All in all, the drive to Sanger is long. We take our time picking our way through back roads, avoiding the main highway, and only hitting open areas when we absolutely have to. Eventually it becomes impossible to stay away from the wide-open spaces, because let’s face it: that’s what happens when you leave the mountains. You break cover.
I haven’t been out of the foothills in so long that the expanse of open space blows my mind. I feel like an ant under a microscope. Totally exposed. I can tell that the situation is bothering Chris, too. He keeps shifting in his seat and checking the area surrounding us every five seconds.
We reach the rally point at last. It’s a grove of trees nestled behind a low hill. It’s basically right around the corner from Sanger, and it will give us enough time and space to make it on foot to the objective without drawing attention to ourselves. The last thing we need is to march into town like a circus parade. That would be slightly conspicuous.
I climb out of the truck and find Sophia. We give each other a warm hug.
“Be careful,” I say.
“You too.” She forces a smile. “Deja vu, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“The things we do for this country.”
“I know. Crazy, right?”
We hug each other one more time before separating into our designated groups. I stay close to Chris’s shoulder as we disperse into the tall grass, leaving the cover of the vehicles and the small hill. Nobody speaks. Any order or command is given through hand signals, but for the most part, everybody already knows the plan. We’ve raided camps and convoys before. We know how to do this.
This is just…different.
Wide open. Bigger. Exposed.
If you can break out of a labor camp, you can do this, I tell myself.
My hair has grown long enough in the past few months to pull into a tight braid, keeping the strands out of my face. I cinch up my face scarf and check my gear for the thousandth time as we get closer to our target.
As we finally edge around the hill, I spot the depot. It’s located on the brink of an empty field. It was probably a packing shed before the EMP went down, and judging by the size of the buildings, I’m guessing it was a big one. The signs have been stripped down, and a lot of the equipment has been commandeered by Omega. But there’s one thing that sets this apart from the other supply depots I’ve seen: there’s no fence. The usual chain link fence with the coils of deadly barbed wire are completely missing.
“Something’s wrong with this picture,” I say.
“This depot isn’t fully operational yet, remember?” Derek replies. He’s crouched on my right hand side, his blonde hair hidden under a black hat. “They’re not expecting to be attacked this far from the mountains. We’ve never hit anything out of the foothills before.”
“No.” Chris shakes his head. “They know militia groups are waiting to hit targets like this. They wouldn’t leave it unprotected unless there wasn’t anything inside.”
“It could be a trap,” I state.
Derek stares at me.
“What? It could be.”
I give him a look.
Nobody says anything. We just sit there under the dark sky and stare at the depot. Omega trucks are parked around the building, but there aren’t any lights. No signs of life. Something is seriously whacked.
“I don’t like this,” I whisper. “Chris, what do we do?”
He folds his hands under his chin and studies the depot for a few more minutes before replying. “Derek, detail some scouts. Recon the objective. Report back here.”
That’s Chris’s way of saying, “Check out the depot and see what’s up.”
He nods.
“Yes, sir.”
We wait in tense silence as Derek and a couple of the men creep to the depot and check out the perimeter. They disappear from sight at one point and I find myself holding my breath, hoping I don’t hear a sudden scream and a blast of gunfire. It’s happened before.
Ten long minutes pass before the scouts come back. I exhale and Chris leans forward, listening. “It’s dead down there,” Derek breathes. “There’s nothing. No lights, no generators, nothing. But there are trucks, and there have been Omega troops in the area no more than twenty-four hours ago. It’s like they evacuated.”
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
“Maybe they heard we were coming,” Derek chuckles.
“No. Not possible,” Chris replies. “They wouldn’t evacuate a facility because a militia group was coming to attack, anyway. Besides, why would they leave vehicles behind? They would beef up security because they’d want us dead.” He furrows his brow. “If they’re gone, there could be valuable supplies left inside.”
“We should go check it out.”
“I don’t want everybody checking it out at once. Too risky.” He looks over his shoulder. “Derek, you stay here with your men. I’ll take my platoon. Keep your eyes open.”
“You got it, sir.”
“Let’s move out,” Chris says.
We proceed into the field, skirting the edges and staying under cover as we approach the depot. The thick silence of the night isn’t doing anything to make me feel better about this situation. I look back over my shoulder, but it’s impossible to see Derek or the rest of our groups. They’re camouflaged too well.
As we get close to the depot, I study the surroundings. Tire tracks crisscross the dirt parking lot. Electrical machinery that was killed by the EMP is piled outside the main building in a large heap. Chris signals a few of the men and they round the edges of the main building, climbing up the side. We wait in the shadows, listening and watching for signs of danger.
One of the men pulls himself up to a window. He takes a quick look around and starts climbing back down to the ground. He jogs towards us along with the other men.
“Well?” Chris asks.
“It’s empty.”
“What?”
“Totally empty. There’s nothing in there, man.”
I bite my lip, alarm spiking through me.
“We need to get out of here,” I say.
Chris doesn’t disagree, but he doesn’t say anything either.
“How could they…?” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts. A terrified scream rips through the air at that moment. A woman’s scream — one of our own. We instinctively drop to the ground and focus our sights across the field. Something’s happening. I hear voices and gunfire and then, I turn my head. Because I’m pressed against the ground, I have a great view of the underside of the Omega trucks parked on the property. My eyes settle on a blinking black package attached to the bottom of the bumper of one of the vehicles.
“Oh, my god,” I breathe. “It’s a bomb.”
Chris snaps his gaze in my direction, realization hitting us at the same time.
“Run!” he yells.
A simple command, but universal. We jump up and book it just as the first bomb detonates. I’m running, so the explosion hits me like a brick wall. I feel the impact slam into my back and send me flying forward several feet. I skid on my stomach and roll over a few times, scraping against dirt and rocks. Metallic tasting blood pools in my mouth. I must have bit my tongue.
I scramble to my feet, only to fall back down again, dizzy and disoriented. My ears are ringing. Chris grabs my arm and helps me find my balance. I look back over my shoulder and gasp. Three or four of the militiamen in our group are lying motionless on the ground about thirty feet behind us. The Omega truck that exploded is nothing more than a hulking mass of smoking, twisted metal. I’m vaguely aware of rapid gunfire in the background, but my ringing ears make it difficult to gauge the distance of the weapons.