As it turns out, there's a lot you can do in twenty hours.
Dad has us go through the entire house, gathering everything of use we can find.
Candles, lighters, twine, box cutters, a few switchblades Randall's probably stolen from people, containers of disinfectant wipes, hand sanitizer… The list goes on.
We also all have bags packed with essentials, such as changes of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, and some snacks in case we somehow end up separated from each other.
"We have to prepare for anything," Dad says, immune to Marissa's sobs as he tosses aside her favorite clothes. "Stop looking at fashion. Look at the things Lauren's packed. You need to think utilitarian. Things that will keep you warm and protect your skin."
"Daddy, I don't have clothes like that!"
"Then borrow hers!"
"Ew! No, never. I wouldn't be caught dead in her clothes."
Dad must be at his limit, because he takes a deep breath and says with disturbing calm, "Die, then. Die with your precious clothes, you insufferable child."
"William!" Marian's shock is echoed in all of us. Even Randall stands watching.
"What are you doing?" Dad barks at them both. "Go pack your bags! Do you think this is a joke? What are you going to do if those idiots outside come in here? We need to be ready to run if we have to!"
I slip away from their chaos. Despite the gravity of the situation, my lips twitch as Marissa's whining backfires. She's twenty years old and acts as though she's fourteen, content to live her life as a spoiled brat.
Of course, it's Dad's fault, too. He's always spoiled Marian's kids.
But amusement fades as I remember I have to somehow deal with this upcoming apocalypse with those same spoiled brats.
Ugh.
My feet carry me to the guest room at the end of the hall. It's rarely used, but maybe there's something here we've overlooked. I open the closet, pushing aside spare comforters and sheets.
"Come on, there's got to be something useful," I mutter, rummaging through a box of old winter gear. Gloves, scarves, thermal underwear. Not glamorous, but potentially lifesaving if we end up outside for long periods. I add those to a small pile by my feet.
A flash of metal catches my eye. Tucked behind a stack of old blankets is a first aid kit. My breath catches. How did we miss this earlier? I grab it, fingers fumbling with the latch. Inside, I find bandages, antiseptic wipes, and—thank God—a small bottle of painkillers. These could be worth their weight in gold soon.
That also goes in the pile.
There's a nightstand by the bed, with a drawer that sticks a little as I tug at it. Once opened, I'm surprised to see a Bible—none of us are religious—and a Swiss army knife.
I pocket it. It's not much, but the multiple tools could prove invaluable.
"Lauren? Where are you?" Marissa's shrill voice carries up the stairs.
"Up here! I found some things in the guest room."
I hear footsteps on the stairs as I move to the bathroom connected to the guest room. The medicine cabinet yields a few more treasures: a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some gauze, and a small sewing kit.
"What are you doing?" She gives a giant, fake, megawatt smile. Dad probably told her to play nice with me or something.
Motioning around me, I say simply, "Looking. What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just wondered if you found anything useful."
"Yeah. There's a first aid kit and a few other things on the floor in there."
"First aid kit? I'll take it downstairs. Dad will want to see it."
Of course. She'll present it as her own discovery, no doubt. I bite back a retort, reminding myself that petty squabbles don't matter now. Not with the world ending outside our doors.
"Fine," I say, turning back to the cabinet. "I'll keep looking up here."
She lingers for a moment, as if unsure whether to stay and supervise me or rush downstairs with her prize. Finally, she leaves, and I hear her calling out to Dad as she descends the stairs.
* * *
"Four hours," Dad says with a sigh. The house looks nothing like the pristine home it's been for years. Boxes are everywhere, for easy access.
Randall looks exhausted; this is probably the hardest he's ever worked in his life. Marissa and Marian are disheveled, but not sweating; they pretended to help, but were worthless in the end, as expected.
Funny how the one I objectively hate the most is more useful when the world's ending.
"What do we do?" Marissa asks from her perch on the couch. "We've done everything on your list, Daddy."
Dad ignores her, turning to the TV, raising the volume so we can actually hear it.
Images of rifts in the sky fill the screen, their unnatural light piercing through the dark midnight sky.
"These rifts have grown significantly larger in the past hour," a disturbingly put-together news anchor reports, as if she's talking about any regular weather phenomenon. But there's a tightness around her eyes, and her hands tremble a little as she goes through the papers in front of her. "Scientists are baffled by their sudden expansion and luminescence. While there are many theories, of course, no one has been able to ascertain the truth of these rifts. It's impossible to get near them."
I lean forward, my eyes fixed on the screen. The rifts look like wounds in the fabric of reality, pulsing with an otherworldly energy. It's as if the sky itself is bleeding light.
"Look at that," Dad mutters.
The camera pans across various cities, each scene more chaotic than the last. In some, mobs of people surge through the streets, their faces contorted with fear and rage. Fires burn unchecked, casting hellish shadows on abandoned buildings. In others, the streets are eerily empty, as if the entire population has simply vanished.
"The government advises all citizens to remain in their homes and prepare for any eventuality," the anchor continues, her voice barely steady. "Stock up on non-perishable food, water, and medical supplies. If possible, seek shelter in basements or reinforced structures."
I glance at our hastily packed boxes, wondering if we've done enough.
"We encourage everyone to reach out to their loved ones. Call your family, your friends. Say what needs to be said... while you still can."
My thoughts immediately turn to Brian. My twin, my other half, somewhere out there in this crumbling world. I haven't spoken to him in years, not since Dad kicked him out. The urge to hear his voice, to know he's safe, overwhelms me.
But I don't have his number.
"What do you think is going to happen when the countdown ends, Daddy?"
Dad shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. "I don't know."
The news switches to footage of military vehicles rolling through city streets. Soldiers in full combat gear direct panicked civilians, their faces grim and determined. It's like watching scenes from a post-apocalyptic movie, except this is real.
"The President is expected to address the nation within the hour," the anchor announces. "Stay tuned for this critical broadcast."
Suddenly, the kitchen light flickers and dies. The hum of the refrigerator falls silent. Through the window, I see the entire neighborhood plunge into darkness.
The TV is dead, its screen a blank, accusing eye.
Marissa and Marian scream, but I fumble my way to a box, holding candles and lighters.
A bruised shin and a few moments later, we have light. Not a lot, but I light a few more candles and place them strategically around us, so we can see.
"What's happening?" Marissa whimpers, clinging to Marian.
"The power's out, idiot."
"But why?"
"Overload, maybe. This is why I wanted to be prepared. Randall, help Lauren clear a space for blankets on the floor. We'll all sleep here until the electricity comes back. Otherwise someone's going to break their neck falling down the stairs."
"Got it," Randall mumbles, throwing a scowl my way.
I roll my eyes. If he wants to be angry with someone, he should be upset that his sister's so useless, not alienate the one person helping him with everything.