The Betrayed Heiress's Spectacular Doomsday Comeback

"You little bitch! Hand over your mother's trust fund right now! How dare you hide money from me? I'll fucking kill you!"

The voice was a low, slurred growl—a voice she hadn't heard in three years. The voice of a father who was supposed to be dead.

Adria's eyes flew open. Confusion flooded her mind. This wasn't the ruined subway tunnel where she had taken her last breath. This was her old apartment—the one she'd rented before the world fell apart. The cracked ceiling. The peeling wallpaper. The faint smell of mildew.

But she had died. She remembered dying—the cold, the darkness, the final surrender. So why was she here?

Rough fabric tightened around her throat: the hoodie's collar. A brutal yank slammed her against the wall. Her spine hit the surface with a sickening crack. White-hot pain flared.

Pain answered her doubt. This was real. She was back, to the world before the doomsday came.

The roar of a New York subway train shook the rundown apartment. Windows rattled. A bloated, unshaven face loomed inches from hers. Red veins crawled across his cheeks. The stench of cheap whiskey crashed over her.

Frank Puckett. Her father. But she remembered him dying—his body torn apart by the infected during the first wave. So why was he here, alive, still breathing, still demanding money? Just like he always had, long before the dead ever walked.

"The password, you little bitch," he snarled, spittle flying. "Your mother's trust. Hand it over now."

Adria's gaze darted past him to the wall. A cheap bodega calendar hung there—a faded picture of the Statue of Liberty. Bold black numbers marked the date.

Thirty days left. Thirty days until the world ended.

A day when nothing had happened yet. A peaceful day. No sirens. No smoke. No rot. No hunger. No walking corpses. Just her father—drunk, violent, and very much alive—showing up like he did every week to squeeze money from her.

But she remembered. She remembered everything. The endless sirens. The smoke and rot. Gnawing hunger. The final sight of her family torn apart. And then—darkness. Death. And now, she was back. Back to the beginning. Back to thirty days before hell broke loose. Back to a time when Frank was still just a greedy, abusive father—not yet a monster among monsters.

Frank took her silence for defiance. Rage contorted his face.

"You think you can ignore me?"

He raised his large palm and swung it straight at her face.

Time slowed. In her former life—the life where she had survived among the city's ruins, only to die anyway—hesitation meant death. Muscle memory, forged in blood and terror, kicked in.

Adria snapped her head aside. The slap missed. Frank's palm slammed into the peeling wall. He yelped.

She drove her knee hard into his unprotected stomach. A gurgling scream tore from his throat. He crumpled to the floor.

Adria scrambled backward and grabbed the cold, heavy baseball bat propped by the door.

Frank pushed himself up on one elbow. Fury bled into murderous hatred. He spotted a heavy glass ashtray and lunged for it.

Adria's gaze turned icy. She stepped forward and swung the bat in a sharp horizontal arc.

Metal cracked against bone. The ashtray shattered. Frank howled, clutching his injured wrist. He stared at her, stunned. This was not his timid, flinching daughter. This was a stranger. A threat.

"Get out," she said, voice flat. "If you set foot here again, it won't just be your wrist I break."

He scrambled backward on all fours, then stumbled to his feet and lurched for the door. She kicked him hard in the back as he fumbled with the knob. He tumbled into the hallway.

She slammed the door shut. Click. Click. Deadbolt. Security chain.

All strength drained from her. She slid down the door, the bat clattering from numb hands. She buried her face and trembled. Hot tears spilled—tears of shock, and of relief. She had dealt with Frank. But he was only the smallest problem.

She wiped her face hard, steadying her body. When she lifted her head, her eyes blazed with fury and the will to survive.

She stumbled to the kitchen. Splashed icy tap water over her face. In the cracked mirror above the sink, she saw her younger self: unscarred, no longer haunted by despair. Just a girl thrown back to the past. The real disasters were still thirty days away. But she had thirty days. Thirty days to prepare.

She turned and walked to her bedroom. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out a dusty fireproof lockbox. She twisted the combination. Click. Inside lay her mother's trust documents and several unlimited black cards—the last fortune Frank had not gambled away. Her only leverage. The money that would buy her survival.

Her eyes fell on the old iPhone. A message from her boyfriend Dean waited—fake concern masking a plea for money. She swiped it away. Opened the calendar app. Found the date—the day the dead would rise, the day the world would end. She set a countdown.

Bright red numbers glowed: 29 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.

Taking a deep breath, she dialed her Wall Street wealth manager's private line.

The phone rang twice. A crisp professional voice answered.

Adria spoke, calm and unshakable. "This is Adria Puckett. Schedule me for the first appointment tomorrow morning. I'm liquidating the entire trust fund."

Because in twenty-nine days, money wouldn't matter. Only bullets, canned food, clean water, and a fortified shelter would. And she had just enough time to buy them all.