Chapter 10 (Joshua’s POV)

  Balance after the $10?000 RAV4 down?payment (yesterday) – $?6?000.00

  Target haul (tampons, clothing, shelter) –?$?1?378.99 $?4?621.01

  Costco comfort?trade run (coffee, sugar, soap, tabs, crank radios) –?$??195.61 $?4?425.40

  Cold?forged war?hammer (online) –?$??259.00 $?4?166.40

  Home?Depot pallet on will?call (?″ plywood + rebar) — not paid yet, but ring?fenced –?$?600.00 $?3?566.40

  U?Haul reservation (24?h cargo van + mileage) — scheduled for pallet day –?$?170.00 $?3?396.40

  Gas & bridge?toll buffer (set aside, not yet spent) –?$?80.00 $?3?316.40

  Gate?cargo toll cushion (10?% of $?1?575 manifest) –?$?158.00 $?3?158.40

  *Cash on hand / debit?card liquid; separate checking still holds rent & bills.

  Plenty to cover final grocery blitz and diesel for the generator I still had to source—so long as the Gate opened on schedule.

  A cyclist coasted up and rapped the passenger window.

  “Bro—is Target having an end?of?the?world sale?”

  “Something like that,” I said, nudging forward as the light flipped.

  15?:?00?p.m.?—?Cottage Driveway

  I nosed the RAV4 beside the rain barrel. Fans spun down, leaving a winter hush broken only by distant leaf?blowers—luxuries of a timeline still convinced spring bulbs mattered. One bad tug could avalanche thirty cartons of feminine supplies, so I cracked the hatch in slow increments, eased the dolly’s lip under the shrink?wrapped tower, and ratcheted it tight.

  Gravel grumbled under the wheels all the way to the porch. Patchwork barricades—Anna’s handiwork—caught the pale sun and threw it back like shield scales. I imagined her somewhere among ruined brownstones, counting pearls and MREs, unaware she now owned a boutique’s worth of sports bras.

  I managed to drag the Dolly into the cottage up the steps, I flipped on the old lights fluorescence flickered over surreal cargo: peanut?butter jars stacked like gold ingots, four roll?up mattresses against damp stone, bright tampons forming a pink parapet along one wall. I dropped the last box, wiped sweat with a sleeve that smelled of cinnamon?roll exhaust.

  My Phone buzzed: confirmation of the cold?forged war?hammer shipment, 30?inch hickory haft, arriving Today. Good.

  True cash remaining: ≈?$?3?100—enough for the plywood pickup, fuel, and the Gate?fee margin. Tight, but workable.

  I locked the copper door, planted my brand?new Estwing framing hammer beside it, and collapsed on a foam roll. Cold concrete leeched heat from my spine; pipes clicked overhead like a metronome. Tomorrow: grab the Home?Depot pallet, strap it in a U?Haul, and—if cosmic customs cooperated—push a Costco’s worth of dignity through molten copper into ruin.

  If the Gate stalled? I’d have to explain ceiling?high tampon towers to the neighbors.

  That ridiculous image followed me into a gritty, restless sleep.

  07?:?45?a.m. — U?Haul Neighborhood Dealer, Broadway &?143rd

  The morning smelled of stale deli coffee and wet asphalt when I rolled the RAV4 into the corner lot littered with orange?striped vans. A hand?painted placard on the chain?link read DAVID’S LOCK & U?HAUL — Ring Bell for Service. I rang twice; a door behind the padlock counter scraped open, releasing a puff of cigarette and WD?40.

  “Morning,” croaked David—late fifties, ponytail, NASA sweatshirt with a grease halo. “Mobile order for a twelve?footer, right?”

  “Joshua Reeve. Reservation Q5L?82.” I slid my license and a stack of twenties across the scratched laminate. He tapped on a yellowed keyboard the size of a tombstone.

  “Insurance?” he asked without glancing up.

  “Yeah—SafeMove basic.” If I roll the van to avoid an empire roadblock in the other timeline, I’d rather not explain that to corporate.

  He printed two feet of thermal paper while I handed him the $170 I’d earmarked—$130 daily + $40 mileage. A pen?cap dangled from a shoelace tether; I signed the waiver and initialed the no?pets box.

  “Key box’s on the fence,” he said, pushing a rust?speckled code remote toward me. “Unit C?4. Full tank. Return same.”

  “Any chance I could borrow a pallet jack for twenty minutes? Loading plywood.”

  His eyes flicked to the damp twenties in my wallet. “Fifty?dollar deposit, you break you buy.”

  “Deal.” Cash changed hands; he handed me a chipped orange jack. Magnets barely held the hydraulic release lever.

  08?:?20?a.m. — Home?Depot Will?Call, Central?Yonkers

  Miguel—the same night?shift clerk who’d helped tag my order—now wore a sunrise?orange beanie and sipped diner coffee. He saw me through the roll?up bay and grinned around the lid.

  “Contractor of Doom is back! Got your wood shrink?wrapped and strapped since 3?a.m.”

  He guided the pallet jack under a seven?foot stack: twenty ??inch exterior plywood sheets, twenty?four pressure?treated 2×4s, and a bundle of ??inch rebar tied with steel wire. The smell of fresh lumber punched my nostrils, clean and resinous—the polar opposite of Ruin?York’s mildew stench.

  Miguel checked the invoice: $600 even, paid. “Need ratchets?”

  “Already have straps in the van, thanks.”

  As the forklift eased the load into the cargo bay, I crawled inside to brace it. Two load bars pressed against the plywood face; I web?strapped the rebar bundle to D?rings in the floor. Metal teeth squealed as I cinched.

  Miguel offered a final tip: “If you’re sheathing exterior, remember to stagger seams—eight?penny nails every six inches.”

  “Roger that,” I said, and meant it. Seams staggered = fewer claw?through points for ferals.

  He slapped the side of the van twice; I pulled out, brake lights glowing red in the long loading tunnel.

  09?:?35?a.m. — Cottage Driveway, Quick Unload

  Back home, I backed the van up to the porch and set aluminum ramps. Plywood slid down like giant playing cards; rebar clanged on gravel. I stacked sheets under a blue tarp beside the rain barrel and chained them to a porch post—Husky padlock, ??inch link. The treated lumber I leaned inside the hallway to keep it out of the weather.

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  Sweat trickled under my collar despite 40?degree air. I checked time: 10?:?10. HEMA class started at 10?:?30 two blocks east. Enough to ditch the van curbside and jog.

  10?:?25?a.m. — Riverside Historical Fencing Academy

  The converted brownstone smelled of linseed oil and old radiator heat. Inside the padded salle, twelve students stretched while Coach Amina Patel—tall, dreadlocked, chain?shirt over Nike warm?ups—demonstrated Meyer guards with a nylon zweih?nder.

  She spotted me unlacing boots. “Joshua, right? First intro session?”

  “Yeah. I swing big hammers; figured I should learn not to break my wrists.”

  A grin. “You and every new viking who walks in. Grab a longsword waster and a fencing mask.”

  10?:?40?a.m. — Footwork & Guards

  Amina tapped my shin with her feder. “Left foot a hair wider. Think railroad tracks, not tightrope.”

  I adjusted; the hardwood floor chilled my soles through wrestling socks. Students shuffled in synchronized passes: advance, gather, passing step, retreat. The slap of rubber soles echoed like a metronome.

  She moved us to basic guards—vom Tag, Pflug, Ochs. My wrists burned from unfamiliar angles.

  “You drive rebar for a living?” she asked, eyeing my forearm veins.

  “Something like that.” And feral skulls, I didn’t add.

  11?:?20?a.m. — Partner Drills

  We paired off for Zornhau Ort. My partner, Jules, a software engineer in knee braces, hesitated on the cut. I parried, tip?whipped to his mask grill with the thrust line just shy of contact.

  Amina clapped. “Good line, Joshua. Control is king. Power comes last.”

  We reset. I felt the mechanics click—hips driving, edge alignment true. The waster thunked into the padded torso with enough force to rock Jules.

  Amina raised eyebrows. “Not bad for day one. Ever consider competing? We’ve got a rookie bracket at the Tri?State Gathering in May.”

  Adrenaline popped. “I, uh, might still be out of town.”

  “Think about it. You’ve got reach.” She smirked. “And a war?hammer fetish, apparently.”

  12?:?05?p.m. — Cool?Down & Locker?Room Talk

  We wiped swords with WD?40 rags—steel smell mingling with eucalyptus from the communal muscle rub. Jules asked what brand of gloves I planned to buy; I filed away Red Dragon Hema in my Notes app.

  Amina leaned on the locker door. “Your footwork’s raw but explosive. Come twice a week and we’ll iron it out.”

  “I’ve got a crazy project deadline,” I admitted. “But I’ll be back next Tuesday—promise.”

  She handed me a flyer: “Sweeps & Polearms Workshop—$45”. Perfect—hammer cousins.

  12?:?45?p.m. — Returning the Van

  I swung the U?Haul into David’s lot, mileage under the 40?mile cushion. He circled the van, flashlight inspecting the plywood rub rails.

  “Clean,” he grunted, signing off the deposit. “You contractors move fast.”

  “Deadlines,” I said, pocketing the fifty bucks he refunded for the pallet jack.

  13?:?15?p.m. — Cottage Kitchen, Budget Re?Cap

  Flannel shirt stuck to cooling skin. I hunched over the whiteboard, updating the ledger:

  Starting post?vehicle balance: $15?000.00

  RAV4 down?payment (yesterday): –?$10?000.00

  Target + Costco total: –?$1?378.99 –?$195.61 = –?$1?574.60

  War?hammer: –?$259.00

  U?Haul + mileage: –?$170.00

  Home?Depot pallet: –?$600.00

  Gas & toll buffer (not spent yet): –?$80.00

  Cash in hand: $2?316.41

  Gate?cargo toll (10?% of $1?575 manifest) already set aside: $158.00

  Net usable wiggle room before the Gate: ≈?$2?160

  Enough for generator shopping and a final grocery blitz.

  I flexed my blistered hands—HEMA guards still ghosting through my tendons—and imagined Anna reinforcing the cottage walls with those plywood sheets. Twelve days. Two worlds. One supply chain.

  19?:?10?p.m.?—?The Iron Lantern, West?146th & Broadway

  I needed noise—noise loud enough to drown the echo of blunt?wasters striking masks, louder still than the hollow clatter of nails against plywood that filled my skull each time I pictured Anna alone behind barricades. The RAV4 idled outside a squat brick tavern whose neon sign flickered IR N?LAN?ERN, half the letters dead. Bass leaked through weather?cracked windows in uneven pulses, and the sidewalk smelled of thawing garbage and fryer grease.

  Inside, amber light soaked everything. A centuries?old tin ceiling sagged beneath a haze of vape mist and stale cigarette ghost. The bar ran the length of the room—scarred mahogany lacquered with years of spilled IPAs—and rafters above it bristled with upside?down pint glasses catching glints from a jukebox that stuttered Fleetwood Mac one minute, Cardi?B the next.

  A late?winter crowd hunched over high?tops: union guys in neon safety vests, Columbia grad students still wearing seminar lanyards, two off?duty cops nursing whiskies. Every body radiated Friday exhaustion and the funk of wet wool; beer and fryer oil hung in the air like a greasy blanket.

  I snagged a barstool that wobbled on one stripped screw. Lara, the bartender—high ponytail, flannel sleeves rolled past inked forearms—lifted an eyebrow at my red knuckles and the faint bruises blooming on my forearms.

  “Rough sparring?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s your poison?”

  “Start me with a double Jameson. Keep the change.” I slid a ten across the counter.

  The first swallow scorched my throat, spreading warmth down my sternum like liquid courage—or liquid stupidity. Either worked tonight. I chased it with a pint of an IPA so citrusy it made my jaw tic.

  One ear caught fragments of every conversation: a woman complaining about thesis edits; a welder tallying unpaid overtime; an argument about Knicks trades. All so mundanely alive it felt surreal. Nobody talked pearls or barricades or cosmic taxes on survival.

  20?:?00?p.m.

  Three doubles in, edges dulled. My posture slouched, shoulders uncoiling for the first time in days. The jukebox cycled to “Dreams,” and a pocket of barflies crooned the chorus with slurred devotion. A cluster of perfume drifted down the bar—a sweet floral that reminded me of summer laundry lines, something impossible on the other side of the copper door.

  She appeared on the empty stool beside mine like a conjuring trick: platinum?blonde waves, red body?hugging dress glittered under filament bulbs, lips the same shade as the fabric. Miranda—or Mallory; the room already swam enough to blur consonants— tilted her martini and smirked.

  “Someone’s had a day,” she said, eyeing my empty tumbler pyramid.

  “Yeah,” I croaked. “Long project.”

  She laughed; it sounded like champagne fizz. “Let me guess—the kind that ends with scuffed hands and too many questions?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Conversation skimmed the surface: occupations (I lied—freelance contractor), favorite take?out spots, her friend who bailed after one drink. The warmth from the whiskey mingled with perfume until my cheeks prickled numb. She touched my forearm when she laughed; the contact felt startlingly clean after weeks of feral gore and plywood splinters.

  Another round materialized—this one her treat. I didn’t protest. My vision tunneled but pleasantly; the bar’s tin ceiling rippled like water. She leaned close, breath minty, voice low: “We should get out of here before the amateur hour bachelorette party rolls in.”

  I opened my mouth—whether to agree or warn her I wasn’t exactly boyfriend material, I never found out. A surge of vertigo punched up from my gut. The floor tilted. The copper?door scent of ozone flashed behind my eyes, wrong time, wrong place. Whiskey, IPA, and residual adrenaline from morning sparring formed a toxic cocktail.

  “Hold on—” I muttered, hand over my mouth. I tried to pivot off the stool, but gravity pulled the other way. Colors melted.

  Her lips parted to ask something, confusion flickering; that’s when the tidal wave hit. I vomited—spectacularly—half on the bar’s brass foot rail, half across the front of her red dress. Splattered amber, half?digested fries, a traitorous chunk of peanut butter I’d sampled at Costco earlier.

  Gasps erupted like popcorn. Someone shouted “Jesus!” Glasses clinked as patrons lurched back. Miranda’s expression collapsed from sultry amusement to mascara?ringed horror. The tart scent of citrus IPA became a rank mash of acid and hops.

  “Oh my god!” she shrieked, recoiling as liquid dripped off sequined fabric. Lara vaulted over a half?door, thrusting napkins at me and barking for the bar?back and a mop.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I slurred, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. The sleeve, naturally, smeared more vomit. The room rocked on its axis.

  Miranda backed away, face flushing crimson beneath foundation. “You disgusting—” Whatever epithet followed drowned under jukebox feedback and the bartender’s cursing.

  I fumbled crumpled twenties onto the bar—a useless apology—and staggered toward the exit. Fresh February air slapped me outside, diesel exhaust a bitter blessing compared to stomach acid. My boots skidded on a patch of black ice near the curb; I braced on a parking meter, dry?heaved, then spat bile.

  21?:?00?p.m. — Uptown Side Streets

  Night blurred into smeared neon and pothole shadows. I knew better than to drive. Keys stayed pocketed; the RAV4 waited legally parked three blocks over. Legs obeyed autopilot northbound. The city smelled of hot dog carts closing shop, wet newsprint, and the sour tinge of my own shirtfront.

  I lurched past bodegas venting onion?fry steam, past a subway grate exhaling train wind, past a trio of teenagers laughing at my stagger. One offered a sarcastic golf?clap; I gave a sloppy salute.

  Blocks telescoped. Somewhere around 158th my stomach cramped; I leaned over a trash can, nothing left to give. A passing bus whooshed dirty slush onto my boots. I laughed—because why not?—sounding half?mad even to myself.

  22?:?05?p.m. — Cottage Gate

  The porch light I’d left on glowed amber through mist. Breath puffed white in its cone. My key fumbled in the lock until muscle memory took charge. Inside, plywood fumes greeted me alongside the faint, comforting copper tang seeping from the door in the basement.

  Downstairs, towering tampon boxes looked like censuring judges. I slumped onto a roll?up mattress, boots still on, jacket half?zipped. The basement bulb buzzed overhead. Somewhere in my drunken haze I managed to set an alarm—Gate plus ten days reminder—and flip a gallon jug upright for hydration.

  The room rotated gently as if hung on a slow gimbal. I whispered a ragged apology to the universe— to Miranda’s ruined dress, to Anna’s distant watch, to my own battered liver—then passed out, the copper door watching in silent judgment.