Lena’s mother arrived just after three.
Lena knew because her phone rang.
“I’m here.”
Lena looked toward the driveway.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I can see the gate.”
“So can I.”
Lena frowned.
Then she remembered Redtail had more than one entrance.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s helpful.”
“I’m looking at a fence.”
“Mom.”
“And cows.”
Lena stood.
“We don’t have cows.”
“Well, somebody does.”
Oh.
“You’re at Ruth’s.”
“Who is Ruth?”
“Stay there.”
“I wasn’t planning to drive through the fence.”
Lena grabbed her keys.
Five minutes later, she found her mother’s car pulled onto the shoulder beside Ruth’s lower pasture.
Her mother was standing outside looking at the cows.
Lena rolled down her window.
“You stopped early.”
Her mother turned.
“Your directions were terrible.”
“I sent you a pin.”
“It took me here.”
“That is not my fault.”
“You bought a farm in the middle of nowhere.”
“Follow me.”
Her mother looked around.
“This is the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
She got back into her car.
Lena smiled and pulled away.
It wasn’t actually the middle of nowhere.
There were houses.
Farms.
A town within reasonable driving distance.
But compared with San Francisco?
Yeah.
It felt like another planet.
Lena watched her mother’s car in the mirror as they turned onto Redtail.
Then she realized what her mother was seeing.
The gate.
The new gravel.
The fencing stretching along the road.
Pastures divided into sections that hadn’t existed two weeks ago.
The repaired barn.
Water tanks.
Solar panels.
Equipment.
Trucks.
Workers.
And beyond them, steel greenhouse frames rising in orderly rows across what had recently been empty ground.
Lena had watched Redtail change piece by piece.
A truck arrived.
A fence went up.
A trench got dug.
A delivery appeared.
Another crew showed up.
Something that had been bare dirt in the morning had plumbing by dinner.
Apparently that had distorted her perspective somewhat.
Because her mother stopped her car twenty feet inside the gate.
Lena stopped too.
She waited.
Her phone rang.
She answered.
“Yes?”
“What the fuck?”
Lena grinned.
“Language.”
“Lena.”
“Come on.”
She hung up.
Her mother eventually drove forward.
They parked beside the farmhouse.
Lena climbed out.
Her mother did not.
She sat behind the wheel staring through the windshield.
Then toward the barn.
Then toward the greenhouses.
Then back at Lena.
Finally, she opened the door.
“What did you do?”
“I bought a farm.”
“This is not buying a farm.”
“It started that way.”
“Lena.”
“What?”
Her mother came around the car.
Lena expected another question.
Instead, her mother hugged her.
Hard.
Lena froze for half a second before wrapping her arms around her.
“You look tired,” her mother said into her shoulder.
Of course.
There were approximately twelve million things surrounding them that should have raised questions.
Her mother had chosen the bags under Lena’s eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“You look skinny.”
“I am not skinny.”
“When did you eat?”
“Today?”
Her mother pulled back.
“Lena.”
“I had breakfast.”
“What did you have?”
Lena considered lying.
Unfortunately, her mother had thirty years of experience identifying that particular expression.
“Coffee isn’t breakfast.”
“I had something.”
“What?”
“A muffin.”
“When?”
Lena looked toward the barn.
“Do you want to see the goats?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
Excellent.
The goats were going to save her.
Probably.
“Come on.”
“You’re feeding me later.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I have enough food to feed a small town.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Lena started walking.
Her mother followed.
The chickens came first.
Mostly because they were closest.
Her mother stopped at the enclosure.
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“They’re so cute.”
“I know.”
One hen immediately pecked another away from something in the dirt.
Her mother frowned.
“That one’s an asshole.”
“Ruth says they’re establishing hierarchy.”
“That one’s establishing she’s an asshole.”
“Could be both.”
Her mother laughed.
Something in Lena’s chest loosened.
She hadn’t realized until then how strange it was hearing that sound here.
Redtail had become contractors and deadlines and livestock inventories and System notifications and lists that multiplied faster than she could finish them.
Her mother laughing at a chicken made it feel, briefly, like somewhere people might actually live.
“Goats?”
Her mother looked at her.
“You really have goats.”
“I told you I had goats.”
“You told me a lot of things last night.”
Fair.
The goats were considerably more interested in visitors.
One of the does approached immediately.
Her mother reached toward her.
“Can I pet her?”
“Yeah.”
The doe shoved her nose into her palm.
“Oh, you’re sweet.”
“She wants food.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She always wants food.”
A second goat appeared.
Then a third.
Within seconds, her mother had an audience.
Lena crossed her arms.
“Traitors.”
Her mother scratched beneath one doe’s chin.
Then she looked past Lena.
At the barn.
The fencing.
The tanks.
The greenhouse crews.
Her smile faded slightly.
“You really did all this.”
Lena followed her gaze.
“Not by myself.”
“But you planned it.”
“Some of it.”
“How much is some?”
Lena considered that.
“Do you want the tour?”
Her mother stared at her for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
So Lena showed her.
Not everything.
That would have taken the rest of the day.
She showed her the well and the water storage.
The backup pumps.
The generators.
The solar system.
The barn.
The feed reserves.
The veterinary supplies.
The livestock areas.
The greenhouse construction.
The equipment building that had gradually become their accessible supply warehouse.
Her mother asked questions the entire time.
Not stupid questions.
Annoyingly practical ones.
“How long does the fuel last?”
“Depends on usage.”
“What happens if that pump breaks?”
“We have replacements.”
“Who knows how to fix it?”
Lena paused.
“We have people.”
“Which people?”
“I don’t know their names.”
Her mother looked at her.
“Marcus knows their names.”
“Uh-huh.”
They kept walking.
“What happens if the solar panels break?”
“Spare components.”
“Who fixes those?”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“There are sixteen days until the probable collapse of modern civilization.
I haven’t personally interviewed every electrician.”
“I didn’t ask if you’d interviewed them.”
Lena sighed.
“Vale has people.”
“That’s becoming your answer to a lot of things.”
“It is an extremely useful answer.”
That finally got another laugh.
Then they reached the supplies.
Her mother stopped inside the building.
Industrial shelving stretched away from them.
Food.
Hygiene supplies.
Medical stock.
Protective equipment.
Water treatment.
Tools.
Agricultural supplies.
Everything labeled.
Everything organized.
Her mother walked slowly down one aisle.
“How many people is this for?”
“Twenty initially.”
“Initially?”
“We’re planning for expansion.”
“How much expansion?”
Lena hesitated.
That answer had become significantly more complicated over the last few days.
“Unknown.”
Her mother looked at the shelves.
“How long will it last?”
“A while.”
“Lena.”
“Food planning is based around a year.”
Her mother turned.
“A year.”
“For twenty people.”
“And you have all of that here?”
“Not here.”
Her mother frowned.
Finally.
Lena smiled.
“Remember the magic storage thing?”
“Yes.”
“Want to see it?”
Her mother’s expression changed immediately.
“Obviously.”
Lena grabbed a bag of rice from the shelf.
“Watch.”
Store.
The bag vanished.
Her mother screamed.
Not loudly.
More of a sharp-
“AH!”
Lena burst out laughing.
That was exactly how she had reacted.
“Lena!”
“What?”
“Put it back!”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see it!”
Still laughing, Lena retrieved it.
The bag appeared in her hands.
Her mother jumped backward.
“Oh my God.”
“See?”
“Do it again.”
Lena stored it.
Gone.
Her mother stared.
“Again.”
Retrieve.
The bag returned.
“Again.”
“Mom.”
“Again.”
Lena did it again.
Her mother stared at the empty space.
Then at Lena.
Then back at the empty space.
“That is not okay.”
“I know.”
“Where did it go?”
“Spatial Inventory.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means I have a warehouse in nowhere.”
“How much can you put in it?”
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
Lena hesitated.
“I don’t actually want to give you the wrong number because it keeps changing.”
Her mother stared at her.
“It keeps getting bigger?”
“Sometimes.”
“Of course it does.”
Lena retrieved the rice.
Her mother reached out and touched the bag.
Apparently verifying that it was, in fact, the same bag of rice.
Then she looked around the building again.
Lena watched the realization happen.
The rows of shelves suddenly meant something different.
“This isn’t everything.”
“No.”
“How much isn’t here?”
“A lot.”
Her mother slowly looked around again.
The shelves weren’t the stockpile.
They were the pantry.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And you said time doesn’t pass in there.”
“Correct.”
“So food doesn’t spoil.”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“As far as I can tell.”
Her mother was quiet.
Then-
“Can you put people in it?”
“No.”
“Animals?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Lena frowned.
“Good?”
“I don’t like the idea of you putting me in another dimension because you think it’s convenient.”
“I wouldn’t-”
Her mother looked at her.
Lena reconsidered.
“I probably wouldn’t.”
“Lena.”
“I’m kidding.”
Mostly.
They continued the tour.
But something had changed.
Her mother still asked questions.
She just stopped asking questions that began with if.
By the greenhouse, it was:
“How are you heating these?”
At the water tanks:
“How long does this last if the well stops?”
At the farmhouse:
“Where is everyone sleeping?”
Lena stopped.
“What?”
“The twenty people.”
“Oh.”
Her mother waited.
“We’re working on that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Vale has the camp.”
“The one across the road?”
“Basically.”
“And you’re putting everyone there?”
“Not everyone.”
“Who stays here?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
Lena frowned.
There were answers to that.
Probably.
Eventually.
Her mother stared at her.
“You don’t know.”
“I know a lot of things.”
“You don’t know where people are sleeping.”
“It’s on the list.”
“What list?”
“One of them.”
“How many lists do you have?”
Lena didn’t answer.
“Oh my God.”
“I have a system.”
“You have a System.”
“That too.”
Her mother rubbed a hand over her face.
Then she walked into the farmhouse.
Lena followed.
Her mother opened a cabinet.
Then another.
Then the refrigerator.
“Why are you going through my kitchen?”
“I’m looking.”
“For what?”
“Things you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget anything.”
Her mother looked at her.
Lena corrected herself.
“I didn’t forget anything important.”
“That is a completely different statement.”
She opened another cabinet.
“You have six kinds of emergency water purification and three plates.”
“I haven’t moved in properly.”
“Towels?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sheets?”
“Yes.”
“Extra?”
Lena hesitated.
Her mother nodded.
“Thought so.”
“Mom, I have enough rice to survive a minor geological era.”
“Wonderful.
What are twenty people drying themselves with?”
“They can bring towels.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Who evacuates without a towel?”
“People evacuating from the apocalypse, Lena.”
“Transition.”
“I swear to God.”
Lena laughed.
Her mother did not.
Instead she started opening drawers.
“Trash bags.”
“Yes.”
“Toilet paper?”
“An obscene amount.”
“Cleaning supplies?”
“Yes.”
“Laundry detergent?”
“Yes.”
“Pillows?”
Lena stopped.
Her mother turned.
“Pillows.”
“I heard you.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Blankets?”
“We have emergency blankets.”
“Those awful foil things?”
“They’re effective.”
“They’re not bedding.”
“We have sleeping bags.”
“For twenty people?”
Lena frowned.
Probably?
Her mother pointed at her.
“That’s the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you don’t know.”
“I know a lot.”
“You have enough food for twenty people for a year and don’t know if you have twenty pillows.”
“That is an extremely specific criticism.”
“It’s an extremely specific problem.”
Lena opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because annoyingly- it was.
Her mother leaned against the counter.
“What about clothes?”
“People own clothes.”
“To bring?”
“Yes.”
“What if they don’t have time?”
“They have sixteen days.” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“You think everyone is going to arrive here sixteen days from now calmly carrying a suitcase?”
Lena went still.
Her mother continued.
“Toothbrushes.
Underwear.
Socks.
Shoes.
Towels.
Bedding.
Things for women.
Things for kids.”
“We don’t have kids.”
“You don’t have kids yet.”
Lena stared at her.
Oh.
Her mother saw it.
“There’s the face again.”
“Shut up.”
“Language.”
“Seriously?”
Her mother smiled.
Lena pulled out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a list.”
“Of course you are.”
Lena opened her notes.
BEDDING.
TOWELS.
CLOTHING.
PERSONAL ITEMS.
CHILDREN.
She stopped.
Children was not an item.
She deleted it.
CHILD SUPPLIES.
Better.
Her mother watched her.
“You forgot people.”
“I did not forget people.”
“You prepared for keeping bodies alive.”
Lena looked up.
Her mother gestured around the kitchen.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Lena opened her mouth.
Then closed it again.
Because- fuck.
She’d spent the morning planning how to preserve livestock genetics for breeds that might otherwise disappear from the planet.
The System had informed her that her cultural preservation was minimal.
She’d immediately wondered whether she was supposed to save the Louvre.
Meanwhile, she apparently hadn’t bought enough pillows.
A clear tone sounded in her mind.
Lena closed her eyes.
Of course.
“What?” her mother asked.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
“The System is being judgmental.”
Her mother looked entirely too pleased by that.
A blue window opened.
NEW OBJECTIVE
BASIC HUMAN NEEDS
Food and water alone do not constitute adequate survival preparation.
Establish the resources necessary to meet the physiological needs of your intended settlement population.
TARGET POPULATION: 20
REQUIREMENTS
Food: GOOD
Potable water: GOOD
Weather-protected shelter: INSUFFICIENT
Sleep and rest provisions: INSUFFICIENT
Clothing and footwear: INSUFFICIENT
Thermal protection: INSUFFICIENT
Hygiene and sanitation: DEVELOPING
Lena stopped.
Thermal protection: INSUFFICIENT.
A warning indicator pulsed beside it.
PROJECTED EXTREME-COLD CONDITIONS EXCEED CURRENT PROTECTION CAPACITY.
Oh.
Fuck.
She’d bought blankets.
Emergency blankets.
Sleeping bags.
Hand warmers.
Some cold-weather gear.
She had not bought enough winter clothing for twenty people to live through temperatures that might eventually reach eighty degrees below zero.
Not even fucking close.
The System continued.
OBJECTIVE
Raise all Basic Human Needs categories to ADEQUATE or higher.
REWARD
Human Needs Assessment
Settlement progression
Additional reward based on completion quality
Lena stared at it.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“What?”
“It agrees with you.”
Her mother smiled.
“I like it.”
“It says I haven’t adequately prepared for basic human survival.”
“I told you that.”
Lena glared at her.
“You did.”
“And now you have a second opinion.”
Her mother pushed away from the counter.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been driving for hours and you promised to feed me.”
“You told me I was feeding you.”
“And you didn’t say no.”
“That’s not the same as promising.”
“Close enough.”
Lena stared at her.
“You just spent twenty minutes criticizing my ability to provide for human beings.”
“And now I’m giving you an opportunity to improve.”
Lena laughed.
“You’re very generous.”
“I try.”
“What do you want?”
“Something that didn’t come out of your apocalypse stockpile.”
“Rude.”
“Food, Lena.”
“Fine.”
They ended up on the porch.
The same porch where Lena had sat the night before, trying to explain the end of the world over the phone.
Her mother sat beside her with a plate balanced on her lap.
For once, Lena had obeyed without much argument and gotten one for herself.
The farm was quieter now.
Not quiet.
Redtail was almost never quiet anymore.
But the crews were beginning to leave.
The greenhouse frames caught the lowering sun.
Chickens moved through their run.
Somewhere behind the barn, a goat complained about something.
Across the road, another truck turned toward Vale’s property.
Her mother watched it.
“That’s his?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Camp and some surrounding property.”
Her mother nodded slowly.
Then she looked back across Redtail.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Lena ate.
Mostly because she knew her mother was watching.
Finally-
“So.”
Lena waited.
“I still don’t understand the magic screen.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t understand why this is happening.”
“Same.”
“And I definitely don’t understand why it picked you.”
“Extremely same.”
Her mother smiled faintly.
Then she looked toward the greenhouse.
The barn.
The animals.
The water tanks.
All the things Lena had somehow accumulated around herself in less than two weeks.
“But I believe you.”
Lena went still.
Not I believe that you believe it.
I believe you.
Lena looked down at her plate.
“Okay.”
Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand.
Lena swallowed.
“Okay.”
They sat like that for a moment.
Then her mother looked across the farm again.
“You did all this in two weeks?”
Lena followed her gaze.
The barn.
The fences.
The animals.
The tanks.
The greenhouse roofs glowing in the lowering sun.
“No.”
Her mother frowned.
Lena nodded toward the road.
“I had a billionaire.”
Her mother laughed.
Lena squeezed her hand back.
Then her mother sighed.
“All right.”
“What?”
“I need to go home and figure out what I’m bringing.”
Relief hit Lena so quickly it almost hurt.
“You’re coming here?”
Her mother looked at her.
“You told me the world is going to end in sixteen days.”
“Transition.”
“Do you want me to stay here or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop correcting me.”
Lena smiled.
Her mother looked toward the farmhouse.
“Where am I sleeping?”
“Tonight?”
“No, Lena.”
Oh.
Lena looked at the house.
Then the barn.
Then, involuntarily, toward Vale’s property.
Her mother saw it.
“You don’t know.”
“We have options.”
“You don’t know.”
“It’s on the list.”
Her mother sighed.
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Give me the list.”
Lena stared at her.
Her mother held out her hand.
“You’ve handled food, water, animals, power, medicine, farming and whatever the hell a genetic archive is.”
Lena blinked.
“How do you know about the genetic archive?”
“Ruth told me while you were getting food.”
Traitor.
Her mother wiggled her fingers.
“Give me the list.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently somebody needs to make sure the end of civilization has towels.”
Lena looked at her hand.
Then at Redtail.
For almost two weeks, every problem had become hers.
Every missing thing.
Every decision.
Every list.
Lena unlocked her phone.
Then handed it over.
Her mother smiled.
“Good.”
Lena immediately knew she would regret it.
Probably.
But for the first time since the countdown appeared, one of the lists wasn’t hers anymore.
That felt pretty fucking good.