The Quiet Before the Quieter Storm (Chapter 4)

Chapter 4
The Quiet Before the Quieter Storm

Six carts. It sounded like a lot—and it was. Once they got everything inside, the scale of it hit them. The kitchen counters disappeared under rows of canned beans, tuna, soups, and vegetables—nearly three hundred cans in total. Gallon jugs of water were stacked two rows deep against the wall, over fifty of them, along with packs of bottled water wherever there was room. They had twenty-pound bags of rice and flour, boxes of pasta, powdered milk, jars of peanut butter and honey. Batteries, candles, lighters, hygiene products, over-the-counter medicine, and even a couple of first-aid kits filled an entire corner.

And then there were the things that made it all feel a little more human: fresh fruit that wouldn’t last more than a week, a few loaves of bread, frozen dumplings, chocolate, a couple bags of chips, and one small box of instant pudding. They weren’t just trying to survive. They were trying to feel okay.

They were ahead. At least for now.

Roughly an hour had passed since they’d returned home. The snow outside hadn’t stopped, painting the world in a quiet white that stood in sharp contrast to what was unraveling beyond their windows.

Inside Kotae’s apartment, warmth had returned—if only physically. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the blue glow of the television. The adults sat on the couch, eyes locked to the screen, while Kotae and Kika sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the couch. The silence between all of them was heavy, like a weighted blanket that nobody wanted to throw off.

Then, the broadcast changed.

The usual news anchor was replaced with raw footage. Security cameras. Shaky handhelds. Helicopter views.

Chaos.

Shops, once busy but civil, had devolved into anarchy. Grocery stores were being ransacked by the dozens. Not by organized looters, but by everyday people—desperate people. Fathers pushing carts without paying, mothers clutching bottles of water and dragging their children through broken glass. Teenagers sprinting through aisles with backpacks half-zipped, shoving shelves clean in seconds. The sound of alarms was near constant in the footage, but they were nothing more than background noise in the crumbling song of civilization.

Kotae narrowed his eyes. The footage looked recent—very recent. It could have been the very same supermarket they had just left. The thought turned his spine cold.

On the screen, a manager tried to lock a store’s sliding doors. He was shouted at, shoved aside. People weren’t waiting anymore. There was no time for pleasantries or rules. Time itself had shifted. No one was thinking in months or years—everyone was thinking in hours.

Then came the fights. Shouts, curses, punches. A bottle of olive oil hurled like a grenade. A flash of shattered glass. People scrabbling, not over luxuries, but over bags of rice.

“God…” Kika whispered, hands clutched to her chest. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Kotae didn't respond. He was staring at the screen, unblinking.

“We were just there,” she continued. “It felt... weird. Too normal. But I ignored it. I didn’t want to believe things could really fall apart. Especially this fast.”

He finally spoke, voice quiet. “Sometimes normalcy can be the weirdest thing when it's out of place.”

His father grunted in agreement. “The world doesn’t explode in a second. It cracks first. Silently. And then everything breaks at once.”

They all watched in silence a moment longer. In one of the clips, a truck backed through the storefront of a store, sending glass and metal flying. People poured in like ants.

Then, finally, Kotae leaned back against the couch and exhaled.

“Well… survival’s covered, at least for now. But comfort?” He glanced sideways at Kika. “That’s another story. No power, no heat, no internet, no lights… we’re not exactly thriving.”

Kika frowned. “What’ll we do when the electricity goes?”

“I’ve thought about it since the start,” he said. “We’d need a generator. Fuel too. But that means going back out there.”

His father nodded grimly. “It crossed my mind. But we didn’t have time. It was either food or comfort. And you were right, Kotae. We made the better call.”

Kika shivered. “Still… that’s a terrifying thought. Living in darkness. Freezing. Just… waiting.”

“It is,” Kotae’s mother said softly. “But we’re not there yet.”

“No,” Kotae said. “We’re not. And risking our lives to chase a bit of warmth might not be worth it. Not now. We’ll think about it more later. For today…” He looked at each of them, his voice lowering, steadying. “We did the important part. We acted before the panic. We bought time.”

The four of them let out a collective exhale. It wasn’t joy or celebration. Just relief—the kind you feel when the first part of the nightmare is over but you’re still unsure whether you’ll wake up.

Kika leaned her head gently against Kotae’s shoulder.

“I feel like I can finally breathe.”

“Then breathe,” he said.

The snow kept falling.

For now, they were safe.

As the hours slipped further into night, the tension in the apartment thinned just enough to let a few breaths come easier. Kotae and Kika had retreated back to his room, the soft hum of the television still murmuring distant chaos from the living room.

Kika stood by the doorway for a moment, fingers nervously playing with the edge of her sleeve. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—hesitant, but honest.

“You know… I don't feel like sleeping alone tonight,” she said, her eyes trained on the floor. “I don’t think I have the strength. Can I sleep here?"

Kotae blinked. The question caught him off guard, freezing him for just a second.

“Of course you can,” he said, his usual dry humor kicking in to mask the warmth creeping up his neck. “But I’m no knight in shining armor, so I’m not sleeping on the floor. You can have the floor.”

Kika let out a quiet laugh, light and grateful. “Nobody gets the floor.”

They walked into his room together. The door clicked softly shut behind them. The room was modest—walls dressed in posters from better times, the air still carrying that faint mix of soap, books, and Kotae’s cologne. It was home.

Kotae pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside casually.

Kika raised an eyebrow, eyes widening a little. “Woah. What are you doing there?”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “You’re my guest. I always sleep shirtless. Not gonna ruin my comfort just because you feel awkward or whatever. Floor’s still an option, though.”

Kika smirked, shaking her head. “No, no. It’s alright. Your house, your rules.” She looked around, then added with playful sarcasm, “Do you have some pajamas, or did you stop wearing those when you turned twelve?”

Kotae grinned. “I might still have some from when I was twelve. They’d probably fit you.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

The banter made the room feel a little warmer, a little more alive.

They climbed under the covers and lay side by side, their backs gently resting against each other. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was soft, thoughtful. A shared kind of stillness.

Then Kika’s voice came, even softer than before. “You know… I don’t know if this is weird. If it should feel weird. Or if I should even ask this. But… I want to be held.”

Kotae turned slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”

He shifted, quietly and carefully, and wrapped an arm around her. She nestled into him without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth, steady and calm, wrapped around her like a quiet promise.

They talked for a little while—about nothing in particular, small things, half-thoughts and unspoken fears. He comforted her in the way only Kotae could, never overreaching, never pretending to know the answers, but always there, always steady.

Eventually, her breathing slowed. His did too. Sleep came not as an escape, but as a well-earned reprieve.

For now, they could rest.

Because tomorrow, the nightmare would begin again.