READ NOVEL ONLINE CHAPTER 3: Modern Preparations
Atlas woke up groggily, the remnants of a heavy night hanging over him like a fog. His head pounded—a brutal reminder of last night’s decisions. *Worth it,* he thought with a small grin, squinting at the morning light streaming through the window. It was warm, comforting—everything his mind wasn’t.
Then, the weight of reality came crashing back. *The portals.* Two years until they opened. Two years until the world changed forever. He cursed under his breath, questioning his sanity for the hundredth time. *Is this even real?* But the digital display in the corner of his vision answered that for him: "1 year and 364 days till portalling."
He’d first noticed the countdown halfway through a bottle of scotch. *And what did I do?* he chuckled to himself. *Finished the damn bottle.* No regrets. If anything, it had helped settle him into a calm certainty.
Atlas rubbed his temples, clearing the fog from his brain. *I can’t waste time.* If the portals were inevitable, he had to be ready. Not just for himself—for everyone. His iPad was already in his hands, tabs multiplying as he jotted down everything he could remember about the portals—their patterns, dangers, and how to survive. But planning wasn’t enough. *I need gear, resources, training. Yesterday.*
Money. Atlas glanced around his apartment. Everything he owned suddenly felt irrelevant. *In two years, cash will be useless. The wasteland didn’t care about banknotes or savings accounts. It was all about vending machines and survival. I’m going to need weapons, food, tech... hell, even basic stuff like clothes will be costly to come by once those portals open.*
He grabbed his phone, pulled up his bank account, and stared at his savings. *Twenty thousand dollars won’t cut it.*
Not by a long shot. He could be practical and take out a home equity loan, but that would take time—and time was the one thing he didn’t have. *Screw it,* he thought, already typing out a listing. *Liquidate everything.*
He priced his apartment 40% below market value—drastic, reckless even—but what was the point of playing it safe? He needed the money now, not later. Sure, he had no plan for where to stay after it sold, but that wasn’t his priority. *I’ll figure it out. In the wasteland, there wouldn’t be any cozy apartments anyway. Everything here on Earth is temporary.*
Within six hours, the apartment was sold. Atlas met his real estate agent in a dimly lit office. The woman was chirping about how quickly it had all come together, but he barely registered her words. His mind was already racing to the next step. *Money in hand. Worth two in the wasteland*
Now he could start buying what he really needed. Guns, ammo, tactical gear, survival supplies. *I’ll crash somewhere. Hell, I’ve got two years to worry about where I sleep. Right now, I need to worry about how I prepare.*
As soon as the money hit his account, Atlas was off to every survival store he could think of. Tactical gear, advanced weaponry, high-tech gadgets—he needed it all. *And Canada’s got its limitations,* he thought, wandering through the aisles of a local hunting store. He eyed a nice shotgun and a hunting rifle. *Can’t get RPGs or tactical mines here, but at least I’ve got my PAL (Possession Acquisition License).* His cart was soon filled with ammunition and other essentials, a grim smile touching his lips. "Get ready to eat some lead, demon dog bitches," he muttered, the memory of those hellish creatures vivid in his mind.
His next stop was Costco. This time, it wasn’t burgers and comfort food filling his cart. Batteries, generators, LED lamps, bulk supplies of first aid kits, and enough high-energy food to last through an apocalypse piled up instead. He even indulged in some free samples as he went, savoring the thought that luxuries like baklava would be nearly impossible to come by in the wasteland—unless, of course, he was willing to pay an absurd amount at a PortalApproved vending machine.
Once his supplies were secured, Atlas turned his attention to his physical and mental preparation. A year of combat had turned his body into something far tougher than it once was, but he knew that two years without fighting could dull that edge. *Can’t let that happen.*
He signed up for local self-defense classes, picking up new trends that mixed mixed martial arts with cold weapon training. The niche classes weren’t widely popular, and most people gave him weird looks as he practiced with two swords while wearing a heavy bulletproof vest. But what set Atlas apart wasn’t the gear. It was the skill.
Every move he made was fluid, efficient, brutally effective. After a year of fighting with his life on the line, Atlas wasn’t just some hobbyist anymore. Compared to modern-day enthusiasts, he was a hardened fighter. If there was an Olympics for ass-kicking, he would’ve taken home gold in every category.
His reputation spread quickly. When he stepped into the Society of Creative Battle—a local gym that combined fitness with weapon training—it wasn’t to learn. He was there to dominate. The moment he entered, people took notice, and it wasn’t long before Alicia, the front desk attendant, struck up a conversation.
“Hey, what brings you in?” she asked as Atlas signed in, glancing at the vest slung over his shoulder.
“Just keeping sharp,” he said casually, though his eyes betrayed the intensity of his focus. “Got a big fight in two years.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow. “A big fight?”
Atlas flashed a cryptic smile. “You’ll see. For now, I need sparring partners—your best for any kind of combat.”
Alicia nodded, intrigued by his confidence. “We’ve got a few who can give you a challenge.”
"Good," he said. "Let’s make sure they’re ready."
As he left, Alicia couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Atlas than met the eye. His enigmatic comments about a "big fight" stuck in her mind, but she focused on her task, lining up the best sparring partners they had.
For Atlas, each session was a new test—a way to measure just how far he’d come and how much further he needed to go. The countdown in his vision never stopped, and each tick of the clock only sharpened his resolve. He wasn’t just training for a fight. He was preparing for war. And when the time came, he intended to be ready.