The Winter Run

4:37 AM

He hammered his fist against the door.

December. It had to be December. Ice in the air, breath curling in the dim glow of the hallway light.

There was movement inside; faint and hesitant. Like whoever had made the noise from the other side of the door was still lost in the fog of sleep.

He hit the door again. Harder.

It cracked open. Sleep-heavy, unfocused eyes stared out.

Pushing the door open he asked, “Do you have a way to move your cats?”

The man on the other side flinched away.

“What?”

He looked groggy and thrown off by the abruptness. Like he was still trying to process what he was seeing.

“A carrier,” said the first man scanning the apartment. “For the car.”

A beat. The second man blinked. “I—yeah. Why?” Then, like a fog lifting: “Wait. Troy? What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be.” Troy looked down at his watch. “But here I am. Your place was the closest.”

He glanced back up. “And we have to go.”

The other man frowned, rubbing at his face, words still sluggish.

“Go where? What are you—”

Troy locked eyes with him. “I mean, we have forty-five minutes to make it to a fucking boat. Plan A’s gone, so we go with Plan B.” His tone left no room for argument. “Seth, do you have something to move them with or not?”

Seth’s face paled. The color and sleep seemed to drain from his face at the same time, replaced by sudden comprehension. His lips parted slightly before he nodded.

“Uh - Yeah. Yeah. Give me five minutes. I can get everything ready.”

“Make it fast. I’m using your computer.”

Seth nodded, already turning away. “You know where it is.”

The apartment was dim and somewhat cluttered; as if Seth hadn’t gotten around to cleaning for a couple days. The shelves were lined with figurines, books, and small mementos that seemed untouched but carefully placed. He ignored it all, settling into the desk chair in the corner and bringing the screen to life.

“Did you already send something out?” Seth’s voice, muffled, came from down the hall—accompanied by the hurried shuffle of packing.

“Seventeen minutes ago. It’s on loop.” Troy said back, as he opened their shared communication app, Discord, and quickly launched a web browser to pull up the few news sites they trusted.

“No one’s answered yet…” He said trailing off into the empty room as he rapidly scanned through news tabs.

Nothing yet. That was good. Less panic meant the roads would still be manageable.

It wouldn’t last.

He closed the news sites and looked back to Discord. Still no responses. Damn. His fingers tightened on the mouse before he clicked the client shut. No time to sit and stare at a screen.

“Where are your guns?” he called, standing and heading back out toward the apartment’s main room.

“Second door on the left,” Seth called back. “Behind the shoes. Code’s 4827.”

He found the safe exactly where it should be. He moved aside worn work boots, punched in the code, and the safe clicked open with a quiet rasp of metal.

He worked fast, three trips between the safe and the kitchen table.

Pistols. Rifles. Ammo. More than he remembered Seth owning. He worked quickly, reassembling pistols, racking slides. The sound of it filled the room like the ticking of a clock.

By the time he was finished, Seth reappeared, layered in heavy clothes, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Two crates in hand, inside each, a pair of wary, wide-eyed cats.

“Got batteries?”

“Yeah. Three sets. NVGs are in the case.”

“Socks?”

“Four pairs.” Seth exhaled sharply. “How many times have we run this?”

Troy looked up. “Seth. This isn’t a drill.”

A pause. The weight of the moment pressed against them both.

“Are we taking both cars or just mine?”

Seth hesitated. “Yours. Sticking together is safer. You bring the truck?”

“Yeah. Need anything from yours?”

Seth shifted his grip on the crates, glancing around the apartment. “No…” He hesitated, looking towards the door to the garage. Jaw clenched. “Fuck. I really liked that car.”

“You might see it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey,” muttered Troy, pulling open the door and then picking up the bag he had been holding.

“It’s not like I’m keeping mine either.”

Seth huffed a bitter laugh. “Fair point.”

Neither of them bothered to put things down and shut the door as they stepped out into the cold. The dark of the morning swallowing them whole.

4:45 AM

The highway stretched ahead of them, dark and slick with the ghost of last night’s rain. Maybe he owed someone upstairs a thank you… it was Sunday morning after all.

Troy considered again what was about to happen around them. He decided he would save this thanks for later.

Few cars dotted the road ahead, their taillights swerving aside as Troy tore past, the needle on the dash kissing 98. He didn’t care. Speed limits wouldn’t matter in-

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three, no, twenty-two minutes.

Seth restlessly twisted again in his seat, looking behind them. The two cat carriers in the backseat rocked slightly with the movement of the truck. The animals inside were wide-eyed, ears flattened against their heads. Troy’s dog Chief, nose twitching, kept sniffing the mesh, tail flicking in anxious little bursts. He didn’t like the tension in the air. He wasn’t alone.

“Anyone respond?” Troy asked, eyes still fixed on the road.

Seth turned back around, already pulling out his phone. “No. I’m going to try calling Sam again.” His fingers flicked through his contacts, then tapped a name.

At the same time, Troy hit a button on the steering wheel.

“Call Isaac,” he ordered.

The voice assistant chimed. “Calling Isaac Karlson.” The tone hollow and steady.

Come on. Pick up.

“Hello?” A groggy voice, laced with sleep, crackled through the truck’s speakers.

“It’s about to rain in hell,” Troy said, his tone cold as he veered around a semi truck that had been hogging the left lane.

A pause. Then, sharp, alert: “Shit. How long do I have?”

“About twenty minutes. I’ve got Seth. We’re heading for the harbor. Can you make it?”

Another pause. The kind that measured risk. “I’ll do my best. Should be able to. I’ll call if something…”

Silence.

The line had cut out.

Then, at the same time, both Troy’s and Seth’s phones buzzed, their screens flashing white as they started emitting the sharp, grating tone of an emergency alert.

“Fuck,” Seth muttered, swiping at his screen.

Troy kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched. “What does it say? What are they telling people?”

Seth’s voice was flat, but something dark threaded through it.

“Attention: This is an emergency message for all residents of King County. Evacuate immediately. The National Space Agency has identified an inbound astronomical event that is projected to impact near the Seattle region. All residents are advised to evacuate or seek immediate shelter.”

The words hung between them like smoke.

Troy’s knuckles turned white on the wheel.

“Now it’s going to get a little more complicated.”

Seth didn’t bother voicing his agreement.

4:54 AM

The response wasn’t immediate — it was early, and most people weren’t prepared for something like this. But some were. Some were already moving.

Cars started spilling onto the streets as they maneuvered off the highway. The majority were rushing for one of the major thoroughfares, probably not considering that those would be gridlocked within minutes. Others, like them, were instead racing toward the waterfront. Thankfully, most seemed to be headed for the larger marinas or the tug corrals further north.

Troy swung the truck down a side street and into the small private marina, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He scanned the lot. Only two other vehicles were here. For now.

He killed the engine and stepped out. The air smelled of salt and damp metal. Seth moved to the back, hauled open the tailgate, and started unloading gear. He stacked it with practiced efficiency, staging the most important bags closest to the marina gate. If they had to cut weight, they needed to make sure they didn’t leave anything critical behind.

The marina gate stood slightly ajar. Troy did have bolt cutters in the truck in case it had come to that, but someone had already propped it open. Smart. No one wanted to spend time punching in codes while running loads to and from the car.

A man jogged up the gangway, breath ragged, arms full of boxes. Older, overweight, panicked. Troy stepped aside as he passed, and got no acknowledgement, no second glance. The guy just moved towards a white SUV jammed into a handicap spot.

Troy didn’t wait to see if he made it. He jogged down the gangway, the metal vibrating beneath his steps, scanning the slips as he moved.

Starlight. That was the plan.

A 47-foot Bayliner, made for the open Pacific, sturdy enough to ride out whatever hell was coming. They’d done their research—watched her, mapped out where she docked, how often her owner took her out…

His stomach sank.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

The slip was empty. Things just kept getting harder.

He turned, scanning for a second option. His eyes landed on another vessel they had looked at. Salt Breaker. A 50 foot Targa that could definitely handle open waters. However, as expected, a faint glow flickered inside. Owners were likely aboard, and he wasn’t looking to throw people overboard. Not unless he had to.

Movement caught his eye. Flashing lights carving through the dark. What looked like three police cruisers tore past on the main road above the marina. No sirens. Just the rhythmic pulse of strobes slashing through the night.

Where the hell are they going?

He didn’t linger on the thought. He started to turn back toward the docks, when he caught the sight of the old man from the parking lot, coming down the marina ramp, arms now fully loaded with stacked boxes. Once he made it to the bottom of the ramp Troy visually tracked his path down the dock to a tiny sailboat, barely 20 feet long.

Troy shook his head. That’s going to end badly.

He let the thought pass and turned back, moving down the pier, scanning the slips, until he found something that brought him up short.

Not much to look at on the outside. She was scarred, unpolished, but appeared sturdy. About 40 feet long, with a broad beam that nearly filled the slip. The stern was open; the kind of deck once used for commercial hauls. Fishing maybe?

A second cabin had been added, topped with a dinghy strapped down by sun-bleached ropes. The main cabin sat up front, flanked by two exhaust stacks that promised power, if not reliability.

The hull bore the scars of a life at sea. Faded paint, raw metal showing through like old wounds.

The name was still there. Chipped, but legible.

Dory.

Troy exhaled. “Well… I guess that’ll have to work.”

He leapt onto the ship’s deck, boots landing firmly against the wood. No shouts from below.. That was a good sign. Moving quickly, he slipped through the smaller rear cabin, then started forward to the main hatch.

Inside, the boat was dark. No lights to suggest anyone was aboard, but he had to be sure.

Below deck, the sleeping cabin was small but clean. Two smaller rooms flanked the main hall, their doors left slightly ajar. He pressed forward, checking the galley. Stripped. The shelves sat empty save for some dust.

That’s fine. That’s why we brought supplies.

Troy ducked through a narrow door, eying the engine compartment. As expected, it was weathered. Showing its age with a patina of rust and oil stains. There was no time to check more thoroughly right now.

Satisfied no one was living aboard, he turned and sprinted back up to the deck. Vaulting onto the pier, he turned and bolted back towards the parking lot.

They had a boat.

Now they just had to make it out alive.

4:57 AM

The world was starting to unravel.

Troy heard it before he saw anything. Yelling in the distance, the erratic blare of car horns, the occasional screech of tires as panic took the wheel. Sirens wove through the city like hunting dogs, howling somewhere far off, but for now, they weren’t closing in.

At the top of the ramp, he turned at the sound of a small engine grumbling to life below. The old man’s sailboat was pulling away from the dock. Troy spotted him at the tiller, his wife bundled in layers by the cabin door. Their boat was laughably small for what lay ahead, but at least they weren’t waiting—they were moving.

Movement across the pier. Salt Breaker.

Her owners scrambled across the deck, working frantically to untie lines and shove off. The panic from the city was bleeding into the marina now, an unspoken understanding that staying put meant staying behind.

Troy refocused. Time to move.

Seth stood by the truck, gear stacked neatly — guns, ammo, water, the critical bags placed for rapid loading — just like they’d practiced.

“How long do we have?” Seth asked, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the straps of his pack.

Troy didn’t break stride. “Doesn’t matter. We have a boat. Dory. Right side of the pier, third from the end. Let’s get everything loaded, we’ll sort it out once we’re underway.”

Seth nodded, scooping up the cat carriers. “Chief, come.”

The dog hesitated, ears flicking toward Troy, waiting for confirmation.

Troy gave a curt nod, and Chief trotted after Seth, tail low, disappearing down the ramp into the dark.

Troy turned back to the gear on the ground, but a new sound stopped him cold.

Footsteps. Fast. Coming straight towards him.

Instinct took over. His hand dropped to his holster, body shifting against the truck for cover. A silhouette emerged from the dark, moving fast.

“Clover!” Troy shouted.

The shadowed form came up short, gasping for breath as it skidded to a stop, doubling over, hands on his knees.

“Grove.” The newcomer wheezed out.

Troy exhaled, straightening as his friend continued to suck wind.

Tall. Familiar. Isaac.

“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it ” Troy said, scanning past Isaac, making sure no one had followed.

“Neither… was I.” Isaac gasped.

Troy looked back to his friend. Two miles in under twelve minutes. In normal circumstances? Impressive. Now? Necessary.

Troy didn’t waste time. “I know you’re winded, but grab a bag if you can. We’re down the ramp, right side, third boat from the end. Name’s Dory. You’ll pass Seth on the way down.”

Isaac straightened, inhaled deep. “Yeah. No—” a sharp breath “—problem.”

One last deep inhale, then he grabbed a duffle and a gun case, and headed down the ramp.

Troy turned back to the remaining gear, heaving two duffles into his arms.

Crack!

A gunshot. Close.

He dropped the bags, pistol clearing its holster in one motion.

Pressing himself flat against the truck, he held his breath; heart pounding, waiting for the second shot. But it didn’t come.

Not aimed at us.

A scream came from across the street, up the block. Tires squealed as a small sedan peeled away from the curb, vanishing down the road. A woman knelt on the pavement. Hunched over something. Someone.

Troy tried to force his heartbeat to steady. You don’t have time for this.

It was going to get worse. Much worse.

The thought cut through his hesitation like a blade.

Behind him, footsteps clanged against the marina ramp. Troy turned, watching as Seth climbed back up, rifle in hand, scanning the street. His eyes flicked to Troy.

Troy shook his head. No time.

He holstered his weapon. Seth nodded and slung the rifle back over his shoulder. Across the street, the woman’s cries carried on. Pleading. Frantic. Desperate.

Seth grabbed another two duffles. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing they could have done for her anyways. They turned, moving back down the ramp, their footsteps steady, their breath even.

The woman’s sobs faded behind them, swallowed by the dark.

5:03 AM

Too close. This is too close.

Troy’s pulse hammered in his throat as Dory’s engine finally roared to life. The last bow line slipped free, snapping against the dock, and the boat drifted into the black water.

Two more frantic trips. That’s what it had taken. Up and down the ramp, hauling the last of their gear. The weight of every second pressing against them. Now, Seth and Isaac shoved the bags into the stern cabin, cramming supplies into whatever space would keep them dry.

Troy stood at the helm, steering them out of the slip

More boats filled the channel, engines roaring as they ignored no-wake zones, slicing through the water in frantic, desperate bids for open sea. Salt Breaker was the only other vessel from their marina that Troy could make out in the distance. Her hull knifed through the dark, engines churning froth into the void.

Just before they’d pushed off, two more cars had screamed into the lot, doors flying open, occupants spilling out, yelling at each other to grab supplies. Troy hadn’t looked to see which boat they were trying to reach. There wasn’t time for curiosity. There wasn’t time for anything.

“All right, everything’s stowed. At least enough to keep it dry.” Seth called, stepping into the cabin. Isaac followed, breath steady but tight.

Troy nodded, glanced at his watch, and pushed the throttle lever all the way forward.

Dory lurched, her old frame groaning, but she responded. The surge shoved Troy back into his seat. Seth and Isaac grabbed onto whatever they could, bracing against the force as she beat through the chop, pushing aside the crisscrossing wakes from the other fleeing boats.

She might’ve been old. But she had power.

Seth slid into the co-pilot’s chair, his eyes sweeping over the aging screens in front of him.

Dory had clearly been a working boat in her prime. A vessel built for something harder than this. Hauling nets instead of hauling the desperate. The old equipment showed it.

The radar flickered, grainy but still alive. A depth sounder hummed, its yellowed plastic casing a relic of another decade. Analog dials lined the dash, their needles vibrating with every movement of the hull.

And there, wedged into the corner like an afterthought—a GPS unit from the early 2000s, its display dim and pixelated.

The whole cabin smelled of salt, oil, and rust. A machine built for work, not survival.

“How long do we have?” Isaac asked from behind them. His voice low, almost drowned out by the roar of engines.

Troy didn’t even glance at the clock. He didn’t need it. He already knew.

“We’re in the margin zone now.” He kept his voice steady. “No telling exactly when it’ll happen.”

Then, as if on cue, the sky changed.

A pale glow spread across the heavens, washing over the black waves like an open wound bleeding light. It grew brighter by the second, burning away the dark. Boats ahead of them were no longer just shadows. Troy could see them, their shapes crisp against the eerie wash of light.

Here it was.

Engines still strained. Waves still broke against hulls. But in the cabin, there was only silence.

Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

“Jesus,” Seth murmured.

Troy’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles bone-white.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low and steady.

This was it.

Now there was no way back.

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