Day 4 Post-Announcement. Forty-three days until impact.
Marcus woke at 5:30 AM after managing only two hours of fitful sleep. His dreams had been filled with darkness and cold, with the sound of his sister's children crying for food he didn't have.
The excavator's engine rumbled to life at exactly 6:00 AM. The pit was now thirty-five feet deep. Another ten feet to go.
Marcus's phone buzzed with a notification. An email from one of the retailers confirming that half his orders had been cancelled due to "unprecedented demand." He'd expected this. Online shopping was becoming unreliable. He needed to go physical - actual stores, while they still had inventory.
But first, he needed to address something he'd been deliberately avoiding: security.
Marcus had never been a gun person. His parents had been academics, and they'd raised him in an environment where problems were solved with intellect, not violence.
But the world was changing. He'd seen the news - looting, riots, deaths over bottled water. And that was just four days after the announcement. What would it be like in two weeks? Four weeks?
The shelter would have supplies worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Once word got out, people would come. Desperate people. Dangerous people.
He needed to be able to defend what he'd built.
Marcus opened a new browser tab and began researching firearms. He found what he was looking for buried in gun enthusiast forums: private sales between individuals didn't require background checks or waiting periods in his state. Cash transactions, immediate transfer.
More importantly, there was a massive private gun show happening that very day at a county fairground forty minutes away. "Final Show Before The End" one post called it.
Marcus grabbed his keys, then paused. His car - he'd sold it. He ran outside to Jake.
"Jake, I need to borrow a vehicle. Supply run."
Jake tossed him keys. "Take my truck. The blue F-250. Be careful out there."
The drive took fifty minutes. Traffic was heavy, and Marcus passed three accidents. People were driving erratically, dangerously.
The fairground parking lot was packed. Hundreds of vehicles, maybe thousands. Marcus parked half a mile away and walked, joining a steady stream of people.
The crowd was diverse - middle-aged men in camouflage, suburban families, elderly couples, professionals who'd probably never touched a gun before.
Everyone was scared. Everyone was preparing.
Marcus paid the twenty-dollar entrance fee and walked into organized chaos.
The fairground's exhibition hall had been transformed into a sprawling marketplace of violence. Tables and booths stretched in every direction, each displaying firearms, ammunition, body armor, tactical gear, knives.
The noise was overwhelming. Hundreds of conversations, dealers calling out, the metallic click of actions being tested.
Marcus stood frozen, overwhelmed.
"First time?" a voice said beside him.
Marcus turned to find a woman in her fifties, gray hair in a ponytail, wearing a fleece jacket. She had the weathered look of someone who spent time outdoors.
"That obvious?" Marcus replied.
She smiled without humor. "You've got that deer-in-headlights look. I'm Margaret. I've been into firearms for thirty years. Want some advice?"
"Desperately."
Margaret gestured for him to follow. "First rule: don't panic buy. What's your situation?"
Marcus explained - six people, underground shelter, concerned about defending against raiders.
Margaret listened carefully. "Okay. Here's what you need, in order of priority. First: a reliable defensive rifle. AR-15 platform - parts are standardized, ammunition is common, effective for defense."
"I've never fired one."
"You'll learn. Second: a reliable pistol for each adult. Something in 9mm. Third: a shotgun for close-quarters. Fourth: ammunition. Lots of it. You want at least five thousand rounds for the rifle, two thousand for each pistol, five hundred shells for the shotgun."
Marcus did quick math. "That's expensive."
"Money won't mean shit in forty-two days,"
Margaret said bluntly. "What's your budget?"
"Fifty thousand, if I have to."
Her eyebrows went up. "That'll work. Come on."
Over the next three hours, Margaret guided Marcus through the gun show, negotiating on his behalf.
They started at a booth run by a retired Army sergeant named Williams. He was in his sixties, with a gray crew cut and calm demeanor.
"Margaret," Williams greeted her, then turned to Marcus. "What do you need, son?"
"He's building a shelter. Needs defensive armament for four adults," Margaret explained.
Williams nodded. He pulled out four AR-15 rifles. "Factory new, never fired. Normally two thousand each, but given circumstances... fifteen hundred each. Six thousand total."
Marcus examined the rifles. They were matte black, functional-looking. "Are they reliable?"
"Completely. I've used this platform for twenty years."
"I'll take all four."
Williams pulled out four handguns. "Glock 19. Nine millimeter. Fifteen-round capacity. Simple, reliable. Eight hundred each, thirty-two hundred for the set."
"Done."
A Mossberg 590A1 tactical shotgun came next. "Military spec. Eight-round capacity. Twelve gauge. Close quarters. Eighteen hundred."
Marcus was already at twelve thousand dollars.
They negotiated ammunition:
-8,000 rounds of 5.56mm for rifles ($4,800)
-4,000 rounds of 9mm for pistols ($2,200)
-1,000 shells of 12-gauge ($800)
-Spare magazines ($1,200)
-Cleaning kits and maintenance ($400)
Total at Williams's booth: $21,400.
"You know how to use any of this?" Williams asked.
"No."
Williams and Margaret exchanged looks.
"Make time," Williams said firmly. "A gun you don't know how to use is dangerous to everyone. Margaret, can you—"
"I'll take him to the back field. Give him a crash course."
But first, more shopping.
Margaret led him to body armor. The dealer was young, covered in tactical gear.
"Body armor," Margaret said. "If you have firearms, assume others will too."
They selected four complete sets - plate carriers with Level IV ceramic plates that could stop armor-piercing rifle rounds, plus soft armor panels. Each set cost thirty-five hundred dollars.
Total: $14,000.
They moved to tactical gear - load-bearing vests, magazine pouches, flashlights, combat knives, first aid kits for treating gunshot wounds.
Marcus bought:
-Four tactical vests with pouches ($1,600)
-Combat knives for each adult ($800)
-Weapon-mounted flashlights ($600)
-Trauma first aid kits ($1,200)
-Weapons cleaning station and gun safe ($2,800)
Running total: $42,000.
"Night vision?" Margaret suggested.
Marcus stopped. He hadn't considered night vision. "Do I need it?"
"If you're defending in the dark? Absolutely. It's a force multiplier."
The night vision was expensive. Generation 3 goggles started at five thousand dollars. But in the darkness after impact, being able to see when others couldn't could mean life or death.
Marcus purchased:
-Two pairs of PVS-14 night vision monoculars ($11,000)
-Infrared flashlights for use with night vision ($600)
-Spare batteries and cases ($400)
New total: $54,000.
"Last thing," Margaret said. "You have kids in the shelter. You need less-lethal options."
They bought:
Two Taser X26P units ($2,400)
Pepper spray canisters ($300)
A stun baton ($250)
Final total: $56,950.
Marcus stood looking at the pile representing nearly sixty thousand dollars and enough destructive potential to equip a small militia. His hands were shaking.
"This is insane," he muttered.
"This is survival," Margaret corrected. "Now come on. You need to learn how to use this stuff."
The gun show had a makeshift firing range in a field behind the buildings - earthen berms, target stands, basic safety barriers. Margaret led Marcus there, carrying one of the AR-15s and ammunition.
For the next two hours, Margaret gave Marcus an intense crash course in firearms. She started with basic safety - treat every weapon as if it's loaded, never point at anything you're not willing to destroy, finger off trigger until ready to fire, be aware of what's beyond your target.
Then practical instruction. How to load and unload each weapon. How to properly grip and stance. How to acquire targets through sights. How to control breathing and trigger pull.
Marcus fired his first shots with the AR-15, the rifle bucking against his shoulder, the sharp crack making his ears ring despite hearing protection. His first shots were wild, missing entirely. But Margaret patiently corrected his stance, his grip, his breathing, until he was hitting consistently.
They moved through each weapon - the Glock 19, the Mossberg shotgun. Each had its own characteristics, its own techniques.
"You're not going to become an expert in one afternoon," Margaret said as they packed up. "But at least now you won't accidentally shoot yourself."
"How do I get better?"
"Practice. Lots of practice. Once your shelter is built, set up a range inside if you can. Dry fire drills help too."
Marcus checked his phone. 2:30 PM. He'd been gone over seven hours. "I need to get back."
"I know. But Marcus?" Margaret handed him a business card. "That's my number. I'm building a shelter too, about sixty miles from here. If you need advice, or if you survive and I survive, maybe we can help each other after."
Marcus took the card, genuinely touched. "Thank you. For everything."
"We're all human. We're all facing the same extinction. If we don't help each other now, what's the point?"
She helped him load everything into Jake's truck. The weapons cases, ammunition cans, body armor filled the entire truck bed and part of the back seat.
The drive back was worse. Traffic was heavier. Marcus saw a fight at a gas station, people screaming at each other. A convenience store had boarded windows and a "CLOSED - NO SUPPLIES" sign.
It had been only four days. Only four days, and civilization was fraying.
He made it back at 4:15 PM. The excavation had progressed - the pit was at full forty-five feet deep, and Jake's crew was installing structural supports for concrete forms.
Jake saw the truck and jogged over, then stopped when he saw the load.
"Jesus Christ, Marcus. Did you buy out a gun store?"
"Something like that. Help me get this inside?"
It took four trips to carry everything. Marcus stacked it in his garage, next to the food pallets delivered that morning.
"You planning on starting a war?" Jake asked.
"Planning on defending what we're building," Marcus replied. "Once word gets out we have supplies, people will come. Desperate people. We need to protect ourselves."
Jake was quiet, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I get it. Seeing it all laid out makes it real. We're really preparing for complete breakdown."
"We are."
"My crew is asking questions. About bringing their families here. Whether there's room."
Marcus had been dreading this. "Jake—"
"I know. I told them no. I explained the capacity limits. But Marcus, these guys have families. Kids. They're working their asses off building a shelter they know they'll never use."
"I'm paying them well—"
"Money doesn't matter anymore," Jake interrupted. "You know that. They're working because it's better than waiting to die. But it's hard, watching them build something that might save you while their own families..."
He trailed off.
Marcus felt guilt settling on his shoulders. "I can't save everyone, Jake. If I try to fit more people, we'll all die. The calculations are clear - six people maximum."
"I know. I'm not asking you to change anything. I'm just saying it's hard."
They stood in silence, surrounded by instruments of survival and violence.
"How's construction?" Marcus finally asked.
Jake seemed grateful for the change of subject. "We'll have full excavation done tonight. Tomorrow morning, concrete trucks arrive. We start pouring the foundation. That's critical - concrete needs at least a week to cure, even with accelerators."
"A week?"
"No way around it. Concrete chemistry doesn't care about deadlines. But we can work on other things while it cures. The entrance tunnel, ventilation shaft, prefabricating interior walls."
Marcus nodded, calculating timelines.
As Jake walked back, Marcus's phone rang. Lisa.
"Marcus, we're about four hours away. Driving straight through. David's exhausted, kids are cranky, but we're almost there."
"That's good. How bad are the roads?"
"Bad. We saw..." She paused, strain in her voice. "We saw things, Marcus. Accidents everywhere. A truck overturned, people looting it. A gas station where someone had been shot. David wanted to stop and help, but I told him we had to keep going."
"You did the right thing."
"Did I? Someone might have died because we didn't stop."
"Lisa, you have to think about Emma and Jack now. About keeping them safe. You can't save everyone."
He heard her take a shaky breath. "That's what David said. It just feels wrong."
"I know. But we'll talk when you get here. Drive safe."
After ending the call, Marcus sat in his garage, surrounded by weapons and supplies, and allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Building a shelter for six while the world burned? Buying guns to defend resources while others starved?
Or was he just being practical? Realistic about the harsh mathematics of survival?
He didn't have an answer.
But in forty-two days, it wouldn't matter. All that would matter was whether he was alive or dead.
Marcus stood, his decision made. Right or wrong, he was committed. He'd spent nearly four hundred thousand dollars. He'd hired a crew. He'd bought enough weapons to equip a militia. He'd told his family to abandon their lives.
There was no backing out.
He spent the rest of the evening organizing weapons and equipment, storing everything carefully, creating inventory lists. The AR-15s went into the gun safe. Ammunition was stacked in moisture-proof containers. Body armor was hung on stands. Tactical gear was organized by type.
By the time Lisa's SUV pulled into the driveway at 8:47 PM, Marcus had transformed his garage into a small armory.
Emma and Jack tumbled out first, excited despite exhaustion. They ran to Marcus, and he caught them in a hug, feeling the weight of responsibility. These children were depending on him to keep them alive through the next twenty years.
Lisa climbed out, looking exhausted but relieved. David followed, stretching after hours of driving.
"We made it," Lisa said, hugging Marcus tightly. "I honestly didn't think we would. The roads are insane."
"Come inside. I'll show you what we're building."
As the family gathered in the backyard, looking down into the massive pit, Emma asked the question they'd all been thinking.
"Uncle Marcus, are we really going to live underground for years and years?"
Marcus knelt to her level, looking into her young, trusting eyes. "Yes, sweetheart. For a while. But we'll be safe. And we'll be together."
"Will we ever see the sun again?"
He thought about lying, about false reassurance. But she deserved truth.
"I don't know. But I promise I'll do everything I can to make sure we survive long enough to find out."
Emma nodded solemnly, processing with the strange acceptance children sometimes have. Jack was already more interested in the excavator than existential implications.
That night, the six of them ate dinner together in Marcus's cramped kitchen - instant ramen, because the situation was too absurd for anything fancy. They talked about the shelter, supplies, plans. They didn't talk about what was coming. They didn't talk about the billions who would die.
Some things were too big to speak aloud.
At midnight, Marcus did his final check. The excavation was complete - forty-five feet deep, forty feet wide, sixty feet long. Tomorrow, concrete would arrive. Tomorrow, they'd begin building the structure that would be their tomb or their salvation.
Forty-two days until impact.
The clock kept ticking.