The Apocalypse Hoarder

The three of them pushed the loaded carts back into the residential complex. Cyrus' neighbors spotted them along the way and began whispering. Cyrus did not care. Now that those two women had witnessed his shopping spree, secrecy was impossible.

If survival had been his only goal, he could have sold everything, vanished into the wilderness, and built an impregnable fortress. But what about revenge? What about the neighbors who had literally torn him apart in his past life?

Until he killed them all, the knot in his chest would never loosen.

One survival plan required staying in this very community, repaying every betrayal with a cruelty of his own design. That plan relied on the security company constructing a truly unbreakable safehouse. Failing that, Plan B awaited: an underground shelter far from civilization.

He scanned the smiling neighbors. To them, his overflowing carts were a curiosity, fodder for gossip. However, Cyrus already knew the truth—when the world collapsed, these same people would try to smash down his door and strip his home bare.

He was not afraid. Not this time. He would ensure they saw the food, smelled it, hungered for it, and still could not touch a single bite. That would be his revenge.

He and Diana lived in the same apartment block. As a supervisor at the Volmart warehouse, his neighbors often asked him to buy discounted stock. Everyone knew him.

Seeing them haul three carts of food, a grandmother out with her grandson waddled over.

"Oh, Cyrus, why so much? Did the warehouse mark this down?" Her eyes gleamed at the sight of fresh beef and lamb. "You'll never eat it all. Why not share some with the neighbors?"

It was Linda Matthews, a busybody on the Neighborhood Committee who loved throwing her weight around. She always schemed for freebies. In Cyrus' past life, she had guilt-tripped him into handing over food. When the mob stormed his apartment, she had been fiercer than the young men.

Diana and Natalie stepped back. "It's all Cyrus'. We were just helping him carry it."

Linda turned her smile on him. "Come now, Cyrus. These must be from the warehouse. Why not let me have a little?"

Even as she spoke, her brat of a grandson, Timmy Benson, climbed onto the cart and grabbed a box of imported chocolates worth over 40 dollars.

Cyrus snatched it back without hesitation and said coldly, "Sorry. These are mine."

The apocalypse was only a month away. He had no time for politeness with scavengers.

Linda's face darkened. "You!"

Her fury at the disrespect was palpable. Her spoiled grandson wailed louder, pointing a chubby finger. "You're a bad man! Give me the chocolate, or I'll beat you to death!"

Cyrus fixed him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Say another word, and I'll slap your mouth."

The boy froze, then exploded into sobs, rolled on the ground, and threw a tantrum.

Linda rushed to soothe him, leering at Cyrus. "How could you pick on a child? It's just a box of chocolates! Give it to him. I'll pay you back later. Do you think I'm trying to take advantage of you?"

Cyrus sneered. Everyone paid with mobile apps now. If she had meant to pay, she could have done it instantly.

"I said it's mine. If you want chocolate, go buy it yourself." He barked a cold laugh and walked away with Diana and Natalie.

Behind them, Linda's shrill curses rattled the courtyard, but Cyrus ignored them.

Linda's son and daughter-in-law worked far from home, leaving her alone to care for Timmy. She normally bought only a day's worth of food, never more, which meant their house always ran out of supplies first when disaster struck.

In his last life, he had helped her. This time, he would not. Without stockpiles, Linda and Timmy would be lucky to survive ten days once Frostfall began. He had no interest in arguing with walking corpses.

Once the carts reached his apartment, Cyrus dismissed the women.

"Don't forget you owe us dinner!" Diana teased, batting her eyes.

The sight made his stomach turn. He muttered a vague response, too disgusted to care.

The women lingered, hoping to catch a hint of hidden wealth. When they realized he had no interest in entertaining them, they left reluctantly.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Cyrus summoned his pocket dimension and sent all the supplies into the white void. He wanted to see if they would change overnight.

By the time he finished, it was late. Instead of sleeping, he pulled out pen and paper and began drafting a one-month survival plan. Lazy as he had been in the past, the will to survive could unlock hidden potential.

He wrote: [To live luxuriously in the apocalypse, food comes first.]

He could easily acquire ordinary groceries. The real stockpiling would come from the warehouse, but only cautiously, only at the right moment. A few days in jail for theft would mean certain death.

He wrote the word "Food."

"Next is heat and warmth. Once the power grid fails, air conditioners are useless. A fireplace is the best option," he muttered.

He thought of Eldora's brutal winters. Fireplaces had kept people alive for centuries.

"If that's the case, I need to renovate the house—better insulation, proper heat-proofing." The thought stirred the memory of burglars breaking in during his last life, and his chest tightened at the recollection.

"This time, I'll turn my place into a steel fortress. Step one: reinforce every wall with heavy steel plates or alloy so it can withstand a blast."

In the apocalypse, people would kill for scraps. There was no room for mistakes. He had already died once and would not go through that again.

Securing a safehouse was simpler. Volaris had security firms catering to the rich, offering custom-built, fortified panic rooms. He recalled reading about a billionaire who had built a bunker capable of surviving small nuclear strikes.

"Next is medicine. I cannot afford to get sick. There's no treatment if I do. Volmart's warehouses stock basic drugs for cold, fever, and minor illnesses. But that's not enough. This ice storm will last decades at least. I need to be fully prepared."

Fortunately, he had contacts in hospital logistics. Money could buy any medicine he required.

He tapped the pen on the notebook, eyes sharp. "Last problem… Weapons."

Once civilization collapsed, violence would dominate. To survive, he needed firepower. He was no martial artist, and even masters fell to blades and bullets.

"Machetes, crowbars, and axes are easy to obtain. I also have sources for crossbows, air rifles, and compound bows. As for guns, foreign imports are best. That means the black market."

He rubbed his chin. Traveling abroad was unrealistic, but he still had a month. With enough cash, a way would turn up.

For three hours, he mapped out every detail. Only then did he take a long, hot shower before collapsing onto his bed.

…

The next morning, Cyrus woke groggy, still shaken by nightmares. Yet the warmth of his bed was real, and he drew a long, steady breath. Memories of the apocalypse had scarred him, but he refused to relive them. This time, he would be ready.

After breakfast, he checked his pocket dimension. To his delight, the meat, fruit, and vegetables he had left there overnight remained unchanged. Meat was hard to judge in just a day, but fruit and vegetables usually spoiled quickly. Inside the pocket dimension, they looked as fresh as if he had bought them yesterday.

"My pocket dimension exists outside this world. Maybe time works differently there. It could move slower or even stand still. Incredible. This means I can store anything I want without a single worry," he murmured.

The only exceptions were the fish. All of them were dead. Even in death, they looked lifelike, without a hint of decay.

Rubbing his chin, Cyrus realized he had just discovered another rule of the pocket dimension. "So living things can't survive here. That rules out hiding in it myself."

It was not a big loss. His apartment was far more comfortable. As long as supplies stayed fresh, he was more than satisfied.

An idea struck him. If meat and vegetables did not expire, what about prepared meals?

Cyrus could cook, but he was no chef. Eventually, he would tire of his own food. Why not stockpile ready-made gourmet dishes?

He picked up his phone and dialed the Grand Heritage Hotel, the most luxurious five-star hotel in Volaris. They offered delivery, and their food was excellent.

"Hello, this is the Grand Heritage Hotel. How can we help you?"

"Hello. I'm hosting guests at home," Cyrus said without hesitation. "I need enough food to cover 500 tables for the banquet."

Silence followed. Even for them, 500 tables of food was an extraordinary demand. At 800 dollars per table, the total exceeded 400,000 dollars.

The receptionist stammered, "P-Please hold. I need to get the manager."

Moments later, another voice came on the line. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Dylan Thompson, the hotel manager. May I have your name?"