Three Weeks Earlier
The gas station was already wrong. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just … wrong. Cars lined up beyond the pumps, idling. No one made eye contact. No one smiled. Everyone looked like they were waiting for someone to swing first.
Charles felt it immediately. They’d talked about this at home — food, water, gas. Just in case. After California, “just in case” meant something different. He pulled to a pump.
“Best behavior,” Melanie warned gently.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
He went inside and paid five dollars. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Outside, a large man in a tank top paced near the pumps, shouting at no one in particular.
“Move it! Some of us got places to be!”
Charles tried to ignore him. Tried.
“Hey!” the man barked. “You gonna hurry up or what?”
The words came before Charles could stop them.
“Why don’t you sit down and wait like everyone else?”
Silence fell.
Melanie closed her eyes briefly.
The man stepped forward.
“You got a problem, boy?”
Charles’ pulse spiked. The pump jammed in his hand. Wouldn’t start. The man stepped closer. Too close. His hand came up.Charles reacted. A throat jab. A hard shove. A twist of the wrist. The man hit the concrete with a brutal crack. The world froze.
Charles stepped back, breathing hard. He’d overreacted.
“Get in the car!” Melanie shouted.
They left without gas.
Walmart was worse. Shelves half-empty. Lines twenty feet long. People moving fast, grabbing whatever they could. Whispers about nukes. About another one coming.
“What did we miss?” Charles muttered.
“I think we’re already late,” Melanie replied.
A couple nearly knocked them over running down an aisle.
“What you gonna do about it?” the man shouted when Charles glared.
Melanie squeezed his arm.
“Best behavior,” she whispered again.
He swallowed it. Barely.
At checkout, tension snapped. A woman screamed at a cashier struggling with a scanner.
“Do your job!”
“I’m trying, ma’am—”
Then fists flew. The cashier lunged across the counter.
Someone shouted, “He’s got a gun!”
Three shots rang out. Two fast. One delayed. Everything stopped.
Charles felt himself split in half — one side wanting to run toward the sound, the other anchored to his wife and son. He chose them.
He chose them.
They rushed outside as people fled without paying. Tires screeched. Two cars collided trying to exit first. Melanie’s grip on his arm never loosened. They drove home in silence. Still no gas.
And something in the air felt broken. John woke to gunfire. Not one shot. A burst.Five in rapid succession — sharp, cracking through the early morning like the sky itself was splitting. Screams followed.
He shot upright in bed. There was just enough grey light leaking through the blinds for him to see the clock. Late. He swung his legs off the bed and ran, nearly eating the floor as he tripped over Amanda’s toys. He didn’t care. He fumbled the two locks on the front door and yanked it open.
He was staring at himself. Same uniform. Same boots. Same jaw clenched tight. The other John didn’t hesitate. He punched him square in the face. John stumbled back two feet, tasted blood, blinked hard — and the other him stepped forward.“COWARD!”
The word shook the house. Behind the mirror-image version of himself, the yard wasn’t a yard anymore. It was a battlefield.Smoke. Bodies. Flashes of gunfire. Men dropping. John roared and drove his shoulder into the other John’s stomach. They fell—Into water. Cold. Deep. Endless.
He surfaced alone. Soldiers’ bodies hit the water around him like thrown stones. They sank immediately, boots first. Eyes open. Silent. John tried to grab one. He couldn’t.
If he went down, he wouldn’t come back up. Gunshots cracked above the surface. Bullets pierced the water, trailing silver bubbles. They moved slower down here. Almost graceful. They were coming toward him.
He looked up. A pale circle of light shimmered above.Moonlight, maybe. Or heaven. His lungs burned. He couldn’t surface. Not while they were shooting. The bullets reached him.One touched his leg. Then another.
Little black punctures bloomed across his skin, climbing thigh, stomach, chest. His lungs gave out. Everything went black.
Five a.m.
John sucked in air as if he’d been underwater for real. His eyes darted across the room. Bedroom. Ceiling fan. Closet door. No gunfire. No water. Just his own breathing. By five-thirty he was dressed for work.
Phone rang. He stepped outside so he wouldn’t wake anyone.
“Sargeant? What’s going on?”
“Nothing good,” his squad leader said. “More bodies pulled from California. We need help. Can you travel?”
John stared down the dark road. Gas tank almost empty. No supply lines. Chaos everywhere. He let the silence stretch.
“John?”
“We could really use you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Not right now. I don’t have the gas. And California is … California.”
A pause. Then frustration cracked through him.
“Why didn’t y’all wait for me? I showed up ready.”
“Is it my problem you weren’t there on time?” she snapped. “Why weren’t you where you were supposed to be?”
Something flared.
“I’m part of your squad. I’m supposed to be in the loop.”
“And I’m supposed to hold your hand?”
The call dropped. John stared at his phone. His chest was tight.It felt like the dream again — like drowning without water.
Phone rang again. His boss.
“Hey, John. Don’t come in.”
He blinked.
“Why?”
“State water shutdown. Liability issues. We’re closed until further notice.”
A beat.
“So … I’m not fired?”
His boss laughed. “Not yet.” The call ended.
John looked at his van. Looked at the house.
“I get the day off?” he muttered.
He actually smiled. For about three seconds.
He tried to go back to sleep. Instead, he dreamed of a nuclear flash. White light swallowed everything. He jolted awake again.
Six a.m. No more sleep.
Breakfast smelled like normal life. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Amanda wandered in rubbing her eyes. Jessica followed, confused.
“Honey … why are you home?”
He grinned too fast.
“I got fired.”
Her eyes widened. He laughed. She smacked his arm.
“Don’t scare me.”
He rubbed it dramatically. “I never hit you.”
She rolled her eyes.
He told her about the call. About California. About the argument. She didn’t like the part about the argument.
“That temper,” she hissed. “Three more years, John. Just hold steady.”
He nodded. They bowed their heads. Amanda mumbled grace.The baby cried halfway through it. It felt normal. Almost sacred.
Later, kneeling in the closet, John prayed longer than usual.
“Thank You for my family. For breath. For this house. Even for struggle. I trust You.” But if he was honest — that last part required effort.
Jessica found him outside.
“We’re almost out of toilet paper. And bottled water.”
He closed his eyes.
“Give me a minute.”
“John. I’m serious.”
He snapped.
“Daggumit, I’m going.”
The hurt on her face hit harder than the punch from his dream.He walked back, softer.
“I’m sorry.” She folded her arms.
“Some apology.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you too, jerk.”
He jogged to the car like a teenager.
She watched him go.
“Be careful.”
He gave a thumbs-up.
The drive felt different. Gas stations were stocked with overpriced water. Lines forming. People arguing. At Walmart, two men were fist-fighting in the parking lot. Inside felt like hurricane prep — but worse. Shelves stripped bare. Carts crashing into each other. No one smiling.
The cashier looked hollow.
“Crazy day,” John tried.
No response.
“How are you holding up?”
She blinked as if surfacing from underwater.
“I’m … fine.”
She wasn’t.
People behind him muttered.
He paid and left. Outside air felt heavy. Relief lasted ten seconds. Two men approached him.
“Give us the water,” the heavier one said.
John sized them up.
“No.”
Calm. Direct. The skinny one looked terrified. The big one shoved him forward. John caught the weak punch and dropped him gently.
“You,” he said to the bigger one.
The man charged sloppily. John blocked, drove a punch into his stomach. The man collapsed. Silence. John looked down at them.
“Buy your own water,” he said quietly.
He got into his car. His hands trembled slightly on the wheel. He hated fighting. He hated how easy it was. Christian music filled the car, but it didn’t quiet the argument inside him.
Conviction.
Condemnation.
They sound similar.
When he got home, Jessica saw the tremor.
“What happened?”
“Two guys tried to jump me.”
Her face drained.
“What if they had a gun?”
“They didn’t.”
“That’s not the point!”
Her voice cracked.
“Baby, groceries aren’t worth your life.”
He softened.
“You didn’t see it in there. It’s empty. People are panicking. If we don’t prepare now—”
She hugged him mid-sentence. He stopped talking.
“I’m worried,” she whispered.
So was he. But for the first time that day, he didn’t say it out loud.