by Morgan Rice
I’ll stay, I realize.
At least for now, I’ll stay.
SIX MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER SIX
“Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!”
The crowd is cheering my name. My heartbeat races. My palms are sweaty. I start to tremble as I raise my bow. I poise, holding my stance, whispering a silent prayer under my breath. Then I let my arrow fly.
Bull’s-eye.
I hit my target dead center. Flooded with relief, I turn to face the audience and squint against the spring sunshine. As my eyes orient to my surroundings, I remember where I am. Not in an arena, but on the firing range in Fort Noix: a big grassy field, beautiful and tranquil, peppered with the first flowering buds of spring. I’m not fighting to the death, but taking part in Fort Noix’s annual shooting competition.
Beside me, Molly takes her own shot, hitting the bull’s-eye too.
“Molly, Molly, Molly!” the crowd chants.
My competitiveness is set alight. Molly and I are the last two left in the knock-out competition. Now we have to go head to head, taking on an assault course, shooting moving targets that pop up as we go. It’s made up of cars, tires, ropes, and climbing nets and has become my favorite thing to do in training. In fact, I’ve done it so many times now, I know how to jump and weave like a ninja.
A horn blares and we’re off. I leap from one car hood onto a net, swiveling around to fire a shot at the target that’s just popped up behind me. I get it right between the eyes and it pops back down again.
I quickly climb up the rope and heave myself onto a platform. Immediately another target pops up down below me. I crouch down and fire. I hit my target and it pops down again. The crowd starts cheering.
I shimmy down the netting on the other side and race past the tire stack. A target appears the other side. I can just about see it through a gap in the tires. I shoot through the hole and it disappears. Straightaway, another appears at the end of the stack, just by the finish line. I race toward it and shoot it out of my way, not even slowing down in the process. The crowd screams and cheers as I pass over the finishing line.
I’ve won.
“Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!”
Panting, I bend forward, exhausted from my run, and let the sound of the cheering crowd filter into my mind, reminding myself that it is not the braying cry of biovictims but the cheer and support of my friends and allies. I catch sight of my instructor, General Reece, standing in her typical arms folded pose. There’s a sliver of a smile on her lips, one that tells me she’s pleased with my performance.
“The winner of our annual shooting competition,” she announces, “is Brooke Moore!”
In the audience I see Bree and Charlie going wild and feel a swell of pride. Over the last six months that we’ve been in Fort Noix, they’ve both grown. Bree celebrated her eleventh birthday and is looking more like a teenager every day. It’s amazing what a healthy diet of vegetables and meat can do to a girl.
Neena’s also in the audience, looking on proudly like the surrogate mother she has become to me. Neena’s one of the kindest women I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. She takes good care of all the girls in the house, making sure our bedding is clean and our clothes are mended, and though she can be fierce, life is harmonious.
But then I catch sight of Ben. He’s clapping in the muted, emotionless way I’ve come to now expect from him. I feel a knot form in my stomach. I’m surprised that he even came to watch me compete since he’s been doing everything he can to keep his distance from me.
Molly and Ryan come over to congratulate me on my win, quickly distracting me from my thoughts.
“And this is the girl who said she wasn’t going to compete,” Ryan says, kissing me on the cheek cordially.
It’s true. It took General Reece more than a bit of encouragement to get me to compete. I was terrified about standing in front of an audience again after everything I’ve been through in the arenas, worried it would cause another flashback. But having people cheer me for my skill rather than bray for my blood is beyond healing. My only wish is that she could have convinced Ben to take part as well, but he hasn’t touched a weapon since that first night at the outpost.
“Typical,” Molly says, rolling her eyes playfully. “Even when Brooke doesn’t want to do something she’s still better than the rest of us!”
I can’t help but smile. Their support means the world to me. Since Ben seems to be drifting further and further away from me, sometimes I think their friendship is the only thing that’s keeping me going.
“So,” I say, “do I get a medal or anything?”
Molly laughs. “It’s not quite that easy to become a decorated soldier at Fort Noix,” she tells me, knowingly. “Your reward is just to bask in your own triumph.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I reply, jovially.
It’s not just my mind that’s been rejuvenated by the last six months living and working in Fort Noix. It’s my body. I’ve put on weight, my muscles are stronger, and all my wounds are healed. The snake bite is now nothing more than a cool silvery scar on my calf.
Bree and Charlie run over to me, Penelope yapping at their heels. When they reach me, they throw their arms around me and Penelope licks my hand. Watching them flourish is the best reward of all.
“Want to come to Trixie’s?” Bree asks me once she releases me from her bear hug. “Charlie and me are going to play Jenga.”
Charlie and Bree have been spending all their free time with the Forest Dwellers, particularly Trixie and her family, learning how to forage and playing games. Trixie’s dad carved a Jenga set, which has been well played ever since.
“I’d love to,” I say. “But I have plans.”
I glance up at Ryan shyly. He smirks. Bree looks from me to Ryan then nods knowingly at Charlie. They think something romantic is happening between us, but really it’s not. At least, I don’t think it is. It’s just that we’ve been spending a lot of time together out in the forest, hunting and fishing together, as well as discussing our positions at Fort Noix, and the Commander’s isolationism. Because while I love seeing the kids thrive, I also know in my heart that I can’t stay here forever. I need to go out looking for survivors. I have a moral duty. Ben’s been safe under the radar for six months. I can’t put my life on hold for someone who doesn’t seem to want to know me anymore.
“Shall we?” Ryan says, gesturing toward the path that will lead us into the forest.
I can practically feel Ben’s glare from here. I don’t like hurting him, but I can’t just stay on pause forever. He’s the one pulling away from me, not the other way round.
I nod, and leave with Ryan.
*
The woods have become my favorite place. As much as I love Fort Noix and how well it runs, like a well-oiled machine, nothing can beat the peace and tranquility of the forest. If there’s any good to have come out of the war, it’s that nature is getting the chance to reclaim the earth. My only wish is that if civilization ever recovers, we don’t destroy the environment again.
Ryan and I go straight to the river to check on the poles. Eating the food supplied by Fort Noix is one thing, but catching our own fresh food and cooking it on the bonfire is quite another.
We find that we’ve both had catches. I tug on my line and pull out a trout, its scales glistening in the spring daylight.
“Nice catch,” Ryan says when he sees it.
He’s smiling, but I don’t feel like returning the gesture.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, when he notices my lackluster expression. “Anyone would think you’d just lost the shooting competition!”
I take a deep breath. “Spring is here,” I say. “And I think it’s time to leave.”
Ryan’s expression falls. He always knew this day would come, but I think he’s been hoping that I’d change my mind.
“Is that still what you want?” Ryan asks.
I turn back to the water. It’s clear and glistening. The beau
ty of it is astounding. I wish I didn’t have to leave this peace and tranquility behind when I’ve only just found it.
“It is,” I say, hesitantly.
“But?” he presses, picking up on my undercurrent.
“But.” I pause. “But what exactly will the future hold? The country. Civilization. Will we ever get that back?”
Ryan shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “Saving people’s lives isn’t enough for Brooke. She needs to save the world.”
I know he’s only joking but I can’t help but feel a little riled.
“Well, why not?” I demand. “What’s so bad about wanting everything back to the way it was before? Fort Noix is basically a normal town in many ways. If they can do it, we can do it somewhere else. Replicate the model.”
“I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.”
I huff and bend down to check my pole again. There’s another trout wriggling on the end. I scoop it out of the water and lay it on the bank. It gasps its last breaths before falling still.
“Maybe I am being idealistic,” I say, “but saving a few lives here and there isn’t going to make a huge amount of difference. We need to start rebuilding the country. I wish…” I pause, struggling to get out my feelings. “I wish you would support me.”
“Hey,” Ryan says softly. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to die. Is that so bad?” Then he rests his hand on my arm. “How about we deal with the future when we get there?”
I fall silent and we stand there side by side. Then I feel him slide his hand down to my hand. For a brief moment, I let his fingers lace through mine. Then I pull away.
Ryan doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t question me or press me. He hasn’t for the last six months.
I look at him. His eyes are burning with desire, his gaze fixed on my lips. I’m overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him.
All at once, we hear a twig snap and the sound of pounding footsteps. We leap apart as Molly appears, frantic, running through the shrubbery, her cheeks as red as her hair.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly terrified.
“A message!” she says, panting.
Ryan frowns. “A message? What do you mean?”
“A transmission,” Molly says again. “On the radio. Someone’s contacted us from a camp in America.”
Ryan and I exchange a disbelieving look. I can hardly believe it to be true. A survivors’ camp in America?
I turn and race up the bank toward Molly, stashing my fish in a bag as I go. Ryan follows, leaving the kiss that never happened on the bank of the river.
And as I run, I sense that everything is about to change.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My heart’s pounding as we tear through the forest. A message from America? What could it be? Molly must have alerted the Forest Dwellers to the news as well, because they’re all racing a few paces ahead of us, heading into the compound.
Trixie sees me and bounds over.
“What’s happening, Brooke?” she asks, clutching onto my arm. “Is it something bad?”
I shake my head. “Not bad at all. Someone’s made contact with us. From another camp in America.”
Her eyes widen with astonishment.
As we race through the gates, I see that literally everyone from Fort Noix is gathered in the main square where we hold our bonfire parties. With all the Forest Dwellers crammed in as well, it’s completely packed. There are so many people all squashed in together, some are spilling out into the side streets. I don’t think I’ve seen so many people in one place since before the war.
Someone’s made a small makeshift stage and other guards are busy hooking up some speakers. They’re going to use solar power to broadcast the message for us all to hear. The benches that are usually around the bonfire pit have been stretched out in front so that some people can sit, but no one does. They’re too busy pacing restlessly, or standing around looking concerned. Everyone’s feeling disconcerted by the news. But while most are reacting with anguish, the main emotion coursing through me is excitement. This could be the trigger, the moment I’ve been waiting for, to begin my search for survivors.
Trixie, Molly, Ryan, and I weave through the crowds. I search for Bree, knowing she’ll be here somewhere, but there’s too many people and I can’t see her.
Suddenly, the crowd falls into a hushed silence. I look up and see the Commander take to the stage.
“I believe most of you have heard the news in some form or another,” he says. “So I’m here to confirm that yes, we have indeed picked up a radio transmission from America.”
The crowd gasps. There’s a hum as people start whispering. Someone moves through the crowd and slips beside me. It’s Zeke. I can tell the instant I look into his eyes that he’s thinking the same thing as me—that this could be the catalyst that turns the tide, that makes the majority of people realize that we have a duty to go out and look for survivors. Because here, at last, is the definitive proof that they exist.
The Commander tries to quiet the crowd down with his arms. “It is a recorded message,” he explains. “We can’t establish how long ago it was made. It could even have been from before the war.”
I catch Zeke’s eye.
“What did the message say?” someone cries.
“The frequency wasn’t clear,” the Commander replies. “And at times the message cuts out. But we will play it for you.”
He nods to one of the guards, who goes over to the radio that’s been hooked up to the loudspeakers, and flips a switch. Immediately, the crowd groans and covers their ears as a high-pitched squeak blasts out of the speakers. The guard quickly adjusts the volume to cancel out the horrible noise. Now the sound of crackling fills the square. It’s intermittently punctuated by silence from where the transmission cuts out. Everyone listens intently.
“This is -- of the -- battalion. Our base -- Texas. -- survivors. -- -- -- more.”
My heart clenches. That’s all there is. A garbled message about battalions, Texas, and survivors. But two things strike me more than anything else. The first is that this message has come from another military compound. The second is the last word: more. Because I can’t help thinking it wasn’t “more,” but “Moore.” The voice is too distorted to work out if it belongs to my dad. And though there’s no way of making out the words that filled the silence before it was spoken, the person could easily have said, “there are many more,” but he also had time to fit in, “This is Laurence Moore.”
The message repeats again. I strain to hear the words, to recognize the voice, to fully understand what is being said and by whom. But it’s no use. The volume of the crowd has notched up another level, there’s too much interference, and the silences cut out the most important words. All I know for sure is that somewhere in Texas there’s a military faction that survived long enough to send out a message about survivors and, though it would be a huge coincidence, there’s a small chance that it could be from my dad.
“Have we been able to message them back?” a woman shouts.
“Do we have any idea who sent it?” another cries.
“That’s not the point,” someone else shouts. “The point is that there are other camps! We’re not the only one.”
It feels like pandemonium is descending on the compound.
The Commander waves his arms, trying to get everyone to shut up. “We have not been able to make radio contact with them. As I said, the message is recorded and repeats on a loop. There’s no way of knowing if the people who sent it are even still alive.”
“We’ve been combing the airwaves for four years!” Zeke shouts from beside me. “Wouldn’t we have heard it before now if it was old?”
The crowd agrees and the Commander looks flustered, like he’s starting to lose control. Everyone begins shouting at once.
“We need to make contact!”
“Can we send a search-and-rescue team?”
Suddenly I feel it, that the tides of opinion are changing.
Never before have the people of Fort Noix received a direct call. Before, it was easy for them to sit back idly because there was no real proof that there were other survivors’ camps out there. But now the proof has arrived, and people are becoming unsettled.
Ryan gives me a mournful smile. He knows full well what I’m thinking: that I want to leave in search of the Texan survivors. He knows that he is finally about to lose me. I feel terrible for him, but when I look over at Molly’s and Zeke’s triumphant expressions, my resolve returns. The turn of the tide is exciting for all of us. My dream of rebuilding civilization might be about to happen. Now, I just need the people of Fort Noix to demand that the Commander use his resources to start helping those in need.
But there’s still a strong isolationist faction arguing against those who are challenging the status quo.
“We can’t risk being found!” they cry. “It would be a suicide mission!”
Everyone’s shouting. The voices that are demanding that the Commander help become louder, bolder, stronger. More forceful. They start drowning out the shouts from the isolationists and any of the supporting voices of the Commander.
“We made an agreement years ago,” the Commander cries. “Fort Noix does not seek survivors. Our own survival depends on us remaining secret and hidden.” But as he looks out over the crowd, his expression changes, like he can see that it is not enough anymore, that many, many people no longer agree. “I ask of you all, please, that we sit down and talk about this. Democratically.”
People begin to fall silent, taken aback by the mention of democracy, something that a fort run on military command doesn’t usually get to experience. I catch sight of General Reece’s distasteful expression, as though she certainly would have preferred this not have been resolved diplomatically at all.
“There is no need to shout and argue,” the Commander adds. “I’m not going to force people to do things they don’t want to. But we need a frank and honest discussion about what it entails, how these decisions may impact the rest of the group. The security of Fort Noix has always been, and will always remain, my paramount concern.”
