One of her half-answered questions sticks in my mind as I climb back into the truck.
Why’d you save me?
The real answer’s selfish.
I couldn’t bear the responsibility of another decent person’s death.
The truck’s reinforced grille blasts through the automatic arm, shredding the cheap wood without slowing down. The halogens shine against an official government sign, stamped with the FEMA logo and what must be the Tennessee state flag. I catch only the faded text as I roll past. FEMA Disaster Relief Camp 2287.
There’s no sign of life in the outer section of the camp. I guess Jana was telling the truth about Vlad and the Remnants not living here.
I jam on the brakes and the truck groans to a stop outside a large chain link fence with barbed wire on top. A chill sweeps through the cab when I open the door. I make sure to button my jacket. Feeling the scratch of dust against my throat, I step out.
I leave the engine running—ready to make a quick getaway. The .38 is in my hand.
High beams knife through the darkness, cutting past the rusting fence to reach the first row of tents. Beyond that, the camp is shrouded in a dusky haze. Some of the tents still stand, while others have fallen to the decay of more than twenty years. Strands of torn fabric flap in the periodic gusts. Peppered amongst the temporary structures are pre-fab buildings of varying sizes. These, I suspect, are where the real goods lie.
I rummage around in the truck’s back, finding a blowtorch at the bottom of the tool chest. I use it to cut a large hole in the fence, sparks flying into the night. Glowing orange metal twists off into the dust.
When I’m finished, I head back to the truck, grab an almost empty pack from one of the hangers and cut the engine. I debate leaving the lights on, since someone might be watching—come looking for an easy mark. But I take Jana at her word, that Vlad or whoever else is out here will leave me alone. And Kid and Adriana—they’re not coming any time soon.
I think about how Jana told me they were probably gonna die. The temperature is already dropping precipitously. I shove the thought from my mind and head towards the hole in the fence. After waiting another minute for the metal to cool, I climb through.
Flashlight in hand, I sweep the beam over the desolate landscape. A tent city, a couple of cheap buildings—that’s what home was for these people. Did anyone make it out, or was this the last stand? I walk over to one of the fallen canopies and lift up the flap.
A skeleton’s hollowed eyes greet me, its jaw buried in the dirt.
I jump back and decide against searching the tents further. Instead, I scan the landscape with the light, finding that one of the crumbling pre-fab structures is labeled Administrative Office.
I climb up its short steps, dust particles shimmering in the flashlight. Leaning against the door, I find that the knob sticks—so I take a step back, then barrel through with my shoulder. The plywood crumbles, the sound of the wood echoing across the plains.
The office smells stale, bottled up, the type of aroma that comes from a storage locker you haven’t opened in twenty years. I’m in a small waiting room with a receptionist’s desk. There’s a hallway to the left and right.
I head behind the desk and shuffle through the documents. Daily schedules, headcounts, itineraries. Nothing to indicate where any of the good stuff in this office—or camp at large—might be.
I reach the bottom of the stack, stopping at a pink sheet. It’s not the color, but the skull and crossbones motif lining the top of the page.
“FEMA Camp 2287 is hereby declared unsafe,” I read aloud to no one but myself. “All survivors are to be moved to an indoor facility erected outside the camp’s limits. Failure to comply will result in containment measures.”
I don’t think the indoor facility ever got built.
It gives no indication who the camp was for. Could’ve been set up for all the refugees coming up from South America, after the water started rising. But I don’t know if many of those folks made it this far north. After a while, most of them were turned away at the border. Weren’t enough resources to go around.
Wonder what happened to the people who couldn’t get in.
But another thought occurs to me as I watch a large rat pad by. It stops to cock its head and look at me. In the glare of the flashlight, its bright green eyes are unmistakable. Then it hurries off, into a hidey-hole, leaving me to my own devices.
Maybe they call themselves Remnants because they were all that was left after Damien Ford finished down here. It never was made entirely clear what happened down South, particularly in Atlanta, which got hit extra bad. But if my trip across the Otherland’s broken soil is any indication, it wasn’t just a couple bombs—or even a nuke.
I drop the papers on the desk. They crumble when they hit the hard surface.
I flash the light down each hall, trying to make a call on which to explore first. They both look the same, so I take the right hallway. It leads to a janitor’s closet and a small office—probably for some overworked junior staffer. I can see stacks of mildewed cardboard boxes, their walls sagging in, through the cracked door.
I make the mistake of opening the closet first. A skeleton, belt lashed tightly around its broken neck, greets me, its slack jaw pointed at the ground.
“Shit,” I say and slam the door. The bones clatter on the other end, absorbing the impact.
I enter the office, hoping for better results.
The musty smell hits me stronger in here. I take a lid off one of the boxes and a hoard of cockroaches scatter over the brown paper. I fling the ruined box across the room in disgust. None of the files are readable—their only use until the end of time will be as insect nests.
I search the desk and find a bottle of cheap whiskey in the bottom drawer. It burns going down, but there’s not exactly a liquor store around. I decide to take a brief load off, sitting down in the swivel chair with the fifth. After twenty minutes of spinning and staring at the ceiling, my mind gloriously blank, I find my eyes beginning to shut. The bottle slips from my fingers, onto the floor.
When I wake up, the room is pitch black. The flashlight’s batteries are out, so I have to stumble out of the office back to the truck. It’s nightfall now, moon shimmering on the endless horizon. Once I replace the batteries—thankfully, Slick sent us off well-prepared—I return to the back office to resume my search.
I double-check the files, but they’re useless, all ruined. From the little patches of visible text, I think they were refugee information—a log of everyone who passed through the camp’s gates. Nothing but history, now.
The whiskey didn’t spill when I dropped it, so I shove the bottle in the pack and check the rest of the desk. Nothing good besides pencils and pens. Heck, maybe those are worth something—Matt wrote me a physical note or two, after all, and if you’re trying to stay under the Circle’s radar, there are worse technologies. So I bag them all, along with a notepad. I guess, if I’m hungry and dying alone, I can always pen my own manifesto or life story—explain to the world why I matter.
I think that manuscript would be pretty damn unconvincing.
On the desktop is an old flat screen monitor with a chunky bezel. My flashlight shines brightly off the highly reflective surface. I press the power button on the bottom right corner, but nothing happens. A thought occurs to me that this machine could be used to read the drive.
Drives, I have to remind myself. There are at least two. One with the Lionhearted and one with Vlad, mysterious Remnant leader. At least I can rest easy about Tanner or Blackstone getting a completed copy of the source code any time soon. If Damien Ford’s responsible for the Remnants’ suffering—and I’d bet all the credits I don’t have that he was—it stands to reason that the Remnants won’t be seeking a partnership with the god-fearing any time soon.
I wave the light beneath the desk, where a yellowed
tower stands. Brushing the dust off, I find a faded logo. It, like the monitor, doesn’t power on. I wouldn’t even recognize what this thing was, had Matt not had a glowing monstrosity in his own room.
When I would peek into his room, late on the weeknights, it would be lit entirely by the glow of multi-colored LEDs, high-powered fans whirring to keep the monster cool. We all knew it was illegal, but no one ever came for us. I think me and my parents trusted that Matt was good enough not to get caught.
I swallow hard. Until he did.
This side of the administrative office tapped out, I head back into the waiting area, whiskey sloshing back and forth in my pack. I’m not optimistic about this next hallway, given my current meager haul. By my estimation, there are a grand total of half a dozen buildings on the premises. Everything else is tent city. The offices have probably all been picked clean by the Remnants over the past two decades. But it’s not like I have anything else to do.
This hallway is flanked by two proper doors. One is completely missing. I venture a cautious glance inside, lest another skeleton greets my gaze. But the room’s boring, much like the one I just finished exploring. Stacks of ruined boxes, a plain desk with a computer.
A hasty looting reveals a bottle of vodka—I guess to work here, you’d have to drink to stay sane—and a brief readable memo. It indicates that the camp was officially established on January 12, 2026 by the United States government, in response to “Mr. Damien Ford’s unrelenting terrorist activity and the wake of broken individuals it has left behind.”
It seems a little dramatic for a government memo, but then, I guess the government was dissolving rapidly by that point. I leave it on the desk and head back into the hall to the final door.
There’s a strange rattling noise on the other side when I get closer. I put the flashlight underneath my armpit and fumble for the .38. If someone’s here, and they’re not all bones, at least I won’t be caught off guard.
I tap the barrel of the revolver against the flimsy wood.
“Hello,” I say. There’s no answer. “I got a gun. You best come out now.”
The rattling continues, ignoring my request. I slowly crouch down and place the flashlight on the floor so that I have a free hand. Then I grasp the knob quickly and fling the door open, sweeping the pistol over the open frame.
I spot a little movement in the corner, and my nerves get the better of me. A shot ricochets off the wall, my ears ringing, a fist-sized chunk of drywall falling to the dirty floor. A rat—maybe the same one as earlier—scurries away, unharmed.
The room’s completely empty, save for a generator belching smoke in the center. Its little green light blinks. When I pick up the flashlight to examine the scene, I spot an open window—dusty footprints on the bare floor.
I creep towards the generator and turn it off. A thin film of dust coats the finish. There’s a short note taped to the front.
“Vlad sends his regards,” I read aloud. “For your family giving the Remnants hope. If you want to trade, leave objects in the gatehouse with a list and offers. Will check tomorrow.”
Must’ve dropped this off while I was sleeping. There’s no way to tell how long I was out, but it had to be a couple hours. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the generator, but I do appreciate that Vlad doesn’t want to kill me.
The room is thick with gasoline fumes, so I decide to head back out to the truck for some fresh air. Before I do, I climb through the administrative office’s window, where I see a dirt bike’s tracks leading away. The path it takes is strange—instead of cutting through the camp, which seems like a quicker route, the messenger went straight through a gash in a fence, and went all the way around.
With gas at a premium out here in the wastes, it’s an odd choice. I recall how Jana gave the camp a wide berth.
I shrug it off, shivering from the cold as I walk towards the truck.
Tonight, I’ll sleep in the empty office. Tomorrow, I’ll decide where to go next.
I wake up in the middle of the night. Without the added warmth of the whiskey, the chills are almost unbearable. I aired out the room, but the scent of gasoline still clings to the air. Despite taking every jacket and blanket out of the truck, my teeth are chattering. The generator is off, pushed into the corner, since I don’t want to die of exhaust poisoning in my sleep.
As I rub my arms, I realize that Vlad’s more appreciative than I thought. The generator is a luxurious gift for an exile like me.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, startled by a distant howling. I sit dead still, enduring the cold in agonizing silence. The window is shut and the door is cracked, but I don’t feel safe. If those wolves are anything like the rats or the Remnants…
After enduring a long period of frozen quiet, I finally start moving again.
I don’t know what makes me more uncomfortable—the sub-zero cold, the howls of wolves, or the fact that the wolves quit howling all at once. Now the only thing I hear is the sound of my own breath, short and lonesome. When I look out the window, there’s nothing but tents and midnight, forever and ever and ever. Like tombstones in a graveyard.
I clutch the blankets closer, but the cold still slices through like a razor blade. I manage to work some feeling into my fingers. I grit my teeth together and stand up, moving stiffly towards my backpack. First I take out the whiskey. Then I find the pad of paper and pens.
Knew these would come in handy.
I write down my first request: More blankets. A wood burning stove, if possible.
As I write, the whiskey setting in, I realize what I’m doing. I’m making this place my new home.
Blackstone, Matt, Olivia and the rest of them might need a hero with a good story. But they’ll have to find him somewhere else. Whatever cure-all elixir Matt peddled—then drank himself, all too literally—is horseshit. If they’re all so damn smart, seeing eight moves ahead, they can all lay claim to the hollow fiefdom while I fade into the landscape, out here where no one will come.
Drunk by the time I head back out to the truck, I stumble to the gatehouse, two QwikSet patches and the blowtorch in my arms. I drop them in a pile on the dirty floor, placing the folded note on the small counter.
Staggering back, teeth chattering, I smile with grim resolve.
Fuck ‘em all.
Because I’m gonna make it on my own.
My beard itches, and I have to bite down hard on my lip to keep from sneezing. I haven’t spent three hours hunkered behind a rock to go home hungry. Besides, Jana said during our last barter session that if I could get her four pelts, she’d bring me something really special today. Like hell I’m going home without this four-legged bastard.
I peek out over the rock, where a lone wolf sniffs the desolate plains twenty yards away. Steadying the .38 on the hard surface, I aim down the sights. This beast is hunting me, following my scent. Its green eyes glow, even in the relative brightness of midday. Its ears prick up when a crow caws.
Shit.
Now’s my only chance. I squeeze off a shot, and the wolf crumples in a heap. It doesn’t move.
Both hands on the pistol, I edge out slowly, watching for any sign of life. I’ve made that mistake before, not being sure, and it cost me a couple nasty scratches down my left leg. That was about a month ago, after I got sick of eating protein powder and freeze dried potatoes. I still have plenty of both, but wolf is a delicacy by comparison.
I’m practically salivating when I reach the kill. I nudge the warm body with my boot, finger still on the trigger. No response. Blood pools beneath the wolf’s shiny silver fur, running into the cracked earth.
After I skin and field dress the beast, leaving its entrails for the buzzards, I start walking back. I could’ve driven—it’s only five miles—but gas doesn’t come cheap from the Rems. Last time I asked for a gallon canister, they wanted ten of these friggin’ pelts. Fuel’s the most valuable t
hing left in this dust-swept land besides condoms and penicillin and whatever Circle meds that might trickle their way down here. Painkillers might edge in on that list. Soap that doesn’t smell like a pig’s asshole also comes at a steep price, so I’ve stopped bathing.
You don’t do it for a while, you get used to it.
The Rems don’t give discounts on anything—not even for rescuing the leader’s daughter. Jana comes to the gatehouse for our weekly trades, and she’ll even speak to me plenty now. But I can tell she’s still offended, even after six months, because I called her out for being a weirdo that night in the truck. It’s a sore spot amongst the Rems, being different. I’ve learned the reason why I have the FEMA camp—and all its untouched supplies—to myself: this was where they lived.
And where most of them died.
Other than Jana, I don’t see any of them. Just occasional puffs of dust on the horizon. I thought I’d miss the interaction—the talking, the chatter, the grift. It was my life for twenty-three years, if my Pops’ stories about him teaching me the art of the con in the cradle were true. But, truth is, I don’t.
There’s a calm in these plains, a distinct, gentle cadence interrupted by moments of stark harshness. Screams in the night—human, animal—remind you why no one comes to the Lost Plains if they haven’t been cast adrift.
I break a sweat on the way back, despite the fall chill in the sunny air. When I arrive at the FEMA camp—which I now call Chateau Stokes, with the matching repainted sign acting as proof of ownership—I drop the pelt off in the gatehouse. It joins the three others. One’s getting a little mangy and smells slightly rank.
Jana’s gotten on me about this, about how I don’t know how to treat the fur. I told her to get me a book on the topic, send me a teacher or shut the hell up.
Thus far, I haven’t heard back on that front.
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