Chapter 2

When I got home and looked at the multimillion-dollar imported lawn and exotic gardens, my heart bled.

None of this junk would be edible or stop a zombie.

"Cody, tear it all out."

The butler, Cody Hewitt, who was mid-snip with his shears, flinched and nearly took off his finger.

"Mrs. Gibson, Mr. Gibson had these tulips flown in specially from overseas…"

"Rip them out!" I snapped, tossing my Hermès Birkin onto the ground. "Am I the lady of this house, or are you? I don't like flowers. I've developed a pollen allergy, okay?"

Cody looked at me like I'd lost my mind, but he eventually waved the gardening crew over to start digging.

Watching those gorgeous, blooming flowers get yanked out by their roots, I had only one thought—potatoes.

We had to plant potatoes.

They had a high yield and were highly filling.

Right on cue, the commander in my belly chimed in, "Mom! Those floor-to-ceiling windows have got to go. They're too fragile. A zombie could put its head right through them. You might as well just leave the front door open and put out a welcome mat."

I looked up at the massive panoramic glass. I used to think it looked bright and sophisticated. Now, all I saw was a fatal flaw.

"Replace them! All of them! Use bulletproof glass and steel rolling shutters!"

I immediately called the best security firm in the city.

Hearing my requests, the agent thought I was converting my house into a bank vault.

"Ms. Webb, a security setup of this caliber is usually reserved for—"

"I'm paranoid and afraid of burglars, alright? Money is no object, but I have one condition. It needs to be finished in three days."

The moment the security company heard money was no object, they shut up and sent a construction crew to start working overnight.

Karlie and her usual entourage of friends showed up to enjoy the spectacle.

They stood outside the perimeter fence, laughing hysterically at the muddy craters and the greenhouse frames being erected in the yard.

"Oh my god! Phoebe, have you completely lost it? Farming in a mega-mansion?"

"Is Mr. Gibson divorcing you? Are you trying to build a fallback plan?"

"This isn't a mansion anymore. It's a pigsty!"

I was in the middle of tilling the soil. Hearing their jeers, I drove the shovel into the ground, scooped up a massive clod of fertilizer-laced mud, and hurled it right at them.

"Ah! My dress!" Karlie shrieked, leaping backward, but she still got pelted with mud splatter.

"This is private property. Get lost!" I yelled, brandishing the shovel like a wolf defending her kill.

Karlie's face turned purple with rage. "Just you wait, Phoebe Webb! When Gabriel gets home and sees what you've done to this place, he's throwing you out for sure!"

When Gabriel came home that evening, he was visibly shaken.

I had ordered the workers to smash the original biometric lock on the front gate and replace it with a heavy, old-fashioned mechanical padlock that weighed dozens of pounds.

The yard was a minefield of trenches, and the living room was packed to the ceiling with crates of cup noodles and survival crackers I'd hoarded online.

There wasn't even room to walk.

He stood before an expensive rug pinned beneath boxes of survival crackers, his expression darkening.

"Phoebe, what is all this?"

I rushed over, dragged him into the bedroom, and locked the door behind us with an air of absolute secrecy.

"Honey, I need to tell you something huge. The apocalypse is coming."

Gabriel stared at me, his eyes full of complex emotions. He reached out and felt my forehead, but I had no fever.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Our son," I replied, pointing at my belly.

Gabriel sighed and took my hands in his. "Phoebe, have you been under too much stress lately? Let me take you to see a therapist tomorrow."

He didn't believe me.

Fair enough. If it were the old me, I wouldn't have believed me either.

"Yeah, I knew Dad's inner materialist wouldn't buy it. Forget it, Mom. As long as he stays out of our way, we'll handle this ourselves."

I nodded and looked up at Gabriel. "Honey, just think of it as prenatal anxiety. Doing all this makes me feel safe. Can you just let me do my thing?"

Gabriel looked at me, then out at the absolute disaster zone of a house, and finally gave a helpless nod. "Fine. As long as you don't tear down the roof, knock yourself out."

With that, he stepped out onto the balcony to call a prominent psychiatrist.

"Hello, Dr. Sloan? My wife's anxiety has flared up pretty badly. She's convinced the world is ending.

"Yeah. I wanted to know how I should handle it.

"Just humor her? Okay, I understand."