Chapter 2

The drive to my father' s compound in rural Vermont took four hours. When I arrived, the heavy iron gate was closed, as always. I punched in the code, and it slid open silently.

My father, Mr. Johns, was in his workshop, a converted barn filled with schematics, tools, and half-finished engineering projects. He was a tall, lean man with a graying beard and eyes that missed nothing. He distrusted Matthew from the day I introduced them.

He looked up when I walked in, his expression guarded. "Gabrielle. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Tears I hadn't allowed myself to cry in front of Matthew suddenly welled up. I ran to him and hugged him, burying my face in his flannel shirt. He held me, patting my back, waiting for me to speak.

"Dad," I finally said, my voice muffled. "Something terrible is going to happen."

He led me into the main house and sat me down at the kitchen table with a cup of hot tea. He listened without interruption as I told him everything. Not about my past life-he wouldn't have believed that-but about the coming apocalypse. I framed it as a certainty, a leak from a high-level contact I couldn't name.

"It's an extinction-level event, Dad. Creatures. They come from underground, and they hunt by sound. In thirty days, the world goes silent. Power grids will fail. Cities will fall."

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. He was a prepper, but he was also a man of logic and science. This sounded like a fantasy.

"Gabrielle, how do you know this?"

"I just know," I said, my voice firm. "You've always said to trust my gut. Well, my gut is screaming at me. You have to believe me."

To my immense relief, he nodded slowly. He had seen the genuine terror in my eyes. And perhaps, a part of him had always been waiting for his preparations to be justified.

"Alright," he said. "Thirty days. What do we need?"

That's when I told him about my brother. "Andrew... in my... in my vision of what's coming, he dies. He's an Army Ranger, he tries to save a group of civilians, and he gets overwhelmed."

My father's face hardened. The thought of losing his son was a powerful motivator. "He's not dying. Not on my watch."

The next morning, we began. My father gave me a debit card linked to one of his accounts, one with a staggering amount of money he' d saved over a lifetime of shrewd investments and spartan living.

"Buy what we need," he said simply. "Don't worry about the cost."

My first act of revenge was quiet and digital. The Boston apartment was a gift from my father, still in his name. I listed it online for a ridiculously low price, demanding a cash buyer and a quick close. It was sold within hours.

The wire transfer for two million dollars hit my father's account the next day. Matthew wouldn't know he was homeless until the new owners showed up at his door.

Then, I used Matthew's stolen driver's license.

I sat at my father's computer and went to work. I applied for dozens of high-interest payday loans in his name. I opened multiple lines of credit. I maxed out every single one. The money poured in, a torrent of digital cash that would soon become a mountain of debt for him.

Loan sharks and collection agencies would be knocking on his door long before the creatures were.

With millions at our disposal, I orchestrated a logistical miracle.

I bought truckloads of non-perishable food-canned goods, freeze-dried meals, grains, pasta.

I bought medical supplies-antibiotics, surgical kits, bandages, painkillers.

I bought water purifiers, seeds for a subterranean garden, tools, batteries, and everything else I could think of. The deliveries started arriving at a rented warehouse in a nearby town, a steady stream of trucks day after day.