Apocalypse Rebirth: My Gold-Eating System

Etha scrambled across the floor, her designer dress bunching around her knees. She clawed her way to a heavy oak cabinet in the corner of the living room, fumbling with a key she wore on a chain around her neck. Her hands shook so violently that it took her three tries to fit the key into the lock of the built-in safe.

Joanna watched her, her expression unreadable. The tip of the letter opener remained perfectly still, a cold, unmoving threat against Cody's lifeblood. He was a whimpering, sobbing mess on the floor, his good hand clutching his shattered wrist, his face slick with tears and snot. He didn't dare move a muscle.

Finally, a soft click. Etha wrenched the safe door open and pulled out a thick manila folder. Her face was a mask of anguish as she turned, clutching the documents to her chest as if they were a vital organ.

"The table," Joanna commanded, her voice low. She gestured with her chin.

Etha stumbled over, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, and slapped the folder onto the glass surface. Then she rushed to a side table and retrieved a sleek, silver laptop. Her fingers, slick with sweat, slipped on the keys as she tried to enter her password.

"I... I can't transfer that much at once," Etha stammered, her eyes darting between Joanna's face and the blade at her son's throat. "The bank has limits. It has to be done at a branch."

Joanna didn't say a word.

She simply dragged the edge of the letter opener sideways, carving a thin, shallow line across Cody's neck. It wasn't deep enough to be fatal, but it was enough to draw a fresh wave of crimson.

Cody shrieked, a raw, terrified sound. "The offshore account, Mom! Use the goddamn offshore account! Are you trying to get me killed?"

The mention of the secret account made Etha flinch. The last of her resistance crumbled. With a sob of despair, she logged into a different, encrypted portal. The interface of a Swiss bank appeared on the screen. Her eyes, filled with a venomous hatred, met Joanna's for a fleeting second. Joanna saw the promise of retribution in them, the silent vow that this would not be the end.

Joanna smiled, a cold, humorless twisting of her lips. "If that money isn't in my account in the next five minutes," she said, her voice soft as silk, "the police will be dragging Cody's body out of the Hudson River tomorrow morning."

The threat, delivered with such casual certainty, shattered Etha's last nerve. She typed furiously, her manicured nails clicking against the keyboard.

A moment later, a soft chime emanated from Joanna's pocket.

She kept the blade pressed to Cody's neck with one hand while she pulled out her phone with the other. The screen glowed with a notification from her Wells Fargo app.

Deposit Received: $1,000,000.00

Next, she reached for the folder on the table, never taking her eyes off Etha. She flipped it open and scanned the deed. It was the correct property. No liens. No mortgages. Signed over from her mother's estate to Etha Payne. There was a blank transfer of ownership form clipped to it.

Everything was in order.

With a final, decisive movement, Joanna yanked the letter opener away. She gave Cody a shove with her foot, sending him sprawling into his mother's arms.

The two of them collapsed into a heap on the floor, a tangle of expensive clothes and pathetic sobs.

Joanna turned without a backward glance and walked toward the front hall. She grabbed her worn trench coat from the rack, shrugging it on. There was nothing left for her here. This house had been a cage, and she was finally free.

Just as her hand touched the doorknob, the front door swung inward.

Her uncle, Joseph Payne, stood on the threshold, his briefcase in hand. He stopped short, his mild face slack with shock as he took in the scene: his wife and son crying on the floor, the shattered mug, the blood on Cody's neck, and Joanna, standing there like a specter of vengeance.

"Joanna... what...?"

"Joseph, stop her!" Etha shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "She's a monster! She robbed us! Don't let her leave!"

Joseph, a man who had spent his life avoiding confrontation, instinctively moved to block the doorway. He spread his arms, a flimsy human barrier. But when his watery, fearful eyes met Joanna's, he faltered.

The look in her eyes wasn't anger. It was something much older, much colder. It was the look of a soldier who had seen the end of the world.

Joanna remembered him from her past life. He was weak, a coward dominated by his wife. But sometimes, late at night, after Etha had forbidden her from eating dinner, she would hear his soft footsteps in the hallway. A few moments later, a sandwich wrapped in a napkin would appear outside her door, placed there in silence. A small, furtive kindness in a sea of cruelty. She could still taste the stale bread and cheap turkey, and the memory felt like a sharp knife twisting in her chest.

She wouldn't hurt him.

She simply walked forward and brushed past him, her shoulder bumping his with enough force to make him stumble back. She stepped out of the house, onto the stone steps, and into the cool evening air.

She paused at the bottom of the steps, her back still to him.

"Get a house in the suburbs," she said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. "Something with a deep basement. Stock it with canned food and bottled water. As much as you can afford."

She didn't wait for a response. She didn't look back.

Joseph opened his mouth as if to speak, a confused question forming on his lips—but Joanna was already walking away, her trench coat billowing behind her. He stood frozen in the doorway, a man caught between his wife's screaming demands and the incomprehensible transformation of the niece he thought he knew.

She walked away, leaving Joseph standing in the doorway, a confused and frightened man, staring after a niece he no longer recognized. Inside, he could hear Etha frantically trying to call 911, her voice rising in frustration as she discovered the landline was dead. Joanna had cut the cord on her way out.

The sounds of Brooklyn-the traffic, the distant sirens, the chatter of people on the sidewalks-washed over her. It was the sound of a world blissfully unaware of its impending doom. She breathed it in, the exhaust fumes and city grime feeling like the purest air she'd ever known.

At the corner, she paused by a storm drain. She opened her hand and let the brass letter opener fall from her grasp. It disappeared into the darkness with a faint splash, severing the last physical tie to her former life.

A homeless man started to approach her, his hand outstretched, but he stopped short when he saw her face. He saw the aura of violence that still clung to her, a scent that only the desperate and the hunted can recognize. He backed away without a word.

Joanna hailed a yellow cab, the iconic symbol of a life she was about to leave behind. She slid into the back seat, the worn leather cool against her skin.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

She looked out the window at the flashing lights of the city, at the people laughing and living, oblivious.

She gave him the address of the old, forgotten house in Queens.

The cab pulled away from the curb. Joanna clutched the bag containing the deed, her knuckles white. Her mind was already racing, blueprints of a fortress taking shape against the backdrop of the dying world.