“Dispatch, this is Kilo Station, how copy?”

I wait a few moments but all I get in response is static. I try a few more times, but all I manage to raise is more static. Not good. Not all that uncommon during a blizzard, but not good all the same. I put the receiver down and cross over to my table, where my weapon is field stripped. I pick up my brush and continue to clean it, even though the weapon is spotless after being fired this afternoon. Its an old nervous habit.

After some time, I stand and stretch my legs. Scratch my beard. I move towards the fireplace and throw a few logs in to last through the night. I sit on my cot in the corner and rub my face, trying to reconcile the days events. I think about the facts, but there aren’t many.

I killed a man in cold blood. I can’t raise dispatch. There’s a blizzard rolling in.

I check and make sure the door to my cabin is barricaded one last time, and look at my game freezer. The stranger implied something bad happened recently.

I don’t like chances.