My family's apartment was on the sixth floor of Building C, a three-bedroom place that was usually empty except for me and our mischievous husky, Baxter. My parents traveled often for work—Dad was a regional sales manager for some pharmaceutical company, while Mom worked in consulting and was constantly being sent to different cities for months at a time. They were good parents, don't get me wrong, but their jobs meant I'd essentially been raising myself since middle school.
Most kids would probably throw parties or trash the place if left unsupervised for weeks at a time. But I'd never been that type. Maybe it was because I knew how hard they worked to afford this place, or maybe I was just boring. Either way, I kept things clean, did my homework, and made sure Baxter didn't destroy the furniture.
The moment I opened the door, I heard the familiar scramble of claws against hardwood floor. Baxter bounded over, his blue eyes bright with excitement, tail wagging so furiously his entire back end wiggled with the motion. He was a beautiful dog—thick gray and white fur, pointed ears, and that characteristic husky "smile" that made him look like he was perpetually up to no good.
Which, to be fair, he usually was.
"Baxter!" Emily squealed, immediately forgetting about me as she crouched down to scratch behind his ears. The dog immediately showered her with sloppy kisses, his big pink tongue lolling out as he tried to lick every inch of her face. His tail continued its helicopter motion, threatening to knock over the small table in the entryway where I kept my keys.
"Tch…" I muttered, closing the door behind us and setting my backpack down with perhaps more force than necessary. "Lucky mutt. I haven't even gotten a kiss yet."
Emily laughed, her cheeks turning that adorable shade of pink that made my complaints instantly worthwhile. "You're jealous of a dog?"
"Absolutely. Look at him. He has no shame."
"Maybe you should try the puppy-dog eyes," she teased, standing up and brushing dog hair off her uniform skirt. "I bet they'd work on me."
I couldn't help grinning at the sight of them together—my girlfriend and my dog, both looking at me with expressions that were far too pleased with themselves. "You two are ganging up on me in my own home. I'm wounded. Betrayed. Devastated."
"So dramatic," Emily said, but her eyes were soft with affection.
Heading into the kitchen, I immediately frowned. The air was unnervingly cold—colder than it had any right to be in October, even with the weird weather outside. It felt like someone had left the freezer door open, that artificial chill that seeped into your bones and made your teeth chatter.
Did I forget to close the window this morning?
I crossed to the window above the sink and found it partially open, the curtains billowing inward with each gust of wind. The temperature outside must have dropped significantly since this morning. Shutting the window firmly and making sure the lock was engaged, I rubbed my hands together before getting to work on dinner.
Cooking had become second nature over the past few years of semi-independence. Nothing fancy—I wasn't going to be opening a restaurant anytime soon—but I could manage the basics. Pasta was my go-to on nights like this: quick, filling, and hard to mess up. I put a pot of water on to boil, pulled out some pre-made sauce from the fridge, and started chopping vegetables to throw in.
Emily had wandered into the living room with Baxter, and I could hear her talking to him in that baby-voice people always used with pets. "Who's a good boy? Is it you? Yes it is! Yes it is!"
She's too cute for her own good.
Fifteen minutes later, I brought out two steaming plates of pasta—penne with marinara sauce, sautéed mushrooms, and a generous helping of parmesan cheese on top. Nothing gourmet, but it smelled good and I was starving.
"Dinner's ready!" I called out, setting the plates on the coffee table in the living room.
But Emily wasn't paying attention to the food. She was sitting on the couch, TV remote in hand, her expression frozen in something between confusion and fear. The screen was lit up with the harsh blue glow of a news broadcast, and even from the kitchen doorway, I could hear the tremor in the anchor's voice.
"Breaking news," the woman said, her carefully maintained professional composure cracking at the edges. Behind her, the newsroom was in chaos—people running back and forth, phones ringing off the hook, other anchors shouting into cameras. "A sudden and powerful cold front has swept across multiple states tonight. Temperatures are plummeting at record speed—we're seeing drops of thirty, forty, even fifty degrees in a matter of hours. Authorities urge all citizens to remain indoors, shut windows, and conserve heat. We're receiving reports of—"
The screen flashed to images that looked like they'd been pulled from some apocalyptic disaster film. Protests in Washington, hundreds of people bundled in winter coats despite it being October, holding signs that demanded answers from a government that clearly had none to give. Scientists in lab coats standing in front of complex diagrams showing solar flares and atmospheric disturbances, their explanations too technical for the average viewer but their fear evident. Religious groups on street corners claiming divine punishment, the end times, God's wrath made manifest.
This can't be real. This has to be some kind of joke.
My chopsticks slipped from my hand, clattering against the plate with a sound that seemed too loud in the sudden silence. My appetite had vanished completely, replaced by a cold knot of dread in the pit of my stomach.
"This… this can't be real…"
Emily's phone buzzed on the coffee table, the vibration harsh and insistent. She picked it up with shaking hands, but when she pressed it to her ear, I could see her expression fall. The line was already dead—nothing but static and the occasional burst of distorted sound that might have been a voice or might have been interference.
My own cell vibrated in my pocket a moment later, making me jump. I pulled it out and saw "Mrs. Carter" on the screen. Emily's mom. I answered instantly, pressing the phone to my ear so hard it hurt.
"Michael!" a woman's voice shouted through the static, barely audible over what sounded like wind and chaos in the background. It was definitely Mrs. Carter, though I'd never heard her sound so panicked. Usually she was the picture of composure, always perfectly put-together and in control. "Is Emily with you? Her phone's not working!"
"Yes, ma'am, she's here," I said quickly, glancing at Emily. She was watching me with wide eyes, Baxter pressed against her side as if sensing her distress.
"Good. Listen carefully—stay inside, keep the windows shut, and gather food and water. Don't—" Her voice cut in and out, fragments of words lost to interference. "—getting worse—hurricane force winds—temperature—don't go outside for any—"
And then—silence.