CHAPTER 293: APOCALYPSE ROMANCE 3

"And here—" Sasha flipped the page again, enthusiasm spilling out of her voice. "—hidden compartment for weapons, under the floor. This section—solar panels on the roof, batteries inside, so I won’t run out of power. And—oh!—don’t forget the water filtration system."

The man stared at her, deadpan. ". . . Lady, this is a cash-in-transit armored truck, not a luxury RV."

Sasha leaned over the counter, eyes gleaming. "Then make it both."

The mechanic groaned, rubbing his temples. "You apocalypse weirdos are all the same . . . wasting your money on these . . . things. Those apocalyptic shows are just fantasy!"

"Excuse me," Sasha said, affronted. "I am not a weirdo. I am a visionary. Big difference. Don’t forget the defensive things I put outside the car."

The mechanic squinted at the blueprint Sasha had sketched out on a crumpled notepad. He rubbed his oily hands on his jumpsuit, muttering like a man already regretting his career choices.

"You’re not really planning to drive this thing on public roads, are you? This looks less like a car and more like . . . a mobile destruction in wheels."

Sasha leaned on the counter with a lazy grin. "Do you want the money or not?"

The mechanic raised a brow. "Lady, this isn’t a job—it’s a war crime waiting to happen. You’ve got spikes on the bumper, metal plating on the windows, flamethrower nozzles under the headlights—what are you planning to do, storm a medieval castle?"

Sasha tapped her chin like she was considering it seriously. "Not unless castles suddenly sprout zombie teeth. And don’t forget the retractable barricade. I want steel panels that can drop from the roof to cover the windshield and sides—like a knight pulling up his visor. Bulletproof glass isn’t enough when mutant bats start spitting acid."

The mechanic blinked. ". . . Mutant bats?"

"Hypothetically," she said with complete sincerity.

He went back to the sketch and groaned louder. "Hypothetically, you also want a cattle-prod system in the side panels, electric shocks on the doors, a reinforced ram on the front, and—you even wrote this down—a hatch on the roof so you can fire a grenade launcher while driving?"

Sasha clapped her hands. "Exactly! See? You get me."

The man slapped his forehead. "Lady, this isn’t a car. This is a tank cosplaying as a family van."

"Perfect," Sasha said, grinning wide. "Oh, and don’t forget the inside. I want it livable. Fold-out bed, hidden fridge, weapon compartments under the seats, maybe a solar generator on the roof. If I have to survive the end of the world, I want it in style."

He just stared at her for a long moment, face caught between horror and admiration. "You’re crazy. Completely insane. No sane person would build this."

Sasha leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Then it’s a good thing sanity was never part of the budget."

The mechanic groaned again but finally snatched the blueprint out of her hand. "Fine. But when the police caught you driving this thing on the road, it’s not my problem."

Sasha smirked. "They’ll have to catch me first."

The man looked at her like she’d grown three heads, but when she dropped a bag of loan shark cash on his counter with a satisfying thud, all his protests magically evaporated.

And so the work began. Over the next days, sparks flew in the workshop as Sasha’s monster truck slowly evolved from armored turtle into post-apocalyptic beast.

The windows were reinforced with layered plating that could slide shut like eyelids. The engine was tuned to roar like a dragon, while the tires were swapped out for run-flats that could keep rolling even when shredded.

Inside, the interior was gutted and rebuilt. The front seats stayed, but the back transformed into a cramped but fully functional living space:

Fold-down bed bolted into the wall.

Storage lockers welded beneath the floor for weapons, food, and medical kits.

A tiny fold-out desk with straps to keep notebooks from flying during a chase.

Even blackout curtains, because who wanted zombies peeking in?

The walls were lined with racks for gear—gas masks, crossbows, fire axes—and one wall carried her proudest request: a coffee machine bolted in place.

Because, honestly, who survives an apocalypse without caffeine?

And as if that wasn’t enough, Sasha bought a second vehicle—a battered old armored car—and had it customized as a "support unit." This one was sleeker, less armored but heavily modified: the inside stripped out and converted into a mobile pantry-slash-extra-bedroom.

When the mechanic looked at her order list for the second car, he nearly choked.

"Ma’am, this is a glorified bread van. And you’re telling me you want—what is this?—a shower?!"

"Yes," Sasha said firmly. "A shower. A girl’s gotta stay clean while the world ends. Put a small water tank on top, rig it with solar heating. Don’t argue."

The man muttered something about madwomen with money and got back to work.

Weeks later—though it only felt like days with Sasha’s manic energy—the result stood gleaming in the dim garage light:

An armored truck fortress, indestructible on the outside and deceptively cozy inside.

A support armored van with the same defense system trailing behind, stocked like a rolling survival pantry.

Sasha stood in front of them, hands on her hips, chest swelling with pride.

"Now this," she whispered, "is how you win the end of the world."

The mechanic just shook his head, handing her the keys with the dead look of a man who’d given up trying to understand.

"You’re insane, lady. Absolutely insane."

"Correction," Sasha said with a sly grin, twirling the car keys around her finger like she’d just won the jackpot. "I’m not insane—I’m insanely prepared."

Her fortress-on-wheels, Apocalypse Queen, was now in her hands. That meant it was time to move on to phase two: hoarding like a dragon in a collapsing world.

Luckily, she had just the right magical tool. The magical item she had loaned from the shop—the Dimensional Ring.

Sasha slipped the silver band onto her finger and instantly felt the hum of power. She grinned. "Now this . . . this is cheating."