Chapter 7: Unexpected Intrusion

chloe

The morning light filtered through the window into the living room when my phone suddenly rang with an unfamiliar number. Someone was calling on Derek’s behalf, demanding food right away. I did not listen long. I hung up, blocked the number, and powered off the phone.

I ate the noodles sitting on the table, then walked out to the balcony. Several seedling trays lined the railing, filled with potatoes and fast-growing greens. I estimated the harvest. In forty days, these crops would be ready, extra food to supplement my stock from the space. I was cutting Derek off completely. I would not waste any more energy on him.

Midday. Loud, rapid banging shook the door, accompanied by men’s shouts from outside.

“Open up! We know you’re in there!”

I looked through the peephole and recognized them at once — Derek's acquaintances.They lived nearby, which was how they’d found my door. Them showing up at here now could only mean Derek had put them up to it.

Three men had blocked my doorway.

The tall one in front put on a fake, friendly smile. "Hey, let's talk. We're willing to pay five times the price for your goods. We're all old acquaintances here — no need to be so distant."

"Not selling." My voice was flat.

The smile drained off his face in an instant, and his tone snapped taut, wrapped in menace. "Don't push your luck!"

Bang — a hard kick slammed into the door, and the frame rattled and sang.

I backed slowly into the kitchen, pulled out a knife, gripped the handle backhand, then stepped up and yanked the door open. The blade half-hidden at my side, I let my eyes drift slowly across the three of them without a flicker of retreat.

"Who kicked the door."

The burliest one snorted and came half a step forward. "We're Derek's people. Derek says you've got a big stock of supplies stashed away. Don't play dumb with us."

My voice didn't rise or fall. It was cold as ice water. "Derek is a stray dog waiting for handouts. He and I cut ties a long time ago. You're taking nothing today."

The tall man’s face darkened completely. He dropped his shoulders, ready to surge inside.

That was when I turned my wrist and set the point of the knife against his throat.

"Come bothering me again," I said, staring into his eyes, one word at a time, "and I won't just post your door-kicking, robbing act on Nextdoor. Everyone will know you three would break into a resident's home for food. In this building, you don't need me to spell out what happens to anyone tagged as a supply thief."

Before they could answer, I pressed forward another step with the knife. The tip broke his skin, and blood welled up and ran.

All three went white and stumbled back.

"Fine... we'll see about this!" The tall one clapped a hand over his throat, spat the threat, and the three of them fled in a scramble.

I slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. Click.

I knew what that drawn knife had cut open wasn't an argument. It was the line between life and death. From this moment on, 4502 was no longer a soft target anyone could walk up to and squeeze.

That afternoon, I opened Facebook. Derek had posted a cry for help, and a woman replied, offering to share her supplies with him. I foresaw exactly how this would end. I had seen it countless times in my past life. Anyone who volunteered their food would soon be swarmed by endless visitors begging for resources until there was nothing left.

The wind outside picked up. The hurricane intensified. Posts from people bragging about their stock vanished from social media, replaced by panicked messages. The weight of the storm hung over the entire apartment building.

Later that evening, there was another knock. Marcus stood in the doorway. He told me he had run out of supplies and needed to head out to buy groceries. He wanted to leave Zoe with me temporarily until he returned.

I watched the storm wrap around his figure and asked, “Can you even go out in this hurricane?”

Marcus said he'd go take his chances, then told Zoe to behave herself, turned, and left.

Marcus didn't come back last night. I woke to find Zoe already sitting on the sofa, quietly staring out at the steady rain.

I boiled hot water and heated two cans of food, sliding one portion over to Zoe.

At ten in the morning, a photo popped up in the Nextdoor group. Floodwater covered the ankles of residents on the ground floor; someone stood in their doorway, bailing water out with a laundry basin. Messages flooded the feed. People blamed the government, asking when FEMA would arrive, tagging the building manager over and over. No one replied.

At exactly eleven, the whole building lost power. I shut off my charging phone and pulled a portable solar power bank from the space, hooking it up to LED light strips. Zoe shifted closer to the warm glow, saying nothing.

After the blackout, cell service cut in and out. While Zoe napped on the couch, I locked the bedroom door and stepped into the space. Everything inside remained unchanged: steady temperature, working lights, neatly stacked supplies. Young green shoots sprouted from the hydroponic trays. I inventoried medicine and drinking water, confirming my stock was sufficient. Before leaving, I jotted a line in my notes: Power loss does not affect the dimension. Next risk: water outage.

At noon,The gas supply was cut off too.I fetched a spare propane tank from the space back in my apartment. I closed the windows tightly and cooked a pot of spicy beef canned stew in the kitchen. The small room quickly filled with steam, hot and stifling. A thin layer of sweat coated my skin. I set the bowls on the table and woke Zoe.

Zoe took two bites and looked up softly. “Spicy, but good.”

I only said, “Drink more water.”

By the afternoon, photos of ankle-deep floodwater on the ground floor kept filling Nextdoor. Pleas for shelter started appearing: Anyone have room for one night? We have elderly family with us.

I flipped my phone face-down on the table.

Knocking echoed down the hallway, not at my door. The sound traveled upward from the stairs. Through the peephole, I saw a middle-aged couple dragging suitcases, anxious and exhausted. They stopped at the neighbor’s door and knocked repeatedly, with no answer.

I stepped back and leaned against the wall. It did not take long to draw my conclusion. Word had spread about how I’d threatened those men with a blade yesterday. I filed this information away, unsurprised.

Shortly after three in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. I checked the peephole and confirmed it was Marcus before unlocking the door. He was soaked head to toe, carrying a tactical backpack, his face blank of extra emotion. Zoe slid off the sofa instantly and ran to grab his hand. Marcus glanced down at her and gave a small nod. No polite small talk. He set the pack down and spoke directly.

“The isolation door for the 45th-floor stairwell has been broken for ages. I’ve got an old security door. We could install it. Want to help?”

I asked, “What do you mean?”

“People from the lower floors are moving upward. Putting it in now is far cheaper than waiting.”

I thought for three seconds. “Alright.”

We headed to the hallway to mount the door. Marcus handled all the heavy lifting, while I passed tools and steadied the frame. We finished in under twenty minutes, and he handed me a spare key.

As the lock clicked shut, faint footsteps and voices drifted up the stairwell. The sounds paused briefly at the entrance to the 45th floor, then faded away.

Back in the corridor, Marcus unzipped his tactical pack and set items at my feet: two water purification tablets, a box of amoxicillin, and a hand-crank emergency radio.

“Water will probably be cut tonight,” he said. “Store as much as you can, quickly.”

I looked down at the supplies and calmly pushed one bottle of purification tablets back toward him. “I already have purification tablets. Keep the radio, I’ll take the amoxicillin.”

Marcus did not argue and put the tablets back in his pack.

He lifted Zoe to leave. She glanced back at me and waved gently. I did not respond. Once they were inside their apartment, I slipped the amoxicillin into my pocket.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, mentally running through a checklist.

Three reinforced doors. Multiple trips outside. Gone all night through the hurricane, only returning this afternoon. Every supply he brought matched the crisis perfectly. His warning to store water was no idle comment.

I went back inside and locked the door. Opening my phone notes, I added a note next to Marcus’s name: (pending verification).

At nine that night, only a thin trickle came from the faucet. By ten, the water supply died completely.

I closed the kitchen door and entered the space.

Next to the hydroponic trays, I marked out four new plots. I turned roughly two square meters of growing medium, sowing seeds for spinach, arugula, chili peppers and cucumbers. I planted two young citrus saplings in the corner. The work left two blisters on my palms.

I wiped my hands on my shirt. Back in my apartment, I wrote the final entry in my notes: Today: power, gas, and water cut off. Network unstable. Outside living conditions have fully collapsed. Outside the windows, everything was pitch black. Not a single window in the entire building glowed.