Amidst this escalating tension, I reached out to my old army contacts, hoping to glean some inside information or at least a reassuring word. However, all my attempts were met with a disconcerting silence. Calls went unanswered, while texts and emails disappeared into a void without any response. This lack of communication from trusted sources, who were usually forthright, added to the sense of foreboding and left me questioning what was truly happening behind the scenes.

  On my first day off in ages, I finally had a moment to myself to think over everything that was happening. Sitting in the quiet of my LA apartment, the inner alarms that I'd been trying to silence began to ring louder. Something inside me was screaming that it was time to get out of the city. Despite the enjoyment and satisfaction I found in my job and life in Los Angeles, the mounting uncertainties and the unnerving silence from my military contacts tipped the scales.

  With a heavy heart, I sat down and typed out an email to my boss. I concocted a plausible story about a family emergency back in Montana, a transparent but necessary excuse. It was a strategic move, crafted to keep my options open and protect my position should I need to return. I wasn't entirely ready to abandon my life in LA, but the instinct to ensure my safety was overpowering. The email sent, I began to pack, preparing for a journey to the cabin—a place that promised a semblance of security in these increasingly unpredictable times.

  My exit strategy was straightforward and timed to avoid the worst of LA's notorious traffic. First, a quick trip to the grocery store was in order. I planned to load up on essentials—perishables that would last a few days and plenty of ice to keep things cool in the jeep. With my supplies secured, I'd return home for a few hours of escape into the world of video games, a last slice of relaxation before hitting the road.

  reality struck a different chord as I walked into the grocery store. The stark change in the atmosphere was immediate. living in LA had undoubtedly put a polish on me that was a far cry from my army days. Back then, being constantly on alert was second nature; readiness was not just a trait but a survival skill. Yet, the comfort of city life had dulled those edges, letting a more relaxed lifestyle take hold. Now, as I navigated through the thinning aisles of the grocery store, the importance of that survival mindset came crashing back, more crucial than ever.

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  In the bakery and produce sections, there were still some remnants of normalcy—loaves of bread, some fruits, and vegetables that hadn't been swept up in the panic. I hastily filled my basket with these, thinking of the long drive ahead and the need for sustenance that wouldn’t require cooking. As I moved to the canned goods, the reality of the situation sank in deeper. The shelves were nearly empty, with just a few cans of split pea soup and kidney beans left staring back at me. It was a stark reminder of the severity of the public’s reaction.

  I had a cabin to get to, but I knew leaving in the middle of rush hour would just waste fuel. Better to leave at night, avoid the traffic.

  Back at my place, I was beat—wiped out from the day's turmoil. Normally, I'd kick back with some video games to chill out, but lately, they ain’t been much help. All those pixels shooting and racing felt too small, too pointless, especially with the real-world mess swirling around outside my window. It felt like trying to quiet a storm with a whisper. Ain't much use in that.

  Flipping through the channels or scrolling through the web was no better. It was all the same loop—news rehashing the same grim forecasts and the internet buzzing with wild conspiracy theories and folks panicking left and right. None of that racket was gonna soothe my nerves.

  Figuring the best thing was to catch some shut-eye, I sprawled out on the couch. A quick nap seemed like the only escape, at least for a bit. Besides, with the long haul to Montana staring me down come nightfall, I needed to be sharp. Rest was sparse these days, but I had to grab it when I could, before steering Ruby through the dark to that cabin refuge—a silent sentinel in the mountains waiting just for me.