Grey
The broadcast cut to another panelist — an infrastructure specialist.
"The drop in temperature is only the beginning of the catastrophe. In conditions approaching fifty below, diesel fuel thickens into jelly. Transmission lines will ice over, snap under their own weight, and every water main in the country will freeze and burst."
"In other words, heat, electricity, water — all of it fails at once. The entire foundation of civilized society could collapse."
Last of all, the security expert spoke as if delivering a verdict.
"The government won't want to admit this, but the people living in Canada's far north need to prepare for a mass evacuation immediately. This is not a matter of choice."
"The cities of the high north will have to be abandoned. And it doesn't stop there. The cold's reach will keep pushing south, and even the central prairie provinces — Alberta, Saskatchewan — will become harder and harder to live in."
Even high-grade winter diesel started to gel once the mercury dropped past thirty-five below. In a country that moved almost everything by truck, that meant everything stopped.
This wasn't just a trucker's problem. I had to get south, and I had to do it now. There was no time to waste.
And the worse things got, the more I was sure a hard limit would form on how far south you could still go.
I had watched the warning signs in countries sliding toward conflict more times than I could count. It always started at the border.
First the checkpoints tightened. Then the movement of goods was restricted. And finally, under the pretext of stopping a flood of refugees, the border slammed shut for good.
If that happened, this vast continent would become a gigantic prison, split cleanly into north and south.
It was late, but I called Frank anyway.
"What's going on? At this hour?"
"Frank, those parts I ordered last time — when does the rest of it come in?"
"Hah. This guy. Here we go again."
A sigh came through the receiver, and Frank kept going.
"Chan, everything else is in… but the tires are the problem. Still no word."
"Is there any way to get them faster? Anything at all."
"Listen, pal, one of those tires weighs over two hundred pounds. The logistics system is completely paralyzed. West Coast ports are shut, the railroads are freezing over. Honestly? I don't even know when they'll show."
"So you don't have a single one? Not even a spare?"
I could hear the desperation in my own voice. Frank went quiet for a moment, thinking it over, then spoke again.
"Well… maybe. Warehouse stock — one steer tire and one regular spare. Should still be there."
"I'll come pick those up, then. I'm heading out first thing in the morning. Have them ready."
"Alright. Alright."
I hung up and threw myself into the last of the escape preparations. That long day finally ended.
The next morning, the moment the sky began to lighten, I fired up the W990 without a second's hesitation.
After a good long run I pulled into the Kenworth dealership, and Frank came out to meet me. He took one look at my truck, then at the massive dry van trailer hitched behind it, and his jaw dropped.
"What… what the hell is that?"
I climbed down from the cab and answered flatly.
"My house."
That one word, and Frank's face shifted — like everything had suddenly clicked into place. He looked from the trailer to me and back, then let out a hollow laugh.
"Ah. Now I get it. The insane parts orders, the ridiculous fuel tanks. You were planning this from the start."
A dealership mechanic rolled up on a forklift with the tires and hoisted them, just barely clearing the lip, onto the carrier bolted to the trailer's side. They settled into place with a dull, heavy thud, and Frank asked,
"Don't tell me you're planning to change those yourself. You got the equipment?"
"Air jacks, tire lifters — I've got all of it."
Frank's expression said he'd given up being surprised. He asked one last question.
"So where are you headed?"
"I'm getting out of Canada."
"Figured as much… is it because of all that stuff on the news?"
I answered lightly.
"That, and I'm just sick to death of this miserable winter."
I said a brief goodbye to Frank and pulled out of the dealership. The on-ramp to the southbound highway sat right there. I turned the wheel the other way without a moment's hesitation.
Before I left, I had to see the face of the one person in this country I could actually call a friend. I picked up my phone and called Dave.
"Hey, Dave. Where are you?"
"Home. Why? Change of heart? Coming in to work?"
"No. I just want to see your face for a minute. I've got a trailer on, so I can't make it to your front door. You know that closed-down gas station south of Nisku, off Yellowhead Highway? Meet me there."
"Got it. Five minutes."
I pulled the big truck into the meeting spot, and it wasn't long before Dave's beat-up pickup came bouncing in, kicking up a cloud of dirt.
He climbed out, took one look at the massive trailer behind my W990, and whistled.
"Jesus, Chan! What is that? You build yourself a mobile prison?"
"Come on in."
I led him into the trailer, and Dave's mouth fell open.
"Holy hell… this is a house. This is just a house."
"Want something to drink?"
"You got… beer?"
I hesitated for a second. Then I remembered his house was right around the corner, and pulled a cold can from the fridge. I put it in his hand and cracked a Red Bull for myself.
Dave looked around the interior like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Wow… now I get why you worked yourself to the bone. Why you sold the house. You were building this. But what the hell's going on? To go this far…"
"I'm leaving Canada, Dave."
"What? When?"
"Now."
The humor drained from Dave's face. He stared at me, stunned.
"Still… you're the only friend I've really opened up to in ten years. I figured I should look you in the eye and tell you."
"Is it that goddamn ice age they're talking about on TV?"
"Yeah. That's it."
"But the broadcasts said that's months away at the earliest. You have to go already?"
I looked out at the ashen sky and answered quietly.
"By then, people like me will be pouring onto the roads. Highways jammed solid, gas stations stripped empty. I don't want to get caught in that mess."
Dave's expression turned grave.
"If you're saying it like that… maybe I need to start thinking seriously too."
He hesitated, then told me his own story.
"Honestly, I was going to take my mother down to my aunt's place in California. She's getting on in years, and she can't take this kind of cold. But every last flight's been grounded… so now I'm stuck. Can't go, can't stay."
Worry filled his eyes. Then, as if he'd made up his mind, he looked at me.
"I'll get ready to move. Can you wait a few days?"
Dave's desperate gaze locked onto mine. But I shook my head.
"We're both going to be moving anyway. What's the point of waiting here? We each get ready and meet up down south."
Dave's voice went firm.
"No. I know it in my gut. In a world like that, you survive by following the right person."
"What the hell are you talking about, Dave? You get visited by aliens or something?"
"If the world we're afraid of actually shows up, I think the only way I survive is by sticking with you. That's my instinct."
His eyes didn't waver. But I couldn't accept my plans being thrown off by an outside variable.
The truth was I didn't even have a clear plan. But something in me rose up, instinctive and stubborn, against any variable I couldn't control. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then spoke calmly.
"I can't wait, Dave."
Disappointment flickered across his face. I went on.
"If the situation we're afraid of actually happens, what matters is that at least one person gets out ahead and opens the road. If we all chain ourselves together and move as a pack, we could all go down as a pack."
I stood, walked to the large map of North America hanging on the wall, and put my hand on it.
"Here. Lethbridge. I'll stay there about a week before I cross the border, wrapping up the last of my preparations. Join me there."
My finger pointed to the city at the southernmost edge of Alberta. I saw Dave's face brighten, and added,
"If we miss each other, or the timing doesn't work, then you cross into the States. First city is Great Falls. After that, Boise. Last stop, Salt Lake City. I'll stay a week in each."
"I'll always wait at the first Flying J truck stop you hit just before you come off the highway into town. Remember that."
Dave looked at me, bewildered.
"Come on, pal. Just call me. Why make it this complicated?"
I looked him straight in the eye.
"You don't seriously……"
"Memorize it or write it down. That's your call."
At that, Dave had nothing left to say. He nodded and started typing the city names I'd pointed to into his phone's notes.
There was still anxiety in his eyes, but it no longer looked like shapeless fear. He had a destination now.
"Take care of yourself, Chan."
"You too, Dave. See you in Lethbridge."
We shook hands briefly and parted. I watched his pickup disappear into the dark in my rearview, then fired up the W990's engine again.
It was time to actually leave.
I drove the heavy truck out of Yellowknife's city streets.
Before I knew it, the night had gone pitch black. For a moment I considered waiting until morning, then shook my head.
This was the Northwest Territories — the most remote, least populated federal territory in all of Canada.
I needed to put another hour of southbound miles behind me while the roads were still empty. Once things got bad, this Mackenzie Highway — the only lifeline out — would turn into chaos. That much was certain.
Outside the narrow world carved by the headlights, everything had been swallowed by the dark. Beyond the glass, the silhouettes of dark-blue conifer forest and frozen lakes slid past without end.
The occasional sign was the only reminder of just how lonely this land really was.
I turned on the radio to break the silence. Through a crackle of static, an anchor's voice came through on a channel I'd barely managed to catch.
Grey-out.
The word that came to me was the one fighter pilots used for the loss of vision during violent high-G maneuvers.
Now the entire world was about to go through it. Not night, but not day either — a grotesque in-between. More than enough to crank people's anxiety and fear up to a breaking point.
By tomorrow morning, people will start facing reality, one by one.
The headlights laid a lonely path across the asphalt, and the truck rolled south without a word.