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Chris Rowe is a journalist whose biggest story just broke while in the back roads of Montana. Unfortunately, part of that story includes the total loss of all communication to the outside world. 

As Chris and his group travel on foot to the evacuation site, the question becomes not only whether Chris will be able to write his story, but if there will be anyone left to hear it if he does. 

It’s not just a color out of space; it’s the shape of things to come.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Chris Rowe, Field Notes, September 24th, 2048. Highway 200 on foot, about 40 miles east of Lewistown, Montana. I was out here covering a water rights dispute, and about six hours ago, everything stopped making sense. I'm going to record notes while I can because the mining story isn't the story anymore. This is. Federal emergency alert hit every phone at the same time. Inbound threat detected. Seek shelter immediately. File designated evacuation routes. No specifics, no classification, just this is happening. Move. 90 seconds or so later, my rental car pulled itself to the shoulder. Dashboard set awaiting reconnection. The engine cut out completely. All of them. Pulled over, hazards on, done. Like someone flipped a switch. I sat there for two hours expecting to come back. I didn't. As far as I know, the satellite mesh has never gone down. Not even once. Not anywhere on the planet. I don't know how this is possible. I tried everything. Manual override, diagnostics, I pulled up every menu I could find. There's no way to start this car without a satellite handshake. There's no offline mode. Apparently, there used to be some kind of subscription option years ago, but nobody I've talked to has ever actually seen one. I mean, why would you? The mesh never goes down. Except it did. I'm walking with a group, eight other people. I need to get them down here. Dale and Connie Hubert, late 60s, ranchers, lifelong locals. Dale knows every road out of here. Beth Sorensen, late 20s from Billings. She's the one who spent the most time trying to crack her car system. She told me the security architecture on these vehicles was designed for a world where the only threat is theft. Apparently nobody built a scenario for what if everything goes down at once. Kevin and Diane Carter and their son Leo, eight or nine. Family trip to Glacier. Kevin's holding together in the way where you can see the cost. Cites FEMA protocols, staging areas, response timetables. Some of it sounds right. And Mike Teller, 40s, drove trucks out of Miles City. Doesn't really talk much. Walks at the back. There are no drones overhead, no contrails, no aircraft. The sky is completely empty, and I don't think I've ever seen that before. You forget there's always something up there, until there isn't. I asked my phone's AI what kind of event would trigger this alert classification. It gave me a thorough answer from its cache protocols. Recommended following the designated evacuation corridor. Sounded completely authoritative. Then I realized none of that was current. It's just reading old files with a confident voice. Behind the voice there's nothing. Keeping recording short anyway.

Day 2

SPEAKER_01 3:37

Hand of notes. All right.

SPEAKER_00 3:44

Crest Row Field notes. September 25th, day two. Recording from a ranch house about 15 miles west of yesterday. Did not sleep well. Dale spotted this place from the highway last night. Set back a quarter mile. There's nobody home. The well has a hand pump, uh, old style manual backup. And the water's good. We found uh canned goods in the pantry, blankets, a wood stove that works. Loaded up everything we could carry. Mason jars for water, a tarp, uh, rope, a hatchet from the barn. Got cold overnight. Low 30s, probably even colder before dawn. Leo couldn't sleep. Kevin was uh was up with him by the stove until morning. I've been interviewing people individually, getting their accounts while the details are fresh. Kevin's phones cached a partial headline before the signal dropped. It's a push notification loaded about halfway. Something about inbound in a city starting with D. He wouldn't say more about Leo. Dale saw a flash on the eastern horizon the night of the alert. Uh, slow and distant. Said it could have been heat lightning. Connie was next to him. She shook her head and said it wasn't lightning. She did not explain how she knew that. Best phone cached up FEMA infrastructure map. Uh there's evacuation corridors radiating outward from major metropolitan areas. Cities at the center, routes pushing population into rural zones. Whatever the system was routing people away from, it's uh it's urban. Stewart's convinced it's a cascading architecture failure. Solar event, grid overload triggered by the alert itself. Says the emergency is real, but contained in FEMA staging at the reception points. Talks about it like a man who needs it to be true. Diane mentions something different. Her uh her health monitor, the embedded kind, uh, reads biometrics through the fabric, flagged uh an air quality advisory about an hour before the alert. She thought it was a false read, but the advisory text referenced elevated particulate consistent with a large-scale atmospheric event, volcanic activity or widespread combustion. She swiped it away. Of course she did. That's what we all do. None of these theories fit together. Nuclear doesn't explain the satellite mesh going down. Solar flare doesn't explain a targeted evacuation away from cities. Air quality events don't explain the alert language about an inbound threat. Every piece contradicts something else. Beth found an old F-150 behind the barn today. Late 20s. Mechanical engine, no satellite dependency. She got it running. I need to record what happened next because it matters. We tore this property apart looking for fuel. Every outbuilding, every shed, the garage, under tarps, behind equipment. Dale checked a diesel tank by the barn, but it was architectural diesel wrong engine. We found a gas can with maybe a quarter inch in the bottom, and that was it. Gas infrastructure barely exists anymore, nothing runs on it. The stations in these small towns switched to charging banks a decade ago, and the truck was parked behind a barn because it's a relic. Antique. We found the one vehicle on this highway that could actually move, and there is nothing within walking distance to put in it. Beth sat on the tailgate after that and didn't say anything for a long time. Stewart suggested we push on and come back from the truck if we find fuel. Kevin pointed out that we don't know where we'd find any. Dale thought there might be ranches further out with old equipment and store gasoline, but we'd be walking off the evacuation route to look. And if we don't find anything, we've lost a day. We can't carry enough water to wander. So we marked the location on our cache maps and kept walking. All nine of us passed a working vehicle with a running engine and left it sitting there. I want that in my notes, I want to remember how that felt. The phone AIs are disagreeing on the route. Kevin says 90 miles west. Beth says 120 northwest. My AI can't tell me which one has better data. Three devices, three confident answers, and behind each one nothing current at all. West for now, it's the direction the road goes.

Day 3

SPEAKER_01 8:19

End of notes. Day three, grass range. There's nobody here.

SPEAKER_00 8:30

It's not abandoned. Uh not ransacked, just empty. There's dishes and sinks, there's a charging station with the chargers locked down and powered off. School had papers on the desk and a calendar on the wall turned to September. We searched for two hours and didn't find a single person. Found supplies. Canned food, jerky, bottled water in the convenience store. Dill broke the hardware store lock and we took flashlights, batteries, lighters, knives, duct tape. One house had sleeping bags and an unopened tent in the garage. Propane tanks off a backyard grill. We're better equipped now than we've we've really been this entire time. Connie found a hand crank weather radio. We sat in the gas station lot and turned through every frequency. Static, all of them. She went through the dial twice, sat on the ground and nobody picked it up. Kevin thinks the residents evacuated ahead of us. But look, if a hundred people walk this road before us, where are they? Should have caught up or seen something from them. We should be seeing trash, footprints, campsites, something. Three days on this highway and we haven't passed another group of people, not one. There's another thing. Mike Teller isn't with us. He was with the group this morning, I'm almost sure of it. But by the time we got to town and started searching, he was just gone. Nobody can tell me when they last saw him. Dale says maybe at the midday stop. Beth couldn't place him after a grain elevator about five miles back. We argued about it. Kevin wanted to send two people back to look. Stewart said Mike probably just split off. His own people do that. Dale was quiet, which with Dale means he's thinking something he doesn't want to say. Connie asked how someone leaves a group walking on a flat open highway in broad daylight and nobody sees them go. Nobody had an answer for that one. In the end, we didn't go back. It was getting dark. We'd have been walking five miles into nothing with no guarantees he was even in that direction. I'm um comfortable with it. I'm recording that I'm not comfortable with it. I found something this evening while walking through the town alone. The emergency information board outside the post office. It's uh solar powered, it's still cycling. It's got the standard evacuation message on the loop, but uh underneath in a smaller text, a secondary advisory, it says biological screening at reception point. Present valid ID upon arrival. Symptomatic individuals will be directed to quarantine intake. Quarantine. That doesn't fit anything we've been talking about. Nuclear doesn't need quarantine intake. Cellulares don't need health screening. I photographed it. Another fragment that doesn't connect to the others. Every house in this town is dark, in a way houses haven't been dark in decades. No standby glow from the locks, no mesh hubs pulsing in the hallways, no motion sensors turning lights on. These houses are just walls now. Whatever made this a town ran through a system that doesn't exist anymore. The infrastructure died first, then the people left. Because what do you do with four walls and a roof when everything that made it work is gone? You follow the road like us.

Day 4

SPEAKER_01 12:15

Ended notes. Day four, west of Grass Range.

SPEAKER_00 12:24

Stewart's gone. It's his choice. The phones gave us three different routes this morning. Uh west, northwest, southwest. Three AIs, three calm explanations in three different directions. Stewart, uh he took the southwest fork toward a town called Winned. He shook Kevin's hand, he told me to get it on the record, and then he was smiling when he left. I watched him walk until the road took him.

SPEAKER_01 12:54

It was a shape, then a then a dot, then he was just part of Montana. I believe seven of us. A keeper can six of us. There's six. There's something wrong with the road.

SPEAKER_00 13:13

We came over a rise around midday and there was a long straight stretch ahead. Both sides were aligned with stopped cars. It's normal by now. But on the road surface between the vehicles there were these dark marks, scorch marks, regular shapes, some of them three or four feet across, burnt into the asphalt. No debris around them, no wreckage, no sign of what made them, just these dark circles on the road like something very hot touched down and then was gone. Dale crouched next to one and held his hand near the surface. It was cold. Whatever left them, it wasn't recent or it wasn't the kind of heat that lingers. Beth walked around them, didn't look down, didn't say anything. Three of us are feeling like there's something behind us. Dale heard footsteps on the gravel at a rest stop, walking pace, rhythmic. Turned around, there was nothing. Meppy road, clear to the horizon. Connie saw a movement off the road to the south, half a mile out, low, moving. Then still, when she looked directly at it, I haven't seen anything, but there's a pressure in the space behind me that doesn't go away when I turn around. It just moves. I dismiss it alone, but three of us feeling it independently is different. I've been thinking about Mike. Not where he went, just how easy it was for him to be gone. He was at the edge of the group and he vanished from the edge, and we closed around the hole like water. That's the thing. Not that it happened, that it was seamless.

Day 5

SPEAKER_01 14:53

Got about 33% battery left. End of notes. Beth's gone. She was in the barn when we went to sleep. Her pack's gone, her phone's gone. The door was open. Connie said she heard the door in the night and thought nothing of it. Kevin wanted to go out immediately.

SPEAKER_00 15:25

Dale said not in the dark, not with what we've been feeling. We waited for light and by the time there was nothing to find. No tracks, no sign of direction. We spent two hours searching. Kevin went east, Dale went west along the road. Connie and Diane stayed with Leo. I went south across the grass for half a mile and there was nothing. Just nothing. Open land in every direction and no sign that anyone had walked through it. Beth had been pulling away from the group for days, sleeping at the edges, walking alone. If anyone was going to make a calculated decision to leave, it was her. Maybe she chose the northwest route after all. Maybe she's smarter than the rest of us. Or maybe she didn't leave. Two people gone from the edges, both quiet, both peripheral, both times the group just couldn't pinpoint the moment they stopped being there. There's a pattern. If it is a pattern, I don't know if it's a pattern or if I'm building that out of fear. I couldn't sleep before any of this. I was looking up at the sky through a gap in the roof, and there's just something different about it. Connie said this on day two. The color is wrong, she said. I didn't see it then. I see it now. The stars are all there. Clear night, but the darkness between them has a quality. A shade or a depth that wasn't there before. I'm a writer and I can't describe it better than that. The dark has a color now, and it's not the right one. Leo hasn't spoken in two days. Diane carries him even though he's too big. Kevin walks ahead alone, watching the blue line on his phone. Dale wants to stop, find a ranch, wait. Connie asked him, wait for what? My AI offered an unsolicited suggestion during the night and said the probability of reaching the reception point on foot within its survival time frame is declining. Asked if I wanted alternative strategies calculated.

Day 6

SPEAKER_01 17:47

I turned the feature off and I turned it back on. About 29%. Day six.

SPEAKER_00 18:06

Dale and Connie left this morning. They told us. Dale said there's a ranch about 15 miles north of Hendrix Place. Says there's a well wood stove root cellar. And I'd rather die warm and still than cold and walking. He said in front of Leo. Nobody argued. Connie hugged me before they left. She held on for a while and then she said just to me to stop following the road, honey.

SPEAKER_01 18:35

I almost went with them. There's four of us now. Me, Kevin, Diane, and Leo. Walking west.

SPEAKER_00 18:58

Six days and the batteries were still holding. Synchronized amber pulses in the middle of the day, blinking for no one. Waiting for a signal that seems like it's never gonna come. Child seat in one, dog crate another, door open empty. Keys in a cup holder, like someone set them down for a moment. One SUV near the middle had something dark on the inside of the rear window. I didn't look closely.

SPEAKER_01 19:28

Dale would have looked. Beth would have looked. They're not here.

SPEAKER_00 19:35

Kevin's phone died this morning. He stood on the road looking at it. The blank screen for a long time. And he asked Diane for hers. He walks ahead of us holding it like a compass. The blue line. If the line goes, I don't know what he does. Before Dale left, he told me something quietly. The highway signs don't add up. The mileage markers aren't counting down right. Either the numbers are wrong or the town they're pointing to is never on this road. He said something about the math is wrong. My AI says the evacuation point is 58 miles ahead. It described shelter, medical care, communications. I asked if there's currently a reception center at that location. I said it can't verify without network access. Batteries at 14. Sleep charger can't keep up with the overcast. I need to stop recording and save what's left.

SPEAKER_01 20:41

End of entry.

SPEAKER_00 20:47

Talking to whoever finds this phone. Batteries at 4%. I got the couple minutes at most. Last night there was light on the horizon. It was a south by southwest, not a flash, a glow, like orange, steady, like something big burning a long way off. It lasted maybe 20 minutes. Kevin was awake. We looked at it. Diane and Leo were sleeping and we let them sleep. The signs still say eleven miles to the next town. They said that yesterday. They said it the day before that. I don't think there's a reception point. I don't think there's anything at the end of this road. I think the system sent us in a direction because that's what it was built to do. And then the system stopped and the direction didn't. And we followed it because that's what roads are for. But that's not why I'm recording. About an hour ago, Kevin stopped walking. He was ahead of us. He's been ahead of us for two days holding Diane's phone, watching the line. He just stopped in the middle of the road and he didn't move. Diane called his name and he didn't turn around. I walked up to him. He was looking down the highway west. The road runs straight here for a long time, and you can see maybe two, three miles before the heat shimmer eats it. And there were people on the road. Figures walking. Same direction as us, west, maybe a mile ahead. Hard to say how many, five or six at least, just shapes in the distance, but they were moving, walking. Kevin said, other evacuees. And I wanted that to be right. I wanted it so bad. Other people. Proof that the route goes somewhere. Proof that we're not alone out here. We walked faster, all of us. Diane put Leo down and he walked on his own for the first time in days. We moved fast for about 20 minutes and the figures didn't get closer. We were walking and they were walking, and the distance between us didn't change. Kevin, he um started jogging. Diane called after him and he stopped and looked back at us. Looked ahead at them. They were still there, same distance, same pace, just west. Then I recognized one of them. I yeah, I I need to be careful here. It was a long way off. The light was strange, that amber quality that everything's had since the sky changed, but one of the figures is wearing a red jacket, a bright red jacket, the same red jacket that Beth Sorison was wearing the night she disappeared from the barn. Look, I I'm not saying it was Beth. At that distance I can't be sure. But the color was right, and the villa's right, and she was walking west. She was walking the same direction she's always been walking. The same direction we've all been walking. I tried to see the others. One of them could have been the right size for Mike Teller. I I couldn't tell. The shimmer makes everything liquid past a certain point, but they were ahead of us, not behind, not gone, ahead. Further along the route. Whatever happened to the people who disappeared from this group, they didn't go back, they went forward. Kevin shouted at them, his uh his voice carried in the flat open air, and there was no response. They didn't turn, they didn't slow down, didn't speed up, they just kept walking at that same steady pace, same distance ahead. Like the gap between us was fixed, like the road was holding them exactly that far away. I shouted too, there's nothing. We walked for an hour. The figures were always there, always the same distance, always west, walking, not hurrying, not stopping, not looking back. Diana asked me why they weren't getting closer if we were all walking the same road. I didn't have an answer. Then Kevin said something. Quietly, almost to himself, he said, They're not walking the same road. And I asked him what he meant. He said he'd been watching their feet. At that distance you can't really see feet, but he was looking through his phone's camera zoomed in. He said they're not on the pavement. They're beside it, they're walking along the road in the grass. They're they're not leaving tracks. I looked too, I I couldn't confirm that. The distance is just too far and the shimmer's just too thick, but Kevin saw what he saw. And he's been watching them through a camera, and he has no reason to lie. He has every reason to want them to be real people. We're still walking, they're still ahead of us, the same distance. I think the people in Grass Range didn't evacuate ahead of us. I think they're still on this road. All of 'em. Everyone who followed the route is still following the route. They just aren't. Connie told me to stop following the road. She said that and I didn't listen. Dale wanted to stop. He wanted to find a house and stay, and I thought he was giving up, but maybe he understood something I didn't. Maybe he understood that the road doesn't end. That it wasn't built to end, and that people want it don't. They're closer now. They're they're getting close.