Jeffrey woke before his alarm. That never happened. He lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The apartment felt smaller than usual. Quieter. He rolled over and checked his phone.
2:17 a.m. No notifications. No emergency alerts. No reason to be awake. Still — he didn’t fall back asleep.
By 6:00 he gave up. Half a pack of cigarettes sat on the nightstand beside the cheap particleboard table he’d bought three years ago and never replaced.
He lit one and scrolled through the headlines.
● “Strategic Alliance Talks Continue”
● “Markets Dip on Rising Global Tensions”
● “Pentagon Increases Readiness Level”
He snorted softly. Readiness for what? He showered, dressed in worn jeans and a faded LSU shirt, grabbed his tackle box and rod.
“I’m going fishing,” he muttered. “Too much noise everywhere else.”
New Roads, Louisiana didn’t ask much of a man. Water. Air. Space. He found a quiet stretch along the bank and cast his line.Cracked a beer. Let the silence settle. It didn’t settle.
Down the bank, boots shuffled across gravel. An older man approached — mid-forties maybe, maybe older. Hard years blur the face. Wrinkled shirt. Hair uneven. Eyes alert but unfocused.The man sat a little too close.
“How you doin’, sir?” Jeffrey asked politely.
The man didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the water.
“Aggravated,” he finally said. “World’s coming apart and nobody sees it.”
Jeffrey reeled in and adjusted his bait.
“World’s always coming apart,” he said lightly.
The man turned slowly.
“You either stand for something or you fall for everything. My daddy said that.”
Jeffrey nodded. “Smart man.”
The man leaned closer.
“They’re moving pieces. Russia. China. You think that’s coincidence?”
Jeffrey caught the faint smell of cheap liquor.
“Think politicians like scaring people,” Jeffrey replied evenly.
The man laughed — sharp, humorless.
“They ain’t scaring you enough.”
He jerked suddenly, rod bending.
“Oh! Got one!”
Jeffrey instinctively stepped forward.
“I got it,” the man snapped. “This is mine.”
Jeffrey raised his hands slightly. “Alright.”
The fish came free — small. The man stared at it too long before tossing it back. He reached into his tackle box and pulled out a bottle.
“You got family?” the man asked.
Jeffrey hesitated. “Some.”
“Hope you’ve got somewhere to go when it hits.”
“When what hits?”
The man’s eyes sharpened for just a second.
“You’ll see.”
Jeffrey let that sit there. After a few more minutes of muttering about “missiles” and “false flags,” the man drifted into a half-doze. Jeffrey packed up quietly. As he walked away, he heard the man mumble:
“They don’t bomb empty fields, son.”
Jeffrey didn’t look back. He walked nearly a quarter-mile before settling again. This time he noticed three unattended poles staked into the dirt.
A voice behind him: “Careful. Those bite.”
Jeffrey turned. Another older man — clean clothes. Clear eyes. Posture straight. Calm.
“My name’s Mike,” the man said. “Yours?”
“Jeffrey.”
They shook hands. Firm grip. Measured.
“You been watching the news?” Mike asked casually.
“Hard to avoid.”
“What do you think?”
Jeffrey took a slow sip of his beer.
“I think nobody knows what’s really happening.”
Mike smiled faintly. “That’s honest.”
They cast their lines.
“You think war’s coming?” Mike pressed.
Jeffrey considered.
“If it comes,” he said, “we’ll deal with it.”
“We?” Mike asked.
Jeffrey shrugged. “Somebody has to.”
Mike watched him a second longer than was comfortable.
“Good answer,” he said.
A boat motor roared in the distance. They fished in silence.
Then Mike said quietly: “You ever notice how things change right before they change?”
Jeffrey glanced at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mike didn’t answer.
Instead, he stared at the horizon. And for the first time that morning, Jeffrey noticed something strange — No birds. Not one.