Thirty Days Before the Dead

CHAPTER 5: Water, Fuel, Power

 The second week went to the three things that kept a fortress breathing: water, fuel, and power. Ryan had secured the food, but he knew better than to mistake a full pantry for survival. Without clean water, reliable energy, and a way to keep essential equipment running, even the strongest shelter would eventually become a tomb.

 Water. He bought 48,000 bottles, two thousand cases, from three regional distributors, plus two 5,000-gallon plastic tanks, ten gravity-fed filter units, and twenty thousand purification tablets. Municipal water would die by Day 15, and it would taste like death by Day 12. Ryan remembered the foul smell that had risen from the taps in his previous life, followed by the long lines at abandoned stores and the desperate fights over bottled water. He had no intention of watching his father suffer through that again.

 Fuel. He ordered 6,000 gallons of diesel and 4,000 gallons of gasoline in forty steel totes, delivered to a rented farm lot twenty miles away and then moved, tote by tote, into the Void. He also bought eighty propane cylinders, 400 kilograms of charcoal, and twenty cords of seasoned firewood. The fuel would power the generators, keep vehicles running when necessary, and provide alternatives if one source became unavailable. He could not afford to depend on a single system when a breakdown might leave him trapped inside his own fortress.

 Power. Three 20-kilowatt diesel generators, forty high-efficiency solar panels producing about twelve kilowatts, eight lithium battery banks, a hundred and twenty LED lanterns, five hundred spare batteries, and two crank radios joined his growing inventory. Ryan checked every specification twice before approving the purchases, paying close attention to capacity, compatibility, and the practical needs of long-term use. He had learned the hard way that panic made people careless, and careless people died.

 The supplier of the generators, a lean old man named Hollis, looked at the order form and then at Ryan. His eyes moved over the quantities before settling on Ryan's face, and he rubbed his chin while considering the scale of the purchase.

 “Son, I’ve been selling generators since the ice storm of ’98. You know who buys three at once?” Hollis asked.

 “Who?” Ryan replied.

 “People who’ve decided the grid’s going to quit on them.” Hollis scratched his chin again, his expression turning thoughtful. “You a prepper?”

 “Something like that,” Ryan said, keeping his answer casual.

 “Smart.” For a moment, the old man's expression turned almost wistful. “I wish more folks were.”

 Ryan studied him, wondering how much Hollis had noticed and whether the man's instincts were better than most. He could not tell him about the Gray Fever, the cities that would fall, or the dead that would gather outside every building with food inside. Still, he respected anyone who understood that modern conveniences were not guarantees.

 The water broker, a nervous young man named Trevor, kept double-checking the quantity. He had spread the order across his desk, running his finger down the figures as if hoping he had misunderstood them. His collar was damp with sweat, and he kept glancing at Ryan whenever he reached the total.

 “Forty-eight thousand bottles, sir? Are you, like, a hotel?” Trevor asked.

 “A very large family,” Ryan replied.

 “That’s two thousand cases. I’d have to call three warehouses.”

 “Then call them.” Ryan slid a cashier’s check across the desk. “Delivery by Friday.”

 Trevor stared at the number, swallowed, and picked up the phone. Ryan watched him dial, his attention fixed on the check until the broker finally began speaking to someone at the other end. The purchase was moving forward, but each transaction reminded Ryan how much of his plan depended on ordinary people doing their jobs without asking too many questions.

 He thought of the six-year-old boy in the stairwell, who had died of thirst on Day 19, begging his mother for water that did not exist. The memory returned with brutal clarity: the child's cracked lips, his weak voice, and the helpless look on his mother's face as she held him against her chest.

 Not a single drop wasted, Ryan promised the memory.

 By Friday, the Void held a lake. By Saturday, it held a lake and a refinery and a power station, with a hundred and twenty glowing lanterns arranged in a neat, labeled row in the far corner like a field of tiny stars. The sight would have been absurd to anyone else, but Ryan viewed each addition as another problem solved before the world had a chance to make it worse.

 Every evening before sleeping, he walked through the white warehouse of his mind. Row by row, crate by crate, he checked the arrangement of his supplies, making sure he could retrieve what he needed without wasting precious time. The routine calmed him as nothing else could. In the old life, he had spent his days searching for scraps and counting the hours until hunger forced him back outside. Now he had a world of supplies, ordered, counted, and his.

 But the inventory was not complete.

 Medicine was the hardest.

 Ryan could not buy what the law forbade, and he refused to steal. However, the law allowed a great deal, provided he followed the proper channels and had the money to pay for it. He contacted a medical surplus liquidator in Ohio, arranged the shipment, and waited four days for the freight to arrive.

 The delivery included:

 * 600 first-aid kits.

 * 150 surgical suture sets.

 * 80 combat tourniquets.

 * 300 cases of over-the-counter fever, pain, and anti-inflammatory tablets.

 * 2,000 N95 respirators.

 * 100 boxes of nitrile gloves, with 100 pairs each.

 * 40 cases of sterile gauze and wound-care dressings.

 * 12 portable oxygen units.

 * 50 field splint kits.

 * 20 cases of antiseptic.

 * 20,000 water-purification and electrolyte tablets.

 He checked the contents against the invoice before storing everything away. The supplies could treat wounds, reduce the risk of infection, and help keep someone alive long enough to recover, but they could not make him invulnerable. One careless injury could still ruin everything, and a bite would leave him with minutes rather than days to find a solution.

 Then there was Dad.

 Walt Calloway had been a Type 2 diabetic for eleven years. His endocrinologist, Dr. Priya Nair, had treated him since Ryan was in high school, and Ryan knew that his father's survival depended on more than food and a comfortable place to sleep. Insulin, test strips, and the supplies needed to manage his condition would be essential, especially after pharmacies closed and medical services collapsed.

 Dr. Nair listened to Ryan's story in her office, a story about a “possible supply disruption” and a “family history,” before signing off on a six-month supply of insulin, test strips, and everything his father's prescription allowed. She examined him carefully as she handed over the paperwork, as though she could see the fear beneath his carefully prepared explanation.

 “You’re worried about something,” she said.

 “I am,” Ryan admitted, keeping his voice steady.

 “I won’t ask what,” she replied.

 “Thank you, Doctor.”

 She paused before returning to her desk, then lowered her voice. “I stockpiled water myself last week. Don’t tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy.”

 Ryan looked at her more carefully. For the first time in days, he felt the smallest easing of tension in his chest. He was not the only person who had noticed that something was wrong, even if neither of them could openly explain what they feared.

 He wrote her name in the notebook, under TRUSTWORTHY. It was a very short list, and he intended to keep it that way.

 By Day -21, the Void held:

 * Food: 78 tons.

 * Water: 48,000 bottles and 10,000 gallons in tanks.

 * Fuel: 6,000 gallons of diesel and 4,000 gallons of gasoline.

 * Medical supplies: 14 distinct categories.

 * Cash remaining: $196,400.

 Ryan stared at the final figure for several seconds, calculating what remained to be purchased and what he still needed to build. It was a substantial amount of money, but the construction, security systems, weapons, and other necessities would consume it quickly. He had already committed much of his wealth to survival, and there was no guarantee that even all these preparations would be enough.

 It would never be enough. He knew that. In the old life, the first people to die were always the ones who thought they had enough.

 On Thursday afternoon, Ryan stood in his driveway watching a flatbed unload two 5,000-gallon tanks onto the lawn. The truck's air brakes hissed, and the driver shouted instructions to the workers as the heavy tanks were lowered into place. Their weight pressed into the grass, leaving broad tracks across the lawn, while children on bicycles slowed down in the street to stare at the unusual delivery.

 “Hey, neighbor!”

 Ryan turned.

 Gary Doyle strolled across the lawn from number 12, sixty years old and sunburnt, wearing a baseball cap and the expression of a man who had never once knocked before entering. His wife, Tammy, trailed behind him with a plastic cup of lemonade in her hand, her eyes fixed on the tanks rather than on Ryan.

 Doyle.

 In the old life, Gary Doyle had been the first man to come through Ryan's back window on Day 12. He had taken Ryan's last bag of rice, laughed, and left him to bleed on the kitchen floor. The memory came back so sharply that Ryan could almost feel the old pain in his back, but he kept his face still and his hands relaxed at his sides.

 He had practiced.

 “Gary,” Ryan said, greeting him in an even voice.

 “Quite a delivery!” Gary squinted at the tanks. “Water? That’s a lot of water, pal. Building a pool?”

 “Rainwater collection,” Ryan replied.

 “Uh-huh.” Gary's eyes slid toward the generators on the second truck. His mouth tightened slightly before he forced a laugh. “And the, ah, power plant.”

 “Hobby,” Ryan said.

 Gary laughed slowly, clearly pleased with himself, while Tammy tilted her head and offered Ryan a sweet, empty smile. Neither of them seemed interested in hiding their curiosity, and Ryan could already imagine the questions they would ask once the workers left.

 “Well,” Gary said, gesturing vaguely toward the street, “that’s what neighbors are for. If anything ever happens, ha ha, we’re just next door. Good to know you’ve got that covered.”

 Ryan looked at him and felt the old anger stirring beneath his ribs. Gary was already imagining the benefits of having a neighbor with water and power, although he had not offered to help unload a single tank. In the world Ryan remembered, that same friendly smile had disappeared the moment Gary saw an opportunity to take what belonged to someone else.

 Good to know you’ve got that covered.

 Ryan gave him a polite smile, careful not to let his expression reveal what he was thinking. “I'll keep that in mind.”

 Gary seemed satisfied with the answer, but his gaze lingered on the equipment before he finally turned away. Tammy followed him, still looking back at the tanks as they crossed the lawn.

 Ryan watched them go, his jaw tightening for a moment before he forced himself to relax. The supplies were coming together, but the neighbors were beginning to notice, and attention was the one thing he could not afford.

 He had twenty-one days left. The fortress still needed its walls, its defenses, and a secure way to keep the dead outside. More importantly, he needed to reach his father and bring him home before the first case of Gray Fever turned the world upside down.

 Ryan glanced at the tanks as the workers secured the last fitting. Water, fuel, and power were no longer just items on a list; they were the difference between waiting out the apocalypse and b

eing forced into the streets to fight for another day.

 He had survived once and failed. This time, he would prepare for everything he could anticipate, and he would not let Gary Doyle—or anyone else—take what he had built.