I weave my way through the militias, coming up on Chris’s shoulder.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re almost to the camp,” Dad replies. “Let me walk in front. They’ll recognize me.”
I peek at the road. There is no asphalt, only dirt. Pieces of black pavement make it obvious that this was a road at one time, but fell out of use. On the other hand, the road is big enough for a large vehicle, and the overhanging trees make great cover. Nobody can see you from the air.
Then again, I haven’t seen any active aircraft since the EMP hit. I wonder why. Omega has trucks and computers. Why not airplanes and helicopters, too?
Another mystery for another time, I guess.
Up ahead, two large concrete blocks are sitting in the middle of the road.
“What…?” I begin, trailing off as I scan the sides of the path. Nothing but thick green bushes and trees. The perfect place for an ambush.
“This is a checkpoint,” Dad says, seeing the expression on my face. “There are three of them before we reach the camp.”
“Where are the guards?”
“They’re here.”
I nod. Given the heavy foliage, I’m going to assume that our every move is being observed by militiamen hidden in the forest. When we reach the concrete blocks, a man steps out of the bushes wearing camouflage gear. He’s got a rifle, and his face is smudged with black and green paint.
“Eagle One,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
I turn around, noticing from this angle the sentries posted within the trees, dressed in camouflage gear. We’re surrounded at gunpoint, and I can feel Chris tensing up beside me. He doesn’t like this situation.
But Dad doesn’t seem concerned.
“Hey, Uriah,” he greets, an almost smile on his face.
Almost.
“This is the unit we went to back up downstairs,” he continues. “The Freedom Fighters. This is Alpha One, and this is my daughter.”
Uriah’s eyes widen, looking unnaturally white against his painted face.
“You found her,” he exclaims. “Nice going, Boss.”
“Thanks. Alert the other sentries that we’ve got company, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sentries posted around this checkpoint, lower their weapons, but they don’t come down to greet us. They have a job to do, after all. The guy named Uriah waves us forward and I follow Dad and Chris between the blocks of concrete, continuing on our way down the road.
“So do they just live out here?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Who?” Dad says.
“The sentries.”
“No,” he chuckles. “They rotate shifts, just like any other military base.”
“Are they all under your command?”
“No. Some of them come from other militias.”
“How many militias are we talking about?” I press.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
Again with the secrets. How annoying.
Sensing my irritation, Chris squeezes my shoulder. I smile softly, grateful for his presence. He doesn’t have to say a word. I just know that he’s there. Always. And that’s a greater comfort than anything else.
We pass through two more checkpoints. The final one is the hardest. The guard posted up front knows who Dad is, but he’s a stickler for safety and demands the security password. Dad gives it quietly. More guards appear, inspecting our gear. The Freedom Fighters are being questioned. Chris steps forward and answers everything pointblank, unhesitating. By the time we’re done, we’ve gained access to the road again. I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding and wipe the sweat off my forehead.
After a good five more minutes of walking, I see it.
“Oh,” I whisper. “That’s not what I pictured.”
“What did you picture?” Chris asks, curious.
“Something like the Alamo, I guess.”
Hello, Camp Freedom.
Camp Freedom.
An appropriate place for the Freedom Fighters to kick back and regroup. There’s a brown sign erected on a cement block in front of the chain link fence at the entrance. The words, CAMP FREEDOM, have covered over whatever the sign used to say.
“Welcome home,” Dad announces.
The gate is opened for us by several militiamen dressed in garb similar to what the Rangers are wearing, a combination of uniforms and outdoor gear. We walk inside. I tilt my head up, marveling at the thick canopy of trees. And then I look around me.
This isn’t a campground made just for RVs and pop up trailers. Asphalt roads wind throughout the large common area. A gift shop and general store are nestled between two massive cedars. Across the street, a cabin with brown siding sits on a small embankment. A sign on the porch railing says, HQ.
“What was this place?” I say, awed.
“It was a summer and winter youth camp,” Dad explains. “After the EMP and Omega takeover, everyone was stuck here. The camp authorities reverted to their emergency plan and set up roadblocks, hid themselves back in here, and utilized their stored resources to stay alive.”
“This is impressive,” Chris murmurs.
I agree.
The camp is buzzing with activity. Militiamen — and women — are everywhere. Patrolling the fence, standing by the general store, walking out of the HQ — Headquarters-building. Glancing to my left, a large dirt parking lot has been carved out. In it are parked a dozen military troop transport vehicles, the kind that you’d see in World War Two.
I take a deep breath, smelling pine, damp earth… and something else.
Something delicious.
Food.
We come to a fork in the road. Down the left path, a large building with wide glass windows is gleaming in the sunlight. A huge dining patio is built around the outside. A makeshift sign has been pounded into the dirt in front of the building: CHOW HALL.
“That used to be the campers’ dining hall,” Dad says, catching up with me. “To the right is where everybody is staying. This way, I’ll show you.”
While Dad’s group of Rangers disperse amongst the camp, following orders, the Fighters follow Dad down the road that winds away from the chow hall. Even in the safe confines of a campground our platoons stay in position, moving with purpose. Ready for anything.
Side streets dive off through the forest, going uphill, downhill and every other direction known to man. Cabins are everywhere. Most of them look like they’re being lived in.
Further down the street, an archway stretches between two lodge pole pines.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Dad says, turning to Chris. We walk under the arch. A grassy meadow extends into the open for a good five hundred feet. An empty swimming pool sits to the left, surrounded by a cyclone fence.
As we cross the meadow, we enter a dark forested area. Quaint brown cabins dot the perimeter, sitting snugly within the trees. Each cabin has a name, too.
Deer Foot.
Sugar Pine.
Fern.
Tiger Lily.
“These are camper cabins,” I realize.
“Yes,” Dad nods. “And they make perfect barracks for our men.”
I turn to check on our group. Mr. and Mrs. Young are bringing up the rear. Little Isabel has her fingers laced through her adoptive mother’s, and Jeff is standing to the side, nonplussed.