Chapter 1 — Andromeda
Blue Skies

Log - December XX.
Amal, Archie, Atty. Madalina. My satellites. My stars.
I am so sorry. Will join you soon. I love you.
Andra.

The check engine light glares a soft yellow beneath the speedometer, fuel at one fourth of a tank. Each station passed has been closed or abandoned. I've lost interest at this point. Yesterday, upon entering Wyoming, I stopped for fuel the last time. Notice and talk of further attacks is constant. The radio in my passenger crackles in and out. Voices, scratched over AM frequencies, have claimed a large-scale attack three times in the last 24 hours- another attack is likely today.

Again, I focus myself and think of the surrounding landscape. Visiting Yellowstone National Park is, and has always has been, a desire of mine. Seeing Old Faithful, hiking, stargazing. The idea of sharing that experience was one I had yearned for. With them. Shutting the thought down as my throat tightens and instead focusing on getting to route 191 now that I was round the West Thumb. Taking it slow necessary; these roads are closed during winters. After Martial Law had been declared two months ago, lack of maintenance is apparent in all areas of life. Drifts four feet high swathe the road in some areas, banking into trees along the ditch.

Martial Law is a far more treacherous thing in reality. Especially since the US had declared a State of Emergency in opposition to the military's desire to regulate, which lead to a massive downward spiral of internal affairs. It is survival of the luckiest now. I would have started my doctoral program this fall, my thesis on Theoretical Relativity and evaluation of what takes place just before, and maybe beyond, the event horizon. Boring stuff, some might say, but day dreaming isn't for everyone.

Unfortunately, however, Berkeley is gone. The entire West coast, gone. East coast, too. Roughly 143,000,000 Americans... Just... Gone.

As the attacks keep coming, it's no longer political. Just a gun fight into nuclear winter that will either produce a genetic bottle neck or mass extinction.

A turn comes up, right on highway 191. About 10 more miles. I use my blinkers and am not sure why. Been the only one on the road for hours. Both thoughts and wheels travel easier after turning onto a road less neglected. Snow has covered the pine in a thick comforter and steam from the natural hot springs pour into the sky… It is beautiful here. Unmarred. For now.

There's enough silence to settle into a placid calm. Nearly. White noise flickers on and a panicked voice wrenches me alert. It is the same as before, but this time they are heralding that attack. Big, multiple warheads headed for the grain belt where the largest number of Americans still survive. The announcer didn't say who had launched them. Was it China? Russia? North Korea? The US itself?

Three missiles are headed towards Wyoming alone, and admittedly, I'm curious as to why they've targeted the mostly empty state. A nearly active caldera slept here, but no amount of surface bombing could cause tectonic shift; you'd have to go underground for that.

Shuddering, I shake my head rough and quick. My window of opportunity is limited, but I'm set on trying to make it in time. Those colors, hot and saturated against the snowy landscape. If the blast were as near as the radio claimed it to be, this will be one hell of a way to go. Obliterated at the foot of a super volcano.

I turn right again and stay to the left of the visitation center for Old Faithful. Navigation around these snow-covered roads is worth it as blobs of hot, bright color bloom into view. Pulling to a stop, I get out of the Subaru and squint at the brightness of the sky, magnified by the light refracting off of the snow's surface and the lack of particle refraction in the atmosphere.

There isn't a lot of surface fear that remains - simply resignation.

Slamming shut the driver door, I walk behind my car. The sound of ice underfoot is loud; sharp crunching reverberating against whatever solid object it meets. I open the back hatch and begin to compile my hiking pack. Confirming that the most important belongings are inside, it's slung over my shoulders in the next moment. The walk to Morning Glory isn't as simple as I had hoped. Side stepping the rocky terrain.

A whistling sound begins to pierce the sky. I think that perhaps I won't need my pack, but I'm too far away from my car to drop it back off. Deviating from the walkway, I step off into the brush. The gentle scruff of dead weeds scratch at my calves, tickling almost. Of course, walking near an open acidic hot spring is dangerous, but who's left to tell me no? For a fleeting moment, I think of running. To try to out drive the blast. Until that fades.

Despite being without 'fear', my face is wet. A sound hits the collar of my parka, darkening the fabric from rust to dark umber.

Tears. Again.

The others that trickle down are painful as they freeze, skin sticking to each drop. In need of distraction, I pull out my cellphone to record the landscape, panning over the range of colors in vibrant pool.

"Look, we made it," throat clenches as if I've swallowed hot nails; my breath is quivery. "If you were here, we could've joked about taking turns in a nice sulfuric acid spring." The laugh that follows is again hoarse, wet.

Reflections glint off the touch screen and I can see the salt stains running down my face; lifting my glasses from the bottom, I wipe away a few before tilting back to the sky. There it is, to the Southwest. A speck in the distance. If I were anyone else, attentions would be blissful and serene.

At the oversight of the walkway, just above Morning Glory pool, I lean against the railing and flip the camera around. A sudden laugh, distant and dry, almost startles me as I wipe a few more tears away, glasses fogging.

"Always a mess, aren't I..." The missile is in the background, a violent black bug infecting the sky. I watch it and not the lens.

Hand dropping to my side, there's no point in fighting back the sharp, painful sob. It takes a few moments before I compile myself.

"I'm so sorry," Lifting the phone, I stare hard into the lens. "I would sacrifice worlds for this to be different. I would do anything." Emotion deserves little attention now as the whistling has changed, particles in the atmosphere generating a thundering, turbulent sound.

The skyline is a crisp, calm blue.

And then-