Survival instincts kicked in, overriding the fear that threatened to paralyze me. I grabbed every blanket from the hallway closet—the thick comforters my mom had bought on sale, the fleece throws decorated with ugly floral patterns, even the scratchy wool blanket that smelled like mothballs. I pulled every coat from the closet—my winter parka, Dad's old leather jacket, Mom's puffy down coat that made her look like a marshmallow.
Working frantically, I pressed them into the gaps around the doors and windows, stuffing fabric into every crack where cold air might seep through. Emily helped silently, her pale hands trembling but determined. She didn't ask questions, didn't waste time on fear—she just worked, methodical despite her terror.
That's my girl. Always steady when it counts.
Baxter whined from somewhere in the darkness, and I heard his claws clicking against the floor as he paced nervously. "It's okay, boy," I called out, though I knew it was a lie. Nothing was okay. Nothing would be okay for a very long time.
The apartment dimmed further as we blocked out the last traces of light from outside. The lightning still flashed, painting everything in brief strobes of white that turned the familiar into something alien and threatening. Shadows jumped and danced, making ordinary furniture look like crouching monsters.
Our breaths fogged in the air, visible even in the near-total darkness.
When we'd done everything we could—sealed every window, blocked every door, covered every gap—I grabbed two of the thickest jackets and helped Emily into one. My hands were so numb I could barely work the zipper, but I managed eventually.
"Come on," I said, my voice hoarse from cold and fear.
Finally, bundled in thick jackets and wrapped in every available blanket, we huddled together on my bed. I pulled Emily close, wrapping my arms around her and tucking her head under my chin. Baxter jumped up after a moment's hesitation, pressing his warm bulk against our legs. Usually I didn't let him on the bed, but right now I was grateful for every bit of warmth.
The world outside howled like a living thing, full of rage and hunger. I could hear things hitting the building—debris, hail, maybe even cars lifted by the wind. Each impact made the whole structure shudder, and I found myself wondering if the building would hold or if we'd be next to be swept away.
I didn't know how many people would survive this night—or if we would.
The thought tried to sink its claws into me, tried to drag me down into despair. I pushed it away viciously. No. We'll make it. We have to.
But one thing I did know: as long as Emily was with me, I'd fight tooth and nail to keep her safe.
Her face pressed against my cheek, soft and warm despite everything—despite the cold, despite the fear, despite the literal end of the world happening outside our windows. For one fleeting moment, the storm outside didn't matter. The darkness didn't matter. The fear didn't matter.
All that mattered was this: she was here, she was alive, and I would keep her that way.
"Michael," she whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear her over the wind.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
"Me too," I admitted, because there was no point in lying. "But we're going to be okay. Both of us. I promise."
It was probably a promise I had no right to make. But I made it anyway, sealing it with a kiss to her forehead that tasted like salt from her tears.
And so, in the freezing dark, with the world ending around us and nothing but each other to hold onto, the two of us huddled together under layers of blankets and hoped.
We waited for the dawn.
Please, I prayed to whatever might be listening. Please let there be a dawn to wait for.
Outside, the storm screamed its answer—a sound like the death of hope itself.
But inside, in the small circle of warmth we'd created, we held on.