Storm Coming

Upon entering their sanctuary, Emily and Alex were enveloped in the exuberant excitement of Chloe and Duke. "Mommy's back, Grandma! Mommy and Uncle are back!" Chloe's voice echoed as she sprinted towards them, her tiny form resembling a bundle of unbridled energy.

Emily lowered herself, arms outstretched, as her daughter launched into her embrace with the enthusiasm of a small cannonball. Duke, not to be outdone, danced around them, his tail wagging furiously.

Elizabeth and David soon emerged from their quarters. Before their parents could utter a word, Emily and Alex, with well-timed unison, announced their hunger, a strategic move that artfully redirected the focus away from the day's perils and towards the dinner table.

During the meal, Alex broke the news of his newfound ability, his revelation met with widened eyes and a sense of awe, particularly from Chloe who sat at the edge of her seat, eager to witness a demonstration.

With a theatrical flourish, Alex raised his hand, his palm facing upwards, and from it burst a crackling arc of blue lightning. "At the onset of the apocalypse, having two ability users in the family already fortified our safety," David remarked. "This addition layers our security even more." Emily chimed in softly after her father, "Dad, I too possess an ability." A moment of silence followed, as David's mood visibly shifted.

Post dinner, Emily noticed a somber cast over David's demeanor. Unsure of how to address it, she sought Elizabeth's guidance before excusing herself to inventory the day's acquisitions.

Elizabeth offered comfort to David, her touch and words providing solace. "Our children have grown, surpassing our youthful capabilities," she consoled. "They wield powers beyond our comprehension. How can we compete with that? You're just a proud father." David's laughter, a warm rumble, filled the room at her words. "I'm not as fragile as I seem," he admitted. "It's just that my competitive spirit has never waned, and I refuse to be rendered obsolete in these trying times. My pride is not bruised by the children's abilities, but by my own perceived inadequacy."

Turning to Alex, Elizabeth continued, "Son, hear us out. We've lived through much, and we believe we should continue to share the burden with you. Your father and I will not find joy in merely existing within this space." Alex, understanding the depth of his father's disappointment and the weight of his mother's words, agreed. "My sister and I will manage. We'll gather a few more supplies over the next few days before we return home."

In the following days, Emily and Alex fell into a rhythm of gathering supplies and honing their zombie hunting skills. Emily's memories from her past life warned of an impending typhoon, a force of nature that would soon unleash its fury. Despite the absence of immediate signs, the reliability of television weather forecasts had become as erratic as the world itself, often preempted by urgent reports of the escalating zombie threat.

In her previous life, the typhoon had arrived without warning, and in its wake, a month-long downpour of red, viscous rain had submerged the world, its height reaching nearly three stories. This knowledge spurred them to prepare with haste. Once the red rain ceased, the brains of the undead would begin to crystallize, forming structures of unknown potential. Emily, though never having utilized these crystals herself, had heard whispers of their ability to enhance one's powers, though the method remained a mystery. Yet, this uncertainty would not deter her from preparing; it was better to be ready too early than to be too late and left defenseless.

One day, after returning to their sanctuary, Emily showered the grime of the world off her skin and pulled out her trusty notebook. As she delved into the pages, recalling the events from her previous life, a sense of urgency washed over her. She sought out her brother and said, "Brother, let's stay indoors for the next few days. The typhoon is imminent, and venturing outside would be sheer folly."

The family assembled in the living room, a bastion of normalcy amidst the chaos. Chloe nestled on the carpet with Duke, her eyes glued to the television, while David tinkered with a newly acquired radio, and Elizabeth busied herself organizing clothes, a task that lent a semblance of order to their lives.

Emily, seated on the sofa and enveloped in contemplation, was startled by a sudden howl of the wind outside, its force bending trees and whistling through the gaps in the buildings. The prelude to the storm was swift, with rain lashing against the windows like a thousand tiny arrows.

The family's gazes turned upward to witness the glass panes now obscured by a torrent of thick, viscous red rain. The sky, once a canvas of blue, darkened with each passing moment until an oppressive shroud of darkness enveloped the world outside.

They secured the doors and windows, drawing the curtains tight against the tempest. Even by the break of dawn, the typhoon showed no signs of relenting. The rain had risen to the second floor in the span of a single night, a testament to the storm's ferocity. Alex, with a telescope in hand, surveyed the devastation outside, witnessing several large tornadoes that seemed to bridge the heavens and earth, their funnels reaching down to the water's surface, creating waterspouts of apocalyptic proportions. Cars, uprooted trees, and billboards spun within the whirlwinds, while some houses succumbed to the storm's wrath, torn asunder as if they were made of paper. Elizabeth clutched Emily's hand, her face drained of color, and whispered, "Is this still a typhoon? It's like the end of the world!"

Alex's eyes mirrored the shock that gripped them all as he passed the telescope to Emily. She took a deep breath, bracing for the potential calamity. If the tornadoes encroached upon their refuge, they would have no choice but to retreat to the space without delay.

Three-year-old Chloe, witnessing the colossal tornadoes and relentless rain, sought solace in her mother's embrace, her small frame quivering with each peal of thunder. She looked up at Emily with wide, fearful eyes and asked, "Mommy, will our house fly away?"

Chloe's innocent question settled heavily upon the room, intensifying the already palpable tension. Emily enveloped her in a comforting hug and reassured her, "No, sweetheart, our building is sturdy and heavy, it won't fly away." To distract Chloe, Emily queued up a pre-downloaded cartoon, and the little girl's attention was swiftly captivated by the colorful animation.

The power outage, a consequence of the tornadoes' rampage, plunged the neighborhood into a cloak of darkness. Emily refrained from switching on the lights, wary of the potential risk of attracting unwanted attention.

The sound of the rain, normally a tranquil backdrop, took on a more ominous tone. Yet, the storm's fury also provided a strange comfort—the likelihood of a zombie attack was slim in such conditions. With this in mind, Emily and Chloe retired to bed earlier than usual.

Upon waking the next morning, they discovered that the gas supply had also been severed. From their space, they retrieved an induction cooker, and Elizabeth prepared a simple meal, careful to avoid any strong odors that might draw attention. After the meal, Emily savored a can of soda, the cool bubbles providing a moment of respite. Once rejuvenated, they retreated to their space to tend to their garden, a verdant oasis within their sanctuary, offering a glimpse of hope amidst the storm's devastation.

Although Chloe possessed a wood-type ability, an asset in their enclosed world, David and Elizabeth were steadfast in their concern for their precious daughter's well-being. They were reluctant to allow Chloe to exert herself with her ability, save for the most dire of circumstances. The responsibility of cultivating their small plot of land, while essential, was deemed too strenuous for their young one. Instead, David and Elizabeth took it upon themselves to till the soil and form the ridges, a laborious task that left them physically drained but fulfilled.

Their modest garden was a testament to their resilience, with each hole receiving two seeds of potential—a mixture of winter melon, pumpkin, chili peppers, corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a few hearty watermelons. The act of planting was more than just a means to an end; it was an investment in their survival and a symbol of hope for the future.

Exiting the space after their gardening duties, Emily cast a glance out the window, her heart sinking at the sight of water creeping up to the third floor. A small blessing was the aerial garden on the upper floors, unoccupied and free from the risk of sewage backflow. Should the waters continue their relentless rise, the family was confident in their ability to endure for a time on the 23rd floor, where the lower-floor residents would also seek refuge.

With the city's utilities crippled—water, electricity, and gas all out of commission—the government's persistent broadcasts urged the public to remain indoors. The emergency hotline was a lifeline, its constant engagement a reflection of the widespread panic. When they finally breached the busy signal, the response was disheartening: a lack of resources and a suggestion to try again later.

Emily's estimations predicted at least ten more days of the typhoon's wrath, the waterspouts now a hauntingly familiar sight. The community was reeling, with some families facing the double tragedy of illness and the inability to seek medical help. Their pleas in the community group chat were a stark reminder of the human cost of the disaster. Emily, despite her ample medical supplies, was powerless to aid them, the distance and the deadly waters a barrier too great to overcome.

As the floodwaters lapped at the foundations of their community, the lifeline of the internet was severed, plunging the family into a state of isolation. With idle hands, they turned to physical training, each family member committing to a regimen designed by Alex, leveraging his experience as a former special forces officer. Their days were punctuated by intervals of exercise, afternoons dedicated to learning and self-improvement, and evenings spent in gentle play with Chloe, building block towers that stood testament to their unity.

Chloe, showing a warrior's spirit, had been diligently practicing boxing, her small form growing stronger with each passing day. Despite the occasional bruise, she met each training session with quiet determination, never voicing a word of complaint. One afternoon, she invited Emily to witness her progress, transforming into a miniature boxer whose movements were a dance of precision and power. Her punches were sharp, her kicks calculated, and her eyes alight with resolve. Emily watched, her pride swelling with each strike.

After her training session, Chloe stood poised for her mother's appraisal, and Emily responded with a flood of praise, celebrating her daughter's tenacity. Duke, ever the loyal companion, was rewarded with a dried leg of lamb for his spirited encouragement.

As dusk settled in, Emily prepared a warm bath for Chloe, the heat soothing away the day's aches and pains. Gently dabbing liniment on her daughter's bruises, Emily whispered words of comfort, her touch a balm to Chloe's weary body. Lulled by the tender care, the little girl surrendered to sleep, her dreams hopefully free from the storm's fury.