章節 9: Lauren: Prepare For the Worst

The man—his name's Krish—is an absolute godsend.

Granted, he's also the guy who was about to rob from us, but considering the circumstances? I'm not mad about it. Thanks to him, we found everything we need. Plus, he knew how to use the forklift.

I heave the last case of water into the SUV, my arms trembling from exertion. Sweat trickles down my back, and I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Dad slams the trunk shut, his face a mask of grim determination.

"That should do it," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I can't help but marvel at the transformation. Just hours ago, he'd dismissed my concerns as paranoia. Now, here we are, our vehicle packed to the brim with survival gear. Machetes. Lighters. Portable water filters. It's surreal.

Those people we helped—the old man, the young mother, Krish—their grateful faces flash through my mind. For once, I've done something I can be proud of.

Dad's voice cuts through my thoughts. "They'll spread the word. Thieves will target our warehouse first."

And just like that, my bubble of satisfaction pops. Leave it to Dad to see the worst in a good deed. I want to argue, to defend those desperate souls, but I don't. Arguing won't help anyone.

We climb into the SUV, the radio crackling to life. The usual stations are gone, replaced by an endless stream of emergency broadcasts. Dad's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as we inch through gridlocked streets.

Hours crawl by. The sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across a city teetering on the edge of chaos. When we finally pull into our garage, I'm wound tighter than a spring.

"Get Randall," Dad orders, his voice clipped. "Tell him to help unload."

I nod, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. The house is eerily quiet as I step inside, a stark contrast to the pandemonium outside. I find Randall sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.

"Dad needs help unloading the car."

Before Randall can respond, Marian materializes, her face twisted in indignation. "How dare you!" she hisses. "Randall's injured. He sprained his ankle, for heaven's sake!"

I blink, taken aback by her vehemence. Randall smirks from his perch on the couch, his foot resting on the coffee table. It doesn't look very injured, but I'm really just basing that off the fact it's not in a cast.

The door bangs open, and Dad stomps in, lugging a case of water. Marian pounces immediately.

"William, Lauren's trying to force Randall to work despite his injury!"

I open my mouth to defend myself, but Dad beats me to it. His eyes narrow, darting between Randall's smug face and the chaos unfolding on the TV screen.

"Randall," he growls, "get your ass downstairs and unload the SUV. You think this is a fucking joke?"

The room goes deathly silent. Marian's mouth hangs open, while Marissa shrinks into the corner. Randall's smirk vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed shock. I can hardly believe my ears. Dad's never spoken to them like this before.

But my moment of vindication is short-lived. Dad rounds on me, his face thunderous. "You too, Lauren. Hurry up and help him."

And just like that, the spell is broken. Of course. It's not about fairness or recognizing the gravity of the situation. Dad just doesn't want to do any more heavy lifting himself.

I sigh, resigned to my fate. As I trudge back to the garage, Randall's whining voice follows me. He's not limping, of course. The sprained ankle is clearly a lie.

"Jesus, how much crap did you guys load in here?"

I grab a box of canned goods, my arms protesting. "Maybe if you ever watched the news," I snap, "you'd understand why."

Randall falls silent, and I feel a small, petty satisfaction. But as I haul the supplies inside, that feeling fades, replaced by a gnawing dread.

At least we're somewhat prepared now, right?

Though I'm still not sure what we're preparing for, exactly.

I set the box on the kitchen counter, my arms trembling from exhaustion. The clatter of metal on marble echoes through the room, drawing Marian's attention from her perch near Dad on the couch.

"William, darling," she coos, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Why are you so stressed? Everything will be fine, I'm sure."

Dad's face contorts. "Fine?" he snaps, waving at the TV. "The world's gone mad, Marian. We're going to lose millions because of these pathetic rioters!"

He jabs at the remote, flicking through channels until he finds a news broadcast. Images of chaos flicker across the screen—burning cars, shattered storefronts, people running through smoke-filled streets.

Marian's eyes widen, but she recovers quickly. She settles next to Dad on the couch, placing a manicured hand on his arm. Marissa joins them, both women murmuring soothing platitudes.

I can't help but roll my eyes as I trudge back to the garage. Randall's there, halfheartedly dragging a case of water bottles across the floor.

"Come on," I mutter, hefting another box. "Sooner we finish, sooner we can rest."

By the time we've unloaded the last of the supplies, my arms feel like overcooked spaghetti. Every muscle screams in protest as I stretch, trying to work out the knots. All I want is a hot shower and my bed.

I'm halfway up the stairs when Marian's shrill voice cuts through the air. "Lauren! Where do you think you're going? We need dinner!"

I freeze, one foot hovering above the next step. The thought of cooking right now makes me want to cry. "I was going to take a shower."

Dad's voice booms from the living room.

"For God's sake, Marian, leave her be." He doesn't look away from the TV, but his words are firm. "Lauren, go take your shower."

A tiny spark of warmth blooms in my chest. Once again, Dad's taken my side today. It's more than he usually does.

As I reach the landing, Marissa's whine drifts up from below. "Daddy, why are there boxes everywhere? It looks awful."

I pause, curious despite myself. Dad's voice is patient, almost gentle, as he responds. "We brought all this in case of a real emergency. See those boxes over there? It's for..."

The warmth in my chest turns to ice. I don't need to hear the rest. It's the same tone he uses when explaining complex business concepts to Marissa or Randall—careful, considerate, making sure they understand. He's never spoken to me like that.

I duck into the bathroom, letting the door click shut behind me. The mirror shows me a stranger—blonde hair wild with tangles, my face smudged with dirt, my blue eyes popping against my pale skin, making me look almost ghostly. I look away quickly, focusing on turning on the shower instead.

As hot water cascades over me, I try to let it wash away the ache in my muscles and the tightness in my chest. But no matter how hard I scrub, I can't seem to get clean of the day's events or the familiar sting of being treated like an afterthought in my own home.

[World's End: 01:07:22:13]