Ryan stood in his fortress, finally allowing himself to sink into the soft leather couch in the main living room.
For the first time in days, he could actually breathe.
He looked around at the reinforced walls, felt the hum of the generators three stories below his feet, thought about the mountains of supplies stored in his infinite space.
Weapons?
Check.
Fortress?
Check.
Survival supplies?
Check.
What else was he missing?
Ryan sat bolt upright.
Food.
Cooked food.
All the supplies he’d stockpiled were raw ingredients, canned goods, freeze-dried meals.
Functional, sure.
But in the apocalypse, being able to eat a hot meal—something freshly prepared, with actual flavor—that would be the ultimate luxury.
And his storage space could preserve anything indefinitely.
Which meant he could stockpile prepared food and it would stay hot, fresh, perfect.
Ryan pulled out his phone and opened a document David had sent him days ago—a comprehensive list of every restaurant, hotel, catering company, and food service business registered in the greater New York metropolitan area.
Complete with phone numbers and owner information.
Ryan took a deep breath and dialed the first number.
“Good evening, you’ve reached the Restaurant at the Plaza Hotel, how may I help you?” A polite female voice answered.
“I need to speak to your owner,” Ryan said flatly.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” “No.
But tell him I have a $1.5 million order and he has thirty seconds to decide if he wants it.” Silence on the other end.
“I…
one moment, please.” Ryan waited, listening to hold music.
About forty-five seconds later, a new voice came on the line—male, older, with the confident tone of someone used to running a successful operation.
“This is Michael, general manager of the Plaza Hotel food services.
I understand you have a…
substantial order?” “I want to charter your entire kitchen staff for the next 48 hours,” Ryan said.
“Round-the-clock operation.
They cook everything on your menu—every dish, maximum portions, best ingredients.
Deliver everything to the Matthews Estate in Westchester.
No limit on quantity.
Whatever you can produce, I’ll take.” A pause.
“Sir, that’s…
that’s not how we typically operate.
Our restaurant has existing reservations, scheduled events—” “One point five million dollars,” Ryan interrupted.
“Total payment.
I’ll wire you $150,000 right now as a deposit.
You deliver on schedule, you get the rest.
Yes or no?” Michael laughed—not meanly, but like someone who’d just heard a good joke.
“Sir, I appreciate the creativity, but the Plaza Hotel does over $200 million in annual food service revenue.
A $1.5 million order, while nice, isn’t going to make me disrupt our entire—” “The deposit just hit your account,” Ryan said calmly.
“What?
I didn’t even give you my—” Ryan could hear Michael fumbling with his phone, pulling up his banking app.
Then silence.
Complete, dead silence.
“Holy…” Michael’s voice came back, all the professional polish stripped away.
“You actually…
it’s really there.
$150,000.
How did you—” “The question isn’t how I did it.
The question is whether you want the other $1.35 million.
Yes or no?” “Yes!” The word exploded out of Michael like he’d been holding his breath.
“Absolutely yes!
Sir, I apologize for doubting you.
We’ll dedicate a full kitchen crew to your order starting immediately.
You’ll have food delivered within six hours!” “Good,” Ryan said, and hung up.
Then he dialed the second number on the list.
And the third.
And the fourth.
Every call followed the same pattern: Ryan: “I want all your food.
$1 million order.
Will you do it?” Restaurant owner: “Are you insane?
We have other customers, we can’t just—” Ryan: “The deposit just arrived.” Restaurant owner: [checks phone] “HOLY SHIT IT’S REAL!
YES!
WHATEVER YOU NEED!” “Hello, steakHouse, how can I—” “I want every steak you can make in the next 48 hours.
Delivered to Westchester.
One million dollars.” “Sir, we only make about twenty steak per—wait, did you say one million?” “Check your account.” [pause] “OH MY GOD!
YES!
I’ll slaughter every coq in a fifty-mile radius!
You want a hundred?
Two hundred?!
I’ll give you THREE HUNDRED!” “Sushi Zen, this is—” “All your fish.
Every piece of sushi, sashimi, and nigiri you can make.
Two days of continuous production.
Delivered to the Matthews Estate.” “Sir, that’s completely against our philosophy of fresh, made-to-order—” “$750,000.” “…How fresh do you really need it to be?” “McDonald’s corporate office, how may I direct—” “I want to buy out every McDonald’s location in the tri-state area for 48 hours.
Burgers, fries, nuggets, everything.
Deliver it all to one address.” “Sir, that’s not possible.
We have franchise agreements, supply chain—” “Five million dollars.” [long pause] “…Let me transfer you to our VP of operations.” By the time Ryan finished working through the list, it was nearly midnight.
He’d placed orders with: 47 high-end restaurants 23 fast-food chains 12 catering companies 8 hotel kitchens 5 specialty food producers Total committed: approximately $38 million.
But in return, he’d have literally tons of prepared food—everything from Michelin-star cuisine to Big Macs—all of it frozen in time the moment it entered his storage space.
In the apocalypse, while everyone else was choking down expired canned beans, Ryan would be eating fresh sushi and medium-rare steaks.
The Next Morning August 19th, 6:47 AM 36 hours until the apocalypse The sun was just beginning to rise over the Westchester suburbs, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
The Matthews Estate sat quiet and imposing behind its massive walls.
About a quarter-mile down the road, in the main residential section of the neighborhood, a group of wealthy housewives were taking their morning walk.
The leader was a woman in her fifties—call her Patricia—wearing designer athleisure and oversized sunglasses despite the early hour.
“Have you heard the noise coming from that Matthews property?” Patricia said, her voice dripping with disdain.
“Construction running 24/7 for the past week!
I could barely sleep!
The audacity!” A tall, thin woman beside her nodded vigorously.
“My husband called the homeowners association three times!
It’s completely unacceptable!
We moved here for peace and quiet, not to live next to a construction site!” “Isn’t that where the Matthews boy lives?” another woman chimed in.
“The one whose parents died in that car accident?” “Exactly,” Patricia said, a cruel smile playing at her lips.
“Poor little rich boy probably blowing through his inheritance.
I heard he sold his parents’ company for pennies on the dollar.
Probably going bankrupt and trying to—I don’t know—turn the place into some tacky rental property or something.” “Tragic,” someone murmured, though the tone suggested they found it more entertaining than sad.
“Young people today have no sense of responsibility,” Patricia continued.
“His parents built that company from nothing, and he just—” She stopped mid-sentence.
A large refrigerated truck was rolling down the street toward them, the side panel emblazoned with PLAZA HOTEL – FINE DINING CATERING.
It slowed as it approached the Matthews Estate entrance.
The massive gate—which none of them had even realized was there until construction finished—began sliding open automatically.
The truck pulled through and disappeared behind the walls.
The women stared.
“Was that…
a catering truck?” someone asked.
“From the Plaza?” another added, confusion clear in her voice.
Before anyone could respond, another truck appeared.
This one from Le Bernardin.
Then another from Eleven Madison Park.
Then a McDonald’s delivery truck.
Then a Shake Shack truck.
Then another Plaza Hotel truck.
Within ten minutes, a convoy of food delivery vehicles was streaming into the Matthews Estate like it was hosting a major event.
Patricia’s mouth hung open.
“What on earth is that boy doing?” she whispered.
None of them had an answer.
If you are interested can check it out.