Chapter 2: The Stockpile
Tuesday morning found me in a gun store in Glendale, trying not to look like someone who'd never held a firearm before yesterday.
The owner was a thick-necked man named Carl who wore a Vietnam veteran cap and had opinions about everything. He set a Beretta 92 on the counter between us, barrel pointed away, safety on.
"You military?"
"Medical resident," I said. "Just want something reliable for home defense."
"Lot of doctors coming in lately." Carl's eyes narrowed. "You all hearing something we're not?"
My stomach tightened. "Just the usual crime statistics. LA's not getting safer."
He grunted, apparently satisfied. "Fair enough. This'll do you right. Nine mil, fifteen-round capacity. Simple, effective, doesn't jam if you maintain it."
I bought it. Paid cash, filled out the paperwork with Jax's information, and walked out twenty minutes later with my second gun in three days. The Glock sat in my apartment safe. The Beretta would go to the storage unit.
The storage facility was near the coast, a squat concrete building surrounded by chain-link fence. I'd rented unit 237 yesterday, paying three months upfront without questions. The teenager working the desk had barely looked up from his phone.
Inside the unit, I laid out my growing arsenal on the concrete floor. Two handguns. Ammunition. A medical kit I'd assembled from non-suspicious purchases at three different pharmacies. Water purification tablets. Emergency rations. A battery-powered radio.
It looked pathetic. Insufficient. But it was a start.
[ TIMER: 67:43:18 ]
The numbers haunted me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them. Every time I tried to sleep, my brain calculated hours and minutes until I'd lose control.
Three days. I'd managed three days without infecting anyone, and the pressure was building. A constant itch under my skin. A whisper in the back of my mind saying hungry, need to spread, find a host.
I left the storage unit and drove to the firing range.
The place smelled like cordite and gun oil. A dozen shooters occupied the lanes, ear protection on, putting rounds downrange. I paid for an hour and two boxes of ammunition, then picked a lane at the far end.
The range officer showed me the basics—stance, grip, sight alignment. I nodded along, pretending I knew more than I did. When he left, I loaded the magazine with shaking hands.
The first shot almost broke my wrist.
The recoil kicked harder than I expected. The Beretta jumped in my grip, and the round went wide right, punching a hole in the target's shoulder instead of center mass. My ears rang despite the protection. My heart hammered.
"Christ."
I adjusted my stance, tightened my grip, tried again.
The second shot was better. Still high, but closer to the chest. Third shot hit the stomach. Fourth shot finally hit where I was aiming—a decent grouping in the upper torso.
By the time I'd emptied both boxes, my arms ached and my shoulder throbbed. The groupings were decent for a beginner. Not great. Definitely not combat-ready. But I wouldn't accidentally shoot myself in the foot.
Progress.
I left the range and drove back to the hospital for my evening shift, fighting the urge to scratch at my arms. The virus wanted out. It needed to spread. The timer kept ticking, and every hour that passed made the hunger worse.
At the hospital, I stole carefully.
Not enough to be obvious. Just a few extra items from each supply closet. Antibiotics slipped into my pockets. Suture kits tucked into my bag. Scalpels and bandages and gauze pads. I rotated which closets I hit, never taking too much from any single location.
By Thursday, my supervisor was asking questions.
"Mercer, you notice anything strange with the inventory?"
I looked up from the chart I was reviewing, keeping my expression neutral. "Strange how?"
"Discrepancies. Small amounts missing from multiple supplies." Her eyes were sharp behind her glasses. "You've been working nights. Seen anyone acting suspicious?"
"No." I met her gaze steadily. "Want me to keep an eye out?"
"Do that."
She didn't believe me. I could see the suspicion in the way she watched me for the rest of my shift. But she didn't have proof, and I was careful not to give her any.
That night, I drove past the Clark house for the first time.
The address had been in Jax's phone—some vague acquaintance from before, a girl named Alicia he'd met at a party once. Madison Clark, high school guidance counselor. Travis Manawa, English teacher. Nick Clark, junkie.
I knew them better than they knew themselves. I'd watched their lives play out across eight seasons of television, seen their mistakes and triumphs and deaths. And now I was sitting in my car across the street, engine off, watching lights flicker in the upstairs windows.
A figure moved past the window. Female, slim, dark hair. Alicia. She was pacing, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing with her free hand. Even from here, I could read the body language—frustration, worry.
Probably talking about Nick, I thought. He's probably high right now. She's probably scared he'll overdose.
She had no idea what was coming. None of them did.
I watched for twenty minutes, then drove away. Too early to make contact. Too dangerous to reveal what I knew. But I needed eyes on them, needed to know when Gloria's attack happened so I could be ready.
Friday night, I went back to the firing range. This time I brought the Glock.
The shotgun came Saturday afternoon from a pawn shop in Inglewood. Remington 870, pump-action, classic home defense weapon. The owner was less chatty than Carl, which suited me fine. I paid cash, signed the papers, and left.
That evening, I went back to the range to test it.
Mistake.
The recoil was brutal. The stock kicked back into my shoulder with enough force to make my teeth rattle. I fired three rounds and had to stop, shoulder already bruising purple.
"First time with a shotgun?"
I turned to find the range officer watching me, expression somewhere between amused and concerned.
"That obvious?"
"Tuck it tighter to your shoulder. Lean into the shot. You're absorbing all the recoil with your body instead of your stance."
He demonstrated. I tried again, adjusting my position. The next shot still kicked like a mule, but at least it didn't feel like my shoulder was dislocating.
I left the range limping and spent the next two days icing the bruise.
[ TIMER: 59:22:47 ]
Sunday morning, I drove past the Clark house again. This time I saw Nick.
He stumbled out the front door around ten AM, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. Madison followed him onto the porch, still in her bathrobe, and they argued. I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to. Nick was high. Madison was at her wit's end. The conversation ended with Nick walking away, Madison standing there looking defeated.
Alicia appeared in the doorway. She said something to her mother. Madison shook her head, went back inside. Alicia stayed on the porch, watching Nick disappear down the street.
Then she looked at my car.
I froze. Tinted windows, half a block away—she couldn't see me clearly. But she stared for a long moment before turning and going back inside.
Too close. Don't come back here during the day.
I started the engine and drove away, pulse racing.
That night at the hospital, I saw the first news report.
It was buried in the late-night broadcast, sandwiched between a traffic update and a weather forecast. "Disturbing incident at a church in East LA. Police responding to reports of a violent assault. One hospitalized, condition unknown."
The anchor moved on to the next story without elaborating. But I knew.
Gloria. The church. Nick would be there—maybe already there. And soon he'd be running through those corridors, high and terrified, watching his dealer get torn apart by a dead woman who wouldn't stay down.
[ TIMER: 55:16:33 ]
I pulled out my phone and checked the date. Sunday, August 21st, just past midnight.
Thirteen days had passed. The apocalypse was here.
I went to the supply closet and stole more antibiotics. More painkillers. More surgical tools. My supervisor was already suspicious—one more infraction wouldn't matter once the world fell apart.
Then I went to the parking lot and opened my trunk. The shotgun was there, hidden under a blanket. The Glock in my glovebox. The Beretta in my storage unit.
I was as ready as I could be.
The city lights spread out before me, millions of people sleeping peacefully. None of them knew. The news would call it a violent assault, maybe a drug-related attack. They'd rationalize it, explain it away, ignore the truth until it was too late.
But I knew.
I got in my car and drove to the church.
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