Chapter 3The Unborn Prophet & My Doomsday Fort

With Liam’s tacit approval, I grew bolder.

But even though he didn't interfere, there was a limit to the money.

My initial shopping spree had maxed out the supplementary credit card he’d given me.

I still had a huge hole to fill for the remaining construction costs and supplies.

Liam had been swamped at work, and I felt bad asking him for more money, especially since, in his eyes, I was just having a breakdown.

My gaze fell upon my walk-in closet.

An entire wall was dedicated to jewelry, and there were hundreds of designer bags.

Mom! That ridiculously green jade bracelet! The one from Grandma? In the apocalypse, that thing could be traded for two whole crates of antibiotics! Sell it! Sell it all!

My heart steeled, I swept everything of value into a large suitcase.

I used to treat these things like they were my life. Now, they were just dead weight.

I dragged the suitcase to the biggest pawn shop in the city.

In my haste to liquidate, I didn't even bother haggling. I took whatever the owner offered.

Just as I was walking out with several debit cards, I ran into the ever-present ghost of Jessica.

She was across the street at a café, having afternoon tea with a few other socialites.

When she saw me emerge from the pawn shop, her eyes lit up brighter than a laser pointer.

"I told you! Something big is happening with Liam's family! Michelle is selling her jewelry to run away!"

Her voice was so loud you could hear it down the block.

I couldn't be bothered with her. Every minute was precious now.

With the new funds, I used my old colleague's connections to get my hands on two industrial-grade, high-power generators on the black market.

And several hundred barrels of diesel fuel.

The stuff reeked. The moment it was moved into the villa's garage, the neighbors lost their minds.

The property manager came to my door with a few security guards, demanding I remove the barrels, citing them as a safety hazard.

"No way! Don't you dare touch my fuel!"

I stood defensively in front of the barrels, ready to throw a full-blown tantrum if necessary.

How could we survive without electricity? How would the cold storage stay running? How would the electric fence work?

"Mrs. Hayes, if you continue, we'll have to call the police," the manager said, looking stressed.

Just then, a black Maybach pulled up to the gate.

Liam was home.

He glanced at me, looking like a cornered, feral cat, then at the sweating property manager.

"What's going on?"

The manager looked like he’d just seen his savior. "Mr. Hayes, your wife is hoarding a large quantity of diesel fuel in the garage. It's against regulations…"

Liam rubbed his temples and walked over, pulling me behind him.

"I have a use for this fuel. I will arrange for professional blast-proofing. If anything happens, I will take full responsibility."

The manager was taken aback. With Mr. Hayes giving his word, he couldn't press the issue. He and his guards retreated.

I looked at Liam's broad back, and my eyes started to sting.

He turned around, looked at my disheveled state, and sighed.

Then he clapped his hands.

A driver pulled up in a monstrous, all-black SUV.

The vehicle looked more extreme than an armored car, covered in steel plates with windows as thick as bricks.

"Here's the… bulletproof truck you wanted," Liam said, a deep sense of helplessness in his voice. "I don't know who you're planning to defend against, but if you're going to do this, you might as well go all the way."

I threw my arms around him, smearing tears and snot all over his designer suit.

"Honey! You're the best! When the zombies come, I'll protect you! If any of them try to bite you, I'll blow their heads off!"

Liam's body stiffened for a moment, then he patted my back.

"Alright. Well, thank you in advance."