Chapter 8
By week two, the real collapse began.
The government was trying. I'll give them that. Military convoys rolled through what was left of the main roads, distributing supplies and evacuating the critically injured. Helicopters made daily runs.
But Hurricane Avalon had done more damage than anyone predicted. The power grid was shattered across three states. Supply chains were broken. Gas stations were dry. Grocery stores were gutted—first by the storm, then by looters.
The radio updates grew grimmer by the day.
"...water contamination reported in four counties. Boil advisories in effect. Hospital generators failing. Insulin and critical medications in short supply. Citizens are urged to conserve resources and cooperate with emergency personnel..."
Mom and I settled into a quiet routine.
Mornings: check the perimeter cameras, test the generator, tend the rooftop garden.
Afternoons: organize supplies, do maintenance, exercise in the yard—push-ups, jogging in place, stretching. Couldn't afford to get weak.
Evenings: cook dinner together, listen to the radio, read. Mom had brought a stack of novels and a few puzzle books. I had my engineering textbooks.
The quail—I'd bought a dozen from a farm supply store before the storm—were thriving in their coop on the back porch. Four eggs a day. Small but rich. Mom scrambled them with dried chives for breakfast, and they tasted like gold.
But we weren't living in a bubble. The outside world kept pressing in.
On day nine, our motion sensors triggered at 3 AM.
I shot upright, heart hammering. Grabbed the crossbow. Crept to the monitor.
Three figures were moving along our perimeter fence in the dark. Two men and a woman. They had flashlights and crowbars.
They tested the front gate. Locked. Steel-reinforced.
One of them boosted the other to look over the wall.
The motion-activated floodlights blazed to life.
All three froze, blinded. From the speaker I'd mounted by the front gate—a little addition I hadn't told Mom about—I triggered the prerecorded message.
"This property is monitored by armed security. You are being recorded. Leave immediately."
The voice was deep, male. I'd downloaded it from a security company's demo file.
The three intruders exchanged looks. Then they ran.
Mom appeared in the basement doorway, hunting knife in hand, hair wild. "What happened?"
"Looters. They're gone."
She exhaled. Then she looked at the speaker setup and the monitor showing the empty perimeter.
"You set up a fake security guard?"
"Yep."
Mom laughed—a real, deep, belly laugh. "My daughter, the evil genius."
"I prefer 'strategic thinker.'"
But the scare sharpened our awareness. Looters were testing empty-looking houses. Ours wouldn't fool everyone forever.
I spent the next day adding more deterrents: broken glass along the top of the wall, reinforced gate hinges, and a second set of motion lights on the back fence.
Mom, meanwhile, organized the basement supplies into a hidden section behind a false wall of shelving units. If anyone did get inside, they'd see a sparsely stocked room—not the three-month supply hidden behind it.
"Your grandfather did this during the wars back home," Mom said, sliding the last shelf into place. "False walls, hidden compartments. He said the most important supply was the one nobody knew about."
"Smart man."
"You're just like him." She brushed dust off her hands. "Stubborn, paranoid, and always right."
That evening, Mom outdid herself—pan-fried Spam with canned pineapple, jasmine rice, and a side of fresh lettuce from the rooftop garden.
The lettuce was small and tender, barely enough for two servings. But it was green and alive and growing from our own soil. We savored every leaf.
After dinner, I checked the shelter feeds one more time.
Derek had been allowed back in. He was sitting alone on his cot, staring at nothing.
Megan was in the pregnant women's section, talking to another expectant mother, almost smiling.
They hadn't spoken to each other in days.
"The honeymoon's over," Mom observed, peeling an orange.
"It never started. They were just two selfish people who wanted what the other had."
Mom handed me half the orange. "And now they have nothing."
I ate the orange slowly, letting the sweetness sit on my tongue.
Outside, the world was broken. People were scared, hungry, desperate.
But inside our fortress, my mom and I had everything we needed.
And tomorrow, the first tomato would be ripe enough to pick.
---
The government was trying. I'll give them that. Military convoys rolled through what was left of the main roads, distributing supplies and evacuating the critically injured. Helicopters made daily runs.
But Hurricane Avalon had done more damage than anyone predicted. The power grid was shattered across three states. Supply chains were broken. Gas stations were dry. Grocery stores were gutted—first by the storm, then by looters.
The radio updates grew grimmer by the day.
"...water contamination reported in four counties. Boil advisories in effect. Hospital generators failing. Insulin and critical medications in short supply. Citizens are urged to conserve resources and cooperate with emergency personnel..."
Mom and I settled into a quiet routine.
Mornings: check the perimeter cameras, test the generator, tend the rooftop garden.
Afternoons: organize supplies, do maintenance, exercise in the yard—push-ups, jogging in place, stretching. Couldn't afford to get weak.
Evenings: cook dinner together, listen to the radio, read. Mom had brought a stack of novels and a few puzzle books. I had my engineering textbooks.
The quail—I'd bought a dozen from a farm supply store before the storm—were thriving in their coop on the back porch. Four eggs a day. Small but rich. Mom scrambled them with dried chives for breakfast, and they tasted like gold.
But we weren't living in a bubble. The outside world kept pressing in.
On day nine, our motion sensors triggered at 3 AM.
I shot upright, heart hammering. Grabbed the crossbow. Crept to the monitor.
Three figures were moving along our perimeter fence in the dark. Two men and a woman. They had flashlights and crowbars.
They tested the front gate. Locked. Steel-reinforced.
One of them boosted the other to look over the wall.
The motion-activated floodlights blazed to life.
All three froze, blinded. From the speaker I'd mounted by the front gate—a little addition I hadn't told Mom about—I triggered the prerecorded message.
"This property is monitored by armed security. You are being recorded. Leave immediately."
The voice was deep, male. I'd downloaded it from a security company's demo file.
The three intruders exchanged looks. Then they ran.
Mom appeared in the basement doorway, hunting knife in hand, hair wild. "What happened?"
"Looters. They're gone."
She exhaled. Then she looked at the speaker setup and the monitor showing the empty perimeter.
"You set up a fake security guard?"
"Yep."
Mom laughed—a real, deep, belly laugh. "My daughter, the evil genius."
"I prefer 'strategic thinker.'"
But the scare sharpened our awareness. Looters were testing empty-looking houses. Ours wouldn't fool everyone forever.
I spent the next day adding more deterrents: broken glass along the top of the wall, reinforced gate hinges, and a second set of motion lights on the back fence.
Mom, meanwhile, organized the basement supplies into a hidden section behind a false wall of shelving units. If anyone did get inside, they'd see a sparsely stocked room—not the three-month supply hidden behind it.
"Your grandfather did this during the wars back home," Mom said, sliding the last shelf into place. "False walls, hidden compartments. He said the most important supply was the one nobody knew about."
"Smart man."
"You're just like him." She brushed dust off her hands. "Stubborn, paranoid, and always right."
That evening, Mom outdid herself—pan-fried Spam with canned pineapple, jasmine rice, and a side of fresh lettuce from the rooftop garden.
The lettuce was small and tender, barely enough for two servings. But it was green and alive and growing from our own soil. We savored every leaf.
After dinner, I checked the shelter feeds one more time.
Derek had been allowed back in. He was sitting alone on his cot, staring at nothing.
Megan was in the pregnant women's section, talking to another expectant mother, almost smiling.
They hadn't spoken to each other in days.
"The honeymoon's over," Mom observed, peeling an orange.
"It never started. They were just two selfish people who wanted what the other had."
Mom handed me half the orange. "And now they have nothing."
I ate the orange slowly, letting the sweetness sit on my tongue.
Outside, the world was broken. People were scared, hungry, desperate.
But inside our fortress, my mom and I had everything we needed.
And tomorrow, the first tomato would be ripe enough to pick.
---