As we approach the camp’s entrance, a man emerges from a small tent and lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and waits while Abram rolls down his window.
“078-05-1120,” Abram says in the bored tone of well-worn procedure.
The guard checks a list on a notepad, nods, then shines his headlamp into the backseat. “Who’re they?”
“New hires from Goldman. No numbers yet.”
He waves us through with his cigarette, leaving a spiral of smoke in the air, and we drive into the camp.
Our high beams pierce deep into the shadows, revealing what the camp’s conspicuous lack of lighting kept hidden. The property must have been some big family’s country commune. Six houses on one lot, with a barn and a few cabins in the field out back. Mom and Dad and the kids and their kids and maybe even their kids’ kids, all holed up at the end of this street deep in the woods, where no one could disturb their private party with news of the world and its wicked ways. How surprised they must have been to learn that the pot continued to boil even after they left the kitchen. How shocked to see that scalding tide reaching all the way to their door.
Now the farm is occupied by a new family with a more active approach to society’s imperfections. All the houses and cabins appear to be barracks; Axiom soldiers pop in and out of them on various errands, delivering or receiving weapons and equipment. Beyond the houses, dozens of tents spread across a muddy field like a music festival campground, a miserable Woodstock of war.
“What are we doing here?” Nora whispers, despite Abram’s instructions. “Won’t they be looking for us?”
“The jamming’s heavy around here. Walkies get barely half-mile range. The camp won’t know what happened till a messenger arrives.”
“It was never a negotiation, was it,” Julie says, watching soldiers mount a grenade launcher to the hood of a Toyota pickup. “You’d take a willing merger if you could get it, but you were coming in one way or another.”
A bitter smirk touches Abram’s mouth. “We offer innovative solutions to modern problems.”
He parks the truck next to one of the cabins. He hops out and goes inside, and we follow him.
It’s warm and dry in the cabin, and surprisingly cozy with a fire crackling in a little iron stove. There’s a twin bed and two chairs, a TV and an old video game system. Perhaps a room for one of the family’s adolescent boys seeking independence and manhood. The old bloodstains on the curtains suggest an abrupt end to his quest.
His room is now occupied by a woman and a girl. Both of them sit in front of the TV, watching an airplane take off, watching a cat play with an injured bird, watching long-dead singers perform for long-dead celebrity judges. The kaleidoscope of images splashes strange colors on the walls of the room.
“About time,” the woman says without looking up.
The girl runs to Abram and hugs his leg, but she doesn’t smile. She is about six years old, straight black hair, tawny skin—the blond, ruddy-faced woman is clearly not her mother. One of the girl’s eyes is big and dark, the other is covered by a sky-blue eye patch with a daisy painted on it.
“Hey, little weed,” Abram says and hefts her into the crook of his arm. “You been having fun with Carol while I was gone?”
The girl shakes her head sadly.
“Well of course you haven’t. Carol’s no fun.”
“She asks when you’re coming back about every five minutes,” Carol says. “I was about to tell her you died, you fuckin’ deadbeat.”
“It’s been a busy week.”
“So I hear. You owe me five days with Luke.”
Abram bounces the girl on his arm, smiling absently. “I might be on assignment for a while, but when I get the days . . . yeah.” He puts her down. “Sprout, I need you to get your backpack and pack up your clothes. We’re going on a trip.”
Carol frowns. “A trip? The fuck are you talking about?”
Abram ignores her and begins throwing clothes and food into a backpack.
“Hey Kelvin. You can’t take your kid on assignment—”
“Thanks for watching Sprout, Carol. You can head home now if you want.”
The light on the walls turns red and the TV’s audio cuts to a warbling alert tone. Abram freezes over his pack.
“Oh shit,” Carol says, rushing up to the screen like her favorite show is about to start. “Did they finally get in? Are we live on Fed TV?”
The tone plays over a blank red screen for about two seconds, then the kaleidoscope continues.
A bear swiping a salmon out of a stream. A lion pouncing on a zebra in lazy slow motion. Soldiers marching into a village.
“This fucking code,” Carol mutters. “Can you follow it yet, Kelvin? I haven’t finished my homework.”
“Nope,” Abram says with a casual calm that belies the haste of his packing. “Check the producer’s guide.”