Victoria's Journal

June 25th, 2020

I moved more today. Tested my ankle. Pushed it.

The pain screamed, but it didn’t break me.

Slowly, I made my way through the house, down the stairs I hadn’t dared to explore before. The basement door creaked when I opened it. Dust swirled in the air, sunlight slipping in from a tiny window high on the wall.

The smell hit first. Oil. Metal. Dried leather.

Supplies.

Gear.

Her father had been ready for this.

Army man. Survivalist.

Crates and bags were stacked neatly along the walls. Nothing thrown together. Everything placed with purpose.

Then I noticed the tags stitched into several canvas packs.

Megan.

Sarah.

Maddie.

David.

I opened the smallest one first.

Stuffed animals.

A bear worn thin at the arms. One ear half torn and stitched back on with blue thread.

Another bag held medical supplies. Bandages folded tight. Antiseptic bottles wrapped in cloth so they wouldn’t clink. Tools I didn’t know the names for but understood immediately.

Bug-out bags.

Each one ready to grab and run.

I sat back on my heels for a minute and just looked at them.

This family had planned for the end of the world long before it actually showed up.

Every piece of gear said the same thing. Someone here believed preparation could buy you time. Maybe even save you.

I didn’t dig through everything. Didn’t feel right.

Just enough to understand what was here.

Then I picked a few light things to carry back upstairs. Water bottles. A couple cans I hadn’t seen in the kitchen. Useful things.

Every step up the stairs reminded me my ankle still wasn’t happy with me. My arm throbbed too, dull and steady.

But I moved.

And in this world, moving means you’re still alive.