Running Red

by Jack Bates

  Thick pine trees line the outer edges of the compound. They hide nearly all of the fencing running around the perimeter. I can see large numbers of soldiers training in a makeshift town. There is a main street with two cross streets. An oval has been worn around the entire fake village. The soldiers ignore our approach. They run around below us, ducking in an out of buildings. They use paint guns as weapons. Lane had some friends who were big into paintball competitions. I called them backyard warriors. It makes me wonder if they developed any survival skills.

  Lane is all I’m thinking of as I feel my stomach start to rise. We are descending, and it’s like there is nothing beneath my feet. We’re sinking. My fingers dig deeper into the seat cushion. I’m clutching the foam. I wonder if this is what it is like to jump out of a building or fall off a cliff. When the runners beneath the helicopter finally bounce and settle, I’m not certain the ground is actually solid—even after I step out off the helicopter. The world feels a bit wobbly.

  A large, open air SUV pulls up to the field we are standing in. It has roll bars in place of a roof. The driver salutes Auntie Alice. She returns the salute. “Come along, Robin,” she says. She sits in the passenger seat. I watch the activity around us. Soldiers march in similar fashion as the runners in the marsh had. Others tackle an obstacle course. They are constantly training. The SUV’s horn honks. I hurry over to it and get in the backseat.

  “Awaiting directions, sir,” the driver says.

  “HQ, corporal,” Auntie Alice says.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver says. The SUV lurches forward. I’m thrown backwards and then settle in for the ride. We drive maybe two miles. I can’t get my head around how big this camp is.

  We pass through a wooded area. The entire place smells of pine. There are rows of two-story apartment buildings. They are painted a light pink. A large letter is painted in black on the ends of each. I count eight picture windows on each floor. People watch the SUV as it zips through. When I turn around, they are still watching us. I raise my hand and wave. No one returns it.

  The SUV goes around a bend and we come to a complex of buildings set inside a separate fenced off area. There is a guard booth and one of those barrier arms used at railroad crossings. Four soldiers snap to attention as our SUV slows. The guard in the door looks over our heads.

  “Please give the password,” the guard says.

  “Morning glory,” Auntie Alice says.

  The guard snaps a salute. He steps back, puts his hands behind his back, and stands with his feet shoulders’ width apart. He nods to a guard inside the booth and the barrier arm rises.

  “Welcome back, sir,” the guard says. He salutes Auntie Alice as we drive into the complex. When he sees me staring at him as we pass, he gives me a wink.

  The driver goes to the largest building at the end of a cul-de-sac. He swings the SUV around in front of it and stops the SUV. Auntie Alice thanks him and gets out of the passenger’s seat. She tips her head for me to follow her into headquarters. No sooner do I get out of the SUV then the driver pulls away. I watch him exit as the barrier arm is raised and lowered.

  “Where are we?” I ask. We’re standing on the middle of three concrete steps that go up into the building.

  “Headquarters of Camp G,” Auntie Alice says. “This is my real home.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I guess I do owe you that,” she says. “I am Lieutenant Commander Jess Allison of Camp G Special Elite Forces. You’re about to meet my superiors.”

  I’m still not completely sure I know what’s going on around me. Three days ago this woman was treating me like I was humanity’s greatest threat, even though that title was pretty much Denny Erickson’s and that bizarre Mr. Gumm’s. They were mini-Napoleons who were perfectly content to send people like me into the field of the Velodrome just for sport.

  “Do I call you Auntie Alice here?” I ask.

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Robbie. That was my cover. I’d prefer to leave her behind. And you’re a civvie, so you can call me Allison, like the other civilians.”

  “Those were the people living in the pink apartments. There must be hundreds of them back there.”

  “You’re an observant young lady,” Allison says. It will take me a while not to call her Auntie Alice. I wonder how it will be for Matt and Aubrey and the others from Freedom House. I want to ask her when—or if—I will see any of them again, especially Matt. Just as my mind is about to wander with concern over Matt, LC Allison tells me something that chills me to the bone.

  “Your sister stayed there,” she says.

  I take a step forward. “What do you mean ‘stayed?’ Where is she now? Is my niece all right?”

  “Let’s get some food in you, give you a shower,” LC Allison says. “I’ll fill you in after I finish my report. We’ll be meeting with the Superiors, so please, be on your best behavior. It will be best for you and the others.”

  All I can think about is Jessica and Charlotte. They were here at Camp G. I would have thought, when the evacuations began, that they would have taken them directly to the Safety Zone out west. I guess if I had gone with them, I would have the answer about why they came here, and I would be with them now.

  Thirteen months ago I’d stuck around to see if she’d come home to get me. Fifty-eight weeks later, I’ve missed her again.

  Fifteen

  The sun is setting. The latter half of the day has gone by and I’ve yet to see Matt or Aubrey. Or the others, for that matter. I’m sure they must have arrived by now. They are probably being assigned to one of the pink buildings. It makes me wonder about Shannon and if she’s with her baby boy Adam, or if anyone has told Dirks that Cage is dead, or how Leslie is doing without her other two sister-wives, Bethany and Tessa.

  I’m sitting in my own one-room apartment. I have a private bath, a small kitchen, and a decent size living room. There’s a large flat screen TV mounted on my wall. A Blue-ray DVD player is attached to it by a long cable that has been fed into the wall and snaked up to the rear of the TV. Rows of movies and television shows and sporting events are lined up on wall-mounted shelves. There are books, too, but significantly fewer of those.

  I don’t feel like watching or reading. I realize it has been a long time since I’ve done either. Doing without TV hasn’t really been all that big a deal. I do miss knowing what’s going on in the world—although, from what I’ve seen of it lately, I prefer the bliss of ignorance. It’s only a matter of time until the talking heads find their way back through the tunnel to pop up bright and flat on the walls of the country.

  Camp G is known as a Safety Zone Transportation Center. Apparently survivors like me are rounded up and then shipped out to the actual Safety Zone. Did Jess and Charlotte get to sleep in this apartment? I doubt it. They were part of the mass exodus. I’m not sure why they would ship them three hours north to send them to Wyoming, unless the route took them through the Upper Peninsula and the northern tier. It seems like a colossal screw up and a waste of time.

  Then again, I have spent the last year and a month going in the complete opposite direction, only to wind up on the same path as my sister and my niece.

  There are no clocks anywhere in my apartment. It is night. The only light spilling into my apartment comes from the tall pole lamps outside of it. The lights glow pink but shine white. Cutting through the dusty, metal blinds, the light casts black, shadowy lines on the wall. I feel caged.

  There’s no lock on the door to my apartment. It opens out onto a concrete walkway. The night air feels good. It feels familiar and it comforts me. I’m not alone outside. Other people are walking around. Some are smoking. Some are talking quietly with one another. I get the feeling that these are my neighbors here in the apartments. I figure they must be officers or some of the superiors LC Allison said I was supposed to meet.

  I go down the concrete steps. No one stops me. For the most part, I’m invisible to them. When they do see me, they smile or say hi. Otherwise, the
y leave me alone. I start walking along the two-lane, paved road. My pace picks up. Pretty soon I find myself running. Even out here, out of my apartment, I still feel caged. I cover the ground from the apartment to the headquarters building quicker than I realize. At least it feels like it.

  Beyond HQ is the guardhouse with the barrier arm. The four guards from earlier are still manning it. An electric gate has been slid across the road. I run up to the guardhouse.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the guard in the door asks. He leans against the frame and sips a cup of warm coffee. It is the guard who winked at me earlier.

  “Just out for a run,” I say. He says nothing. Instead, he smiles around the rim of his ceramic mug. “Can you open the gate?”

  He smacks his lips after taking his drink. “Sorry, miss. Compound is closed for the night.”

  Somewhere in the dark I can hear laughter and singing. It’s kind of far off down the road. Three’s a familiar smell of campfire drifting through the night.

  “Sounds like a party out there,” I say.

  “Yes it does.”

  I stare at him wide-eyed. All he does is take another sip of his coffee. He tosses the rest into the grass. I can feel my cheeks burning. I stare at him. His name has been written in the white rectangle over his breast pocket. He’s officer or private Yanoloukis.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why can’t I go out there?”

  “Orders,” he says.

  “Whose orders?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Allison, miss.”

  Down the road there is cheering. I take a step towards the fence. Behind me I hear one of the other guards say, “Just let her go, Yano.” Something else gets said and there is some laughter. It’s not worth my time to try and convince him or the others. Maybe I’m not ready to be back with people.

  A finger slides up and down my arm. There’s warm breath on my neck. “Look, if you want to party—”

  That’s all that gets said. I grab the finger sliding along my arm and snap it backwards. Private Yano yowls in pain. He winds up his arm to give me a backhand across the mouth, but by then I’m already crouching low and swinging a foot at his ankles. Sure, Yano is big and strong. I can’t hope to topple him with a kick in the shin. I kick him anyway. When he doesn’t go down, I roll on my back and bring the heel of my foot up into his balls. It’s a solid rabbit kick and this does double him over. Still on my back, I kick up and kick him in the chin. I have one last weapon in this attack, and I deliver a roundhouse boot to the side of his head. Yano’s jaw snaps and his face swings off to the left. Yanoloukis falls heavily on his stomach.

  I roll away and pop up into a three-point crouch, kind of like an offensive lineman for a football team. It’s a good defensive move a former college football player taught me. I kind of look like some hand drawn super heroine. The other three guards on duty are staring at me. I stand slowly. My fists are clenched.

  “Did you guys see that?” one of the guards says. I see his name tag and it says Wayne. They start laughing and talking over top of one another. They’re all excited, like the boys in my high school got after a fight in the cafeteria. What I get from the conversation is that Corporal Yano will never live down the ass beating I just gave him. One of the guards comes out and nudges Yano with his toe. When Yano doesn’t move, the guard makes a funny face by sliding his jaw to the side. He tries to talk and the others laugh. Even I start to chuckle.

  “Having fun, gentlemen?” LC Allison asks. Even in this persona, Auntie Alice’s voice commands attention. The three jokers snap to attention. LC Allison steps into the light. She looks down at Yano and then looks at me.

  “Is this because he was obeying my orders?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am,” I say.

  “Would you care to tell me why you just beat the shit out of one of my best soldiers?”

  “I wasn’t in the mood to party,” I say.

  At least not with some guard whose hormones are jumping like locusts in a plague. I really wish I was celebrating with Matt and Aubrey. There’s more laughter and cheering from down the road.

  “Sounds like our new guests are getting acclimated,” LC Allison says. “Your friends are enjoying themselves.”

  “Yes,” I say. Why do I feel like she’s my mom and I’m begging her to go out with Lane?

  “I will arrange for you to visit them in the morning,” she says.

  I bite my tongue from saying anything sarcastic. Instead, I give her an appreciative smile, albeit closed lip. I cap it off with a nod. LC Allison holds her arms out. She’s going to hug me, I think, and then she does. I don’t know what else to do except put my arms around her. At that point, I think, “This is as weird as the night can get.”

  “The Superiors would like to see you now,” she says.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. There are some time zone differences.”

  “I didn’t think time existed anymore.”

  “Just because the clocks aren’t ticking doesn’t mean time has stopped.”

  I follow her into the HQ. It’s late where Camp G is located. Still, there are armed guards on duty inside the building. Each snaps off a salute as LC Allison walks pass. She dutifully returns the snap.

  She leads me to a door. “Conference Room” is stamped into a small plastic rectangle slid into a metal sleeve. Two guards stand at attention outside this door. They each take a step to the side in opposite directions of each other. LC Allison slides a plastic ID badge through a reader. There is a beep followed by a click. A green light pops on. The door opens. She holds it open for me and we go inside.

  We are the only two people in the room. The actual room. LC Allison pulls out a leather chair on wheels and sits down. She holds a hand out to the one next to her. I sit down. LC Allison opens a thin laptop computer and turns it on. There are some familiar start-up sounds that I haven’t heard for a long time. It makes me melancholy for the last time I saw Lane.

  A few moments later, five flat screen monitors hanging on the wall snap on; they emit a bluish glow that fills the room. The blue disappears once the images fill the screens. I am looking at the faces of several people. There are three men and two women. They wear matching uniforms. The jackets I see are black with red piping on a chest flap that buttons along the right. Each member of this group has a screen of his or her own. None of them speak.

  “Peace through power,” LC Allison says. The others return the greeting. I am instantly unsettled.

  “Is this the girl?” one of the women asks. She moves about in her seat as if she’s trying to get a better look at me. I’m not sure, but I think she squints at the screen. There are four stripes on her sleeve.

  “Yes,” LC Allison says. “Robin Willette.”

  One of the men smiles. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, so to say, Miss Willette.” He has a distinct British accent. He continues to smile. I have no idea of what to say.

  The squinting woman speaks again. “Have you explained the situation to her?”

  “No, Superior Four,” LC Allison says. “I thought we might be better served by having all of you present.”

  At this point, LC Allison turns to me. In the glow of the monitors hanging in front of us, her face looks elongated, like a ferret. The world, I think, has gone bat house crazy.

  Or I have. “Wake up,” I tell myself.

  The day has been long and exhausting. It’s difficult for me to process what the talking heads before me are saying. It begins with the British guy, who is introduced as Superior Two; his title corresponds with the number of stripes on his arm. He’s going on and on about the benefits of being part of the Elite Forces, how we must continue to be united to defeat those elements that seek to overthrow us. I don’t know why, but it all feels very Orwellian—a concept that was rammed into my head back when I was a senior in high school. There’s no conclusion to what he’s been saying. He just stops and smiles. The tips of his moustache curl around the edges of his nose. They bounce on his s
hiny, plump cheeks when he speaks.

  No sooner does Superior Two stop his discussion then one of the women, Superior Five, begins talking. She’s Asian in appearance, but I don’t detect any accent. Her eyes are tired, but her voice rambles on as she explains that the Guard, the ever present, ever evil Guard, is our enemy. The other monitors show images of camo dressed soldiers storming a city somewhere. I’m not sure where it is. There’s a large body of water near it. The Guard is shown killing hundreds of bedraggled civilians. The Guard is bad, Superior Five tells me.

  Superior Three, a grumpy looking old man with a thick head of snow-white hair and enough lines on his face to make a map, explains that the Guard and the Elite Forces had a falling out. When the runners were, well, running rampant, the two groups had joined forces, working cohesively on the rescue missions. But then they encountered an enemy that became more dangerous than the fungazoids. This enemy, according to Superior Three, was the survivors who didn’t want to be rescued. He had a simple name for them: the Undergrounders. Society, he says, is breaking down. It makes me want to roll my eyes and shout, “Duh!” His explanation is convoluted. I don’t hear any reasonable explanation as to why humans are fighting humans, especially when the runners are adapting and mutating. What it breaks down to is that he believes the Guard is using the residents of the Safety Zone camps as human shields to prevent the Elite Forces from invading.

  “An attack is imminent, I tell you. We must prepare all of our outposts.”

  “Hold on,” I say. The faces on the monitors pucker. I’ve interrupted their flow of propaganda, but I don’t care. “Are all of you telling me this country is at war?”

  The last of the Superiors, a man who looks like he could have been my history teacher, smiles. His teeth are brilliantly white, his hair is perfectly coiffed. It’s as if he was born to be on TV. He is Superior Six.

  If he’s Six, I think, and the British guy is Two, and the grumpy old guy is Three, the squinting woman is Four, and the Asian woman is Five, who is Superior One? I sneak a glance at LC Allison. She’s not wearing a uniform.