Dean did not bother going back to sleep, not after the "nightmares" he had suffered through, and certainly not after the second chance he had been given.
Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and began working on his phone.
While waiting for the sweet nectar of caffeine to finish collecting, his gaze drifted to the wall, and to a framed photograph resting there.
It had been taken shortly before his parents passed, just over a year ago.
Dean stood between them in the picture, dressed in his uniform. A pewter-gray beret sat atop his head, its silver badge etched with the words Special Reconnaissance.
His arms were wrapped around his elderly father and mother, his left bicep marked with a ranger tab above the Union of Columbia Air National Guard insignia.
His thumb brushed the smooth mahogany frame.
Their deaths had been sudden. An accident. And only now, standing there with a future that no longer existed, could he find a silver lining in it.
They had left him the house, its mortgage fully paid. But he would have given anything to hear their voices again; to endure their nagging about his choice of career.
Dean was a civil engineer by trade, but he specialized in contracting work and infrastructure consulting for public sector clients.
The pay was good, but was at risk of irregularity. His parents had always asked him to stop taking contract work and settle into something 'safer.'
But now he was grateful they had been spared what was coming. That their final years had been peaceful, not spent watching the world freeze and tear itself apart.
The house…
The idea struck him as he returned the frame to its place. Pouring milk into his coffee, he took a sip and checked his account balance.
He lived modestly. No rent, no mortgage, his finances were stable, and most of his disposable income was tied up in savings, stocks, a 401k, a Roth IRA. The careful planning of someone building a future meant to last decades.
But that future was already dead. To survive what was coming, he would need to burn it all.
Even setting his life on fire for immediate liquidity wouldn't be enough. He needed more, far more money than anyone could reasonably secure in a single month.
Dean didn't just apply for loans; he went full financial shock-and-awe.
Credit cards. Personal loans. Home-equity lines. Everything, all at once, like a man who knew the world was ending.
Because it was.
People would call it reckless. But recklessness was only foolish if you planned to live long enough to pay it back.
The slow money was already moving. It would arrive when it arrived.
But Dean didn't have the luxury of waiting. Waiting was for people who believed in tomorrow.
The room was thick with smoke and the cloying stench of cologne.
Across from Dean sat a burly man with an olive complexion and dark hair; his posture relaxed, hands folded as a crooked grin tugged at his face.
Two men of similar build flanked him, their eyes fixed on Dean with practiced intimidation.
"Remember, boy," the man said, voice low. "This time next month, you'll owe us all of this, plus interest. Don't forget it. Or the consequences will be unbearable."
Dean didn't react.
His eyes remained fixed on the briefcase of cash sitting between them.
This was the fourth loan shark he had visited that day. He'd given each of them the same story, the same collateral, the same promise. And they had all responded with the same posturing.
Of course, he never intended to honor any of it.
When the ice thickened, and the snow consumed the world, law and order would vanish. The criminals, the cops, everyone would face the cold the same way.
Still, he nodded calmly.
"Of course," Dean said. "I'm a man who honors his debts. I'll see you in a month."
He closed the briefcase, stood up , and walked out.
After the door shut, one of the men glanced at his boss.
"Did that guy seem a little too calm to you?"
The loan shark scoffed, lighting a fresh cigar.
"He was just acting tough. Military types like to save face," he said dismissively. "Even if he only served in the Guard."
The men laughed, already imagining the profit they'd wring from him.
Dean was mentally tallying the money as he loaded the last briefcase into the truck bed.
The vehicle wouldn't be useful much longer. When the time came, he'd sell it. Whatever it fetched could be turned into something more practical.
As he reached to close the bed, a voice called out behind him.
One that made him freeze.
"Dean? There you are! I've been trying to reach you all day! Why aren't you responding to my texts? And what's wrong with your phone? Every time I call, it says your line's disconnected! We had plans today, so what the hell are you doing all the way out here?"
Dean drew a slow breath before turning.
Avery stood in the snow, dressed far too well for the setting. A fine dress that only drew attention to her dark green hair and amber eyes. Eyes that measured, weighed, and calculated what could be taken.
Memory slammed into him. The knife, her betrayal, and the cold.
His hands clenched while his breathing tightened. Then he forced himself to exhale. Allowing his fingers to loosen.
Without another word, Dean turned away, climbed into the driver's seat, and rolled down the window.
He looked back once.
"Lose my number," he said. "We're through."
The engine started, the truck pulled away, and Avery was left standing in the snow.
Dean didn't drive home; there was no reason to, not yet.
Instead, he turned toward the nearest reservation casino. They asked fewer questions than banks. And with a large sum of cash in his hands that was exactly what he needed at the moment.
Inside, Dean exchanged most of the cash for chips and moved straight to the floor. The noise, the lights, the excitement, none of it mattered.
His focus was on the overlay only he could see. As the wheel spun, glowing numbers appeared where chance should have been.
---
[Roulette — 32 Red]
[Certainty: 100]
--
Dean hesitated only long enough to confirm what he already suspected.
He placed a modest bet, and the ball fell exactly where the ledger said it would.
There was no rush of adrenaline, no disbelief, just confirmation.
After that, he stopped testing and bet only when certainty appeared. When it didn't, he simply chose to walk away.
Hours passed, and chips piled up; receipts accumulated. By the time casino security politely asked him to leave, Dean had already finished what he came to do.
The money was clean now, for the most part. It was documented and transferable, which was necessary for the majority of his preparations. And those that it wasn't he still kept 10% of the loan shark's cash in reserve.
When he finally returned home, the numbers in his accounts told him everything he needed to know.
The resource problem was solved.
---
Dean returned home with enough money in his account to begin his preparations. No doubt it would take several days of his time just to set up the services and confirm before the preparations could begin.
But cash made things move quicker than normal. And he had plenty of it for the time being. He wasted no time, and immediately got onto his computer, searching for the exact service he needed.
Survival always came down to food, water, and shelter—but extreme cold collapsed those priorities into a single question: what could still function when everything else failed?
If his experience in the military had taught him anything, extreme cold weather conditions gave him extremely limited options in all three of these things.
Luckily, there were experts, consultants, and contractors who specialized in the kind of work he needed.
Most people didn't realize this, but many of the companies that specialized in providing hardened and fortified structures for government agencies and non-state actors also sold their services to the paranoid citizen. That is so long as the check cleared…
After spending time getting in touch with the right people, and negotiating what he needed. Dean had made sure to set up an appointment for the very next day, to survey his property, and the surrounding landscape, and to assess the price for the amount of work that would need to be done.
Normally, such a large construction project requires months, if not years worth of time to complete.
But a large part of this was ensuring that the proper bureaucratic procedures were followed and that paperwork was approved.
Refusal to do so would normally incur stiff penalties, including potential seizure or condemning of said property.
But that relied on the assumed that the enforcement mechanisms would survive long enough to come knocking.
In Dean's case, he was able to reach an agreement with the contractor; he would assume full responsibility for any paperwork or permits that needed filing and approval. While they would work overtime and overstaffed to ensure that whatever project he needed completed was done on time.
And by the time Dean had concluded the negotiations, it was already late in the evening. He took one look at his phone and saw the messages piling up from an unknown number.
But the text made it clear as day who was behind the chain of spam messages.
"Dean, this isn't funny! What the hell is wrong with you! You can't seriously be breaking up with me?"
Dean didn't bother reading any of the further text; he simply blocked the new number and moved on with his life. Getting to bed and resting because his work preparing for the apocalypse had only just begun.
---
Dean awoke the next morning to a knock on his door. He groaned and gazed at his alarm clock, realizing that he had slept in longer than intended.
After quickly fetching something suitable to wear, he climbed down the stairs of his two-story suburban house and opened the door. There he found a man dressed in an unusually expensive and stylish suit.
The man was wearing a pair of blacked-out aviator sunglasses and had an earpiece in his ear. For a moment, Dean wondered if the numbers he'd moved had finally tripped a silent alarm.
"Are you Dean Winters?"
Dean nodded silently, as the man clearly scanned the perimeter of the property ,and the interior of the doorway before speaking again.
"I'm with Bastion Construction and Consulting. I've been ordered to survey the area and give you a reasonable estimate on the cost and timeframe it would take to renovate this property into the type of facility you expressed over the phone."
Dean nodded and allowed the man into his home. There was no doubt about the way he stood, the way he moved, and the way the lines of his forehead creased. The man was both analyzing the situation and assessing it.
Not just for his job, but from a professional standpoint as well. Dean began to brew himself a pot of coffee as he spoke up.
"What outfit were you with?"
The man didn't exchange glances once with Dean as he walked about the room, but he entertained him.
"Union of Columbia Navy, Seabees, retired. Relax, most of the work will be done by former Army engineers and Air Force civil engineers. I just run the company and assess the property."
Dean nodded quietly as he stirred his coffee after mixing it with milk, all while the man continued to look around.
Eventually, he surveyed the entire property and returned shortly after Dean finished making breakfast.
"I'm going to cut to the chase: I had a bit of time to educate myself on the regional layout that you're living in while I was on my flight. And with my initial inspection I have a general idea on how we should proceed."
Dean was just about to ask for a figure when the man cut him off sharply.
"Allow me to make my position clear: Bastion is currently up to its eyeballs in government contracts at the moment. I can't talk about why, or what we're doing, so don't ask."
Dean raised his brow upon hearing this. He had suspicions, especially during the final days of his life prior to regression, that there were people who were aware of the climate shift before it occurred and that the general public had been left in the dark.
But until now he had no evidence to support this theory. At least nothing more than his time in the service and his familiarity with government procedure regarding classified material.
Still, he didn't let his suspicions slip, as he was quick to latch onto the last part of what the contractor had said.
"Judging by what you just said, I'm willing you're about to make an exception for me aren't you?"
The man smirked and took off his glasses, revealing his cold, dark eyes.
"What can I say? I owe you one…. If it weren't for you, I'd probably be buried six feet under Khorasan soil."
Dean didn't immediately recognize the man. But it didn't take him long to realize who he was looking at.
They weren't friends by any means, or even really all that acquainted. But during the early years of his National Guard career, before graduating from college and becoming a Special Reconnaissance officer, he was a SERE specialist and trainer.
Where he spent his weekends instructing Union of Columbia service members on the skills they needed to survive, evade, resist, and escape.
The man in front of him had graduated from one of the courses where he acted as an instructor . And Dean couldn't help but smile at the thought of how one simple act of professionalism had earned him such critical support in his most dire hour of need.
By that afternoon, the full team would have arrived. The property would be surveyed, the redesign finalized; and once the funds cleared, ground would be broken without delay.