💕🔥“ Rewriting The Apocalypse ”💓💓📖 👉(18+)
Chapter 1 Shattered Nightmares Charlie woke screaming, her hands clamped to her skull where the saw had been. The memory of it burned behind her eyes. The bright lights, the restraints biting her wrists and the technician's voice counting backward while the blade was cutting into the bone. She'd felt everything. They'd purposely kept her conscious, paralyzed but aware, because her pain helped them map the neural pathways of her ability. She had died with the saw halfway in her head and drowning in her own blood. She was still screaming when she realized she wasn’t in the same place. The lights were different. They were a soft morning gray, not surgical white. Her fingers, which were touching her head found intact skin, smooth hair, no wetness, no hole. She lowered her hands to find that the surface beneath her was a soft clean mattress. The sheets tangled around her legs smelled of lavender, not antiseptic and her own filth. She sat up sharply, chest heaving, taking in the room. It took a moment for her to recognize that this was her old bedroom. The familiar dresser stood against one wall, lavender curtains muting the morning light. Her university textbooks were still scattered across the desk. Am I dead? This can’t be real. How am I back in my old bedroom. She continued to look around before she saw the calendar on her desk. Her eyes widened. It read October 31st, 2029. This was two months before the outbreak. She stared at it, waiting for the date to rearrange itself into something that made sense but it didn't. She pressed trembling hands against her face. There were no scars, no stitches. Just her own skin, her own apartment, her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Was that all a dream? Or is this a dream? She started to laugh and then with a smack she slapped herself across the face. The pain that hit her, sent an unbelievable shock through her body. Still in shock she slowly got out of bed as her mind was still reeling. She stood in that same spot for what felt like hours, letting all her thoughts and memories settle into a truth: She had been reborn. That was the only explanation. The memories of the apocalypse and her death was too detailed, too raw to be just a dream and there was no doubt that right at this moment she was alive. But how, how did I come back. The only thing that made her special was the fact that she was one of the very few people in the apocalypse that had three abilities. "My ability." She started pacing, fast, tight circles between the desk and the window. "Do I still have it?" Charlie raised both her hands and focused her energy. In her left hand, small lightning bolts crackled. She frowned, pushing harder, but they only fizzled. It was a lot weaker, only a fraction of what it should be. Tilting her head, she gauged the output was a level three, at best. Ice followed, needles forming over her right palm. The result was the same: level three. Maybe this was the cost. Her power, burned down to almost nothing in a final, desperate act to send her back. She closed her palms, closed her eyes, and shifted her consciousness. A second later, she opened her eyes to find herself in the familiar space—but it was so much smaller. She'd awakened a storage space ability a year into the apocalypse, and it had eventually grown to the size of five football fields. Now, it was barely one. The stream, the pond, the soil, the grassland, the house and the time-locked storage corner had shrunk to one fifth of the previous size. Then she saw it, tucked in the storage corner: a gleam of impossible, beautiful gold A dry chuckle escaped her, morphing into the first real smile in what felt like years. The pile wasn’t just shining, it was gold—a large amount of bars stacked high. It was completely useless in the apocalypse, but she’d hoarded it anyway, hoping for a future where things returned to normal and these bars could give her and her family a chance at restarting. Tucked beside the gold was another treasure: a small cache of weapons she’d managed to save. Pulling herself back out of the storage space, she sat down on the floor with her back against the wall and stared at the ceiling until her breathing slowed. Two months. She had enough time and gold to hoard as many supplies as possible, set up a safe house and… Charlie’s throat tightened until swallowing hurt. The people she loved most and failed to save. Atlas, Theo, Elias, Nash and Silas. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, fingers digging in until she felt her nails through the fabric. “Not this time,” she said, jaw tight. She held her breath a moment, then let it out slow. “This time I will protect them all and…” She got up stared and stared at her reflection in the window, took a breath, and when she looked again, the doubt was gone. Whatever had been wavering in her expression was gone. Her resolve settled, hard and clear. Then her stomach growled, a hollow, demanding rumble that pulled her back to the simple needs of a living body. Placing her hand on her stomach, she felt the depth of her hunger. First, food. The rest could wait. She opened her bedroom door, the sight of the familiar living room brought back long buried memories. Her brothers had bought this place for them after their parents died—a foothold in the big city. It was a fresh start, a new home. She walked slowly toward the kitchen, touching the back of a chair as she passed. As she reached the kitchen, she opened the fridge and reached for a can of soft drink. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a coke. Cracking open the can she tilted her head back to take a long satisfying drink. After letting out a loud burp, Charlie walked over to the pantry and grabbed a cup of instant noodles. While the water boiled, she grabbed a pen and notebook from the kitchen bench. The familiar comfort of a blank page settled her. Atlas and Theo always teased her about her excessive use of lists. A small smile touched her lips at the thought of them. Shaking it away, she put pen to paper. First, she needed to exchange the gold for cash. She would need to spread it across the city to avoid notice. That money would buy everything. Seeds for the space, fruit and vegetable strains that could ensure they had a sustained food source. Grains, salt, sugar, meat, a stockpile of water and medicine. Fuel, solar panels, tools, weapons. She scribbled faster, the list sprawling across the page: clothing, transport and a hundred other essentials. Living through the zombie apocalypse she knew exactly what they needed. The sound of the kettle switch brought her out of her head and she went to pour water into the cup noodle. The smell was already making her mouth water. Leaning back onto the kitchen bench, biting the tip of her pen, she added more items. The list grew: a permanent, defensible hideout; selling the apartment to liquidate another asset. And at the very top, underlined twice: Get Atlas and Theo home. She put the pen down and walked over to the dining table to eat her noodles. Taking her first slurp, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed. It wasn't just noodles; it was the taste of hot food. A taste she had almost completely forgotten during two years in a lab where food was merely nutrient solutions. At the memory of the lab, certain faces started to pop up in her mind. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the fork. She wanted to kill every last one of them, but she knew that taking action now, whilst everything was still normal would be a huge risk. What she needed to do was to be patient and prepare. She would play the long game. But she couldn't do it alone. She needed her brothers. With them, two months might just be enough time. After her meal, she sat staring at her phone. She picked it up, then put it down again. Her thumb hovered over Atlas's name. She couldn't afford to break down or sound crazy. She had to be calm. Convincing. Picking up the phone, she called Atlas. As the dial tone rang, she closed her eyes, taking deep breaths as she nervously waited for his answer. A familiar deep voice came through the phone, “Hey Charlie.” She steadied her breath, but her voice still trembled. “Hey Atlas.” There was a slight pause on the other end. “What’s wrong? Are you upset? Did something happen? Did you finally break up with your boyfriend?” Atlas fired off a rapid sequence of questions. A laugh escaped her, watery but real. That was her eldest brother, through and through. With just two words he could tell that something was off. It was a comfort so deep it ached. Charlie cleared her throat. “No, I’m fine. I’m home.” She took a deep breath. “Atlas, I need you to come back to Kingsport as soon as you can, and bring Theo, Nash, Eli, and Silas with you. I can’t explain everything over the phone. You just… you have to trust me. Please.” “Charlie…” Atlas’s voice became a bit deeper, the tone that he used when something was serious. “Tell me honestly, are you in trouble?” “No, I swear I’m safe, and I’m fine, but there’s something important I have to tell all of you, and it needs to be in person. Please, don’t ask any more questions. Just come back.” He sighed. “Okay, let me talk to the guys.” He hesitated. “Look, we’re in the middle of a deployment cycle. It won’t be easy to get away, but... I’ll make it happen.” The unspoken effort in his voice was a promise. “I’ll get a few things squared away, and if it all goes well we should back in Kingsport in two days. As for Theo… leave him to me. I’ll make the call.” Charlie let out a long breath. Hearing her brother’s voice brought her a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in a while. “Okay, I’ll be waiting for you. Love you.” She hung up, and the silence of the apartment pressed in around her. A long, shuddering breath escaped her. They were all coming. He’d always come for her. *** At Fort Ashcombe, Atlas lowered the phone. Elias, Nash, and Silas were already watching him, their training exercise forgotten. The look on his face was enough. Atlas met their eyes. “That was Charlie. She said there’s something important she needs to talk to us about and so she needs us back in Kingsport. It sounded pretty urgent.” Elias opened his mouth, wanting to say something but he knew there was no point. It didn’t seem like Charlie had shared much over the phone so instead of digging for more information he decided to act instead. “Alright, you go talk to the commander to get the leave paperwork processed, and I’ll go book in the flights.” Atlas patted his shoulders before walking off to make a call to Theo. Chapter 2 A Taste Of Before Charlie's phone buzzed against the kitchen counter before she'd even made it back to her list. A text from Atlas. Flights booked. We'll be landing in Kingsport in a few days. Would've been sooner if the base wasn't run by paperwork-loving lunatics. The Commander has also approved leave for the team, so just rest up and don't do anything stupid before we get there. She huffed a laugh, thumb hovering over the screen. No promises, she typed, then deleted it. She settled for something safer. Love you. See you soon. She glanced at the empty noodle cup on the counter, a pathetic substitute for a meal. No more. She was going to eat real, hot food, and she was going to eat as much as she could before it was all gone. Late autumn had brought a chill to Kingsport. After getting changed into jeans, a sweater and jacket, she grabbed her keys and headed for the garage. *** The Range Rover started on the first turn, engine settling into a low, familiar growl. Atlas and Theo had insisted on something "built like a tank" before they'd let her drive alone in the city, and she'd rolled her eyes about it for a week straight. Today, she was almost grateful. She already had a list of stops that would fill it. Harbor Row sat twenty minutes south — a stretch of old dockside warehouses turned into one of Kingsport's better-kept secrets. Exposed brick, strings of amber lights left up even in daylight, a boardwalk that smelled like salt water, butter and something charring on a grill somewhere out of sight. She used to come here with friends all the time. She found one of her favorite restaurants, Ondina’s, buzzing with life. The host quoted a short wait for a table, but Charlie didn’t mind. It felt strange, almost comforting, to see people patiently waiting for nothing more urgent than a plate of pasta. Ondina's was small and warm, wedged between a cheese shop and a place that sold nothing but fancy olive oil in blue glass bottles. The host — stocky, flour still dusted pale across his forearms — called her bella and led her to a small window table. Charlie ordered without needing the menu. Cacio e pepe. A basket of bread warm enough to fog the air when she tore it open and a glass of red wine. When the pasta came, she didn't move for a full ten seconds. Just looked at it — steam curling off the plate, the sharp bite of pepper cutting through rich cheese, four simple ingredients that tasted like a feast. She took her time eating, slowly twirling the pasta instead of shoveling it in. Between each bite, she took sips of the red wine, letting the wine sit on her tongue before swallowing. As she was savoring the taste of the wine, she remembered lying on the floor of her cell, running her tongue over her cracked lips and trying to recall what anything had ever tasted like, whether it was sweet or bitter or warm. Her phone lit up against the tablecloth halfway through the bread. Julian:Hey stranger, haven't heard from you today. Everything okay? Call me later? :) She looked at it the way she'd look at a name on a report. A piece of information, not a person. No missed heartbeat, no old ache — just irritation and anger. She turned the phone face-down next to her wine glass and went back to her pasta. By the time she'd scraped the plate clean and waved off the tiramisu — she'd already made her next decision. She flagged down the host. He listened to her request with the polite, professional smile, right up until she gave him the numbers. "Twenty trays of the lasagna," she said, mentally ticking off her list of dishes. "Forty portions of the cacio e pepe, packed to travel…actually make that forty portions of each of your pasta dishes. Whatever else you can recommend — your call, you know your kitchen better than I do. And however many tiramisus you can put together now." Dario blinked. "That's — that's a lot of food." “It’s a company thing," she said, her voice easy as she reached for her card. "Half the office is pulling an all-nighter before a deadline. I got voluntold to handle catering." She gave him a bright smile, putting her two deep dimples on display. "I'd rather over-order than show up short." Dario's eyes had already gone somewhere past her shoulder, doing math on a number that would make his month, and by the time he looked back at her, whatever curiosity he'd had was gone — replaced by the cheerful, incurious blankness of a small business owner who just had a very profitable day. "Give me two hours," he said with a wide smile, already turning toward the kitchen. He stopped halfway, turning back to her. "You drove, right? Is the car going to be big enough for all this food?” She glanced toward the window, toward the Range Rover parked half a block down. "It'll fit." Two hours was too long to spend standing still, so she walked the boardwalk, salty air and butter smoke thick in the back of her throat. Three doors down, a narrow bakery pulled her in — a case full of sfogliatelle and cannoli, and freshly baked breads of all kinds. She bought out the display case, then asked the wide-eyed girl behind the counter if there was more in the back, and left with a stack of white boxes. After the bakery worker helped load the goods into the car, Charlie waited until the street was quiet. A quick swipe of her hand and the boxes were gone, loaded into her storage space. She only just got started and it was already this much fun. She felt giddy just thinking about filling up her entire space. The lobster shack near the end of the boardwalk almost derailed her whole afternoon. She'd forgotten how much she loved lobster rolls until the smell hit her, butter and brine and something charring lightly on the grill. She immediately stopped by to order one to try. As soon as she finished her first bite, she walked back to the counter to place a huge order. Two hundred more went into boxes. Then, on a whim, she doubled it. Two months from now, she had a feeling she'd be grateful for every single one. Two doors down, the boba shop was a blur of efficiency. She skimmed the laminated menu and ordered two hundred cups of milk tea from a teenager whose only question was “name for the order?”, and watched them boxed and sealed in under twenty minutes. The coffee roastery earned the longest stop. She bought bags of beans by the case, a full batch of hot brew poured fresh, and an equal amount of cold brew, bottled and chilled. She paused, smelling the steam from a sealed cup. It would smell exactly like this in a year. The time distortion was one of the best parts of her ability. Time simply froze inside the space keeping quality and temperature the same as when it went in. She made a mental note to find a second roastery later. With Atlas's entire team inbound, this wouldn't be nearly enough. Last was the deli on the corner, where Harbor Row met the street proper. Bagels stacked in paper sleeves and pastrami sliced thick enough to fold. She bought enough to feed a platoon. By the time she returned, Dario and a teenager were wrestling boxes onto a cart. It took them three trips, filling her trunk and backseat until the vehicle's suspension groaned. Trays were balanced precariously, boxes jammed to the ceiling. It was an impossible Tetris game, one that left almost no room for a driver. "Are you sure you can drive back like this?" Dario asked, wiping his hands on his apron and looking a little dazed. "Positive. Thank you, Dario! I'll be in touch about another order soon." Charlie smiled and waved him back toward the restaurant. She waited for them to be far enough before she climbed into the driver's seat and shut the door. The windows were tinted dark enough for privacy so after checking the mirror once, she moved her hands over the front passenger seat and then the boxes crowding the back seat. Then she climbed into the backseat, to store everything that was in the trunk. The impossible weight vanished, leaving only the scent of warm food and the faintest hum in the air. After getting back into the driver's seat, she rested her head back on the headrest to take break. She didn't know yet how many it would take to make a real dent in two months of preparation, but for the first time since she'd woken up she felt like there was real hope. With enough preparation, she, Atlas, Theo, Nash, Elias and Silas just might have a real chance of making it through the apocalypse. The light over Harbor Row had softened, the flat white of midday replaced by a warmer gold catching on the water. She glanced at the dash: half past four. A fortune spent in a few hours, with a whole street left to go. The money didn’t matter. Tomorrow, she would exchange the gold; today was about hoarding. She put the car in gear and went looking for somewhere to park closer to the next storefront. Chapter 3 Stock And Store She found a spot just inside a narrow alley two blocks down, close enough to the street to deliver the goods but tucked away enough that nobody would notice. She killed the engine, grabbed her jacket, and walked the rest of the way. Golden Basil sat squeezed between a surf shop and a place that only sold candles, its window fogged from the kitchen behind it. The smell hit her from the sidewalk, lemongrass, chili, something caramelizing in a wok — and her stomach growled loud enough that a passing couple glanced over. She laughed it off and went in. She didn't sit this time. Just ordered a plate of pad thai to eat standing at the counter while she waited, the noodles slick with tamarind and just spicy enough to make her eyes water, and decided somewhere around the third bite that this was easily the best thing she'd eaten all day. When the woman behind the counter asked if that would be all, Charlie shook her head and gave her the numbers instead — sixty portions of pad thai, forty of green curry, and as much mango sticky rice as the kitchen could turn around in a few hours. Le Petit Quai was a different kind of stop. Smaller, quieter, candlelight instead of neon, the kind of place that made her feel underdressed in jeans and a jacket. The maître d' — silver-templed, sharp-suited took her order with a polite, careful blankness that cracked slightly once she got to the numbers. "Fifty portions of the duck confit," she said, "fifty of the steak frites, and however many crème brûlées your kitchen can manage." He studied her for a beat too long, a single eyebrow lifting just so. "For a private event, mademoiselle?" "Something like that." She offered a smile that didn't invite questions. "I know it's short notice, so I'm happy to cover a rush fee for the trouble." Money, it turned out, dissolved suspicion faster than any explanation could. He named a number that would have made her flinch two months ago, and by the time she left, he'd stopped looking at her like a problem and started looking at her like the best table he'd turned all month. The Anchor, at the far end of the boardwalk, was exactly what its name promised — a diner with red vinyl booths and a jukebox nobody had used in years. She ordered a milkshake first, chocolate, and drank half of it standing at the counter before she'd even placed the real order, because some things about being twenty and alive again deserved to be enjoyed at the moment instead of just packed away for later. She added eighty portions of steak and mash to the order. A hundred and twenty milkshakes, because she had a sudden, vivid memory of Nash inhaling three of these in one sitting and complaining that the whole team's cholesterol was his personal cross to bear. The last hour of daylight went to speed rather than ceremony. At the Korean spot, sizzling grills lined the open kitchen, smoke curling toward a vent that had clearly given up keeping pace. She ordered fifty portions of bulgogi, fifty of japchae, and enough banchan — kimchi, pickled radish, seasoned spinach — to fill a dozen gallon containers on its own. She also purchased the pre-marinated uncooked meat. The owner, an older woman, didn't blink at the total so much as look faintly delighted by it. Two doors down, the gift of a single, perfect gyoza prompted an order of five hundred, plus sixty bowls of ramen, the broth packed separately to keep the noodles from going soft and fifty chicken katsu curries. She barely remembered placing either order by the time she was back in the car, hands aching faintly from carrying rounds of boxes. *** By the time she parked for the last time, the sun was gone, and Harbor Row had gone gold and gauzy with string lights, the dinner crowd thickening around her. She sat in the driver's seat a moment, hands loose on the wheel. One more stop. She'd earned it. The bar she found was small and dim, tucked below street level, the kind of place that didn't bother with a sign because everyone just knew exactly what it was. She took a stool at the end, away from the noise, and ordered whiskey, neat. It wasn't what she used to drink. The old Charlie — university Charlie, boyfriend-and-brunch Charlie — had liked things sweet and colorful, drinks that came with fruit skewered on the rim. She almost ordered one out of habit, then changed her mind before the bartender had even reached for the bottle. Something about a strawberry daiquiri felt like dressing a wound in glitter. The whiskey burned exactly the way she remembered from another life, when a scavenged bottle was passed around a fire like something holy. She let the taste drag her sideways into a memory of laughter in a ruined building. A hand closing over hers, steady and warm on a night cold enough to fog their breath. He’d pulled away before she could react, before she could do anything but pretend she hadn’t felt the question in his touch—a question she’d had no room for, not then. She had known, of course she had. And she’d looked away. The regret was a familiar, useless ache. She didn’t let herself finish the thought. Not yet. Now wasn’t the time for ‘if only’. What she needed to focus on was preparing. Once they had everything they needed, if things were meant to happen then she would let it happen. She'd pressed her thumbnail into the base of the glass at some point without noticing, hard enough that the nail had gone bloodless. She eased her hand flat against the bar, took a slower sip, and made herself look around the room instead — a couple arguing quietly over a shared appetizer, a man laughing too loud at his own joke, a bartender polishing the same glass for the third time. None of them knew. In two months, none of this would exist, and for one long aching moment she hated that she was the only person in the room who did. *** The drive home was quiet, streetlights blurring past in long amber streaks. By the time she pulled into the garage it was well past ten, and her body had finally started sending her the bill for an exhausting day. Her phone buzzed just before she made it inside. A text from Theo: Atlas probably told you, but we’re flying in a few days. See you soon. Love you, brat. She read it twice, a tightness in her throat, and typed back a single heart before pocketing the phone. She didn't go straight to bed. She stepped into the space instead, to look. A slow smile spread across her face as she took in the haul. Trays, boxes, bags, and bottles were piled in a sprawling, semi-neat mountain in one corner—a monument to a long day's work. She walked over to the pile and lifted the lid on a container of green curry; steam, fragrant with lemongrass, billowed out as if it had just left the wok. The chocolate milkshakes were still frosted with condensation. Thinking about the sheer volume of supplies she still needed for five other people, she knew this pleasant chaos would become a nightmare if she didn’t get it organized fast. She walked over to the open field, sat crossed legged on the grass, and pulled out her notebook, flipping past the morning’s list to find a blank page. Shelving, she wrote, underlining it twice. A lot of it. Organized by category — food, medical, weapons, everything — before this gets any worse. She chewed the end of her pen, staring at the pile a moment longer, then added a second line, slower this time, like she was working the thought out as she wrote it. This can't be a one-time thing. Restaurants won't exist in two months. Need a way to keep doing this — regularly, efficiently — before they're gone. Ask Silas. Maybe recurring automated takeout ordering system. Maybe a way to automate food ordering. She looked at the page for a long moment, then closed the notebook and let her body fall back to lie down on the grass. She’d barely bought enough today and knew that she needed to move faster. Before I do anything else I need money. I had eighty five thousand saved up and today's shop had taken a fair chunk of it. Tomorrow I’ll need to go exchange the gold into cash. After that I’ll need to buy a truck and rent a warehouse for deliveries. Tonight, she let herself close her eyes, just for a minute, and be nothing more complicated than fed, tired, and — for the first time in ten years — cautiously, stubbornly hopeful. Chapter 4 Liquid Assets Sleep hadn’t come easy. By dawn, fueled by strong coffee and chili scrambled eggs, Charlie was already an hour deep into research that would have looked deeply alarming to anyone glancing over her shoulder. At the kitchen table, her phone and a notepad spread before her, she mapped out the fine line between wealth and a federal investigation: how much gold a single dealer could move without blinking, what dollar amount triggered a currency transaction report, and why nobody sane tried to sell five hundred bars of gold to one guy behind a counter. The math was daunting, but the path forward was clear. Small sales she could handle herself, spread across enough private traders to avoid unwanted attention. The larger problem—the sheer, immovable weight of the rest—needed a different kind of solution. It needed someone who could make a mountain of gold look not like a crime, but an inheritance. That part needed Warren. She got dressed, pulled twenty-five bars out of the storage space and packed them into a few of Atlas’s large black duffle bags. *** First stop was a dealer she'd circled twice on her list the night before — one of a handful of private outfits in Kingsport that specialized in exactly this, moving serious quantities of gold and silver for people who didn’t want to do it through a bank. The building was anonymous—plain brick, tinted glass, a small plaque that just read EXCHANGE. It didn’t need a flashy storefront to compete for customers. It only needed a reputation among the right circle of people. Inside, it looked more like a small brokerage than a pawn shop — clean carpet, three private consultation rooms and a woman behind the front desk who didn't blink at the bags Charlie set down. "I'd like to sell some gold," Charlie said. "Today, if that's possible." "Depends on how much gold you’re moving." The woman—Renata, according to the nameplate—reached for a bag. Her expression didn’t change as she opened the bags and counted the twenty-five bars nested inside. That told Charlie more about this place than the plaque outside ever could. "Give me twenty minutes." Renata was already lifting the first bar, turning it under a loupe light, checking the stamp against something on her tablet. "Assay's quick when the marks are legible. Where's it from?" "Family storage unit. It was my father's, but he passed a while back, and this only turned up going through old paperwork." The same story, sanded down for a stranger. "My attorney's drawing up the estate paperwork now, if you need something for your files." "I'll take a name and a number for that, not the paperwork itself. We're not the IRS." Renata didn't look up from the loupe. "You'd be surprised how often 'storage unit' turns out to be true. People don't tell their kids anything." Twenty minutes turned into thirty-five, most of it spent in a small waiting room with bad coffee and a television playing muted financial news. When Renata came back, she handed over a printout. "Twenty-five bars, a hundred ounces each, assay clean across the board. Spot's sitting at four thousand even today, so that's ten million on paper." She slid the printout across. "We pay eighty percent on walk-in volume this size — covers our risk, our processing, and the fact that we move this fast without asking questions. Eight million net. If you accept it then the wire goes out immediately. So, what do you say?" Charlie kept her face perfectly still as she reread the printout. "That works for me." "Figured it would." Renata had a knowing smile on her face and was already sliding a form across for her signature—name, account number. "Come back if the storage unit turns up more." Charlie signed, took her copy, and stepped back out onto the street into a morning that had gone from ordinary to eight million dollars richer in under an hour. The first piece of the puzzle was in place. Now for the second. Back in the car, she aimed the hood toward downtown and Warren's office. Eight million was a start, but it was nothing compared to what was still waiting to be dealt with. *** Warren Sutton's office hadn't changed much since her last visit, which was just after her parents passed away. Same dark wood shelves, same smell of old paper and coffee, same brass nameplate on the door that read Sutton & Associates, Estate and Family Law even though half the associates had retired since Charlie had last sat in one of these chairs — fourteen years old, in a dress that itched, listening to a man explain guardianship paperwork to her while Atlas signed things with a hand that hadn't stopped shaking since the funeral. Warren looked older now. She remembered him as someone who moved like he was always in a hurry, but the man who stood up from behind his desk to greet her was heavier, slower, his hair gone mostly gray at the temples. "Charlie Sinclair." He came around the desk to shake her hand instead of just gesturing at a chair. She remembered he was a bit warmer than other professionals she had met. "It's been too long kid. Atlas still giving them hell overseas?" "Something like that." She couldn’t help but smile at the comment. "He's actually flying back in a couple of days. The whole team's coming with him." “That’s good news. A family shouldn’t be scattered across time zones. It’s right that you three are sticking together." He waved her into a chair and sat back down, folding his hands. "I assume this isn't a social visit, given you called this morning sounding like the building was on fire." "Not on fire. Just—" She set a bag on his desk instead of finishing the sentence. He opened it, and his hand froze. "Where," he said carefully, "did this come from?” "That's the part I need your help with." She kept her voice steady. "There was a storage unit. Dad's, from before I was born. Mom had mentioned it once, years ago, and I never thought about it again until I was going through old paperwork last week. Turns out he’d been sitting on a small fortune he never told anyone about.” Charlie shook her head. “I don’t know why. Maybe he was going to say something eventually and just never got the chance." It wasn't true. It also wasn't a lie careless enough to unravel, and Warren had known her father for twenty years. They were old college friends and had the kind of history that made this exact story land soft instead of suspicious. He slowly zipped up the bag. "How much are we talking about, in total?" "A lot more than this." She let a beat pass before she said it. "There are five hundred bars in total. I’ll handle a portion myself; the bulk of it—four hundred and twenty-five, to be exact—will need to go through you." She held his gaze." I need it converted to cash. Quietly, cleanly, and fast. I don't want the IRS treating me like a money launderer, and I don't want Atlas finding out I handled this badly while he was still in the air." Something in his face shifted — not doubt, exactly. Recalculation. He was already doing the kind of math lawyers did instead of showing their hand outright. “A transaction this large doesn’t just get noticed; it gets scrutinized. Our only path is to make it unimpeachably legitimate.” Warren was already reaching for his laptop. “We need to create a clean, verifiable history for the asset before it ever becomes cash. That starts with establishing a trust. "That works for me." "Good." A glint in his eye she hadn't expected. The problem didn't seem to alarm him; it animated him. "Alright," he said, the word crisp with sudden energy. "This is a fascinating challenge. Here's how I'd structure it. We form a small trust — clean, simple, entirely legal — and the gold moves into it as a formally appraised estate asset. From there, I have relationships with two refiners who handle transactions this size discreetly and a private bank that runs a precious metals desk for exactly this kind of client. We’ll then sell in tranches. Large ones to the refiners and the bank first, since they can absorb real volume without blinking. Smaller ones after, spread across a handful of regional dealers, mostly so we're not putting the entire picture in front of any one party." "How long will this all take?" "The first wire could hit inside a week, once the trust paperwork and an initial appraisal are done. That part I can rush. For the full amount to be cleared and settled everywhere? That will take two to three weeks. I won’t be cutting any corners otherwise it’ll come back to bite both of us later." He glanced at the bag again. "Assuming spot doesn't move dramatically in the meantime, you're looking at something in the neighborhood of a hundred and seventy, maybe closer to a hundred and eighty million dollars net by the time everything clears." Charlie kept her face still, her thumb digging into the nail of her index finger—a small, sharp anchor against the thrill threatening to rise. She'd done the math herself the night before but hearing the number out loud from Warren made it land differently. Heavier, realer and much more official. "There's a fee, obviously," Warren added, misreading her silence for hesitation about the money. "Mine, and the trust's administrative costs. It won't be small given the size of this but it'll be a fraction of a percent. The documentation will specify the exact figures, of course." “I don’t care about the fee.” She finally exhaled. "As long as this is handled well and by someone I trust, that's more than fair.” "Then consider it handled. I'll need you to deliver the whole load somewhere secure like a bank vault, preferably one that is registered to the trust's name. Anything else and it would be too risky. I don't want to be liable for it if it gets stolen.” She thought about five hundred bars sitting in a space that was more secure than any vault on Astera, and let herself almost smile. "I'll figure out the delivery." "I imagine you will." He didn't ask how. Thirty years of estate law had probably taught him exactly which questions were worth asking a client and which weren't. "Give me forty-eight hours to get the trust drafted and the first appraisal scheduled. After that, the rest of this is on my shoulders. I’ll call you when the first wire is ready." She stood, shook his hand again, and left his office feeling lighter, a bounce in her step. One enormous, terrifying line item was finally off the list. The feeling lasted all the way to the car, before the weight of the next item—and the dozens after it—settled back in. She sighed, started the engine, and headed for her next destination. Chapter 5 Preparing The truck lot on the edge of the industrial district didn't bother with balloons or a big flag. Just a chain-link fence and rows of white panel trucks baking in the midday sun. Charlie had called ahead from Warren's parking lot. In the car, she pulled up the documents for North Star Trading, a shell company she'd registered online that morning. The new business account was linked to her own; it was a thin cover, but it would have to do. At the truck lot, she stepped out as Mina. "I'm from North Star Trading," she told the salesman, whose name tag read Ollie. "We're expanding into wholesale distribution, so I'm looking for something that can handle serious volume. "Volume like what, exactly?" "Full pallets, every week, not just a one-time run." The moment Charlie finished speaking, Ollie's eyebrows went up and he dropped his pitch for the mid-range option. Forty minutes later, she’d wired the full amount for a twenty-six-foot box truck. Seeing the funds clear instantly, a thrilled Ollie threw in a rush registration without a second thought. She left it on the lot for delivery and would call back with an address later in the day. The truck was a crucial piece of the logistical puzzle. With it, she could start moving supplies to a rented warehouse, creating a plausible public cover for the vast quantities of goods she planned to buy. With the truck sorted she headed for the industrial parks on the edge of the city. A loading dock was non-negotiable; her apartment was out of the question for the kind of deliveries she had in mind. *** The warehouse she was interested in was two miles further out, a squat concrete building with a roll up door. The property manager introduced himself as Dutch and walked her through it — twelve thousand square feet, a loading dock, three-phase power if she needed it, month-to-month with an option to go annual. "There’s no cameras or security system installed. I can help you organize that if you want, I know a few guys who specialize in it," Dutch said. "No thanks, I'll handle security myself." She signed the lease as North Star Trading, paid the deposit for three months, and took the keys before he'd finished explaining where the fuse box was. The empty space echoed around her. It wouldn’t stay that way. She pictured pallets of fuel drums, crates of medical supplies, the sheer bulk of everything required to ride out the storm. Warehouse sorted, she had one more stop before heading home. High grade gems. Gems were the only thing that grew the space itself — she'd learned this in her last life, when a looter's stash of jewelry had somehow doubled the size of her space, and it had taken her weeks to work out that the gems were the reason. At the rate she was planning to stockpile, she needed the space to grow now. The bigger and higher quality the gems, the better the upgrade. *** The Diamond District was really just three blocks of Kingsport's old jewelry row. Charlie walked past most of it, looking for the name a woman at Warren's office had recommended. Aurelian & Voss sat at the end of the row, behind a door that had to be buzzed open. Inside, the street noise disappeared, replaced by thick carpet and lighting built to make every stone in the room look better than it already was. The man who came out introduced himself as Julius Aurelian, a third generation jeweler with silver at the temples. "Just shopping around or are you after something particular?" he said. Charlie scanned the quiet showroom before responding, “I’m looking to buy diamonds and emeralds, do you have any high quality ones you can show me?” Julius raised his eyebrows in surprise. When Charlie walked in he thought she’d be after a ring or dainty piece of jewelry but here she was, sounding like a big spender. He gave Charlie one more thoughtful look over before leading her to a private room in the back. "I have some of the best gems in Kingsport, I just need to know what you’re after." "I want the biggest and cleanest diamonds and emeralds you have. I only need the stones." She paused. "I have five million to spend, and I'd like to spend all of it today." Although he was a seasoned professional in this space and had met all types of people, Charlie’s direct response still surprised him. His curiosity made him want to question her further, but his experience made him feel that this young woman was not to be trifled with. Biting back his questions, he gave her a wide smile, nodded and left the room. He came back with a rolling case and laid stones out on the black velvet table. Three large diamonds first, twelve carats and up. Then emeralds, deep green and cloudless. Then a handful of sapphires. She didn't haggle. She picked based on size and purity, nothing else. Eighteen stones later, Julius ran the total twice and landed on $4.97 million. "I could round that up with something smaller, if you want the full five." "Sure, round it up." He wrapped everything, sealed the case, and walked her to the door himself. "If you ever need anything else, please come back," he said. "I will. Thanks." By the time she got home and pulled into the garage she felt extremely satisfied. The truck was delivered to the warehouse, Warren was working through the sale of her gold bars and she had a case of gemstones. She killed the engine, and in the sudden silence, she felt the immense weight of the foundation she'd laid. Tomorrow, she would start building the walls. *** The kitchen table was her command center at sunrise, her notebook covered in addresses, each with a column of pros and cons. Charlie’s gaze drifted from her notebook to the familiar crack in the ceiling. She loved this place—the first thing Atlas and Theo had bought with their own money, a real home filled with new memories. But sentiment was a luxury she couldn't afford. This apartment sat in the heart of a city that was about to become a tomb for eight million people. She ran a line through another address, forcing the image away. They needed space and security. She remembered a stretch of country a few hours north of Kingsport, hills and old farmland near Ashgrove, the military academy that trained half the officers in Astera. It had held out longer than almost anywhere else in her first life. It wasn’t because anyone fortified it early, but because the roads in were bad, and the population was thin, and the dead never came through in the numbers that swallowed the cities. She wrote her criteria out plainly. The property should only have one road in, making it easy to watch, hard to swarm. She wanted elevation, or at least hills—height did half the work of a wall, and a high vantage point was always useful for surveillance. It needed enough land for training, and to be close enough to Kingsport that a supply run wouldn't eat a full day each way. She knew this city, every shortcut and dead end and that knowledge would be useful. There was one more factor she didn't write down: Ironhold. General Hale's fortress, the strongest foothold on the East Coast, would rise here in Kingsport. Last time, they’d crawled to its gates in year four, broken and desperate. This time, they could walk in on their own terms. But the thought of tying their fate to anyone else's, even Hale's, felt like a cage. It was a problem for another day. Three properties made her list by breakfast. A broker named Hank Doyle, who specialized in rural estates, agreed to meet her at nine. Her phone buzzed as she was pulling out of the garage. Atlas. His name appeared over a single, direct question: You eating real food? She smiled, thumbs tapping a reply. Always. Just running some errands. Boring adult stuff. His response was instant. Your version of ‘boring’ usually isn’t. We land tomorrow. Stay put. We’ll come to you. Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow, she typed.
Loading the ad's image💕🔥“ Rewriting The Apocalypse ”💓💓📖 👉(18+)
Ran 0 days · stopped 8 Nov