on the small vehicles roar back and forth in front of us, giving us the all-clear to move ahead. From here I can see the lead Humvee that holds Chris and Angela blazing the path for the rest of ourvehicles. Our convoy heads straight towards the National Guard forces behind the building.
I keep a firm grip on the truck’s handholds, praying under my breath that we’ll make it to the base in one piece. We’ve been safe so far…but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t go wrong from here to there. I hold my standing position, unable to force myself to sit on the bench and stare at the wall until we get there. I need to know where we are.
After a steady ten minutes of following the National Guard forces, we pull away from the city a bit, staging on the outskirts of town. There are empty fields here, clustered with half-built construction sites and scattered debris.
Up ahead, a chain-link fence stands around a burned out building marked
Poison Control Center
. The back of the edifice has beenblown up. Black smudge lines the cement. There’s not a lot of glass left in the structure.
The convoy slows to a crawl while a heavy steel gate swings open. We follow the lead vehicles to the rear of the building. The road slopes, dipping into an underground parking garage. The door rolls up just enough to fit the vehicles under the ceiling. The sound of the engines echoing off the walls is deafening.
And then, without warning, there’s a blast from a siren – three times. The convoy halts. I help the guards unlatch the truck’s tailgate. Militiamen and women leave the transport quickly, eager to stretch their legs.
Vera gets up, wordlessly hands me my backpack, and leaves the truck. I swing it over my shoulder, wondering why she bothered to hand me
anything
, and wait for Sophia. We stickclose to each other, and I’m vaguely reminded of being rounded up out of a semi-truck not so long ago when I was imprisoned in a labor camp with Sophia...I look at her and she gives me a halfhearted smile.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says.
“We’ve been through this before.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“At least we’re not enslaved this time.”
“Never again.”
We’re here by choice. When I step off the truck, my boots hit blackened cement. The ceiling is high above us. About two stories high, actually. Pipes and support beams wind their way across the ceiling. We’re inside what looks like a giant garage, lit by white lights powered by generators. Our men are leaving the vehicles,looking around the place with dazed expressions on their faces.
What is this place?
It’s been a long time since some of these people have been inside a building. Many of them have been living in the mountains since the day the EMP hit. Confined spaces can be pretty shocking after that kind of lifestyle. It’s an adjustment for
me
. It smells so…
urban
. Diesel fumes, gasoline and hot metal.
Large white lettering is painted across the far wall.
SECTOR 20
I meet Chris’s gaze from across the room, a silent agreement echoing between us: This is going to be a lot different than fighting in the mountains.
You know that feeling you get when walk into a room full of strangers and nobody looks up to say hello to you? That’s how I feel when I walk into the barracks for the first time. Women are everywhere – all ages, but mostly between fifteen and thirty years old. It’s an interesting scene. I feel no fear, no nervousness. I’ve been through too much for that. I simply
am
. We are all here for one reason, for one purpose. And that unifies us.
Women from other militia groups that were staying at Camp Freedom are among the new arrivals here. Vera is bunking three beds over. She avoids my gaze, and I remember that she handed me my backpack on the truck. A simple gesture. A kind gesture, even. Coming from her, I have no idea what the motivation was behind it. She notices me watching her and looksup. She opens her mouth as if to say
I keep a firm grip on the truck’s handholds, praying under my breath that we’ll make it to the base in one piece. We’ve been safe so far…but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t go wrong from here to there. I hold my standing position, unable to force myself to sit on the bench and stare at the wall until we get there. I need to know where we are.
After a steady ten minutes of following the National Guard forces, we pull away from the city a bit, staging on the outskirts of town. There are empty fields here, clustered with half-built construction sites and scattered debris.
Up ahead, a chain-link fence stands around a burned out building marked
Poison Control Center
. The back of the edifice has beenblown up. Black smudge lines the cement. There’s not a lot of glass left in the structure.
The convoy slows to a crawl while a heavy steel gate swings open. We follow the lead vehicles to the rear of the building. The road slopes, dipping into an underground parking garage. The door rolls up just enough to fit the vehicles under the ceiling. The sound of the engines echoing off the walls is deafening.
And then, without warning, there’s a blast from a siren – three times. The convoy halts. I help the guards unlatch the truck’s tailgate. Militiamen and women leave the transport quickly, eager to stretch their legs.
Vera gets up, wordlessly hands me my backpack, and leaves the truck. I swing it over my shoulder, wondering why she bothered to hand me
anything
, and wait for Sophia. We stickclose to each other, and I’m vaguely reminded of being rounded up out of a semi-truck not so long ago when I was imprisoned in a labor camp with Sophia...I look at her and she gives me a halfhearted smile.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says.
“We’ve been through this before.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“At least we’re not enslaved this time.”
“Never again.”
We’re here by choice. When I step off the truck, my boots hit blackened cement. The ceiling is high above us. About two stories high, actually. Pipes and support beams wind their way across the ceiling. We’re inside what looks like a giant garage, lit by white lights powered by generators. Our men are leaving the vehicles,looking around the place with dazed expressions on their faces.
What is this place?
It’s been a long time since some of these people have been inside a building. Many of them have been living in the mountains since the day the EMP hit. Confined spaces can be pretty shocking after that kind of lifestyle. It’s an adjustment for
me
. It smells so…
urban
. Diesel fumes, gasoline and hot metal.
Large white lettering is painted across the far wall.
SECTOR 20
I meet Chris’s gaze from across the room, a silent agreement echoing between us: This is going to be a lot different than fighting in the mountains.
You know that feeling you get when walk into a room full of strangers and nobody looks up to say hello to you? That’s how I feel when I walk into the barracks for the first time. Women are everywhere – all ages, but mostly between fifteen and thirty years old. It’s an interesting scene. I feel no fear, no nervousness. I’ve been through too much for that. I simply
am
. We are all here for one reason, for one purpose. And that unifies us.
Women from other militia groups that were staying at Camp Freedom are among the new arrivals here. Vera is bunking three beds over. She avoids my gaze, and I remember that she handed me my backpack on the truck. A simple gesture. A kind gesture, even. Coming from her, I have no idea what the motivation was behind it. She notices me watching her and looksup. She opens her mouth as if to say
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