Chapter 5 — "First Inventory"
March 18–21, 2025 — 164 days before Day One
A Shared Thread through back channels:
Supply chains don't break loudly.
They thin. They delay. They apologize.
And by the time people notice, someone else already counted first.
Eli — Sumterville High / Town Limits
Eli called it inventory because that word didn't scare anyone.
Inventory sounded like binders and clipboards and accountability. It sounded like a grant requirement. It sounded like a teacher doing his job.
What it didn't sound like was preparation for collapse.
He started at the school.
Nurse's office first—quiet, respectful.
"How many first-aid kits do we have?" he asked, leaning against the counter like it was curiosity.
The nurse checked the cabinet. "Four full. Two partial."
"Expiration dates?" Eli asked.
She squinted. "Why?"
"District audit," Eli lied easily. "They're weird about dates."
He wrote it down.
Next: maintenance.
"How long would the backup generator run if the power went out during a storm?" Eli asked Gavin, who was elbow-deep in an engine.
Gavin wiped grease on a rag. "Depends. Fuel access is the real issue. Generator's fine. Gas isn't."
"How long?" Eli pressed.
"Two days if we're lucky. One if people panic."
Eli nodded. Wrote it down.
Then the farms.
Ridge walked him along a fence line, boots crunching gravel, the air thick with fertilizer and early spring heat.
"You're asking questions like someone who expects supply hiccups," Ridge said.
Eli didn't deny it. "I expect people."
Ridge stopped walking. "You think it's that bad?"
Eli looked out over the fields. Rows of food that assumed trucks would keep coming.
"I think," Eli said carefully, "that if I'm wrong, nothing changes. If I'm right, we'll wish we'd asked sooner."
Ridge exhaled. "I can divert some seed. Water tanks too. Quietly."
Eli met his eyes. "Only what won't get you burned."
Ridge smirked. "Already burned once. Learned fast."
They shook hands.
Inventory wasn't just counting things.
It was counting who.
Hope — The Bakery (After Hours)Hope Miller had always believed bread was a language.
It said home.
It said tomorrow.
It said you're not alone.
That morning, flour delivery came late.
Just an hour. No explanation. Just a shrug from the driver.
Hope smiled, said it was fine, and then went into the back and stared at the shelves.
She did the math in her head.
Salt. Yeast. Sugar. Water.
She started ordering extra under the bakery's normal variance. Nothing that would trigger attention. Nothing that would empty the shelves.
She labeled bins with dates and rotated stock like she'd been trained.
Jacob wandered in, stealing a roll. "Why are you acting like we're rationing?"
Hope took the roll back. "Because people panic when bread disappears."
Jacob rolled his eyes. "You've been talking to Eli."
Hope smiled thinly. "Eli's talking to everyone. He's just doing it quietly."
She slid the roll back to Jacob. "Eat. We don't hoard from family."
Jacob hesitated. Then nodded.
Inventory, Hope thought, wasn't about survival.
It was about continuity.
Kooper — Bedroom Floor, MidnightKooper's notebook had evolved.
What started as headings had turned into flowcharts.
He'd added symbols. Arrows. Notes in the margins.
WATER → filtration → storage → distribution
FUEL → generator → radio → light
He tracked rumors too.
A gas station in the next county limiting purchases.
A pharmacy backordering insulin.
A video of a man "moving" after death—gone in under an hour.
He didn't share it.
Not yet.
Instead, he approached Eli after class.
"Mr. Miller," Kooper said, quiet. "If supply chains thin… what fails first?"
Eli studied him. "Why do you ask?"
Kooper didn't flinch. "Because people think it's food. But it's not."
Eli smiled, just barely. "What is it?"
"Information," Kooper said. "People don't know what's missing until it's gone."
Eli nodded slowly. "You want a job?"
Kooper's eyes widened. "Like… officially?"
"Unofficially," Eli said. "You track patterns. Quietly. You don't post. You don't warn. You just… watch."
Kooper swallowed. "Okay."
That night, Kooper added a new heading:
COMMUNICATION — TRUST VS SIGNAL
Inventory wasn't just physical.
It was cognitive.
Rick — King County Sheriff's OfficeRick noticed the first crack in something small.
Ammo requisition.
It wasn't denied.
It was delayed.
"Supply backlog," the clerk said over the phone. "State-level redistribution."
Rick hung up and stared at the wall.
He thought of Shane saying people are overreacting.
He thought of the phrase—no evidence of sustained transmission—rolling across every channel like a lullaby.
Rick pulled a deputy aside. "I want to know if any stations around us are seeing supply delays."
The deputy hesitated. "That's… not protocol."
Rick met his eyes. "Then don't call it that."
By the end of the day, Rick had a quiet list.
Fuel.
Medical gloves.
Ammo.
Nothing gone.
Just… thinning.
That night, he checked on Carl while Lori cooked dinner.
Carl looked up. "Dad?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Why are you locking the door twice?"
Rick froze.
Then smiled. "Just a habit."
He tucked Carl in, then sat on the bed longer than necessary.
Inventory, Rick realized, wasn't just supplies.
It was normalcy.
And it was slipping.
Madison & Travis — Los Angeles (School + Home)Madison didn't inventory supplies first.
She inventoried people.
Who listened.
Who deflected.
Who lied too smoothly.
At school, counselors were quietly asked for "resilience assessments." Which kids handled stress well. Which kids had anxiety. Which families might "need support."
Madison flagged it immediately.
"Support for what?" she asked an administrator.
The admin smiled. "Just planning."
Madison smiled back. "For what?"
The admin didn't answer.
That night, Madison updated her own list.
Emergency routes.
Go-bags (unlabeled).
Meeting points that didn't rely on phones.
Travis watched her from the doorway. "You're acting like we're evacuating."
Madison didn't look up. "We might."
Travis hesitated. "I remember… hesitating."
Madison's hand stilled.
"I remember waiting for permission," Travis continued quietly. "And people got hurt."
Madison finally met his eyes. "So you're saying don't wait."
"I'm saying," Travis said, "that next time I won't."
They stood in the kitchen, united and afraid in equal measure.
Inventory wasn't just stuff.
It was resolve.
Joel — Somewhere Between Drop PointsJoel got paid.
That was the problem.
The money cleared too fast. No questions. No paperwork.
He stopped at a rest area and opened the duffel again.
Same labels. Same prefix.
WF-.
He noticed something new this time.
Secondary routing codes. Redundant destinations.
This wasn't about curing anything.
This was about making sure samples survived failure.
Joel zipped the bag closed and sat back.
He could dump it.
He could call it in.
He could walk away.
Instead, he drove.
Because inventory wasn't just what you had.
It was what you were willing to live with.
Deacon — Backroads, NightDeacon took the second job because he wanted to prove the first was a fluke.
Same kind of container. Same "medical transport" lie.
Different handler.
He stopped at a roadhouse to refuel and found Merle there again.
Daryl leaned against the wall, the kid—Evan—sitting cross-legged at his feet, lining up bottle caps.
Merle grinned. "Small world, biker."
Deacon ignored him. Looked at Daryl. "Kid okay?"
Daryl nodded once.
Deacon crouched. "You count those?"
Evan shrugged. "So I know I still got 'em."
Something in Deacon's chest twisted.
Merle followed Deacon's gaze. "He's not yours."
Daryl's jaw tightened. "He's with me."
Merle scoffed. "For now."
Deacon straightened. "You move medical goods?"
Merle's grin sharpened. "Sometimes."
"CDC?" Deacon pressed.
Merle laughed. "Everybody's medical now."
Deacon left before he said something he couldn't take back.
On the road, he pulled over and checked his cargo.
He didn't open it.
But he started memorizing the routes.
Inventory, Deacon realized, wasn't just gear.
It was choices.
Grace — CDC Secure Wing (Overnight)Grace ran the numbers twice.
Then a third time.
Then she overlaid state data she wasn't supposed to have access to.
The same anomaly.
Different locations.
Different timelines.
Same outcome.
She stared at the screen until her eyes burned.
Candace appeared beside her. "You're pushing."
Grace didn't look up. "People are dying."
Candace's voice dropped. "People always die. The question is how many."
Grace turned. "You're rationing truth."
Candace met her gaze. "I'm rationing chaos."
Grace swallowed. "How many states?"
Candace hesitated.
Then: "More than five."
Grace's heart sank.
Candace leaned closer. "You keep pushing like this, you'll get locked in."
Grace whispered, "Then unlock the door."
Candace looked at her like she wanted to.
Like she couldn't.
Inventory wasn't just data.
It was who was allowed to see it.
Eli — Sumterville (End of the Week)By Friday, Eli had his first real list.
Not complete.
Not perfect.
Enough.
Water sources mapped.
Fuel vulnerabilities known.
People identified.
He locked it in his desk and went home.
That night, the news showed a shaky clip of a man in a hospital bed—moving.
It vanished before the anchor finished apologizing.
Eli muted the TV.
Grayson slept on his chest.
Grace didn't call.
Eli counted anyway.
Inventory complete—for now.
No one panicked.
That was the problem.
Because while the world stayed calm, the quiet people had already counted.
And the shelves hadn't noticed yet