Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Normal World

Jake slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed through the small house. His father looked up from the kitchen table.

"Rough day?"

Jake dropped his backpack on the floor. He walked past without a word.

Michael watched his son disappear down the hallway. He returned to his work. A map of the county lay spread across the table.

Red circles marked water sources. Blue lines traced escape routes. Green squares showed hiding spots.

Jake emerged from his room an hour later. He wore a fresh shirt. His hair was wet from the shower. He grabbed a soda from the fridge.

"Dad. What's this?"

Michael did not look up. "Supply routes."

Jake laughed; a sharp, bitter sound. "Supply routes. For what?"

"The future." His father responded.

Jake rolled his eyes. He sat across from his father. The map was covered in more markings than he remembered. More circles, lines and squares.

"You do this every night," Jake said.

"Preparation takes time."

"Preparation for what? The world is not ending, Dad."

Michael finally looked at his son. His eyes were tired and face weathered. He did not argue nor explain. He folded the map and placed it in a drawer.

"That is what everyone thinks," he said. "Until it does."

The next morning, Jake walked to school. Main Street was quiet. A few cars passed.

Mr. Henderson waved from his porch. Mrs. Patterson watered her flowers, everything looked fine.

Jake wished it felt fine.

Three years ago, his father started this obsession. It began with a few extra cans of beans. Then came the water barrels, the generator and the guns.

Now the basement looked like a survivalist's dream. Shelves lined every wall. Boxes reached the ceiling. Jake could not remember the last time he saw the floor.

His friends found it funny. They called his father "Rambo." They asked Jake if he had a bunker. They laughed.

Jake laughed too.

At school, he kept his head down. He answered questions, ate lunch alone, watched the clock and waited for the final bell.

Kelsey approached him after the last period.

"Hey. Party at Ryan's tonight. You coming?"

Jake shrugged, "Maybe."

"Your dad's going to let you out of the basement?"

Jake forced a smile, "Very funny."

Kelsey laughed. She walked away. Jake watched her go. He wanted to be normal, to fit in and wanted a father who did not spend every waking hour preparing for doomsday.

He walked home the long way. Past the gas station, the grocery store and the church, everything looked ordinary.

The gas station was closed.

Jake stopped. He checked his watch, it's four in the afternoon. The station should be open.

A handwritten sign hung on the door. "Out of fuel. Sorry."

Jake frowned and continued walking. The grocery store had a line outside. People pushed and shoved. A woman argued with a cashier while a man carried six bags of rice.

Jake walked faster.

At home, his mother was cooking. Sarah stirred a pot of soup. She looked exhausted.

"Mom. What is going on?"

She did not turn around. "What do you mean?"

"The gas station. The grocery store. People are acting strange."

Sarah paused, set down the spoon and faced her son.

"There is some trouble with the banks. Nothing to worry about."

Jake wanted to believe her. Her voice was calm and smile was warm, everything seemed fine.

His father entered the kitchen. Michael carried a box and set it on the counter.

"What is that?" Jake asked.

"Medical supplies."

Sarah sighed, "Michael. Not now."

"Now is all we have."

Jake looked between them. The tension was thick. His mother turned back to the stove. His father opened the box. There're bandages, antiseptic, painkillers, needles and thread.

"Why do we need all that?" Jake asked.

Michael did not answer. He organized the supplies, he checked every item and wrote notes in a small notebook.

Jake grabbed his father's arm. "Dad. Talk to me."

Michael stopped. He looked at his son. For a moment, his face softened.

"I hope we never need it," he said. "I hope I am wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

Michael did not answer. He closed the box and carried it downstairs.

That night, Jake lay in bed. He stared at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. His mind raced. The gas station, grocery store, the medical supplies. Something was wrong.

He heard his parents talking downstairs. Their voices were low. Urgent.

He crept to the top of the stairs and listened.

"We should leave now," his father said.

"We cannot leave," his mother replied. "This is our home."

"Home will not matter when the trucks stop coming."

"The trucks will come, they always come."

Michael's voice hardened. "Not this time."

Jake heard a chair scrape. Footsteps approached the stairs. He hurried back to his room, slid under the covers and closed his eyes.

His door opened. Michael stood in the doorway and watched his son for a long moment.

"I know you are awake."

Jake opened his eyes. "What is happening?"

Michael sat on the edge of the bed. He looked older than Jake remembered.

"Do you remember what I told you last year? About the banks?"

"You said they were fragile."

"They are. Multiple countries are in debt. Supply chains are breaking. Food production is down. Fuel prices are up."

"So?"

"So these things connect. One breaks, then another."

Jake sat up. "You think it is happening."

Michael nodded. "I know it is."

Jake wanted to argue. He wanted to say his father was paranoid. He wanted to say the world was not ending. The words died in his throat.

"Get some sleep," Michael said. He stood. He walked to the door.

"Dad."

Michael turned, "What do we do?"

Michael smiled; a sad, tired smi

le. "We prepare, survive, hope."

He closed the door.

Jake lay back down. He stared at the ceiling. His heart pounded and mind raced.

Then the lights went out.