Two and a half months.
That was all the time left.
Or maybe less.
The thought made my chest tighten.
I reviewed every checklist on my tablet, food reserves, water systems, medical supplies, fuel storage, communication devices.
Backup generators had already been installed in the underground safehouse.
Reinforced steel doors were being delivered ahead of schedule.
Everything was moving faster than before.
Too fast.
Even the project approvals were smoother compared to my previous life. Permits that once took weeks were signed within days.
Because I pushed harder.
Because I knew what was coming.
And maybe…
Because my father sensed it too.
Sometimes I caught him staring at me during meetings, like he wanted to ask something but chose not to.
If zombies were terrifying…
Humans were worse.
I learned that the hard way.
When food disappeared, morality disappeared with it.
So I added another skill to my training.
Kali.
Filipino martial arts—blade-focused, fast, practical. It trained the body to move with knives, sticks, even improvised weapons.
Speed. Precision. Efficiency.
I practiced disarming techniques, rotating between wooden sticks and steel blades. My wrists grew stronger. My reflexes sharper.
Instructors praised my discipline.
They didn't know I was training for the collapse of civilization.
I also practiced with a tactical baton and short sword techniques—close combat, silent and lethal.
Because bullets run out.
But steel remains.
The news made my blood run cold.
Reports from Africa—people attacking others. Biting. "Unexplained violent outbreaks."
It was supposed to happen in summer.
But it was only spring.
It was starting earlier.
History was shifting.
Which meant my timeline could no longer be trusted.
I immediately began scouting remote land.
The city mansion was secure, but still inside the city.
And I remembered too clearly what happened there.
The gated village full of wealthy families.
We thought the walls would protect us.
We were wrong.
When supplies ran out, desperate mobs broke through the gates. Looters. Armed men. Laughing when they saw women.
I still remember the sound of gunshots echoing through manicured streets.
The hidden exit of our underground bunker saved us.
Barely.
We escaped before they reached our door.
We planned to head to our family's beachside villa—far outside the city, isolated, with only a few neighboring properties.
Remote meant fewer infected.
Fewer desperate people.
But remote also meant no help.
I stopped myself from spiraling into memory.
Not now.
Not when I needed clarity.
I ordered immediate development of a "private retreat renovation" project—code name only I understood.
A reinforced bunkhouse disguised as a luxury countryside villa.
Underground storage.
Perimeter fencing hidden within landscape design.
Watchtowers disguised as aesthetic structures.
I would protect our employees too.
If the outbreak began during work hours again, evacuation routes would be ready. Safe floors secured. Panic minimized.
This time, I control the board.
Not fate.
Not Kevin.
Not fear.
And if the apocalypse comes earlier than expected.
I will be waiting.
Prepared.
Unshaken.
Unforgiving.