The Cottage smelled like a hardware store had crashed into a grocery warehouse and then taken up residence inside a damp colonial cellar. Diesel from the borrowed U?Haul still lingered in the air, tangled with the resin of fresh plywood, the sugary whiff of peanut butter, and—faint but impossible to miss—the peppermint snap of six dozen bars of Dr.?Bronner soap. The copper door loomed in the corner, inert for now, its wrecked city scape?etched panels dark as an overcast sea.
T?minus 01?hour?47?minutes until the Gate’s spiral of fractals would reappear. Plenty of time on any normal schedule, but nothing felt normal when one wrong tally could strand me in Ruin?York with a mountain of tampons and no return ticket.
I knelt beside my aluminum garden cart—the same six?wheeled beast I’d used last cycle—now upgraded with skateboard bearings and rubberized grips. It groaned like an arthritic ox under the final load, metal deck bowing just enough to make the screws complain. Ratchet straps webbed the cargo into a single quivering block that smelled of latex bands, ground coffee, and new vinyl. I traced a checklist in Sharpie down my forearm and began the final audit, item by aching item.
1. Food Currency (Gate Load)
Item Quantity Weight Calories Rationale
Crown?Nut peanut?butter jars (40?oz)633?lb15?k kcalFat & barter—peanut butter.
SPAM Classic 12?pack flat19?lb16?k kcalSalt + protein = muscle repair & trust packets.
Folgers instant coffee (1.7?lb)3 cans5?lb Caffeine, morale, high?value trade item.
Domino sugar (10?lb)2 bags20?lb32?k kcal Fermentation, quick carbs.
Electrolyte powder tubs33?lb—Rehydration for fevered wounds.
Subtotal Gate food weight ≈?70?lb.
Tied low on the cart in an orange Home?Depot Homer bucket, lid ratchet?clamped.
2. Medical & Hygiene
Amoxicillin 875?mg (120 tabs) — vacuum?sealed, stashed inside a peanut?butter jar (smell mask, break?proof).
Doxycycline 100?mg (60 tabs) — bagged with desiccant.
Gauze rolls (24), iodine swabs (100), hydrocortisone, ibuprofen (500) — packed into a nylon tackle box.
Tampons (360 ct) + Overnight pads (280 ct) + pantyliners (500 ct) — boxed tight, shrink?wrapped.
Dr.?Bronner peppermint soap (60 bars), Summer’s?E wipes (144) & baby?wipe bricks (2) — double?bagged to keep the scent from advertising our position in the ruins.
Weight ≈?18?lb.
3. Tools & Hardware
Tool / Supply Notes
Estwing 22?oz framing hammerSkull?grade
carpentry.30″ wrecking barPry
Bolt cutters (14″)
Padlocks, fences.3?lb box GRK hardened screws2?″, star?drive.
100?ft 12?ga galvanized wire
.80?ft barbed wire coilAnti?rush deterrent.
50?ft paracord & 2″ staples (1?k bulk)Misc.
Hand?auger + brace bitBore drainage holes in rain barrels.
Bundled inside a roll?up foam mattress, lashed to cart rails.
Plywood 16 8 foot sheets
Weight ≈?122?lb.
4. Light & Water
Sawyer Mini filters (2), AquaTabs (200)
USB solar lanterns (4) + hand?crank radio/flashlight combos (2)
Collapsible five?gallon water jugs (4) flattened and taped under the deck.
Weight ≈?6?lb.
5. Shelter / Comfort
REI TrailPod sleeping bags (4) – compression?stacked like artillery rounds.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Fold?flat foam mattresses (4) – double as barricade padding; two on cart, two already in Cottage stash.
Sea?to?Summit inflatable pillows (4) – stuffed into the hollow of the sleeping?bag tower.
Weight ≈?30?lb.
Cart gross now ≈?240?lbs—well over the garden cart’s rating, but the skateboard bearings and a prayer to Newton should hold for the half?mile push to the Gate’s drop?zone basement.
I cinched the final strap, leaned my full weight on the load, and listened. The cart creaked but held. Sweat prickled under my hoodie despite the cellar’s chill.
Remaining stateside cash: $4,123.40
Gate?toll cushion (10?% of manifested cargo value ~$4,905) $490.50—folded into a Ziploc taped beneath the cart handle.
Digital alarms chimed from my phone:
( 60?minutes — Final Equipment check)
I walked into the bathroom and looked deep into the mirror I stood before the full-length mirror, my reflection staring back at me with an intensity that matched the pounding of my heart. At six feet two inches and two hundred and thirty-five pounds, my body filled the room with an imposing presence that belied the vulnerability I felt inside. I had chosen to wear my well-worn 501 jeans, the faded denim molding to my powerful thighs and narrow waist like a second skin. The low-slung waistband rested comfortably on my hips, accentuating the deep V of my torso and leaving my broad, muscular chest and chiseled abs fully exposed.
As I turned slightly, admiring the way my body moved, I could see the definition of my muscles, the ripples and contours that spoke of the last several weeks of extreme physical exertion, and combat. My back was a landscape of power, the muscles shifting and flexing with every subtle movement, the Mark a faint, shimmering tattoo-like Character sheet nestled between my shoulderblades matched every movement I made. The jeans hugged my firm, round ass, and the powerful thighs that supported me through countless challenges. I ran a hand through my dark, messy hair, pushing it back from my forehead, and met my own gaze in the mirror.
My striking blue eyes held a mix of emotions—vulnerability, strength, and a spark of something wild and untamed. My full lips curved into a soft smile, and the stubble on my jaw added a rugged edge to my appearance. I turned to the side, admiring the way my body tapered from broad shoulders to a narrow waist, the definition of my abs and the deep cuts of my obliques visible even in the soft light of the room.
I took a deep breath, feeling the cool air against my bare skin, and let my hands explore the contours of my torso. My pecs were solid and defined, my nipples a soft pink that hardened in the cool air. I traced the lines of my abs, the deep grooves that ran from my sternum down to the waistband of my jeans, and felt a surge of pride and ownership over my body. Despite my low strength, intelligence, and regenerative abilities, I was a force to be reckoned with, and my reflection showed a man who was ready to face whatever came his way.
The jeans, with their low-slung waistband, accentuated every line and muscle of my legs, making me feel powerful and confident. I could see the way the denim clung to my powerful thighs, the definition of my quads and hamstrings visible with each slight movement. I turned back to the front, meeting my own gaze once more, and nodded in satisfaction. I was Joshua Reeve, and I was a sight to behold. I walked to the Kitche Slinging on a Military suplus O.D. Green T-shirt and proceeded to brew the last of my pre?Gate espresso, while the coffee was perculating I stared through the kitchen window at a normal Saturday. Kids in puffer jackets waddled toward a minivan, arguing about whether “Dino Nuggets” or “Pizza Bagels” were best for lunch. My breath fogged the glass. If they only knew…
Back at the workbench I strapped on fresh gear:
Hema kit: padded gorget, fingered gloves—swapped steel bits for carbon?reinforced plastic.
Cold?forged war?hammer (4?lb head, 30″ haft) now riding across the cart like a tow bar, secured with Velcro ties.
New Raven Armoury K-Bar sheathed on my left hip—thank?you gift from my HEMA instructor, who apparently liked my footwork.
I flicked off the lights to test the solar lanterns—four warm globes blinked to life, painting plywood shadows over the copper door. Its surface remained inert, but I swore I could feel it vibrating—like an elevator descending from a floor just out of sight.
Anna’s supply horizon
*??–?Food*: She would be down to her laste MRE if she rationed them. My peanut?butter / Spam mix plus rice stockpiled on her side would stretch to thirty?plus days.
*??–?Water*: Barrel + filters = solved, assuming no bullet holes.
I mentally tallied all I had done these last two weeks:
Muay Thai: sixteen sessions in ten days, bruises blooming galaxy?purple across ribs and thighs.
HEMA: eight hours of longsword drills, three of pole?axe forms, one glorious hour sparring with waster hammers until my forearms screamed stop.
An instructor’s voice echoed: “your Weapon is an extension of your will; if your shoulder’s slack, the strike’s a question. Lock the core, make it an answer.”
I checked the copper door’s frame: tiny runes glimmered—first visible sign the Gate’s timer was waking. They pulsed in slow cadence, each flash brighter. I wheeled the cart to the departure tape line I’d painted on the floor: FRONT AXLE HERE.
The cart’s rear wheels bumped over old wood seams groaning with every movement I knew the axles would be trashed after this, lashing straps twanging like guitar strings. Something inside shifted—a thunk of canned meat—but the webbing held. I wedged scrap lumber against the wheels as chocks.
Phone alarm: 00?:?47?:?00
I closed the front door locking it even in the middle of uptown New York you still had to be careful of being robbed, I then killed the breakers No use running up the electrictity bill, and sank to one knee. Hands shook—adrenaline or cold? I whispered the checklist one last time:
Food—check.
Medical—check.
Hygiene—check.
Tools—check.
Light & water—check.
Toll cash—double?check.
Cart structural—squeals but stable.
Key—front pocket, lanyard tied to belt.
A rumble shuddered through the copper slab—low, metallic thunder. The runes brightened to molten orange. The air smelled of penny vapor and ozone. I exhaled a breath I felt I’d been holding since the last cycle and stood.
“Anna,” I murmured to the empty basement, “I’m bringing the whole damned aisle this time.”
Hickory haft in one hand, cart handle in the other, I waited for the door to bloom. The Gate would open wide enough for a man and 240 pounds of civilization—and then, once more, Manhattan’s nightmare would greet me. But this time, I wasn’t arriving with panic and a rebar spear, This time I was the supply drop. I paused what if I were to reapper some where other than in the cottage? I bit my lip I would cross that bridge when I came to it, Either I would be the most tempting meal on two legs to both the Roamers and the Empire gang’s patrols or I would pop up in my house Gods I hoped that it was the latter.