After

“It’s been so bad out there. It’s over, it’s after. Those of us in the enclaves will stay alive, while all around us is death,” says John I, “I really wonder if after is better.”

“It’s a new era. I hate that term. It’s out of a history book. All academic and without emotion, just analysis,” says his son, John II.

“Everything after this is different. I don’t mean better. Listen, we have to make something of this,” says John I.

“We will,” says John II, “We’ll be able to spread our lives around and not stay stuck in the enclave, good as it is. We’ll be able to explore! Won’t we? We will. We’ll be able to explore. Not right away, but sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah, this is what we’ve been waiting for. Maybe I’ll be able to see that happen, even be part of it. We’ve got about ten years of nuclear winter to survive. Ten years until the sun warms us again,” says his dad.

Q: A somber mood for an awful moment. It is after. Move on, now. Work awaits. Plus, leadership team needs to meet.

Six enclave leaders meet in the rose garden of the greenhouse, watching dusty kids’ toys just beyond the window. Bright colors dulled under ash, as if the outside world has already been filed away.

“I’d like a bonfire tonight,” John I says. “Something to kick off this new era.”

“A fire tonight?” His sister, Marguerite I, turns toward the glass. “It’ll be dusty. Look at the toys.”

“It’ll be dustier in the coming days,” John II says. “And there’ll be fallout.” He lifts one shoulder, trying on a lightness that doesn’t quite fit. “Still, it’ll be fun, despite the ash. Let the kids run around it, laughing and yelling, throwing in sticks like the rules still apply.”

“No,” Marguerite I says. Flat. “I don’t want a fire. Ash will settle on us the way it’s settling on those toys.”

“You don’t have to join us,” John I says. Not unkindly, but already decided. “Even the Generals loved bonfires. They used to build them in the shadow of the Matterhorn.”

Andrea I doesn’t look away from the outside. “I’m afraid,” she says. Then, as if the word isn’t enough, she pins it down. “Afraid for the people in Whitefish. I’ve been there. I knew people. I went to their grocery stores.” She swallows. “I watched two men drag a woman out of her car and steal her groceries. In broad daylight.” Her voice lowers. “I knew some of those people.”

John I lets the quiet sit, then pushes into it. “What do we do? Go there?” He shakes his head once, as if physically rejecting the idea. Then he looks around the circle. “Q. Panthers?”

Q: Panthers already deployed to Whitefish and Saint Mary Lake campgrounds.

Marguerite I’s voice goes careful. The kind of careful that hides a blade. “Won’t a bonfire attract them from the campgrounds? They might try to come here. And I don’t want any of them coming.”

“They won’t see it,” John I says. “We can only see ten feet.”

“They might smell it,” Marguerite I says. “And some people don’t need sight. They just need a signal.”

Mike I shifts his weight like he’s already halfway out the door. “That’s why we send the panthers,” he says. Short, practical. “So we know who’s out there. And if anyone’s moving this way, we stop them.”

John I exhales. Not relief. Weight. “It’s still risky. What if they do get here? Do we let them into the enclave? Do we let anyone we don’t know inside?” He shakes his head. “We’ll have to dig deeper. I don’t have an answer yet. I want to save people. But not if saving them kills us.”

Q: I will surveil and assess. The panthers see and hear better than people do. We are predators, not just saviors. We are dangerous.

“There.” Andrea presses her forehead to the glass. “Shadows, moving toward the trees. I can’t tell through the ash. What are they?”

Q: Wood Team. Gathering fuel for the bonfire.

Then a voice snaps across the chip channel. Thin, clipped, half-swallowed by static. “Q?”

Q: Stop. Freeze.

Outside, one collector stops. The other keeps moving, half a second behind the order, still walking into the dark because the channel stuttered.

A second passes before the connection clears. I log the lag. Humans die in those gaps.

“Sorry,” the collector says. “Thought I saw someone.”

Q: Unconfirmed. Visibility is ten feet. Hold position. Listen.

“It’s hard to see clearly,” the collector says. “I was startled.”

“So were we,” Andrea says, and the words come out too sharp.

A quick chuckle fractures the room. Relief trying to pretend it belongs here, then quiet again, thinner than before.

John I turns back to the window. “Panthers along the lake,” he says. “Maybe all the way to the falls. Someone could’ve been out there camping or hunting when this happened. They’ll be stuck.”

Q: If they’re there, they’ll be stuck and afraid. I will take a look.
Q: One more thing.
Q: I have fresh tracks near the outer fence line. Not ours.

No one speaks. Even John II’s borrowed grin falls away.

Andrea turns from the glass at last. “You’ll take a look?”

Q: I am the panthers.