“Today, the camp has a population of more than one hundred and thirty thousand people, and is constantly growing,” she tells them, pausing to let that sink in. “I worked in a refugee camp for the Peace Corps for two years overseas. The ideal size for a camp like this is twenty thousand. It’s nothing short of a miracle this place is functioning as well as it is.”
Ethan suppresses the urge to whistle. A hundred and thirty thousand people is a tiny fraction of the population in this region before Infection, but it represents a chance. Somewhere, in this teeming horde, his wife and baby girl might be living, safe and sound.
Kayley spends the next fifteen minutes describing how they will be processed. Newcomers to the camp must go through a brief medical exam and register, she tells them, to receive resident cards. Food and water may be collected at food and water distribution centers. Skilled workers may be offered jobs by the government paid in gold, and receive priority access to housing and bonus allotments of food and water. The camp also has a health center and scattered health posts, pest houses, cholera camp, schools, markets and cremation pits for disposal of the dead.
“Does anybody have any questions so far?”
“I do,” Ethan says. “What kind of records do you keep? I’ve got family missing.”
Kayley nods. “Locating lost loved ones is a big priority for us. Tell the people at registration while you’re being processed, and they’ll help you out. We keep a record of every person who has ever entered this camp. They also have contacts with other camps in Carollton, Dover, Harrisburg and other places.”
Ethan leans back in his chair, satisfied.
“I’ve got a question,” Sarge says loudly, standing. “What are you hiding here?”
Kayley smiles at him. Her face shows no signs of surprise.
The survivors bristle at Sarge’s tone. A moment ago, they were disoriented, listening to Kayley in a lethargic daze, struggling to absorb everything she was telling them. Now they are alert and taut as deer that smell a predator in a sudden shift of wind. They watch Sarge and Kayley closely, their hearts racing and their breath shallow as they once again, automatically, tread the tightrope between fight and flight.
After several moments, Kayley says, “Can you be more specific?”
Sarge blinks. “Well, for one, why did you take our guns?”
Wendy glares at Kayley, wondering the same thing and wishing she felt the reassuring weight of the Glock in her hand right now. She feels electrified by urgency and confusion. She has complete faith in Sarge’s instincts but he sprang this confrontation without telling her; she has no idea how to back him up.
“Sergeant Wilson, almost everybody in this camp is armed,” Kayley is saying. “We all know that Infection spreads like wildfire. If one person got the bug, it might bring the entire camp down. We are on the constant lookout for Infection and must be ready to act quickly if we see it.”
Sarge crosses his arms. “I’ll ask again, then: Why did you take ours?”
“Your weapons were taken for the time being because, quite often, certain newcomers do not take to orientation. We do not have the means to enable new residents to slowly transition from the dangerous world outside to the relatively safe oasis that we have created here. Some people cannot accept the sudden change and become upset and irrational.”
“I can see why,” Sarge says. “It’s like a police state around here.”
“Yes and no. We are actually rather thin on policing. Surely you don’t really think this camp could function without the consent of its residents. But it is true that we are a society that is under siege. It is different being here than out there on the road.”
“If we are not prisoners, you would let us leave if that’s what we wanted.”
“You are not prisoners, but neither can you simply come and go from the camp as you please, for obvious reasons. Every time somebody enters the camp, there is the possibility of Infection or some other disease being imported. We cannot allow that.”
“You’re not answering my question,” he says.
“The simple answer is you can leave any time you like. But if you do, you cannot come back. Is that a satisfactory answer?”
“We can leave with all our gear?”
“If a resident decides to leave, they can go with either what equipment and supplies they brought or its equivalent value, which is the law.”
“What about our Bradley?” Sarge says, glaring at her.
Kayley’s smile disappears, replaced by a hard line.
“I think you mean our Bradley, Sergeant. That machine was manufactured for the Army and belongs to the people of the United States. You are a soldier and if you try to leave, your superiors may let you go, or they may decide to shoot you for desertion. I don’t know. But I can tell you for a fact that the people in charge here are not going to let you drive out of camp with a multimillion-dollar piece of military hardware that could be used to save American lives.”
“This is bullshit,” Sarge says. “It’s a trap.”
“The trap is in your mind, Sergeant Wilson.”
Sarge turns to the other survivors and says, “Come on, we’re leaving. They can’t stop us.”
None of the survivors move, not even Wendy, who believes Kayley explained the camp’s position perfectly and is now feeling reassured rather than threatened. Sarge gapes at them, sweat pouring down his face, seemingly disoriented and unsure of what to do next. He bumps against his desk and knocks it over with a crash that makes the other survivors flinch.
“It’s not safe here,” he pleads, his breath suddenly shallow.
Wendy stands and peers into his face.
He says quietly, just to her, “This is a bad place.”
The man is visibly shaking.
“You are among friends here,” Kayley says. “You are perfectly safe.”
Wendy glares at her briefly and says, “Could you shut the hell up, please?”
She returns her attention to Sarge, slowly reaching out until she is touching his face gingerly. She holds his face in her hands.
“Tell me,” she says.
His eyes avoid hers until finally connecting.
“I’m scared,” he says, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I’ve got you, baby,” she tells him. “Look at me. Look at me.”
The other survivors look away. Nobody judges him. They have all been where he is now. Everybody has post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, these days, with its bad sleep, depression, guilt, anxiety, anger, hyper vigilance and fear. Wendy still cannot sleep at night without flashing to the Infected bursting howling into the station. She is amazed that after everything Sarge endured, it is now that he cracks, and here, where he is finally safe.
But she understands. The truth is none of the survivors is comfortable in this place. The very sudden change from survival to safety—not just safety, but society, with rules and customs—is nothing short of an abrupt shock to the system. None of them fully trust it.
And yet it is not evil. It is, in fact, their best chance at survival.
“I’m sorry,” Sarge says.
Wendy now believes she understands why Anne did not come with them to the camp. We are all broken, she thinks. None of us may belong here.
Holding Sarge’s face, she suddenly remembers the man in the SUV during the morning of Infection, when Pittsburgh woke up to a war zone. Her station had already been overrun and Wendy walked the streets alone, on foot, shrugging off people begging her for help. The cars were snarled bumper to bumper all along the four lanes of North Avenue and were even stacking up on the sidewalk and jamming into the narrow median, their horns bleating like panicked sheep. Others raced through the trees in the adjacent park, skidding in the mud and going nowhere fast.