Lauren: The Warehouse

The emptiness of our building becomes more foreboding as I watch. How many of our employees ran home to their families? And how many instead joined the chaos I'm witnessing on screen?

"Lauren!"

Dad's voice snaps me back to reality. I quickly minimize the browser window, my heart racing.

"Yes, Dad?"

"Have you started on the Johnson account yet?"

Guilt and frustration wars within, and I swallow hard as I lie. "I'm working on it."

"Well, work faster. We can't afford any delays, especially now."

His footsteps retreat, and I'm left staring at my blank screen. The Johnson account. It seems so trivial now, so pointless in the face of what's happening outside our walls.

I pull up the news site again, unable to tear myself away. The footage has changed. Now it shows people flooding grocery stores, fighting over canned goods and bottled water. A man struggles to carry an overflowing cart, only to have it upended by a desperate woman who grabs what she can before disappearing into the crowd.

My stomach churns. We don't have much food at home. Just the bare necessities to get through the week. If things get worse...

No. I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. It won't come to that. It can't.

But as I watch people boarding up their windows and arming themselves with whatever they can find, I'm not so sure anymore.

An e-mail notification pops up. It's from a site I rarely use, a local community forum. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it.

The feed is a flood of panicked messages:

"Anyone know what's going on with this countdown?"

"My kids are terrified. What do I tell them?"

"Avoid Main Street. It's complete chaos."

"Does anyone have extra water? We're running low."

"I heard the military is being deployed. Can anyone confirm?"

I scroll through the posts, my anxiety mounting with each one. It's not just the news; it's not the nameless other cities out there. The fear has reached us too.

A new video starts playing on my computer. This time, it's footage from a suburban neighborhood. People are loading up their cars, suitcases and boxes piled high in driveways. A family argues as they try to decide what to take and what to leave behind.

This isn't just about riots in far-off cities or empty office buildings. This is about people—regular, everyday people—facing the possibility that everything they know might be coming to an end.

I think about our house, about the few possessions I truly care about. What would I take if I had to leave in a hurry? My photo albums? The locket Mom gave me before she died? Would there even be time to choose?

The sounds of sirens from the video blend with real ones outside our building. I rush to the window, pressing my face against the glass. On the street below, people hurry past, some laden with bags, others empty-handed but moving with purpose. A police car speeds by, its lights flashing.

I turn back to my computer, my hands shaking as I type in a search. "How to prepare for an emergency." The results are overwhelming. Lists of supplies, survival tips, instructions on how to purify water. It's too much. I close the tab, feeling sick.

Dad's voice booms from his office again. "Lauren! Where are those reports?"

How can he still be focused on work? Doesn't he understand what's happening? I guess there are oblivious people in the world like him. Not everyone's gone crazy over the virus.

Dad's obsession with work seems absurd now, but maybe I can use it to our advantage. A plan forms in my mind, risky but necessary.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself before approaching his office.

"Dad? Do you have a minute?"

He doesn't look up from his computer. "What is it, Lauren? I'm busy."

"I was wondering if you've had any updates on the warehouses."

This catches his attention. He frowns, confusion etching lines across his forehead. "The warehouses? What about them?"

I keep my voice steady, channeling the calm I don't feel. "There's rioting in the city. Everyone's going for supplies."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Rioting? What are you talking about?"

"It's all over the news. People are panicking about the countdown. They're clearing out stores, fighting over basic necessities." I pause, letting the information sink in. "Our warehouses are full of those necessities."

Dad's eyes widen as realization dawns. He jumps out of his chair so fast it nearly topples over. "Goddammit! We need to check on them. Now."

"I'll come with you," I offer, relief washing over me. It worked.

He grabs his keys, muttering under his breath. "All my hard work... I'll be damned if I lose my stock to a bunch of greedy, panic-stricken looters."

We rush to the elevator, the empty office a stark reminder of how quickly things have changed. As we descend, Dad's agitation grows.

"This is ridiculous. Mass hysteria over some stupid countdown." He shakes his head. "People have lost their minds."

I bite my tongue. The elevator doors open, revealing the deserted lobby.

"Where's security?" Dad demands.

"I sent Mario home." What's the point? Everyone else left, anyway. I'm not heartless enough to force someone to stick around.

He scowls but says nothing as we hurry to his car. The parking garage echoes with our footsteps, most of the spaces empty now.

As we pull out onto the street, the full extent of the situation hits us. Traffic is gridlocked, horns blaring. People crowd the sidewalks, some running, others standing in shocked clusters.

Dad curses, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "What the hell is going on?"

I pull out my phone, the countdown a constant reminder of our limited time. "It's like this everywhere, Dad. People are scared."

He scoffs, but I catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "It's mass hysteria. Nothing more."

We inch forward, the usual ten-minute drive to the warehouse district stretching into an eternity. Every intersection is a battle, cars pushing through regardless of traffic signals. Sirens wail in the distance, a constant backdrop to the chaos.

As we near the industrial area, the streets become eerily empty. The warehouses loom ahead, silent sentinels in the growing dusk.

Dad parks haphazardly, not bothering with the designated spots. "Stay close," he orders as we approach the main gate.

The padlock is intact, but as we round the corner, my stomach drops. A group of people cluster around a side entrance, their voices carrying on the wind.

"Over here! I think I found a way in!"

Dad's face contorts with rage. He storms toward them, keys jangling in his clenched fist. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

The group startles, turning toward us. In the fading light, I can make out their desperate expressions. A woman clutches a crying child to her chest. An older man leans heavily on a cane.

"Please," the woman pleads, "we need supplies. The stores are empty."

Dad's anger seems to falter for a moment, but he shakes it off. "This is private property. You can't just break in and take what you want."

A younger man steps forward, his hands raised placatingly. "Sir, we're not trying to steal. We'll pay. But there's nothing left out there. People are fighting in the streets over scraps."