Chapter 6:New Neighbors

chloe

I stood in my doorway as he stared at me down the hallway, drill in hand. A brief silence hung between us.

He spoke first, voice flat and measured. “I thought you’d come to complain about the noise.”

My gaze swept over the supplies stacked beside Unit 4501’s doorway: a new steel frame, drill bits, stainless steel reinforcing plates.

“You installed a second door,” I said. “Wide-load bearing frame. Most people only bother with one security door.”

He paused, his eyes drifting away from the axe handle in my grasp. “Your warning last night — that substations and pump houses would flood. How did you figure it out?”

“I’m an actuary. Calculating infrastructure failure probabilities is part of my job.” No extra flourishes. “I hope you’ve stockpiled water. Time’s running out if you haven’t.”

He offered no reply, but through the crack of his doorway, I spotted piles of supplies inside his apartment.

We stood in the hallway for less than two minutes. I retreated inside and shut my door. I listened from behind it; the whir of the drill resumed, steady, even picking up speed.

I turned off my cellular data and cleared all notifications.

In my past life, I’d made a fatal mistake on this first hurricane day: endlessly scrolling footage of the collapsing city until my hands shook, accomplishing nothing useful. Not this time.

Occasional heavy thuds echoed outside ， curtain wall panels torn off buildings and slamming onto concrete, dull and random, like a giant drum being beaten beneath the city. I did not look.

Near noon, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass and studied the city through military binoculars.

Streets no longer resembled streets. Lower-level roads lay submerged under murky, slow-moving floodwater. Street signs sank beneath the surface, reflecting shattered building fragments rather than the sky. Cars trapped at parking garage entrances flooded one after another. Several had been swept together at intersections, their dark windows like sightless eyes.

I’d never had this vantage in my previous life. Back then, from the 45th floor, I only watched the waterline creep slowly up exterior walls. Today, I saw the whole city.

Then I spotted the vortex.

It was no hurricane eye. It formed where floodwater and gale-force winds collided, near the intersection of the city’s main south thoroughfare and the coastal expressway. A white water column spun violently, snatching car husks, road barriers, branches and unidentifiable debris. It moved southeast, tearing along the highway overpass, ripping guardrails away as if they were paper.

I lowered the binoculars.

This had never happened before. In my past life, I’d stayed cooped up indoors, relying only on phone updates, unprepared for disaster. Now, Leviathan had arrived early, spawning a vortex in a location I’d never remembered. My butterfly effect was amplifying the catastrophe, or the hurricane was simply stronger. I hung the binoculars around my neck and stepped back inside.

At two p.m., I turned mobile data on for an hour, only observing, not posting.

The volume of information had exploded overnight. Some posted photos of candlelit dinners; others bragged online about freezers full of meat, starting threads where people competed to list their stockpiles.

I felt no envy, only cold clarity. These people would collapse first. Flaunting their supplies meant their inventory was public knowledge. I closed my phone.

Late afternoon, I simmered broth in the kitchen with the range hood off.

A faint cry seeped through the ambient roar. Hurricane winds drowned most sound, but the building’s ventilation ducts had a structural flaw — noise traveled along the pipe walls, amplified at certain frequencies.

At first I thought I imagined it. The sound was faint, almost questioning. It persisted, broken by wet, muffled sobs. This was not a typical tantrum. It was the cry of a child who had been weeping for a long time, trying desperately to stay quiet.

I set down my pot lid and flipped on the exhaust fan. The sound vanished. My hand lingered on the switch for thirty seconds, then I turned it off again. The crying returned.

I waited for it to stop. A normal outburst would fade within minutes.

It did not.

I pulled on a jacket, grabbed a trash bag as an excuse to step out, and cracked my door open. The trash room sat at the far end of the corridor. I walked past Unit 4501, the small continuous whimper leaking out from under its new stainless steel door. I paused, dumped my trash, then circled back to the doorway.

I pulled a pediatric first-aid guide from my storage space, one I’d saved from the library. The pitch and stifled rhythm of the cry matched a description: painful sobbing caused by a high fever inflaming the throat, not panic or injury.

I knocked three times. Twenty seconds passed. I was ready to leave when the door creaked open slowly, its weight too heavy for small hands.

It was Zoe. She wore a pink hoodie, streaks of tears streaking her cheeks, faint vomit residue at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were swollen to slits. She clutched the doorframe, unsteady yet ready to run.

I crouched down to meet her eye level, voice soft. “Where’s your brother?”

Zoe sniffled, lips trembling. “He said he was going to get something. Then he never came back.”

I reached out and rested my palm gently against her forehead. Burning hot.

I brought Zoe into my apartment. The ear thermometer beeped twice: 102.9°F.

I measured out children’s fever medicine, diluted it in warm water and handed it over.

She stared at the cup without drinking. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m your neighbor. I know how to bring fevers down. This will help.”

She took a sip, half the cup, and frowned at the bitter taste.

I grabbed a sticky note and wrote in thick marker: Zoe is with me, Unit 4502. Fever: 102.9°F. I taped it squarely on 4501's door.

Back in the living room, Zoe curled into the sofa corner, hood pulled over her head. The hurricane howled outside. Every minute or two, something slammed hard against the building’s exterior, vibrations traveling through concrete. She flinched each time.

I sat beside her, keeping an arm’s length distance. I opened my tablet, pulled up pre-downloaded offline cartoons, dimmed the screen and adjusted the volume just loud enough to mask the wind. It took two minutes before her tense shoulders relaxed slightly as she watched the screen.

I did not watch the animation. Staring out at the charcoal sky, memories surfaced. I’d burned with fever near 104°F once, in foster care, curled on a fold-out bed, waiting for someone to remember me, waiting for the storm to pass.

Zoe’s eyelids grew heavy, so I reconnected to the internet briefly.

Derek messaged: “Are you home? I need to explain what happened last night.”

A second message arrived twenty minutes later: “I’m in a tight spot. Could you lend me some supplies? I’ll pay you back once the wind dies.”

I marked them read and did not reply.

Online sentiment shifted. People who’d bragged about stockpiles fell silent. New pleas flooded the feeds: requests for batteries, baby formula, fever-reducing medicine for a sick child.

I glanced at Zoe. She slept on her side, breathing rough but steadier, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead — the medication was working.

Nearly nine p.m. I'd rechecked Zoe's temperature: 100.6°F, dropping. As I prepared another note, I heard the footsteps. I peered through the peephole in darkness.

The man stood soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, holding a dented industrial waterproof fuel can. He spotted the note on 4501’s door and froze.

I opened my door. His gaze dropped, confirming I held no weapon, then returned to the note. “What was her temperature?”

"102.9 when she arrived, now 100.6. I gave her children's fever medication," I said. "She's asleep on my couch. You can take her back, or leave her here till morning."

The wind rumbled through the building, metal clicking from his fuel can.

“Thank you.” His voice was quieter. “I’ll take her back.”

“Marcus Wade,” he offer his name.

“Chloe Wren,” I replied.

He set the fuel can by his door, stepped into my living room and lifted Zoe gently. Half-asleep, she grabbed his collar, then settled again. Pausing beside me on his way out, he spoke without turning his head. “Lock your door tonight.”

It was neither advice nor an order, just a plain statement.

I watched him carry Zoe down the hall. The heavy stainless steel door of 4501 closed slowly, its damper hum lingering.

I shut my own door, securing all deadbolts, and leaned against it.

Outside, Leviathan still raged on.