"I have a proposal," I said clearly, emphasizing each word. "To elect immediately an operational committee from among this assembly. Primarily from scientists who can competently study the consequences of the catastrophe and ways to restore what still remains. As well as officers from the high command. And to transfer to it the authority to evaluate all information and distribute resources. Everyone else, including the military, transitions to the status of experts and consultants."

  I named several names, including my own, Vickers, and James Wood—a renowned biologist I had noticed in the crowd.

  No one present openly supported me. But more importantly—no one spoke against it either. A viscous, probing silence hung in the air, in which only the hum of ventilation and someone's heavy breathing could be heard.

  "Any other proposals?" I asked, looking directly at Dixon. "Then I propose we vote."

  To my own surprise, the proposal was accepted by a simple show of hands. Unanimously. Slowly, uncertainly at first, but then hands went up one after another, as if people had only been waiting for someone to speak these words aloud.

  Then they began discussing the president's authority. After all, this was already a completely different country and a completely different government—without the familiar senators and congressmen, without a Constitution, without separation of powers. Dixon was unanimously re-elected as head of this new, tiny "military government," but now his power was nominal—the real levers of control passed to the committee.

  "Now the first decision," I continued, feeling fatigue mixed with a kind of emptiness washing over me. "The entire arsenal of weapons within the complex is to be concentrated under the control of the security service, reporting only to this committee. All surviving units and shelters still in communication are to be immediately notified of our decision."

  Before concluding the meeting, they decided to form several commissions. I was included—or, more precisely, I volunteered myself—in the one tasked with attempting to establish contact with other large surviving groups, possibly even outside the USA. For "assistance," I was assigned two generals from Dixon's people. The other high-ranking officials were also distributed among commissions, receiving grand titles of experts.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  By the end of the meeting, I was morally broken and physically exhausted. The only source sustaining my strength was the memory of Sarah. Even back when we were at the foot of Clark Mountain, trying to reach the shelter in utter cold and despair, this feeling had been my support. It made me not just a survivor, but a man who still had something to lose and someone to live for.

  I didn't know what she truly felt. But her certainty that we were doing something important and necessary was enough for me. Now, that feeling had solidified, and it seemed to me that my only salvation lay in simply returning to her. Everything else—committees, decisions, power—was merely a facade hiding emptiness.

  My commission consisted of those two generals: the elderly, silent Colonel-General James Cartwright, always calm and composed, with a face like a mask carved from stone. And the energetic, fit General Francis Hammel, who had risen from commander of a major armored unit to the high command of the US Army. Cartwright hadn't uttered more than a few words the entire time, only watching me with a heavy, unblinking gaze. Hammel, on the contrary, was talkative and tried to establish friendly relations, but in his eyes I read the same wariness as in his silent colleague's.

  Since the first point on our itinerary was a zone where, according to rumors, the remnants of military forces—and indeed the government—of China, our nominal enemy (now, probably, also lying in ruins), had fortified themselves, Zhang Wei was flying with us as a parliamentarian and living proof of our peaceful intentions. He remained calm, but I saw him nervously fidgeting with the edge of his jacket whenever the topic of a possible meeting with his compatriots came up.

  Our small group—Cartwright, Hammel, and Zhang—was united by only one thing: deep, total distrust of everyone and everything. Of me, of Dixon, and even, it seemed, of themselves. Therefore, before setting course for the first point of our journey, I thought long about how to justify to them the need to make a small detour to my shelter. I very much wanted to see Sarah before departing. And only at the last moment, when we were already taking our seats in the Atlas's cabin, did I announce to them that before departure we critically needed to replenish our supplies of medicine and provisions at our base on Clark Mountain.

  Hammel raised a skeptical eyebrow, Cartwright remained silent, and Zhang suddenly smiled—understandingly, almost sympathetically. He knew what it was like to leave someone important behind, to go into the unknown.

  We were flying at an altitude of about three thousand meters when it happened. Something probably no one had seen since the catastrophe.

  Beyond the thick porthole glass, the first rare, fluffy flakes began to drift. Then more appeared. And soon the Atlas was flying through a thick, silent snowstorm. From above, through breaks in the clouds, the first pure, white blanket was settling onto the mutilated, blackened earth.

  Clean, crystalline white, genuine snow.

  It fell, softly and inexorably, slowly hiding beneath itself the terrible scars of this short but so destructive war—craters, ruins, and ashes—as if trying to heal, to soothe, to make the horror of what had been endured forgotten. The scene was simultaneously beautiful and unbearably sad. It seemed the planet itself, bleeding, was covering its wounds with dazzlingly white snow.

  Zhang silently stared out the porthole, and tears glistened in his eyes. Even Cartwright's stony face softened for a second, following the falling flakes with his gaze. I, however, thought about seeing Sarah soon. And that this snow—perhaps the first sign that the world hadn't completely died. That it was trying to heal. If only we could find the strength within ourselves to mend.

  Because of the snow, everything around brightened, and our tormented souls felt a little lighter. The white blanket, like a bandage, lay over the black, scorched earth, as if covering an open wound, and offered hope for a new beginning.