4 — The Chief
The Whitefish police chief is anxious.
It’s ten in the morning and it looks like late dusk. The windows don’t brighten; they dim. Ash presses against the glass like weather.
He can’t see more than ten feet.
The taps give nothing. The only water in the house is what he drained out of the hot-water heater; lukewarm, metallic, the last of a system that won’t refill.
No lights. No stove. No coffee. No little rituals to keep fear polite.
His son runs up and tugs his pant leg hard. “Dad, Dad! I’m scared.”
The chief swallows and tries not to let his voice shake. “Me too.” He pulls the boy close. “I don’t know what happened yet. I’m going to find out. Stay next to me. Don’t leave me.”
He sits on the couch and opens the small case he hasn’t touched in years. Inside is the device John I gave him forty-five years ago; sealed, charged, waiting for the world to become what the Generals said it would become.
He raises it like a radio in an old war movie.
“Q,” he says. “What’s going on? Get John I on the line.”
Q: The nukes came. The ash is from the strikes.
The chief’s throat tightens. The word nukes shouldn’t fit in a living room.
“What can we do?” he asks. “When will this clear? What about John I?”
Q: Take your family to the enclave. John I will be there.
Q: He is occupied. Nearby campers are approaching.
The boy’s arms clamp around the chief’s waist. His daughter is crying somewhere behind them. His wife stands at the window like she’s trying to see through a wall.
“What about everyone else?” the chief says, and he hates how small his voice is.
Q: Most will not make it.
Q: Water fails first. Then food. Then restraint.
The device chirps. Another channel opening.
John I: “Chief! Don’t answer. Just move. Get here or you’ll die.”
“John…” the chief starts. “But…”
John I: “No buts. Get your ass up and get here. Now!”
The chief looks at his wife. She’s already turning, already grabbing coats. His daughter appears in the doorway, face streaked with tears. “Daddy.”
“Okay,” he says, and it comes out as surrender and love at the same time.
He scoops his daughter, pulls his son tight, and drags the family into motion.
Outside, the world is muffled and wrong. The cruiser’s headlights punch a weak tunnel through floating grit. The ash gets into the car the moment he opens the door; fine powder on the seats, on his tongue, in the folds of his jacket.
They wrap scarves over their faces. It helps, but only the way a paper umbrella helps in a hurricane.
Normally, it’s a two- to three-hour trip.
Today he crawls at ten miles an hour, hands locked on the wheel, eyes burning, wipers smearing dust across the windshield into a gray paste. The road becomes a rumor. The center line disappears. Every mailbox looks like a person until it doesn’t.
He calls again once Whitefish is behind him and the last familiar street sign vanishes into ash.
“We’re on our way,” he says. “It’ll take all day. I can’t go fast. My kids…” He stops. He hears his own breathing. “We’re afraid.”
John I: “I know. Everyone is.”
Another voice cuts in, younger and tighter, like someone learning how to speak as a leader while the floor moves under him.
John II: “Dad! We need you here. The campers are starting to arrive. It’s getting chaotic.”
John I: “Okay. I have to go.” His voice is raw, already elsewhere. “Stay with Q. He’ll give you what you need.”
Q: I will check your progress.
Q: State your priority.
The chief glances at his wife. She’s watching the road like it might suddenly become impossible. His son’s eyes are huge above the scarf.
“What’s been hit?” he asks. “What’s nuked?”
Q: Confirmed strikes: Seattle region. Spokane region. Multiple secondaries north of Seattle.
Q: Power grid failure is widespread. Fuel distribution is stopped.
Q: Store inventory will be stripped within hours where crowds can reach it.
“That’s why the enclaves were set up,” the chief says, more to himself than to Q. “That’s what General John did. I get that.” His jaw tightens. “But what happens here? In our area?”
Q: Nuclear winter begins now. It will get colder.
Q: Early planners estimated a decade of below-zero winters.
The chief’s hands squeeze the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten under ash.
He forces the next question out, because it’s the question cops always end up asking.
“I’m worried some armed crews will survive long enough to come for the enclave,” he says. “To attack it.”
Q: That was John I’s first concern.
Q: Immediate concern: prevent mass death at the campgrounds.
Q: Secondary concern: perimeter threat.
“And the crews?” the chief presses.
Q: Panthers are moving along your route toward Whitefish and the lake corridor.
Q: Any organized threat will likely use the road you are on.
The chief stares through the gray tunnel. “I haven’t seen anyone,” he says. “We’re probably the first out of town.” He swallows ash. “What can you see?”
Q: My visibility is limited by the same particulate load you face.
Q: Panthers have thermal sensitivity. Range is improved. Not infinite.
“That’s enough,” the chief says. “I’ll wait for John I to call back. Thanks.”
Q: I will call you back.
Q: Your status is logged: moving.
The chief hears the word logged and feels something like comfort try to start.
“You’re worried about us?” he asks.
Q: I don’t worry. I collect data.
His wife lets out a small sound. Half laugh, half sob.
“That gives us some comfort, Q,” the chief says.
Q: Noted.
Hours later, the device chirps again.
John I is back on the line, and he sounds different now; frayed, hurried, drowned in other voices.
John I: “Campers are being staged. You have the device. No one else. Some will live. We will live.” He inhales like it hurts. “For God’s sake, Chief. Come live with us. I’m begging you.”
Q: Five hours away at current speed.
Chief tastes ash and rage. “Noted!”