Chapter 3

By six the next morning, the sky was still a bruised purple, and I was already standing in the cavernous warehouse of a restaurant wholesale supplier on the edge of the city.

 I didn’t bother with grocery stores. Supermarkets would be looted to the bone within forty-eight hours of the outbreak.

 I needed commercial bulk. I bought five hundred pounds of white rice, two hundred pounds of dried beans, canned meats, powdered milk, and blocks of dehydrated butter. I cleared out their entire inventory of water purification tablets, heavy-duty Mylar tarps, and industrial first-aid kits.

 The clerk, a bored teenager with a nose ring, stared at my new black Amex like it was a winning lottery ticket. "You need us to deliver this, ma'am?" he asked. "No," I said, swiping the card. "I'll take it out back."I walked out to the secluded loading bay. 

The air was crisp, smelling of diesel and damp concrete. I placed my hand on the wooden pallet holding three hundred pounds of rice. I closed my eyes and reached inward. The cold, static hum of the spatial void flared to life behind my eyelids. 

I visualized the empty blackness inside my mind and pushed. Thwump. The massive pallet vanished. I checked the mental map in my head. It was sitting in the void, perfectly preserved. 

I exhaled and pushed the thought outward. Pop. The pallet reappeared on the concrete. A sharp spike of pain drove through my temples, and I swayed, catching my balance against the corrugated steel wall. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the dizziness to pass. 

Rule number one, I thought, rubbing my forehead. It takes a physical toll. The larger the mass, the bigger the migraine.

 I spent the next three hours repeating the process. I hit three more wholesale suppliers across the industrial district. 

Canned goods, bottled water, hygiene products, bulk sewing kits, and heavy-duty work boots. With every large pull, the ache behind my eyes grew, but the space inside the void barely registered a ripple. 

It was practically bottomless. By noon, my physical warehouse was empty, but my spatial storage was packed tight with enough calories to last me a decade. But food and water wouldn't stop the infected. 

When the rabies-mutation went airborne and the dead started walking, a bag of rice wouldn't keep my throat from being torn out. I needed gear. I drove my truck to a high-end tactical surplus store in the warehouse district. 

The bell above the door chimed. The shop smelled of gun oil, canvas, and leather. It was a comforting, familiar scent. I walked straight to the back, bypassing the hunting rifles and the flashy handguns. Firearms were loud, required constant ammo resupply, and the noise would attract every infected within a three-mile radius. 

I needed silent killers. Tools that wouldn't jam when covered in black blood. I stopped in front of a glass display case, examining the balance of a titanium tactical tomahawk. 

It was a beautiful piece of engineering. Lightweight, razor-sharp, and capable of breaching doors or splitting skulls with equal efficiency. I was just reaching for the latch when the front door chimed again. 

"Scarlett?" I froze. My hand hovered over the glass. I knew that voice. It was dripping with that familiar, arrogant irritation that used to make my stomach tie in knots. 

Now, it just made my skin crawl. I turned around slowly. Marcus stood in the middle of the aisle. He was still wearing his expensive tailored suit, but his tie was loosened, his hair was disheveled, and his face was flushed with reckless anger. He looked like a man who had been driving recklessly and running red lights just to get here. 

"How did you find me?" I asked, my voice dead calm. I didn't drop my hand from the display case. "I tracked your phone," he sneered, stepping closer. His eyes darted around the store, taking in my casual combat boots and tactical jacket.

 "Did you really think I wouldn't notice when you blocked my number? You're acting like a crazy bitch, Scarlett. Locking me out of my own house, ignoring my calls, draining our accounts. What is this, some kind of game?"My eyes dropped to his left hand. No wedding ring. Good riddance.

 He was too panicked and entitled to even pretend anymore. "It's not a game, Marcus. It's a divorce," I said, turning my attention back to the tomahawk. "And you're trespassing."He let out a harsh, mocking laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. "A divorce? Over what? Because I asked you to be a little more accommodating to my mother and Chloe? 

You're being incredibly selfish. You're embarrassing me in front of my family."I slowly turned back to face him. "Selfish. Right. Because asking you to pay for your own mother's pearl earrings is selfish. Because refusing to let your 'cousin' live rent-free in our guest house is selfish.""You know she's on a fixed income!" he shouted, drawing a sharp glare from the store clerk at the front counter.

 Marcus lowered his voice, stepping into my personal space, using his height to try and intimidate me. It was a trick he used a dozen times in our marriage.

 It never worked when I was in the military, and it sure as hell didn't work now. "Look," he hissed, his eyes dark with condescension. "I don't know what kind of tantrum you're throwing, but you're going to come home, unlock the doors, and apologize. Now. Before you ruin my reputation.

"I looked at him, smiling mockingly. In my past life, this was the exact moment I would have caved. I would have lowered my eyes, swallowed my pride, and let him drag me back to my cage because I was terrified of being alone. Now? I just felt a profound, exhausting boredom. 

"Marcus," I said softly, my voice dropping an octave. "If you don't step back right now, I'm going to break your wrist."His eyes widened in genuine shock, then narrowed into furious slits. "You wouldn't dare. You're just a stupid, dependent little—"He reached out to grab my arm. 

It was a sloppy, emotional, completely civilian move. He left his center of gravity entirely exposed. I didn't even blink. I dropped my center of gravity, slipped under his wild, uncoordinated swing, and grabbed his outstretched wrist. Using his own forward momentum, I twisted his arm outward, applying precise, agonizing pressure directly to the radial nerve and the elbow joint. 

Marcus let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp. His knees buckled instantly. I forced him down onto one knee right there in the middle of the tactical aisle, his face slamming into the hardwood floor. "Ah! Fuck! Scarlett, stop!" he gasped, his face turning purple as the air was driven from his lungs. 

I leaned down, my mouth inches from his ear. I didn't raise my voice. I just let the absolute, freezing zero of my tone wash over him. "Listen to me very carefully," I whispered. "You are no longer in control. 

You have no money, you have no house, and you have no wife. If you ever follow me again, I won't just break your wrist. I'll shatter your kneecaps and feed them to the dogs. 

Do we understand each other?"He nodded frantically, sweat beading on his forehead, his cheek pressed against the floorboards. I released his arm and stood up, dusting off my jacket. 

Marcus scrambled to his feet, cradling his wrist to his chest. He stared at me like I was a stranger. The arrogance was completely gone, replaced by a toxic, vibrating mix of fear and resentment. 

"You're going to regret this," he spat, his voice trembling as he backed away. "I'm calling my lawyer. I'm going to take everything you have. You hear me? Everything!""Good luck," I said, turning my back on him. 

Marcus stormed out of the store, the bell chiming violently behind him. I watched through the front window as he practically threw himself into his sedan and sped off, nearly clipping the curb. 

I turned back to the clerk, who was staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, his hand hovering near the panic button under the counter. I offered him a polite, completely fake smile. "I'll take the tomahawk. 

And throw in two reinforced Kevlar vests, a compound bow with sixty pounds of draw weight, and three dozen carbon-fiber arrows."He swallowed hard and nodded. 

"Y-yes, ma'am. Right away."I paid for my gear and walked out to my truck, tossing the heavy bags into the passenger seat. 

Marcus was going to call his lawyer. He was going to try to fight me for the money. He actually believed he had a legal claim to my family's inheritance. Let him try. Let him drain whatever pathetic savings he had left on retainer fees. 

It wouldn't matter. In forty-two days, money wouldn't be able to buy a single bottle of clean water. I threw the truck into drive and pulled out onto the main road. The physical ache in my head from using my spatial ability was finally fading, replaced by a cold, hard satisfaction. 

Marcus was handled. The money was secure. The food was stockpiled. Now, all I had to do was survive the end of the world.