Chapter 3
"Damn, nice pack," Michael said to me. "Is that military-grade? Waterproof, fireproof? It'd be perfect for my laptop."
He reached out to grab it like it was already his.
I sidestepped, and his hand closed on empty air.
"Charlotte, what the hell?" Michael snapped, annoyed.
"Nothing," I said, slowly settling the pack firmly on my shoulders. "The pack's mine."
Michael yelled, acting like he was the victim. "What's yours is mine. Why are you being so stingy?
"Besides, you're not even going to the shelter, so what do you need it for? Give it to me so it can actually be useful."
"Exactly," my mom cut in, practically spitting. "Evelyn's pregnant, and she's fragile. If something happens on the way, those supplies could save her life. What is your problem, Charlotte? Just give it to Michael. You're such an ungrateful brat. So damn selfish."
Then my dad pulled rank.
"Charlotte," he commanded, "I'm telling you to give that pack to your brother. Now."
I looked at the twisted faces of the three of them and found it all so pathetic that it was almost funny.
In my previous life, they pressured me until I caved and handed over all my professional survival gear.
The punchline? I was fighting for my life in the freezing rain while Michael was in the cozy shelter, using my tactical flashlight to give Evelyn the perfect lighting for a few glamorous selfies to post on Instagram.
"And what if I say no?" I shot back, my voice icy. My eyes fixed on my dad with a deadly glare.
"So you're defying me now?" he snarled.
His face was a mask of pure fury. He grabbed an apple off the table and threw it as hard as he could at my head.
I barely moved, just tilting my head to let it fly past.
Michael lunged at me, trying to rip the pack off my back.
"Give it to me!" he screamed.
He still saw me as the same old Charlotte—the sister he could push around, the one who'd never fight back.
But I had already died once.
The instant his grubby hand touched my pack, I moved. With one fluid motion, I had his arm in a lock and snapped his wrist.
There was a sickening crack.
A raw scream was torn from his throat.
"My wrist! You broke my damn wrist," Michael shrieked.
He crumpled to the floor, clutching his ruined wrist. Pain twisted his face as he rolled on the ground, drenched in cold sweat.
My mom and Evelyn let out matching, piercing screams.
My dad pointed a trembling finger at me, his face turning purple.
"Y-You monster! How dare you lay a hand on your own brother?" he sputtered.
I casually shook the tension out of my hand.
"He started it," I said.
I stared down coldly at Michael wailing on the floor.
"Consider this a warning," I said. "Next time, it won't be your wrist. It'll be your neck."
I didn't give them another look. I turned, walked into my room, and locked the door.
Through the door, I could hear my dad's furious roars and my mom's hysterical, screaming curses.
"You ungrateful monster! I hope you rot in hell," my dad screamed.
"Oh, Michael, my poor kid. How could that bitch do that to you?" my mom cried.
I just tuned it all out, feeling a deep, cold satisfaction settle over me.
On my phone's screen, the tracking path for Hurricane Neptune was now a shocking, blood-red line.
It was picking up speed, moving faster and packing more of a punch than any forecast had predicted.
Time was running out for them.