Reborn Before Doomsday: The Ex-Military Wife’s Revenge

I woke up with the phantom sensation of teeth tearing into my throat.I bolted upright, my hands instantly dropping to my neck, expecting to feel the hot, sticky rush of arterial blood. 

My fingers met smooth, unbroken skin. I gasped, pulling in a massive lungful of conditioned air. No rotting flesh. No the smell of copper and ash. 

Just the faint scent of lavender diffuser. My heart hammered against my ribs as I threw off the duvet. I checked my arms. No bite marks. No defensive scars from the makeshift shivs I’d used in the quarantine zones. My skin was pristine.

 I swung my legs out of bed and stalked to the full-length mirror. Bright, clear eyes. No dark, sunken circles. I looked exactly the way I did before the world went to hell. I snatched my phone from the nightstand. The screen flared to life. 

August 12th. Exactly sixty days until Patient Zero. Sixty days until the rabies-mutation went airborne and turned eighty percent of the population into flesh-eating husks.

 I stared at the date, my military-trained brain rapidly cycling through tactical assessments before accepting the impossible. I had been reborn. In my last life, I had ignored the early warning signs. 

When the military fell and the cities became slaughterhouses, I did what I always did. I protected my husband. I used my special forces training to keep Marcus and his "family" alive. 

I bled for them. And how did they repay me? When the horde breached our final safehouse, the armored extraction truck only had room for three. Marcus didn’t hesitate. He shoved me out the back doors, right into the jaws of the infected, to make room for his "sister," Chloe, her bratty kid, and her pampered Golden Retriever. 

As I was being torn apart in the street, Marcus leaned out the window and smiled. He told me Chloe wasn't his sister. She was his real wife. The kid was his son. I was just the unpaid meat shield he’d married for my military pension and combat skills. I clenched my fists, feeling the familiar, comforting calluses on my palms. 

They thought I was dead. But heaven had a sick sense of humor, and it had just handed me a reload. I wasn't going to just survive this time. I was going to hoard enough weapons, rations, and medical supplies to outlast the dead itself. But to do that, I needed capital. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my mind snapping to a crucial detail.

 I grew up in the foster system. I met Marcus through a veteran’s dating app, craving a normal life after two tours overseas. I had no idea my biological parents were tech billionaires who had died in a plane crash three years ago.

 In my past life, a trust lawyer called me this exact morning to inform me I was the sole heir to a nine-figure estate. And what did I do? I handed the checkbook to Marcus so he could "invest" it. He used my blood money to fund Chloe’s boutique and buy that armored truck he eventually left me to die in.

 Not this time. I checked the time. The lawyer was calling in ten minutes. Money was no longer an issue. My first order of business was cutting Marcus off at the knees. I stood up and headed for the bedroom door. But as my hand closed over the brass knob, the air in front of me warped with a low hum.

 A pitch-black, infinite void tore open in the middle of the room. I instantly dropped into a defensive crouch, my hand reaching for a combat knife that wasn't there. But the void didn't attack. It just pulsed, cold and empty. Spatial storage. 

I reached out, my fingertips brushing a freezing, static-chilled mist. I pulled back, my mind racing. I’d figure out its capacity and rules later. Right now, I had a war to plan. I marched out of the bedroom and down the hall. 

When I entered the open-concept living room, the smell of expensive perfume and entitlement hit me. Chloe was sprawled on my custom leather sofa, scrolling through her phone. 

My mother-in-law, Evelyn, was sipping tea, watching a daytime soap opera. In the corner, Chloe’s six-year-old son, Leo, was actively throwing mashed bananas at the wall. My jaw locked. In my past life, I would have sighed, grabbed the wipes, and cleaned it up while they ignored me. 

I had been playing house with my husband’s secret family, completely blind. Chloe didn't even look up from her screen. "You're finally up. I asked you to detail the SUV yesterday, but I guess you're too lazy to even start it. 

Marcus is going to be annoyed when he sees the dust."Evelyn finally paused the TV and shot me a disgusted look. "Since you're awake, transfer my allowance for the month. 

I need the funds for the down payment on that new penthouse in the downtown high-rise."Downtown. Ground zero for the outbreak. I didn't say a word. I just walked over to the sofa. Evelyn frowned, opening her mouth to scold me, but she never got the chance.

 I didn't slap her like an angry housewife. I struck her with the precise, calculated velocity of a close-quarters combat drill. Crack.The sound was like a dry branch snapping. 

Evelyn’s head snapped to the side, her teacup shattering on the hardwood floor. She collapsed against the cushions, clutching her rapidly swelling cheek, staring at me in absolute shock."If you ever want to see another cent of my money," I said, my voice dead calm, devoid of any emotion. 

I grabbed Evelyn by the jaw, forcing her to look at me. "You will get on your knees and kiss the mud off my combat boots. Otherwise, you're financially dead to me."Chloe shrieked, scrambling up from the sofa. "Are you insane?! 

You just hit my mother! I'm calling Marcus right now, you crazy bitch—"I pivoted, my eyes locking onto hers. I gave her the same dead-eyed stare I used to give hostile targets in the sandbox. 

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her bravado evaporated. Before she could turn away, my hand swung out. Smack.Chloe hit the floor hard, her phone skittering across the room. She curled into a ball, sobbing hysterically, looking at me like I was a monster. 

Good. Let her be terrified. The apocalypse was going to be a lot worse than me. You're going to pay for this!" Chloe wailed from the floor.

 Right on cue, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. The caller ID flashed. Marcus. I tapped the screen and put it on speaker, tossing it onto the marble island. "Scarlett! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Marcus’s voice roared through the speaker, thick with arrogant fury. "My mother just called me crying! She said you assaulted her and threatened Chloe with a knife! 

Are you out of your mind? Get on your knees and apologize to them right now, or I swear to God I'll—""Marcus," I interrupted. I didn't yell, and didn't sound angry. I just let the absolute, freezing zero of my voice cut through his rant. "We're getting a divorce. And you're going to beg me to take you back."I hung up.