(Joshua’s POV)

  The copper door in the basement had cooled to a dull, silent slab—no molten glow, no ozone crackle—yet a metallic tang still hovered in the air like the aftertaste of lightning. I carried that smell upstairs, switched on the unforgiving fluorescents, and unfolded a banquet table in the center of the kitchen. This would be my war desk.

  According to the Gate’s last pop?up, the portal would unlock again in twelve Earth?days—and because time runs one?to?one between the timelines, Anna’s clock was exactly the same length. She had eleven MREs left after my peanut?butter drop; good for eleven dinners if nothing spoiled, spilled, or got bartered away. That margin was paper?thin. A twisted ankle, an infected cut, or a week?long siege by Empire patrols could eat those rations faster than rot. My job: deliver so many calories, bandages, and boards that hunger and infection would have to knock twice before entering the cottage.

  I uncapped a scarlet Expo marker and wrote in block capitals across a whiteboard:

  High?Calorie Food Currency, morale, literal fuel for hammer swings. Gate: 40 oz peanut?butter jars, coffee, electrolyte sticks, one Spam flat. U?Haul: rice sacks, extra Spam, potato flakes. $800

  Building Materials Weak walls invite claws and 5.56 mm. Gate: nails, screws, roll of barbed wire, 100 ft galvanized wire. U?Haul: ?″ plywood, 2×4 studs, rebar. $600

  Water & Light Diarrhea and darkness kill faster than roamers. Sawyer Squeeze filters, iodine tablets, USB?solar lanterns, two collapsibles jugs. $200

  Medical Infection beats feral bite tally. Amox?875, Doxy?100, gauze, iodine swabs, ibuprofen bulk bottle. $300

  Tools Good intentions don’t drive nails. 22 oz Estwing hammer, 30″ wrecking bar, 14″ bolt cutters, staple gun + 1 k staples, hand auger. $150

  Hygiene Soap = trust. No one wants to trade with a walking sewer. Dr. Bronner bars, toothbrush multi?pack, baby?wipe bricks, nitrile gloves. $75

  Gate Toll (10 %) Cosmic extortion; no cash, no return. $500 cushion in small bills. $500

  Training Every elbow I land in the gym is one less gash to suture later. Renew Muay?Thai punch card (10 sessions). $60

  Budget ceiling: $16,000

  Outbound spend: ≈ $2,700?(toll ≤ $270)

  Cash reserve (this world): $13,300 for plywood pallet, U?Haul, fuel, future cycles.

  Peanut Butter (2,500 kcal / jar) – Fat is the apex macro Anna can’t forage in weed?cracked sidewalks. Two spoonfuls blunt hunger and fuel tendon repair.

  Spam – Pressurized salt?protein bricks. In the apocalypse, one can of Spam is universal currency; far easier to divide than rice.

  Rice – Yes, bulky—but truckable. Fifty pounds equals 80,000 calories. With scavenged rainwater and a cook pot, it becomes morale porridge.

  Exterior Plywood – ?″ fir resists clawed hands and slows rifle rounds if packed with sand. The cottage’s clapboards are brittle; we need a new skin.

  Barbed Wire – It doesn’t just wound; it talks. Ferals tangle and thrash, creating noise that wakes you before teeth find bone.

  Sawyer Filters – 0.1?micron absolute. One filter weighs 2 oz and filters 100,000 gallons—alchemy in plastic.

  USB Solar Lanterns – Kerosene’s loud, smelly, flammable. LED glow lets watch shifts read maps without painting bullseyes on the windows.

  Doxycycline + Amoxicillin – Empirical broad?spectrum pair. One course can turn a leg?wound death sentence into an annoying scab.

  Estwing One?Piece Hammer – No wooden handle to split. Hammer?side for nails, claw?side for skulls.

  Crowbar / Wrecking Bar – Break locks, leverage boards, or hook a feral’s ankle mid?lunge. Multi?tool of controlled aggression.

  Baby Wipes – The olfactory line between “trader” and “target.” Clean skin means fewer skin infections and better first impressions.

  I pictured Anna peeling open a foil?wrapped soap bar, inhaling peppermint instead of decomposed asphalt. The image tightened something bright inside my chest.

  Gate cart (aluminum garden buggy) – 25 lb

  Tools + hardware – 30 lb

  Med & hygiene – 11 lb

  Water & light kit – 7 lb

  Peanut butter (6 jars) – 15 lb

  Coffee sticks, electrolyte tubs, Spam flat – 20 lb

  Total gate cargo – ≈ 108 lb

  Below my 120 lb comfort cap—assuming I strap the heavy jars low and cinch everything with ratchet webbing.

  I currently hold $16,000. My maximum gate cargo value after retail spending is ~$2,700. With a toll of ≈ $270, I’ll still carry $13,000+ in this timeline—enough for a 10’×12′ U?Haul, fuel to Jersey lumber yards, and another hardware binge before the next opening. Money, here, is safety; calories, there, are sovereignty.

  Even as I tallied costs, Dad’s letter ghosted in the edges of my sight: If you meet Mirabelle, tell her… Every time I wrote “screws – 5 lb box,” my pen hovered, thinking about a woman wandering the same streets Anna patrols. Is she alive? Does she trade Spam for shotgun shells? Does she know Richard Reeves died waiting?

  No actions yet; Anna’s survival is first priority. But Mirabelle’s name now sits on my mental whiteboard under Long?Term Quests, circled in a shaky hand.

  I snapped the Expo cap, inhaled the marker’s chemical bite, and felt the plan ossify into bone. Normal traffic whispered beyond the window: garbage trucks, early commuters, a bakery’s loading dock clang. The porch light—Dad’s porch light, now mine—still glowed even in morning gray. I tapped its glass once: promise received.

  Duffel slung, checklist folded, I stepped onto rain?washed concrete. The city smelled of diesel, wet paper, and—somewhere upwind—fresh rye bread. In eleven days and twenty?three hours I’d be smelling rot and gun oil again; best enjoy yeast and asphalt while I could.

  Twelve days to turn dollars into calories.

  Calories into trust.

  Trust into a future sturdy enough for two timelines.

  The copper door would shiver open soon enough. When it did, I intended to roll through with redemption strapped to a garden cart and peppermint soap tucked beside the ammo.

  07 : 05 a.m. — Uptown Local, 1 Train to the Bronx

  The subway car smelled of wet wool and burnt brake?pads. Commuters scrolled feeds, earbuds suturing them to playlists called Morning Grind and Coffee Vibes. I stood near the door, knuckles tight around a collapsible hand?truck—the same aluminum frame I’d push through a corpse?choked plaza in twelve days. Here, its wheels shivered on spotless linoleum while an MTA ad assured me We’re Working for a Greener Future.

  When the train surfaced onto elevated track, February light spread over brick rowhouses like warm honey. On an adjacent rooftop, two teenagers practiced TikTok dance moves. I watched their carefree limbs and wondered how long they’d last on the other side before a roamer took a bite out of that choreography.

  125th —> 138th —> 149th Street–Grand Concourse. I transferred to the Bx15 bus, tapping my MetroCard. The driver glanced at my empty pack and hand?truck. “Stocking a bodega?” he joked.

  “Something like that,” I muttered. I chose a seat by the rear exit, wedging the cart between my knees.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  08 : 31 a.m. — Restaurant Depot, East Tremont Avenue

  I rolled off the bus into an olfactory blast of fryer oil, exhaust, and fresh bagels from the deli next door. Delivery guys in neon vests cursed in rapid Dominican Spanish as they jockeyed pallets of frozen wings. Their world revolved around Superbowl orders, not survival spreadsheets.

  Inside—the cathedral effect. Twenty?foot shelves, LEDs so bright my eyes watered, forklifts whining like wounded drones. I flashed my day?pass at a bored greeter and steered my flat?bed cart—no engine, all momentum—into the aisles.

  Row 4 gleamed with jarred gold. Two small?business owners—gray aprons, argument mid?flight—debated whether chunky priced out better than creamy for school lunches.

  Owner 1: “Kids want smooth, Manny.”

  Owner 2: “Margins, Luis—crunchy uses filler.”

  I tuned them out and muscled up twelve 40?oz tubs of Crown Nut. Shrink?wrap crackled under my gloves. Thirty?thousand calories. Half of it fat—rare as mercy in Ruin?York.

  Aisle 8 smelled faintly of metal and brine. A forklift beeped backward, driver humming Bad Bunny. He sliced open a pallet of SPAM Classic 12?packs. “Careful, papi, edges are sharp.”

  I stacked eight flats. Cylindrical coins of salt and pork.

  A chef in pristine whites pushed past, side?eyeing my haul. “Apocalypse party?”

  “Camping trip,” I replied. The plastic grin on my face felt like borrowed armor.

  At Rice & Grains, a deli operator yelled into Bluetooth about the price of quinoa. I heaved four 25?lb Lundberg brown?rice sacks onto the cart—50,000 calories of slow hope.

  Starch, Calcium & Caffeine

  Idaho potato flakes—four industrial sacks—felt like sacks of warm air but would thicken any stew.

  UHT whole?milk bricks—two cases—shelf?stable protein for injured allies.

  Electrolyte powder tubs—three.

  Instant?coffee sticks—two mega?boxes.

  A toddler in a Lightning McQueen jacket pointed at my mountain and shouted, “Big lunch!” His mother laughed. I pictured that boy, seven years from now, bartering rat skewers for antibiotics if this timeline cracked the way mine had.

  Register B was ran by a female clerk—pastel hair, nose ring—scanned the Spam towers in rhythmic blips.

  “Feeding an army?”

  “Building one.”

  She winked. “Make it spicy.” Receipt total: $549.80.

  I wheeled the 190?pound load outside, sweat beading even in winter air. No car trunk: only my fold?down cart and city buses. I siphoned travel?grade cargo into a Home Depot ‘Homer’ bucket—two PB cases, one Spam flat, the coffee and electrolyte tubs—marked the lid GATE LOAD 72 LB, cinched with a ratchet strap.

  The rest—rice, extra Spam, milk bricks—went onto a wooden pallet beside the Depot’s will?call cage. A bored clerk slapped a tag: HOLD FOR CUSTOMER – J REEVE – PICKUP 03/04. I’d rent a U?Haul in a week, after payday.

  Running budget: $16,000 → $15,450.20.

  As I waited for the Bx15, a hot?dog vendor fired up his griddle. Onions hissed. The smell was pure county fair. In thirteen days I’d trade that scent for sour decay. I tightened the bucket’s lid, boarded the bus, and tried not to envy the teenagers giggling over a shared pair of earbuds.

  10 : 08 a.m. — Home Depot, Central Yonkers

  The Saturday crowd surged like spawning salmon. Couples argued about backsplash tile; toddlers banged tiny hammers at the kid?workshop table. I snagged an orange cart and plunged into Hardware.

  Fasteners & Wire

  A 3?lb box of GRK structural screws promised “aggressive bite.” Into the cart.

  100 ft spool of 12?gauge galvanized wire—for lashing rebar cages.

  80 ft coil of barbed wire—psychological moat.

  Shoppers parted around the barb like water round a shark.

  In aisle 21, a clean?cut homeowner asked an associate, “Which hammer’s best for finishing nails?”

  I reached past them for the 22?oz Estwing framing hammer—one?piece steel—and felt its weight. Perfect for feral skulls or 16?penny nails. $36.

  Then added a 30?inch wrecking bar—its clang made a toddler clap—and 14?inch bolt cutters with hardened jaws.

  A Cashier with a thin metal name plate that read ‘Miguel’ rang up my total of $213. I paid paper, not plastic.

  “Contractor job?” he asked, stamping my plywood/rebar pallet for next week.

  “Renovation,” I said. End?of?the?world open?concept.

  Running budget: $15,237.20.

  Outdoors, honeysuckle scented the lumber aisles. I inhaled like a man memorizing civilization.

  11 : 24 a.m. — Med?Surplus LLC, Secaucus

  Google Maps routed me to a weather?pocked warehouse district. The roll?up bay door yawned half open; inside: flickering fluorescents, towers of unmarked boxes, and the chemical tang of isopropyl.

  The proprietor—thin, nicotine?stained moustache—eyed my list.

  “Jungle trip?”

  “Long hike.”

  He loaded a gray tote:

  Amoxicillin 875 mg (120 tabs) … $120

  Doxycycline 100 mg (60) … $90

  Gauze 4″ × 12′ (24?pack) … $38

  Iodine swab sticks (100) … $21

  Hydrocortisone 1 % (6 tubes) … $18

  Ibuprofen 200 mg (500) … $17

  He counted bills beneath a Marlboro calendar from 2009. “Careful out there,” he muttered, meaning nowhere in particular.

  Medical subtotal: $304.

  Running budget: $14,933.20.

  The tote rattled with pills—dice that would decide fever or recovery in another world.

  12 : 10 p.m. — Dollar?Plus Outlet, River Edge

  Plastic?rose perfume hit me at the door. Pop radio battled squeaky shopping carts. I threaded through helium balloons and Valentine hearts to Hygiene:

  Dr. Bronner peppermint bars (12?pack) … $10

  Travel toothbrush multipack (10) … $9

  Baby?wipe bricks (2, 500?count) … $16

  The teenage cashier scanned while typing on her phone. Rhinestone case, bunny ears. She never looked up. “Ten, sixteen, nine.” Tear, bag, “Have a blessed day.” She had no idea how far that soap would travel.

  Running budget: $14,898.20.

  12 : 42 p.m. — Bus Stop Epiphany

  I wheeled my cart to the Bx15 stop. Lunch?hour throngs juggled pizza slices, Amazon parcels, strollers. They laughed, cursed delivery fees, TikToked. None of them feared nightfall.

  I glanced at my orange bucket—peanut butter gleaming like dull gold. Eleven days from now Anna would dig in with a scavenged spoon while wind rattled broken glass overhead. I felt two worlds crease inside me, overlapping like misprinted pages.

  The bus hissed to a stop. I hoisted the bucket, folding cart squealing behind, and boarded. A teenager offered his seat; I declined with a weary nod. Outside, the city slid by—barbers, bodegas, boutiques—oblivious clock?gears in a machine they assumed eternal.

  In twelve days, I’d shove this bucket through a copper fracture and turn it into survival. Until then, I’d keep riding these routes—aisle to aisle, store to store—pretending the ordinary was still mine, even as my knuckles itched for the heavy bags at Iron Elbow and my thoughts drifted to a woman counting rations in a ruin.

  Time to finish the shopping list, then punch leather until my bones rang with purpose.

  13 : 02 p.m. — Iron Elbow Muay?Thai Academy

  A rust?scarred bell chimed over the door as I stepped inside, and the gym’s signature bouquet—eucalyptus liniment, old sweat, and sun?baked vinyl—hit like a head?rush. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off a forest of heavy?bags that swayed in the draft of industrial fans. Sweat?darkened canvas mats squelched faintly underfoot; they were never quite dry.

  “Back again, Reeve?” Marcos called from behind the counter, mouth curved around a cinnamon?mint toothpick. His forearms were the color and texture of oiled teak. I peeled six crisp tens from my dwindling roll. The bills smelled of printing?ink and deli grease—cash picked up on this morning’s supply run.

  “Ten sessions,” I said. My voice sounded gravelly, like it already belonged to the wasteland.

  He bit down on the toothpick, nodded, and scrawled my name on the punch card. “Hands.”

  I extended knuckles still dented from yesterday’s plank hammering. Marcos wrapped them in coarse cotton, the tape tightening with each pull—white tourniquets that trapped the pulse in my wrists. The adhesive smelled faintly of wintergreen and let?go fear. When he finished, he lifted a pair of leather Thai pads, slapping them together with a sharp pap that vibrated in my molars.

  Round 1

  The pads met my gloves with dull thuds; latex?foam and leather kissed. Each jab rolled from steel caps of peanut?butter protein I’d mentally stacked in Anna’s future pantry. The air tasted of dust and peppermint rub, cool at first inhale, but scorching my throat on the exhale.

  Round 2

  Cross–hook–cross, lead?kick—Marcos barked combos in Spanish?accented staccato. My shins bit into the pad like splitting wet pine. A drop of sweat slid past my eyebrow and carried the saline tang of Spam sample fumes from Restaurant Depot; I licked my lip, tasting salt and aluminum memory.

  Round 3

  He angled in. I whipped a horizontal elbow—CLAP!—and the pad exhaled a fine mist of old sweat, atomizing under the impact like rain in a sunbeam. The iron smell of my own blood trickled where tape rubbed raw skin, but I barely felt it. Calories convert to ATP, ATP converts to survival.

  Round 4

  Marcos crowded my stance, pads hammering my guard. Each block sent shocks through forearms already tender from cart handles. I could almost hear Anna’s barbed wire ringing against night wind. My lungs drank the gym’s humid air, laced with chalk dust and rubber mat fumes.

  Round 5

  He pivoted, drove a pad into my ribs. WHUMP. Again. WHUMP. My diaphragm spasmed; vision tunneled at the edges. Marcos grinned through sweat, toothpick now a mangled stump. “Roamers don’t squeal, but ribs still crack,” he said. Breath came back as a ragged grate across dry concrete in my chest. I answered with a knee that rattled his elbows—vinegar heat shot through my quads.

  When the round timer bleated, I bent, hands on knees, saliva tasting like old pennies. My heart hammered riot?baton beats against sternum and tape.

  Leaving the mat, I peeled the wraps. Skin pulsed purple where new bruises budded—tiny IOUs I intended to cash later against feral skulls. Marcos slapped my shoulder; the sting registered like a stamp of approval.

  “Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Until the world ends,” I said—and meant two worlds at once.

  Inside the locker room the odor shifted to mildewed towels and over?chlorinated shower steam. I toweled dry, slipped gloves into a mesh sack, and re?ran the numbers on my phone while fluorescent tubes flickered overhead:

  Category Value Packed for Gate

  Food bucket $271

  Hardware & tools $213

  Med kit $304

  Hygiene $35

  Total cargo value $823

  Gate toll @ 10 % ≈ $83.

  I folded $200 in small bills—toll plus safety margin—into a waterproof zip wallet and taped it to the underside of the orange bucket lid.

  Net outbound spend (cargo + toll buffer): $1,106

  Cash still available: $14,832

  earmarked for plywood pallet, rebar, U?Haul, fuel, next?cycle stock.

  My knuckles throbbed; I flexed them, feeling dried blood crack where tape had bitten. Pain was proof of circulation—proof I was still a warm body, not a cold thing Anna might one day have to hammer flat.

  Outside, winter sunlight stabbed between tenements. The air tasted of street pretzels and distant diesel, worlds sweeter than the metallic tang awaiting me beyond copper. I zipped my jacket, hefted my gear, and started toward the bus stop—the bucket of peanut butter and promise waiting by the door like a bright, silent passenger.