by T. L. Payne
“This way, son,” a woman in her late fifties said, pointing to the end of the line trailing out of the tent door. She wore a bright red shirt with American Red Cross and Disaster Relief written on it.
Zach held on to his pack, refusing to comply with the demand to leave it behind.
“You’ll need to leave your bag here with the others,” she said.
“I’m sorry, ma'am, but I can’t leave my pack. It goes where I go. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m not leaving it anywhere. You are welcome to inspect it, but I am not leaving it here.”
The woman said something into her radio and two armed men walked toward them. One wore a black, short-sleeve shirt with an IEMA logo on it, and the other was a Macon County Sheriff’s Deputy. Mr. Dean stepped outside the tent and rushed to Zach's side.
“Whoa, wait a minute. What is going on?” Mr. Dean demanded.
“Step back inside, sir. Let us handle this,” the shorter of the two men said.
The taller man grabbed hold of Zach’s pack while the other man took Zach by the arm. A third man arrived. This one had on a white polo shirt with lettering. Zach could not make out what it said. Zach’s pack was handed to the white-polo-shirt guy. The deputy turned Zach around and pushed him onto the hood of a golf cart. Before Zach knew it, the man had his hands between Zach’s legs patting him down. The officer pulled Zach’s hands behind him and restrained his wrists with heavy police zip tie cuffs. Zach was shoved into the golf cart and taken to a hanger on the opposite end of the facility. As they drove away from the in-processing tent, Zach could tell they were in an airport. They had come in from the back, and tent complex had obscured the runway. But, looking back as they headed away from tents, Zach could see the traffic control tower and main terminal.
When they arrived at the hanger, the tall deputy pulled Zach from the golf cart by the arm and led him into the hanger. A row of tables lined the far wall. Columns of folding chairs sat facing them. Zach was not the only one receiving a warm welcome.
Zach was shoved into a chair and told to sit and not say anything until he was called forward. He did not know how they would call him forward since he had not given anyone his name yet. He thought Homeland Security had probably run facial recognition on him and already pulled up a detailed file of all his internet searches and Snapchat messages. Zach deduced that he was, indeed, fucked.
It took two-and-a-half hours before anyone called him forward. They didn’t use his name. Someone had come by and handed him a number like his mom got when she went to the DMV to get her driver’s license renewed.
An extremely thin woman who looked to be in her thirties called his number. Zach stood. He must have hesitated a bit too long, because a man with a beer belly that made him look nine months pregnant rushed over and nudged him forward. Zach nearly fell over the leather clad biker in front of him, receiving from him the meanest stink eye he’d ever seen.
The beer belly guy pushed on Zach’s shoulder, causing him nearly to miss the chair as he sat down. The woman did not look up. She continued writing something in a ledger like the ones used at polling places during elections—the ones his mom signed after giving them her ID and before receiving a ballot. Zach doubted they were conducting any elections at this place. He was quite sure that democracy was dead, evidenced by the illegal search and seizure of his property and his detainment for resisting.
“Name?”
The woman looked like she hated her job. She had so much disdain for the people she was charged with processing that she could not bring herself to extend the courtesy of looking at them.
Zach rapid fired questions at the woman.
“What is this place? Why am I being held? I want my backpack.”
“Name? I need your name.”
“No, I’m not giving you my name until you answer my questions. I was brought here against my will. I just want my pack and I’ll leave. I don’t want your services. I can get home on my own.”
The beer belly man was joined by a couple of black shirt goons, who proceeded to lead him through a door on the side of the hanger and into a small, windowless room. He heard the door lock from the outside as they left.
Things had gone from bad to worse.
The room was bare except for a bucket with a toilet seat attached. He’d seen one of those before. His dad had constructed one for his mom and sister to use when they primitive camped, at least in the early days. They had progressed to using the woods like he and his dad after a year or so. They preferred just using the woods over having the chore of cleaning the bucket. His dad’s philosophy had been, if you used it, you cleaned it.
Zach sat on the concrete floor with his back against the wall, staring at the makeshift toilet. He did need to go, but he did not want to be trapped in the tiny room with that smell. He’d hold it as long as possible. Hopefully, he would never have to use it.
Chapter 21
Red Cross Disaster Shelter
Decatur Airport
Decatur, Illinois,
Time was hard to judge without daylight to gauge it. Zach tried to recall what time the bus had arrived to pick them up at the church. He figured they had arrived around ten o’clock that morning. Zach had watched the sunrise from his seat in the back of the church. The light had been beautiful streaming through the stained glass over the podium at the front of the church. Most churches had replaced stained glass with more efficient double paned clear glass. That church must not have had that kind of budget.
They had not been provided lunch yet, so the bus had likely arrived before one o’clock that afternoon. They rode on the bus for about two or three hours he guessed. He’d sat in the hanger for another two or three hours before he landed himself in solitary confinement. So, it was likely close to getting dark outside.
His stomach growled. He was dehydrated. He had not had anything to eat or drink since eight o’clock that morning.
Zach had never gone so long without food and water since he was eleven on one of his father’s survival drills. That morning, Zach’s dad had given him a minimal pack. He’d called it an everyday carry, or EDC pack. It contained only a small knife, a fire starter, a LifeStraw, a poncho, an emergency blanket, a compass, a flash light, a couple of Band-Aids, energy powder, and three, one-thousand calorie energy bars. He’d provided Zach with grid coordinates and sent him to find a rally point where they would meet as a family later in the day.
Zach had messed up and missed the rally point by three miles. When he discovered that, he was hopelessly lost. He had sat down on a fallen log and waited for his dad to come find him. He was lost in the woods for two days.
The long, cold nights were worse than the hunger and thirst. He hated the dark and jumped at every rustling of leaves. By the time his dad had found him he was exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. His dad had been so cool about it. Zach had been afraid he would yell at him, but he didn’t. In fact, he said he had gotten lost the first time he set out on his own too. He had been in basic training, though, and his squad had found him pretty quickly. Zach’s mom had been the one to yell. She yelled at Zach and gave dirty looks to his dad the rest of the trip home.
A tapping noise brought Zach back into the present. It was coming from the other side of the wall that he was leaning against. The tapping sound moved up and down and side to side along the wall.
Is someone testing the wall for studs?
He’d seen Ryan do that before when they were doing some remodeling for his mom and had ripped out the wall between their dining room and the kitchen. Before his mom had met Jason, and before they’d sold the house. Ryan had given Zach a dirty look when Zach had handed him his dad’s stud finder.
Zach rapped on the wall with his knuckles. Three quick raps, then three slow, then three more fast. Three fast—three slow—and three more fast, was the response from the other side of the wall. It was his friend, Connor. They had used that code when they were younger and they’d had sleep overs in Zach’s tree house. It was morse
code for “SOS.”
“Connor, is that you?”
“Zach? It’s me. Dude, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure. I refused to answer their stupid questions. How did you end up here?”
“I asked too many questions, I guess.”
“What happened with the others? Did you see where they took them?” Zach asked.
He waited for his friend’s reply, but none came. He heard banging and sounds of a struggle and then a door being slammed.
“Connor? Conner?” Zach yelled to the wall.
After a few minutes, the door opened and two men in black rushed in. They grabbed Zach and dragged him from the room. Fear made Zach compliant. He knew that, at that moment, there was nothing he could do, and resisting would only get him hurt. There were too many of them and he was defenseless against them.
Zach was taken to an in-processing unit with at least ten armed guards. Zach gave the person behind the desk his name, his parents’ names, and his grandparents’ names, along with their addresses. Funny, they did not ask for any of their phone numbers. Zach did not tell them about his sister. By doing so, he hoped he might be protecting her.
A white plastic bracelet like the ones used in hospitals was placed on his left wrist and right ankle. They were stamped with numbers and a bar code.
Am I now just a number?
From the in-processing unit, he was taken to a holding tent. He was issued new clothes in a lovely shade of gray and a pair of men’s sandal, also gray. Another unfriendly woman handed him two pairs of white briefs, size large, and two pairs of white crew-length socks. She pointed to the next station. Zach went and stood in that line, clutching his new possessions to his chest.
He was handed a bed roll, toiletries, and a bag for his clothes. He suddenly felt that he was on an episode of some prison show.
Zach followed the man in front of him through a door into a large space filled with cots. There were at least thirty cots lined up in neat rows. Men and boys were busy making their cots and dressing in their new wardrobes. There was no privacy. Guards looked on as the occupants undressed and donned the uniforms. Zach felt self-conscious, but after setting his bed roll on his cot, he changed into his dull-gray garb.
It was dark outside by the time food was brought in. Each person was given a tray containing some kind of stew, saltine crackers, and a bottle of water. Zach considered hiding his spoon to make a shank. He had heard they could be fashioned into effective weapons but thought better of it after one of the guards stared at him a little too long.
The stew was tasteless but filling. Zach most appreciated the bottle of water. He felt so dehydrated that he could have downed half a dozen and still felt parched. He thought it unlikely they would provide them with more than one at a time. They would probably only get them with their meals. Forty-eight ounces of water a day was enough to survive, but not enough to be healthy. Maybe there would be a drinking fountain or something when they allowed them out of the tents. If they ever did.
Zach looked around but did not see Connor or anyone from his class. He wondered if there were other tents like this one—tents for the trouble makers. Or was this the way they were treating all their guests?
Zach sat on his cot and stared around the tent. The blank expressionless faces of those around him told the tale of journeys similar to Zach’s. Most looked like they had given up and decided to go along to get along. Zach wasn’t about to give up. He would watch and wait. He would wait for an opportune time to escape the camp and head home.
Without his gear, a 100-mile trip would be extremely difficult. But he would not let that stop him. And if he could, he would try to help his friends and Mr. D.
Lights-out came shortly after the dinner trays had been collected. His captors did make sure they collected every plastic spoon from their detainees. Once the lights were out, the men in black exited the tent. Zach was sure they would stand guard just outside the exits. He resisted the urge to sneak over and find out. Causing trouble might get him thrown back into solitary, and he would lose his chance to escape.
“Hey, were you with the bus of kids from the church?" a voice spoke in the blackness of the tent.
“Yeah. Do you know where they took my classmates? Did they leave already?” Zach said.
“No, they are still here. No one leaves.”
“What?”
“They tell everyone that they are going to help them get home. But buses come in loaded with people and leave empty. No one has left since I got here yesterday afternoon.”
“That is what I was afraid of. I heard about camps like this before the shit hit the fan.”
“You one of those conspiracy nuts always talking about the end of the world?” the voice asked.
“Not so nutty sounding now, is it?” Zach asked.
“No, I guess not. I may have to apologize to my brother-in-law—if I ever see him again, that is.”
“You and everyone else who has prepper family members, probably.”
“If he is right, they already rounded him up and locked him away in a camp like this one—or worse.”
“Where are you from?” Zach asked.
“I’m from Vegas, but my sister and brother-in-law live in Oklahoma.”
“Were you traveling alone?”
“No, I got my boy with me. I am grateful they didn’t split us up like they did some families.”
“They split up families?”
“Yeah. Women are in one tent and kids are being kept on the opposite side of the camp near the hangers. Men are in the middle, like us. I am not sure why they allow those of us in here to keep our sons with us.”
“Yeah, if they split up other families, it doesn’t make sense for them to allow the trouble maker tent to keep their kids.”
“What makes you think this is the trouble maker tent?’ the man asked.
“Because I’m in here.”
The man laughed.
“I’m Zach. What is your name?”
“James.”
“Well, James, what is your theory on what they have planned for our group?”
A flashlight flicked on at the opposite end of the tent. A man walked up and down the isles between the cots, shining the light in each person’s face. Zach rolled over and covered his face with this arm, pretending to be asleep. He heard the cot next to him squeak and assumed James had done the same.
Zach heard the guard shuffle past him and let out the breath he had held. He peeked under his arm and watched the light disappeared at the other end of the tent.
“It really is like a prison—bed checks and all.”
“I think you may be right, Zach. I think we are about to discover that we are no longer free citizens of the United States of America.”
Chapter 22
Grundy, County, Illinois
Event + 2 days
Carl and Kelly made their way back to the old farm house where Carl had seen the injured girl. They stalked around the house, looking for a good entry point. Just as Carl rounded the back corner, a boy bounded from the house with a shotgun under his arm. Carl jumped back just before being spotted by the boy, bumping into Kelly and knocking him down.
Grabbing Kelly by the shirt, Carl pulled him to his feet and shoved him backward.
“They have guns,” Carl whispered.
“I don’t want to shoot no kid, Carl. You said these were just for show. I ain’t shooting nobody,”
Kelly held his pistol out and shoved it into his brother’s chest.
“Don’t point that at me!“ Carl said, pushing Kelly’s gun to the side. “Get a fucking grip, Kelly. We don’t have to shoot nobody. We have to make sure they don’t shoot us, though.”
“How we gonna do that? We run up in there pointing guns, they gonna shoot at us, and we’ll have to shoot back. I ain’t agreed to that, Carl.”
“Bro, we ain’t gonna run up in there, guns all-a-blazing. We’re waiting for them to come out, and we’ll take them one at a
time, starting with the boy there.”
Carl pointed in the direction the boy ran. Kelly peaked around the corner of the house.
“Looks like he is fixing to go hunting or something. He’s putting gas in that wheeler back by the barn.”
“Ok, let’s just wait until he leaves then. One less gun to deal with, you see,” Carl said with a wide smile on his face.
The brothers listened as the four-wheeler’s engine started. The men backed up and made their way back to the tree line as the boy drove past them down the driveway and out of sight.
Carl sprinted across to the corner of the house, Kelly close behind. Carl stopped and peeked around the house into the back yard. Not detecting any movement, he crouched moved under a window, stopping at the other side. He pushed his back against the house and motioned for his brother to stay where he was.
Carl leaned forward and peered into the window. A middle-aged woman was changing sheets on the bed. He could not see the girls.
Carl motioned for his brother to crouch low and move forward. Kelly followed his brother to the back door. Carl leapt over the steps and pressed his back against the house on the other side of the door. Kelly stayed on the opposite side. Carl peeked through the open door. There she was. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined. Her long lean body moved gracefully as she went about her business, unaware of the two men outside.
Carl smiled broadly and pointed to the door. Kelly mouthed, “She in there?”
Carl nodded, then burst into the kitchen, gun pointed at the girl.
She let out a scream before Kelly grabbed her and put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide as she clawed at his grasp. Carl walked over and stroked her long blonde hair.
Placing his face into a handful of her hair, Carl sniffed deeply. He exhaled out slowly, his eyes closed. Pity he had to sell her. He would like to take her with them and set up house in a new town.
