- Seriously. The dread of waking up one day and thinking "Damn, I live like this?" Hurts harder than any injury.
- Don't skimp out. You might lose resources, but it's resources well spent.
- Your apocalypse base shouldn't look like a frat house after finals.
- Or a crime scene.
- Or a Friday night party that lasted for 5 Fridays.
---
There’s a moment in every survivor’s life when you look around your living space and think, "I can’t live like this."
For me, it happened when I stubbed my toe for the third time on the same damn toolbox in Overhole. I screamed. Alex laughed. The echo hit like karma.
That night, as we sat under the dim flicker of a battery-powered lantern, surrounded by loot stacked in buckets and backpacks like we were playing Fallout: Home Edition, I said the words out loud:
“We need to renovate.”
Alex, curled up on a pile of blankets, raised an eyebrow. “You mean... like... apocalypse feng shui?”
“Exactly,” I said, rubbing my throbbing toe. “Functional vibes only.”
---
The bandits—bless their chaotic hearts—kept hosting daily shootouts and demolition derbies in downtown Cleveland. Like a roving, heavily-armed carnival of doom.
And every time they roared into the distance, we swept behind them like vultures with clipboards.
We hit hardware stores, supermarkets, even a fancy camping shop that had the softest sleeping bags known to mankind. Alex nearly wept when she found a full spice rack. I scored a tactical vest with hidden compartments. Life was good.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Thanks to their rampage, our safehouses went from “rats nest” to “base of operations.” We had food, warmth, lights, tools, and most importantly—a walkie-talkie network.
---
Phase One: The Overhole Upgrade
We started with the main base—our beloved Overhole. First step? Clear out the junk. Not the useful junk. The actually junk junk. Empty boxes. Broken tools. Mysterious liquids in cracked jars that looked like they’d scream if opened.
Alex set up proper shelving made from scavenged wood panels and bent metal racks. I hung up tarps to divide the space into sections: sleeping, food storage, weapons, and “miscellaneous,” which was mostly weird crap we weren’t brave enough to throw away.
She even found a rug. A rug. I forgot what warm toes felt like until that moment.
---
Phase Two: The Sewer Rat Suite
The manhole hideout got a makeover too. I installed one of the mini generators we’d yanked from a gutted electronics store and ran a string of soft white LED lights through the tunnel. Alex said it made it feel like a "bunker Airbnb."
We laid down foam mats, stashed emergency food, and hung up a curtain divider so it wasn’t just “poop pipe with ambiance.” It wasn’t luxurious—but damn if it didn’t feel like a nest built by raccoons who got their lives together.
---
Phase Three: The Womb Reborn
Alex’s gym locker haven was the hardest to renovate. The space was tight, and getting supplies inside meant handing them to her through the debris crack one at a time like we were smugglers in a post-apocalyptic prison.
But she made it work.
She found a foldable cot, rigged solar lights on the ceiling with reflective foil to boost brightness, and even made a tiny electric kettle work. Her voice crackled with pride when she called me on our newly-found walkie-talkies:
“This is Womb One to Sewer Rat. Tea’s hot. I repeat, tea is hot.”
It was the happiest I’d heard her in days.
Overhole. Sewer Rat. Womb One. Each got a name, a setup, and a call sign.
We tested comms every night like clockwork.
“Womb One to Overhole—lights flickering, requesting another battery pack.”
“Copy, Womb One. Overhole en route.”
“Also, can you bring more paprika?”
“...You used all the paprika again?”
---
By the end of the week, we weren’t just surviving anymore. We were living. The kind of living where you eat warm food, drink clean water, and sleep in something that doesn’t creak like a dying bird.
We stood in the middle of Overhole one night, looking around at our work. The shelves were stocked. The lights were soft. There was even a little radio playing static jazz from god knows where.
Alex sipped hot tea from a chipped mug. “We’re getting kinda... domestic.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking around. “Too domestic. Something’s gonna go horribly wrong.”
She blinked. “You jinxed us.”
I did. I kept Tip #10 in mind. We don't know when we'll have to abandon our homes. But for now?
We had our safehouses. Our gear. Our map. And for the first time, it really felt like we could handle what was coming next.
Even if that meant dealing with lunatics who thought Mad Max was a lifestyle.
