Howling
By the time everyone in front of the television had felt it — that paradise existed nowhere on this earth — the news turned back to America.
Filling the screen was the Arizona State Legislature, packed with people jabbing fingers at one another and screaming themselves hoarse.
A map of Arizona appeared on screen. A graphic drew a line between the capital, Phoenix, and Tucson in the south, splitting the state east from west.
Some experts are even predicting that Arizona itself could split in half. The northwest, with its relatively strong ties to the federal government, would remain with the Union; the southeast, deeply bound to Mexico and Texas, would join the Southern Confederacy. It is the worst-case scenario.
"What a shitshow."
Someone muttered it like a lament. A long, deflating sigh followed, and when I turned to look, it was Mike's son — the one who had escaped Arizona not long ago.
"Called it."
The same words came out of Gunner and Frank at the same time. On screen, a massive naval warship cut through open water.
Even the people who had been tossing in a remark after every news segment went silent at the word ultimatum, staring at the screen and nothing else.
Seventy-two hours. The clock on war had entered its countdown.
If the ultimatum is rejected, the federal government is considered highly likely to attempt limited military operations. Analysts suggest that elite special forces such as the Navy SEALs or Delta Force could be inserted to arrest key figures — including the Texas governor — or to carry out surgical strikes against critical facilities. However...
The anchor paused, then added with a grave expression:
The screen switched to a map of all fifty states.
The screen filled with the desolate landscapes of Montana and Wyoming.
Among the northern states that received almost no federal aid during The Great Winter, resentment toward the Union has reached a breaking point. Several of those states are now exploring independent survival of their own.
More shocking still: even within the western states — California among them, long regarded as a key bastion of the Union's survival — voices asking, "Why should we bleed for someone else's war?" are growing louder by the day.
The anchor closed the segment against the backdrop of a massive aircraft carrier steaming across the Pacific.
However, with the U.S. 7th Fleet soon returning to Naval Station San Diego and federal military power being reconstituted, the prevailing analysis is that the northern and western states will not dare independent action in the face of the Union's overwhelming force.
America's fate is now vanishing into a fog where not even an inch ahead can be seen.
Inside the living room, the only sound left was the crackle of firewood in the hearth.
We had moved beyond mere survival. We now stood at a crossroads, forced to choose which shard of this vast, tearing continent we would plant our feet on.
Frank muttered, his voice laced with self-mockery.
"Hell... come to think of it, this place right here might as well be the eye of the storm."
I thought it was a perfect way to put it. War, disaster, and the gales of fracture howled in from every direction — and yet, strangely, this isolated California farmstead alone still held onto a precarious peace.
And that precarious peace, as if by some miracle, lasted several more days.
Each of us had our own work to do. When evening came, everyone gathered around a single table to share a meal, and before we ate, Dave's mother still led us in the ritual of joining hands in prayer.
We prepared for the chance that the army might come pounding on the door for a draft. We chose the mansion's old underground wine cellar as a hiding place for the younger ones, and drilled the camouflage over and over — blocking the stairway entrance with a movable wardrobe until it was seamless. Peace, such as it was, could only be held together by that kind of thorough preparation and constant watchfulness.
That evening, with the quiet relief of having made it through another day unharmed, we sat down to dinner together once more. And as always, we gathered afterward in front of the living room television.
It had become a kind of ritual — a way of confirming, at day's end, that we were still alive. We waited for the screen to come on, with no idea what fresh despair might be waiting for us.
The screen showed the Mexican president and the Texas governor in a video conference.
Experts analyze that Mexico's decision goes far beyond a diplomatic statement, underpinned by complex and thoroughly practical interests. Let's discuss this further.
An international relations specialist on the panel began to speak.
He pointed at a map and went on.
The expert paused to catch his breath, then flagged the most dangerous variable of all.
But the biggest question is whether Mexico's central government even controls the whole country. Northern Mexico has long been a lawless zone where government forces and the cartels are nearly evenly matched. Whether this dangerous alliance with Texas will calm Mexico's internal chaos — or instead give the cartels new strength and produce consequences no one can contain — is something no one can predict.
Gunner had something to say.
"Hell, look at those bastards."
Mike clicked his tongue and picked it up.
"A superpower splitting in two right on their doorstep — that's one hell of a windfall for them. Only natural."
Jed chimed in.
"Word is them Mexican cartel boys already got their hands in with the Southern Confederacy. Guns and supplies, all under the table. Rumors are thick as flies."
At the end of the broadcast, the anchor returned to news of The Great Winter.
Frank tossed out a cynical remark.
"Hah. So they just locked the border and let 'em starve and freeze up there till they're too spent to matter. Real classy strategy."
Even amid the tragic news, we spent that evening grateful for the warmth of the hearth and the plenty of our stores. Everyone returned to their quarters and, for the first time in a long while, settled into a comfortable night. I too sank into a deep sleep, feeling the warmth of Wolf breathing softly at my feet.
The next morning was unusually still and peaceful. After finishing our usual daily routine, Wolf and I set out for a walk around the farm, drawing in the crisp morning air.
But unlike any other morning, Wolf began to act strangely. He let out a low growl, then fidgeted in place, circling me restlessly as if something had him wound tight. Then, for no reason I could see, he jammed his nose into the dirt, sniffing, before throwing his head toward the sky and letting out a long, mournful howl.
"Awooooo—"
An intruder?
I checked the pistol at my hip on instinct. Wolf's behavior was a clear signal of danger.
"Let's go, Wolf!"
I broke into a run toward the farmhouse with him, heading to check the security cameras. We were almost to the living room when it happened.
Rrrrrrrumble—
The earth was howling like a wolf.