Sixty days in.
The outdoor thermometer read minus 52 degrees Fahrenheit. Down in my basement, I was busy working on a bowl of bread batter.
Buried in the mountain of food I'd stockpiled were a few bags of flour. I was sick and tired of canned beef and tuna, so I figured I'd switch things up and bake a loaf of bread—plus, it gave me something to do to pass the time.
Beep—the security monitor beeped. Four heat signatures.
I wiped the dough off my hands and stepped over to the monitor. One man led the group, and I'd recognize that stance anywhere—Scarface. His stride was still as steady as ever, but his shoulders slumped lower than they had last month, and the double-barreled shotgun slung across his back was wrapped tight in a coil of waterproof tape.
Two of his goons stumbled behind hi
