Chapter 7: The Last Meal Before the Flood

By the time we returned to the overlook, it was already 7 p.m. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since morning—my legs trembled as I staggered off the truck. The sun painted the valley gold. Somewhere, a campfire’s smoke drifted. My stomach growled so loud Dad laughed.

Mom called me over, smile tight with worry. She climbed onto the truck, rummaged, and pulled out a big red bag. She handed me a couple tortillas, a jar of Skippy peanut butter, and a can of Campbell’s soup—American comfort food in the apocalypse. She dipped a green onion in hot sauce, spread it on the tortilla, and rolled it up for me.

The tortilla was cold and stale, but the peanut butter and hot sauce set my mouth on fire in the best way. I devoured it, crumbs down my shirt. Mom shook her head, laughing, and handed me a battered thermos.

"Eat slower, don’t choke," she said. I drank warm, metallic water, letting it soothe my throat.

Sitting together in a circle, it felt like the best meal of my life. Dad leaned back, arms crossed, face lined by the setting sun. For a moment, the world felt almost safe.

After eating, I told them everything—about the coming disaster, about my last life. Mom and Dad listened in silence. Dad’s grip on my hand was iron. Mom’s eyes shone with unshed tears. We promised—no matter what, we’d stick together.

We made a plan: head to the summit, where the white water tower stood. Five stories, one entrance—easy to defend, hard to storm. If anyone survived, it’d be there.

But with less than sixteen hours left, and no road higher up, we’d have to haul the supplies by hand. Dad rolled up his sleeves. "We’ll do it in shifts. Ain’t no flood taking us today."