by Summer Lane
“I would have gone into forensic science,” I go on. “Something along those lines. Maybe law enforcement, maybe something else. I don’t know.”
“It wouldn’t have surprised me at all,” Uriah comments. “Sometimes I think you were made for this life. Like this apocalypse brought the best out of you when it brought the worst out of everyone else.”
I say nothing. This apocalypse has not brought the best out of me – not always. I have killed many people, and I cannot wash the thought of bloody vengeance against Omega out of my head. The idea plays like an audio loop, constantly repeating itself, bouncing against the insides of my skull.
“I’m not who I used to be,” I say. “Sometimes, I wonder where that girl went. If she’s even still inside me.”
“She’s there,” Uriah replies, leaning closer. “She’s just older and wiser, now.”
I look at him, holding his gaze, his dark eyes glinting in the dim lighting.
“I hope so,” I say.
Elle walks inside the cabin.
“I figured you’d be in here,” she says. “I think we’re ready to go.”
I stand up.
“Let’s get this party started,” I mutter.
Chapter Five
Em Davis is standing near the door to the lead Humvee in the lineup of convoys. Uriah and I approach her and her dog, India. She flashes a curious expression.
“I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” she says.
“You’re worried the tunnel is going to freak me out?” I ask.
“Yeah, kind of.”
“That’s cute.” I grin. “We’ll all be fine.”
Em shrugs and gets into the lead vehicle. Uriah and I follow. Isabel and Margaret ride in the vehicle behind us, along with Andrew and Vera. Manny, Elle, Cheng and Bravo are in the SUV behind them. I climb into the backseat of the lead Humvee. Uriah and I keep our rifles upright between our knees, peering through the windows.
In front of us, there is a triangular rooftop cupping the entrance to the tunnel. It looks tiny and discreet. Railroad tracks plunge into the darkness.
“Hey, I thought this tunnel was for automobiles,” Uriah says.
Em twists in her seat, smiling.
“Yeah, before the Collapse, they shared the tunnel with cars and trains,” she replies. “These days, we just use it as a way to get in and out of the city without being seen.”
The driver of our vehicle is tall and stoic, never smiling, never saying a word. The Humvee rolls forward and Em says something into the radio. I wiggle my fingers, not realizing that I have been clenching my fists.
Relax, I think. We’re with the militia and nobody knows we’re here. We’re safe.
We keep moving forward, until we plunge into the darkness of the mountain tunnel. The walls loom all around us, small and tight. It’s pitch-black, darker than the darkest night. The headlights from the Humvee carve a sharp beam into the tunnel as we move forward, briskly whisking ahead at a steady speed of thirty miles per hour.
“My men will seal the tunnel from their side once we’re through,” Em explains, turning to me, stroking the fur on India’s head. “We like to keep the entrance as hidden as possible.”
“Do you have men guarding the tunnel entrance around the clock?” I ask.
“Absolutely. No security measure is too much – we don’t take any risks here.”
“Good,” I say.
Maybe these people actually have their act together.
As we drive through the tunnel, the walls seem to close in around us. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we were to get stuck in here – would we be sealed inside, trapped inside a giant, two-mile-long coffin?
I shudder and push the thought away.
It seems to take forever, but eventually, we pop out of the tunnel. The dreamlike darkness of Alaska suddenly seems bright and welcoming. I exhale, and as I do so, I see Em Davis’s lips twist into a slight smirk in the rearview mirror.
Whatever.
Whittier stands before us. As we pull out of the tunnel, the first thing that strikes me is the beauty. Whittier is a small strip of land situated in a sheltered harbor, with mountains looming on all sides of it. It is nestled in the back of the bay, looking out over deep blue water. A few old, black submarines bob in the water, dormant and silent. I see a couple of buildings here and there, but mostly, there are just trees and hills, and then towering mountains and piles of white snow.
“It looks like a fairytale,” I whisper. “It’s beautiful.”
“We’re proud of it,” Em states. “Before the Collapse, cruise ships used to come and dock at Whittier. It was popular with photographers, hikers, honeymooners. You know, a big tourist draw. But it’s so hard to find, as you can see.”
The little city is dark, impossible to spot from the sky, keeping them safe from possible Omega surveillance. The convoy takes a sharp right and roars down a long, curving road that parallels the harbor.
I see boats bobbing in the water, along with small, icy glaciers and sheets of sparkling ice. It is an ethereal, alien landscape, full of wonder and surprises. It looks like nothing I have ever seen before in California.
“Welcome to Yukon City,” Em says.
Up ahead, I see a checkpoint, heavily guarded by Alaskan National Guardsmen. There is a tall chain-link fence topped with coils of sharp barbed wire. Beyond the fence is a maze of railroad tracks, and just further on are two large buildings spaced apart. They are the biggest buildings in sight, and they dominate the small skyline.
The convoy rolls to a halt. They check in with Em Davis.
After they confirm with the guardhouse, they lift the gate and our convoy keeps moving through.
“Small town,” I comment.
“Small but tight,” Em replies. “That building on the left, the one that looks like a compound?” She points to a sprawling edifice, standing tall against the backdrop of trees and snow. “That’s the Hodge Building – we call them the Begich Towers now. And the building over there on the right? That’s the Buckner Building. We house civilian refugees in Buckner, and the Begich Towers are where we’re housing militiamen.”
We rumble through a small tunnel that pops out next to a city park and a campground packed with thick canvas tents and RVs. I see civilians everywhere – men, women and children.
I smell the heavy, woodsy scent of burning campfires and hear the laughter of children. I look at Uriah. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. We make a sharp turn and head straight for the Begich Towers.
“These civilians in the campground,” I say. “Where are they from?”
“Everywhere. Most of them are from the big cities like Anchorage – survivors of the initial collapse. They saw the world going down in flames so they came here. The militias did a lot to help relocate wandering survivors to this place.” She shrugs. “We obviously don’t have enough room to house everybody in the Buckner Building,” Em replies. “In fact, there just aren’t a lot of buildings in Yukon City period. So most of the people here live in their RVs, their trailers, their motor homes…whatever they have. It’s better than being alone, or in Omega’s crosshairs.”
“I was told that Yukon City has an established government,” I say.
“Well, yeah. I already mentioned President Bacardi.”
“And the senate?”
“Some of them were former public officials. Others were just…well, they were leaders within the civilian refugee camps and they were elected because the people trusted them.”
“And the militias – the National Guard?”
“The militias are under my control. The National Guard has their own commander – Colonel Wilcox.” She sniffs. “He’s gruff, but he gets the job done.” She tilts her head. “And then there are the Roamers. They have their own little fortress, on the outskirts of the city. They keep to themselves, but they’re dangerous fighters. We’re lucky to have them as an ally.”
“Roamers?” I echo.
“Yeah.
A group of religious zealots,” Em answers.
“They came in several months ago, a good quarter of their men wounded or dying. They’d been in a fight with Omega. They came here to seek religious asylum, so to speak. So they live here, now. Isolated, but ready.”
I bite my lip. There are a lot of different players here in Yukon City.
“One more question,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“The name. Yukon City. You guys are nowhere near the Yukon.”
“It was Mauve’s idea,” Em shrugs. “The idea is that Yukon City isn’t just in Whittier or Alaska. It’s not just another refuge. We’re supposed to be the ultimate refuge – it’s supposed to convey hope. Yukon City sounds hopeful, don’t you think?”
I don’t reply. I don’t know.
The convoy comes to a stop at last right in front of the Begich Towers. We exit the Humvee and step into the icy air blowing in from the harbor. It is bone-cold, the ancient frigidity of the arctic. I grip the strap on my rifle, watching Vera, Andrew, Elle, Cheng, Bravo and Manny climb out of their vehicles, along with the rest of my detachment.
It’s a simple building – fourteen levels of windows.
“Condominiums,” Em explains.
Thick clouds are hanging over the tips of the mountains, miring Whittier and Yukon City in a blanket of shadows. I feel like I’ve taken a step into another world.
Other vehicles are parked all around the towers. Dead weeds stand in icy clumps. And, standing near the corner with a small force of men dressed in forest green fatigues, is a woman. She is extremely tall – at least six feet. Dark brown hair is braided down her back. Her features are pointed and sharp – she wears loose jeans, boots and a thick jacket.
“That’s President Mauve Bacardi,” Em says, quietly. “She’s anxious to meet you.”
“Anxious?” I echo.
“We don’t get a lot of outsiders from the militias. We get survivors, but not para-military units. Not transferring here, anyway.” Em stops herself, like she’s afraid she has said too much. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
I follow her across the cracked asphalt. Up close I see that Mauve is maybe fifty years old, at the most. Deep wrinkles carve out the spaces around her eyes.
“President Bacardi,” Em says. “Mission accomplished.”
Mauve raises an eyebrow.
“Commander Hart?” she says. Her voice is deep and raspy.
“Yes.” I offer my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, President.”
She looks at my hand. She doesn’t take it.
“You’ve come a long way to get here,” she says instead. “You must be tired.”
“We’re fine,” I reply.
“Your men will be properly accommodated in these towers.” She gestures to the building. “But I would like to have a word with you, Commander Hart.”
I sense something in Mauve’s voice – anger? Fear?
“Very well,” I agree.
I nod at Uriah. He walks over.
“President Bacardi,” I say. “Lieutenant Uriah True.”
She says nothing.
“I’m going to speak with the president inside,” I tell Uriah. “Take over for me until I come back.”
“Yes, Commander,” Uriah says, but he throws a discerning glance at Mauve.
I leave my men behind, gathering their duffel bags, backpacks and weapons from the vehicles. Em Davis flanks me as I follow Mauve into the building, surrounded on all sides by the forest-green troops. We step into a long, narrow hallway, lit by generator-powered lights. We keep moving, stopping at a huge room at the end. Mauve and her guards sweep inside – Mauve is so tall that she nearly has to duck to keep from hitting her head on the doorway.
Inside, there is a large room with two couches, a desk in the corner, and a small window overlooking the snowy parking lot. Nothing flashy. A small pellet stove burns in the corner, emitting warmth.
“Leave us,” Mauve commands, sitting behind the desk.
Behind her, there is a row of bookshelves covered in dust. The guards silently file out of the room. Commander Davis remains rooted to the spot with India.
“Have a seat,” Mauve offers, a slight smile touching her lips.
I slowly lower myself onto the couch, resting my fist on the armrest. Em remains standing near the window, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Tell me, Commander Hart,” Mauve says. “We don’t receive any communications from the outside world, other than what the occasional aircraft drops in. How is the war going?”
“It’s a struggle,” I reply.
“What happened?” she asks.
“It’s a long story.”
Silence reigns for a moment.
“Omega has resorted to nuclear weaponry,” I say at last. “We’ve lost most of Washington, Oregon and some of California.”
Mauve stares at me, then inhales quickly.
“Dear God,” she whispers. “My worst fears have been realized.”
“I come on behalf of the California militias,” I say, “and the National Guard. Commander Chris Young extends his thanks, as well, for welcoming my men and me here in Yukon City.”
“We don’t get many visitors, these days,” Mauve replies, quiet. “At the beginning, we did. We were bringing people in from all over the state. But then, the flow simply stopped. We saved everyone we could save, I suppose. The rest simply perished.”
“How long have you been president here?” I ask.
“One year. The people elected me.”
“Have you had any issues with Omega? Mercenaries? Rogue elements?”
“No.” She pauses. Then, “Well, we’ve had our issues. But Omega has not penetrated this place. We’re very difficult to find, and very small. Some might even say we’re not worth their time.”
“Some might,” I reply. “But what you’re doing here is a good thing.”
“Indeed it is.”
“President Bacardi,” I say, leaning forward. “I’m going to be straight with you: I’m not here on vacation. I’m here on a mission.”
“I suspected as much.” She folds her hands together. “And?”
“I’m here to find reinforcements,” I continue. “California is the last thing standing in the way of Omega’s total takeover of the West Coast. Right now, Omega views California as valuable enough to preserve it rather than nuking it, and our militia forces are the only thing keeping them from implementing a total takeover.”
“So you’re here to recruit my men?” she asks.
“I’m here to find volunteers,” I reply. “Able-bodied fighting men and women.”
“Did it occur to you that perhaps we need those able-bodied fighters here?”
“Yes, but California needs them more.” I narrow my eyes. “President Bacardi, you live here in peace and solitude. California is a warzone. We need more soldiers, or Omega is going to destroy us, and there will be nothing left of our country.”
Mauve considers this. And then she says, “Commander Hart, we’re already fallen.”
“You haven’t been out there, in the war,” I go on. “I have. I’m telling you, it’s brutal. Omega is ruthless – they’ll kill anybody who stands in their path. I’m trying to save innocent people from dying.”
“People have already died,” Mauve responds, flat. “You recruiting more soldiers will change nothing. A dead body can’t be brought back to life. Omega overpowers us to such an incredible degree that we have no feasible way to survive. Our best chance at survival is to stay hidden and maintain our own societies, off their radar.”
“So you’d rather hide than fight,” I say.
Em looks at me, startled by my sarcasm.
“It’s a matter of logic, Commander,” Mauve replies evenly. “Survival of the smartest, not the fittest.”
“There is no such thing as safe,” I tell her. “This place is great, but eventually, Omega will find you. If the United States falls completely and the militias are snuffed out…every s
urvivor camp will eventually be located and destroyed. They will show you no mercy.”
Mauve taps on the desk.
“Perhaps,” she replies.
“I was also told that you possess weaponry here – perhaps nuclear weapons or guns and tanks? We need those, too,” I go on.
“We have nothing here for you.” Her gaze is cool. “If we did, you would know.”
“I’m not sure that I would.”
“Trust me, Commander. If you were told that we have weapons like that here, you were either lied to or misinformed. We are a refugee colony, not a fighting colony.”
“The presence of the militia and the National Guard makes me think otherwise,” I point out. “If you are lying to me, President Bacardi, I will find out.”
My threat hangs in the air like an icy current of air.
“You’re tired, Commander Hart,” she says. Her voice is cold and brittle. “I suggest that you find your quarters and rest. We will discuss this again tomorrow.”
I sense the anger – the attitude of stubbornness – rolling off Mauve in heavy waves. I will get nowhere with her today. I stand up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, President,” I say.
She nods.
Em Davis follows me out of the room, into the hallway.
“Hey,” she says.
I look at her.
“I’ll help you find your room,” she says, jerking her thumb at the stairwell. “Come on.”
I move quickly down the hallway with her. The guards are standing along the wall, guarding the president’s office. Em, India and myself quickly move around the corner, and step into the stairwell. She climbs quickly – almost erratically – and when we are halfway up the stairs, out of earshot of the guards, she stops.
“I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly, shaking her head. “Mauve is…well, she’s been through a lot. She considers isolationism our best option. She won’t be happy about you recruiting soldiers for the militias in California.”
“She doesn’t have to be happy about it,” I reply. “She just needs to help us.”
“Mauve is respected by the people,” Em goes on. “When the survivors first started arriving here, a lot of them were sick or dying. Mauve organized the city, made it efficient and safe. They trust her.”