my bathrobe.
The kitchen camera caught Derek cracking open a beer at 11 AM, looking agitated. Probably still rattled from the divorce papers.
Mom came up behind me, carrying two mugs of coffee. She froze when she saw the screens.
"Is that—"
"Derek's place. I planted cameras before I left."
She set down the mugs, crossed her arms, and stared at the feed.
On screen, Megan called out from the couch: "Babe, did you check the weather? My mom said something about a storm."
Derek didn't even look up. "It's nothing. These things always fizzle out. We're fine."
Mom snorted. "Famous last words."
We had three days left. I spent them like a woman possessed.
Day one of the final push: I bought and installed a 300-gallon water storage tank in the basement, connected to the rain collection system. Backup: 50 gallons of store-bought water, plus purification filters and iodine tablets.
I also bought a shortwave radio, a pair of quality binoculars, and two heavy-duty waterproof flashlights.
Day two: security. I found a surplus store run by a retired Marine named Hank.
I told him I was a researcher heading to a remote field station in Central America. He didn't ask questions. He sold me two stab-resistant vests, a crossbow with forty bolts, two hunting knives, bear spray, and a flare gun.
"The crossbow's for wild dogs," he said with a wink.
"Sure," I said. "Wild dogs."
I also grabbed four walkie-talkies, a solar charging panel, and two emergency thermal blankets.
Total damage: $8,000. Worth every penny.
Day three: the rooftop. Mom and I hauled potting soil, planters, and seed packets up to the flat section of the roof. Tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, herbs, green beans. We covered everything with a makeshift cold frame made from old windows and plastic sheeting.
"Even if we can't grow much during the storm," Mom said, patting soil around a basil seedling, "we'll be ready when it passes."
She'd also brought twenty pounds of dried lentils, sprouting seeds, and a stack of mason jars. "Fresh sprouts in three days, no sunlight needed. Your grandfather taught me that."
By the last night before the hurricane, the farmhouse was transformed.
Steel shutters on every window. Reinforced doors. Generator humming quietly in the shed. Basement shelves packed floor to ceiling with supplies. Fresh water system operational. Surveillance cameras active. Rooftop garden covered and secured.
Mom made her famous chicken pot pie for dinner. Golden crust, creamy filling, tender chunks of chicken and vegetables. Comfort food for the end of the world.
We sat at the old farmhouse table, eating in warm lamplight, while the TV played the first real emergency broadcast.
"Hurricane Avalon has rapidly intensified to a Category 5 storm and is expected to make landfall within 24 hours. Mandatory evacuation orders have been issued for all coastal zones. This is not a drill. Seek higher ground immediately."
Mom muted the TV and looked at me.
"You think they'll evacuate?" she asked.
I pulled up the feed from Derek's beach house.
On screen, Megan was pacing the living room, phone pressed to her ear. "Mom, they're saying Category 5. Should we leave?"
Derek walked in, beer in hand—his fourth of the evening. "We're not going anywhere. This house has survived every storm for twenty years. The evacuation is just the government overreacting."
Megan bit her lip. "But—"
"I said we're staying. End of discussion."
Mom looked at me. I looked at her.
"He never was very smart," Mom said.
I turned off the monitor. Tomorrow, the sky would fall.
But tonight, in our fortress on the hill, I ate a second slice of pot pie and slept like a baby.
---
I tipped them an extra five hundred. One of the guys paused at his truck, squinting at the sky.
"You know something we don't?" he asked, half-joking.
"Just a feeling," I said. "Get your families inland. Stock up on water. Don't wait for the official warning."
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
I hoped he listened. I couldn't save everyone, but I could try.
While the shutters were going up, I installed the surveillance system—eight weatherproof cameras covering every angle of the property, wired to a monitor station in the basement. Motion-activated floodlights on all four corners. A heavy-duty steel bar reinforcement on the front and back doors.
Then I set up the two feeds from Derek's beach house on a separate screen.
The living room camera showed Megan lounging on my old couch, scrolling her phone, feet up on my coffee table. She was wearing my bathrobe.
The kitchen camera caught Derek cracking open a beer at 11 AM, looking agitated. Probably still rattled from the divorce papers.
Mom came up behind me, carrying two mugs of coffee. She froze when she saw the screens.
"Is that—"
"Derek's place. I planted cameras before I left."
She set down the mugs, crossed her arms, and stared at the feed.
On screen, Megan called out from the couch: "Babe, did you check the weather? My mom said something about a storm."
Derek didn't even look up. "It's nothing. These things always fizzle out. We're fine."
Mom snorted. "Famous last words."
We had three days left. I spent them like a woman possessed.
Day one of the final push: I bought and installed a 300-gallon water storage tank in the basement, connected to the rain collection system. Backup: 50 gallons of store-bought water, plus purification filters and iodine tablets.
I also bought a shortwave radio, a pair of quality binoculars, and two heavy-duty waterproof flashlights.
Day two: security. I found a surplus store run by a retired Marine named Hank.
I told him I was a researcher heading to a remote field station in Central America. He didn't ask questions. He sold me two stab-resistant vests, a crossbow with forty bolts, two hunting knives, bear spray, and a flare gun.
"The crossbow's for wild dogs," he said with a wink.
"Sure," I said. "Wild dogs."
I also grabbed four walkie-talkies, a solar charging panel, and two emergency thermal blankets.
Total damage: $8,000. Worth every penny.
Day three: the rooftop. Mom and I hauled potting soil, planters, and seed packets up to the flat section of the roof. Tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, herbs, green beans. We covered everything with a makeshift cold frame made from old windows and plastic sheeting.
"Even if we can't grow much during the storm," Mom said, patting soil around a basil seedling, "we'll be ready when it passes."
She'd also brought twenty pounds of dried lentils, sprouting seeds, and a stack of mason jars. "Fresh sprouts in three days, no sunlight needed. Your grandfather taught me that."
By the last night before the hurricane, the farmhouse was transformed.
Steel shutters on every window. Reinforced doors. Generator humming quietly in the shed. Basement shelves packed floor to ceiling with supplies. Fresh water system operational. Surveillance cameras active. Rooftop garden covered and secured.
Mom made her famous chicken pot pie for dinner. Golden crust, creamy filling, tender chunks of chicken and vegetables. Comfort food for the end of the world.
We sat at the old farmhouse table, eating in warm lamplight, while the TV played the first real emergency broadcast.
"Hurricane Avalon has rapidly intensified to a Category 5 storm and is expected to make landfall within 24 hours. Mandatory evacuation orders have been issued for all coastal zones. This is not a drill. Seek higher ground immediately."
Mom muted the TV and looked at me.
"You think they'll evacuate?" she asked.
I pulled up the feed from Derek's beach house.
On screen, Megan was pacing the living room, phone pressed to her ear. "Mom, they're saying Category 5. Should we leave?"
Derek walked in, beer in hand—his fourth of the evening. "We're not going anywhere. This house has survived every storm for twenty years. The evacuation is just the government overreacting."
Megan bit her lip. "But—"
"I said we're staying. End of discussion."
Mom looked at me. I looked at her.
"He never was very smart," Mom said.
I turned off the monitor. Tomorrow, the sky would fall.
But tonight, in our fortress on the hill, I ate a second slice of pot pie and slept like a baby.
---