The First Sign

Mira woke to the faint clatter of dishes in her kitchen sink, a sound so soft she might've dismissed it as the building settling—if she hadn't spent the last two days on edge, hyper-aware of every creak and groan. She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, the clock blinking 6:32 a.m. She'd managed a few restless hours, her dreams a jumble of snapping teeth and Lila's mocking laughter. The notebook lay open on her pillow, its pages now a chaotic sprawl of lists and half-formed plans. She'd fallen asleep mid-sentence, pen still clutched in her hand.

The clatter came again, sharper this time, and then the floor beneath her shuddered—a low, rolling tremble that sent her coffee mug wobbling off the counter. It hit the hardwood with a dull thud, spilling yesterday's dregs across the floor. Mira's breath caught, her body tensing as the tremor rippled through the apartment. The blinds rattled against the window, the fridge gave a protesting groan, and for a fleeting second, she was back there—three months from now, the city crumbling, the dead clawing at her door.

It stopped as quickly as it started, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. Mira exhaled, her pulse hammering. "Just a quake," she muttered, forcing herself to her feet. "Nothing big." But she knew better. She'd ignored these signs last time—small tremors brushed off as normal, news reports skimmed over with a shrug. Now, they were neon warning signs flashing in her mind. The end was coming, and it was closer than she'd let herself believe.

She grabbed her phone, pulling up a local news app. The headline was already there: *Minor Earthquake Shakes Downtown—4.2 Magnitude, No Damage Reported.* She skimmed the article—geologists calling it "routine," residents quoted with mild annoyance about spilled coffee and cracked dishes. Routine. Right. She snorted, tossing the phone onto the couch. They had no idea what was brewing beneath their feet.

Her gaze drifted to the notebook, Kai's name underlined twice staring back at her. *Things are gonna get weird soon.* His words from yesterday gnawed at her, an itch she couldn't scratch. Did he know something? She'd written him off as a nosy oddball, but that look in his eyes—sharp, knowing—stuck with her. She needed answers, but she couldn't afford distractions. Not yet.

First, she cleaned up the spilled coffee, the mundane task grounding her. Then she checked her supplies under the bed—everything intact, though the cans had shifted in their stacks. She added *secure storage* to her list, her pen digging into the paper. The tremor was a wake-up call—she had to move faster, think bigger. Tony the mechanic was her next stop. If he could get her a gun, maybe some tools, she'd have a real shot at building something solid.

She showered quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the knot in her chest, and dressed in her usual armor: jeans, hoodie, sneakers. Her backpack was heavier now, stuffed with cash from her savings and a few granola bars for the road. She locked the apartment behind her, the click of the deadbolt a small comfort, and headed downstairs. The hallway was quiet, the other tenants still asleep or oblivious. She paused at Kai's door—number 4B, chipped paint and a faint scuff mark near the knob. No sound from within. She moved on, filing him away for later.

The city outside felt different today, a subtle shift she couldn't quite name. The air was crisp, the sky a flat gray, and the usual Sunday morning joggers seemed fewer, their faces tighter. Mira kept her hood up, her steps brisk as she cut through side streets toward Tony's garage. She'd met him last summer at a dive bar, his loud laugh and grease-stained hands making him hard to forget. He'd bragged about "knowing people," hinting at backdoor deals. She'd laughed it off then, but now, it was gold.

The garage was a squat, cinderblock building on the edge of town, its sign—*Tony's Auto Fix*—faded and peeling. A rusty pickup sat out front, hood propped open, and the faint clang of metal echoed from inside. Mira pushed through the side door, the smell of oil and cigarette smoke hitting her like a wall. Tony was there, hunched over a workbench, a wiry man in his forties with a buzzcut and a perpetual smirk.

"Well, well," he drawled, wiping his hands on a rag as he turned. "If it ain't the barfly from July. What's up, sweetheart?"

Mira bristled at the nickname but kept her cool. "Hey, Tony. Need a favor." She dropped her backpack on the floor, crossing her arms. "You still got those connections you were flapping about?"

His smirk widened, eyes narrowing. "Depends. What's a nice girl like you looking for?"

"Protection," she said flatly. "Something that shoots. Off the books." She pulled a wad of cash from her pocket—five hundred bucks, half her stash—and slapped it on the workbench. "That's a start."

Tony whistled, picking up the bills and fanning them out. "Straight to the point, huh? I like that." He pocketed the cash, leaning back. "Gimme a day. I can get you a .38, maybe some ammo. Nothing fancy, but it'll do the job. Seven hundred total."

"Six," she countered, meeting his gaze. "And throw in a wrench or two."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tough negotiator. Deal. Come back tomorrow, noon sharp." He tossed her a greasy wrench from the bench. "On the house. You look like you mean business."

"Thanks," she said, slipping the wrench into her backpack. It wasn't much, but it was a weapon, a tool, a step forward. She left the garage with a nod, the weight of her plan settling deeper into her bones.

The tremor hit as she crossed the street—a sudden jolt that sent a trash can toppling and cracked the pavement under her feet. She stumbled, catching herself against a lamppost as car alarms blared and a few pedestrians yelped. This one was stronger, a growl from the earth that rattled windows and set her teeth on edge. It lasted maybe ten seconds, but it felt like forever, the world tilting just enough to remind her how fragile it was.

People milled around, muttering about aftershocks, their voices tinged with unease. Mira straightened, her breath shallow. Another sign. She pulled out her phone, checking the news again: *Second Quake Rattles City—4.8 Magnitude, Minor Injuries.* She scrolled X for raw updates—posts about flickering lights, a cracked wall in someone's apartment, a blurry photo of a street split open. Her chest tightened. It was accelerating.

She was halfway home when she spotted him—Kai, leaning against a bodega wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn't look surprised to see her, just nodded like they'd planned to meet. "Told you," he said, exhaling smoke. "Weird's starting."

Mira stopped, her hand tightening on her backpack strap. "What do you know?" Her voice was sharp, suspicion lacing every word.

He flicked the cigarette away, stepping closer. "Enough. Felt that shake? It's not just plates moving. Something's waking up down there." His gray eyes bored into hers, unreadable. "You're gearing up for something, aren't you?"

She didn't answer, her mind racing. He was too perceptive, too calm. "Why do you care?" she shot back.

"Don't," he said simply. "But I'm not blind. You've got that look—someone who's seen shit. Just saying, you're not wrong to prep." He turned to walk away, then paused. "Watch the shadows. They're getting longer."

Mira watched him go, her pulse thudding. Shadows? What the hell did that mean? She shook it off, but his warning clung to her like damp air. She filed it under *Kai—cryptic, possible nutcase*, but a part of her—the part that remembered monsters bursting from the ground—listened.

Back in her apartment, she locked the door and dumped her backpack on the floor. The wrench clinked against the hardwood, a small victory. She added *quakes—track frequency* to her notebook, then sank onto the couch, exhaustion creeping in. Her phone buzzed—Lila: *Did u feel that? Freaky! Movie night still on?* Mira stared at the text, her lip curling. Freaky didn't cover it.

She typed back: *Yeah, wild. Let's do Friday.* Keep them close, keep them guessing. She tossed the phone aside, her gaze drifting to the window. The city skyline loomed, gray and still, but beneath it, she felt the pulse of something darker, something alive. Eighty-nine days. The first sign had come, and she'd be damned if she wasn't ready for the next.