The Biomass Revolution

Chapter 10: The Silo

Lightning tore through a thick layer of smog lingering above Rohania. A series of thunder claps shook the roof of Squad 19’s shelter. They watched as the brilliant flashes of electricity ripped through the clouds, a mirage of colors flowing like waves across the poisoned skyline.

Obi should have remained inside with his men but he wanted to watch the lighting in solitude while he contemplated their next move. He wasn’t sure if anyone else had survived the attack. And there was no way to know if any survivors would actually head to the pre-arranged rendezvous point, assuming the CRK didn’t already know about it.

Another flash of electricity slashed across the sky, the yellow glow so intense it remained frozen in Obi’s vision for several moments. The glare slowly faded and disappeared as he walked back inside.

The soldiers sat huddled around a small fire, warming their hands in silence. Obi was worried. And he didn’t like to worry, but he had never seen his squad so distraught. He knew how important morale was in a military unit, especially after a battle.

“Listen up,” Obi said, limping over to them. “I’m going to leave this one up to you. We got out safe, and we’re all together now. I figure we have three options ahead of us.”

The soldiers stared up at their commander, ready to fulfill any request he would ask of them.

“Option one is head to the rendezvous position now. I’m sure you’re all aware this could be a trap and the CRK could be waiting for us.”

Ajax’s lips quivered as if he wanted to respond, but he remained silent.

“Option two is head to Rohania and find a safe house, recruit some new TDU members, and meet up at the rendezvous point. If the Knights are waiting for us, we would have a fighting chance with more men. And that brings me to option three.” Obi paused again. “You have all fought valiantly with me for years now. And I won’t be ashamed or judge any of you if you want out. This is your pass out of the TDU. If you want to disappear into Rohania, you won’t be considered a deserter.”

None of his men said a word until he had finished. Creo was the first to rise, resting his rifle against a chair.

“There’s really just one option. I joined the TDU because I believed we could restore equality in Tisaia. I believed immigrants have a right to the same benefits as those born within the Tisaian walls. Even more importantly, I joined the TDU because I believe Biomass is a human right and should be shared with other countries. I don’t want to give up now. I’m still willing to give my life for this cause.” Creo sat back down, tears swelling in his eyes.

“We lost so many brothers and sisters, and killed so many innocents over the years, but we must continue to fight. We must head to the checkpoint and pray there are others waiting for us. If they are not, and instead the CRK is waiting with their guns, then at least we’ll all die honorable deaths,” he said, grabbing his rifle and raising it into the air.

Ajax put an arm around Creo’s shoulder. “He is right; we don’t have any other choice. Life in Rohania is a worst fate to me than dying in battle. I’d rather take my chances at the rendezvous point than give up now.”

“And you Nathar, what do you think?” Obi asked.

“You know I’m in this to the end, brother,” he said, laughing.

Obi smiled. “Then I believe we have some work to do.” He coughed and sat down on an old folding chair.

“Here is what I have in mind. I have a contact in Rohania. He knows TDU sympathizers in Lunia, many of which work for the State. Ajax and I will meet with him and see if he can put us in contact with someone who has access to the tunnels leading to the CRK headquarters. This was always my plan, but Commander Heri never bought it. He said it was too risky. Maybe he was right, but we don’t have any other choice now.”

“What about us?” Nathar asked.

“I want you and Creo to travel to the Boondocks and recruit several more TDU members. We’ll meet back here in 48 hours before heading to the rendezvous point. Any questions?”

The three soldiers shook their heads simultaneously.

“Let’s move out. Be careful, men,” Obi said, grabbing his rifle and following Ajax out into the muddy junkyard. He froze as a crack of lightning broke through the silence of the night like a gunshot, and he was reminded of the fragility of their cause. Squad 19 fighting against an entire army wasn’t the type of odds Obi would ever gamble on, but his squad hadn’t survived this long just by getting lucky.

Obi jogged to catch up to Ajax, cracking a smirk. If anyone could take down the CRK, it was Squad 19.

The view from the hideaway was much clearer than days before, when a smoky haze still lingered in the ruined headquarters. Ran crouched in the corner of the small room, his eyes glued to the small hole he had used to watch the slaughter. The Knights appeared to be gone, but the destruction and stench of death remained.

Ran turned away from the hole and crawled back over to Nordica, who was sleeping. He grabbed a piece of stale bread out of his knapsack and stuffed it down his dry gullet, chewing as fast as possible to get the disgusting nourishment down.

“When can we get out of here?” Juliana asked, her back against the concrete wall.

“Technically, Nordica is in charge now,” Tsui whispered.

The three soldiers looked down at Nordica as she slept, her chest heaving slowly up and down. They all knew her as one of the most barbaric soldiers in the TDU. She killed for fun. Some of the soldiers dealt in credits and cash, but Nordica dealt in calibers. Her currency wasn’t in paper notes or credits, it was in lead. Some of the other soldiers dreamt of a time where they could have a savings account again, a time they could rent an apartment and go to the grocery store. Nordica did not.

Ran often wondered what would happen if the TDU won the revolution. Would Nordica be able to assimilate into society? Sometimes it seemed Nordica liked the life of a rebel too much and didn’t want to win the war, kind of like a prisoner who had been behind bars for so long they were terrified of rejoining society.

Nordica stirred and woke.

“What the hell are you guys looking at?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Tsui brought a finger to his lips. “We’re deliberating. What are your orders?” he asked bluntly.

Nordica sat up and brushed a few dreadlocks out of her face. “If Ran is convinced the Knights are gone, then we head to the rendezvous point.”

Juliana and Ran nodded in agreement, but Tsui remained silent until Nordica was finished.

“How do we even know there will be a checkpoint?” he asked.

“Because there will be one, and you’re an asshole for asking that,” she grumbled.

Ran and Juliana looked at one another, their eyes gleaming with fear. They both shared Tsui’s concerns, but were too afraid to voice the obvious.

Nordica stood up, pulling her locks back into a tail. “When is the last time you heard any movement, Ran?”

“It’s been 12 hours since I saw the last guard. And the cleanup crews left around 24 hours ago. It looks clear to me.”

“We need to get to the rendezvous point. Let’s find some weapons, grab some supplies and get moving,” she said, ordering the three TDU soldiers out of the room.

With the help of Ran and Tsui, Nordica was able to move the massive pantry shelves. Together the four soldiers entered the pantry, where the stale air reeked of rotting food and death.

“See if you guys can salvage anything,” Ran said, as he followed Nordica up the stairs and back into the complex. They were headed for the armory, knowing the chances the CRK overlooked anything or left any weapons behind were remote. Nonetheless it was worth a try, and any weapon was better than the two small pistols Ran and Nordica held at ready.

The two walked cautiously down the hall, covering each other with their weapons through each pass. The challenge was to avoid stepping on fallen glass or tripping on anything that might alert anyone to their presence.

As they covered more ground inside the complex, Ran recalled one of the many times he and Nordica robbed food trucks in Rohania. It had been years ago, but this specific time was still fresh inside his mind.

The driver radioed in for help and moments later a single Knight responded, assault rifle blazing as soon as he spotted the two TDU thieves. Ran and Nordica had been armed only with their pistols.

Ran immediately dove for cover behind a couple of trash cans, while Nordica stood her ground and fired her 9mm at the Knight, the rounds bouncing off his armor harmlessly.

What happened next was something Ran would never forget. One of Nordica’s rounds hit the Knight’s right goggle, the blue glass exploding in a spray of blood, glass and metal. The Knight’s lifeless body slumped to the ground.

Her heroism gave them just enough time to escape back to the tunnel, along with two sacks of food and a pack full of grenades that Ran took off the dead Knight. It wasn’t the first time she had saved his life, and he knew it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“You need to keep up,” Nordica whispered from behind a concrete pillar a few feet ahead.

“Sorry,” Ran whispered back, his attention returning to his task.

He squinted, vaguely making out the entrance to the armory. Several downed electrical wires shot out sporadic bursts of electricity, faintly lighting the hallway. There was still no sign of the CRK.

The two soldiers simultaneously ran into the smoking ruins of the armory, their guns drawn. Their eyes fell on a smoldering heap of twisted weapons.

“Damn, that must’ve been what we heard.” Nordica said, kicking a ruined rifle across the concrete floor.

“The CRK decided to destroy the weapons instead of hauling them out of the tunnels,” Ran replied, gazing upon the smoldering concrete room, pieces of rifles and burnt shell cases littered across the ground.

“Come on, let’s see if we can salvage anything,” Nordica said.

Ran ducked under the loose electrical wires and began combing the room for anything they could use. He watched Nordica pick up pieces of a table and door, quietly tossing them to the side. Digging through a pile of concrete, Nordica found a charred shotgun. She quickly examined it and, satisfied she tossed the strap over her shoulder and continued with the search.

In the east corner of the room Ran uncovered a submachine gun, burned severely but appearing to still be intact. He peered down the sights and released the safety.

“I think I found something worth saving,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Me too,” Nordica responded. She pulled another shotgun from the blackened pile of weapons below her.

By the time their search was over they had salvaged three shotguns and four cartons of ammunition. They also found three 9mms and two assault rifles, in addition to the small machine gun Ran tucked away in the back of his belt.

Balancing all of her newly found weapons in her arms, Nordica followed Ran towards the exit of the room. “Let’s head back to pantry and see what Juliana and Tsui were able to recover,” Nordica ordered.

A small glimmer of hope crept into Ran’s thoughts as they made their way back. He knew how many times he “hoped” in the past, only to be disappointed. Most of his comrades and friends were dead. He wondered if Squad 19 was still out there. They were the most important unit in the TDU. Without them, the TDU would surely be lost.

Nordica sat perched on the concrete surface of a tunnel platform. The night vision goggles she took off a dead TDU member emitted a warm orange glow into the darkness. They were heading south through a tunnel once used to transport supplies to and from Rohania.

“We better get going,” Juliana said, throwing her backpack around her shoulders and grabbing her rifle. “We have a lot of ground to cover and we don’t know if there are still Knights patrolling these tunnels.”

Nordica chuckled. “I think the CRK did a hit and run, and thought we were all dead. I’m guessing they’re back in Lunia, celebrating with ale and prostitutes.”

Ran laughed nervously. He hoped what Nordica said was true, but at every corner they rounded he expected to see a squad of Knights, waiting to cut them down.

So far, Ran knew they had been lucky, but there was the remote possibility the Knights weren’t heading back to Lunia victoriously and that they were waiting in the shadows.

Victory was a sobering thought, one he secretly wished he could feel someday, but he knew the chances were unlikely, especially now, when hope seemed all but lost.

Nordica led the small group of survivors through the tunnels for hours, stopping only to piss and eat a few bites of food. They were exhausted but pressed on, knowing they were already days late to the rendezvous.

“Are we almost there?” Ran asked.

Nordica looked back at him, bringing her finger to her lips and signaling for Ran to climb up onto the concrete banks of the tunnel. Ran nodded in confirmation, climbing out of the murky water. Nordica was right; the water made too much noise, and Ran needed to focus on his surroundings. They were still not free of danger.

The tunnels were getting narrower, which indicated they were almost to the edge of Lunia. Once they were outside the walls they would climb above ground into the Wastelands, making the rest of the journey considerably more dangerous. The missile silo was almost 30 miles outside the Tisaian walls. This presented a problem in and of itself. If they did evade the Knights they would still be faced with other potential threats in the Wastelands: wild animals, stragglers, land mines and bands of raiders.

Ran had never seen a raider, but had heard plenty of stories to know they could be just as lethal as Knights. The raiders fought like animals, tearing their enemies to pieces and wearing their bones as trophies. The notion made him shudder. He would almost prefer to face a Knight over one of the barbaric raiders.

Nordica, on the other hand, would never forget her run in with raiders. It was years ago, on a scavenging mission. She was headed towards an abandoned building said to house a cache of 21st century weapons when she heard them.

At first she thought it was an earthquake as the ground began to rumble. But as a cloud of dust emerged in the distance, she realized it was no earthquake. It wasn’t long before she could see an armada of riders, their skin tattooed and scarred. They were led by a man riding a dark stallion, his bald head and pierced ears gleaming under the weak sun.

As they rode closer Nordica could see something on the man’s shoulders. The dust made it difficult for Nordica’s goggles to function properly, so she removed them and took out a pair of binoculars. It was then she could clearly see the skulls mounted on the man’s shoulders. These weren’t just any skulls either; they were human.

Since that day Nordica avoided the raiders of the Wastelands at all costs. She was known for fearing no one, but even Ran knew Nordica feared these barbaric men.

Ran set his rifle down and looked upward. He could see a small ray of light peeking through a manhole far above. “Guys, I think I found our way out.”

Nordica crowded him, gently pushing him away. “That must be it!” she shouted, neglecting her own orders to keep quiet.

“Careful everyone,” Juliana said, emerging from behind. “We don’t know what or who is out there right now. Someone should climb up and have a look before we all charge up.”

“She’s right,” Ran said. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered, approaching the ladder. He looked back at Nordica, who gave him a nod of approval.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, turning, strapping his shotgun across his back and grabbing the rusted steps of the ladder. Rays of light struck his eyes as he climbed, blinding him momentarily. Having lived in the tunnels for so long meant that his eyes took a few moments to adjust to natural light, especially from the sun.

“What’s going on up there?” Nordica shouted from below, her voice echoing through the silent tunnel.

“I just couldn’t see, don’t worry, everything’s fine,” Ran yelled back as he began to climb again.

The small holes in the drain cover revealed they were in the Wastelands. The viewpoint was not good at all, though, so he pushed the drain cover up a few inches and surveyed the grayness.

To the east were the steel walls of Tisaia, towering above the Wastelands like a fruit tree over the desert. To the west was death—the skeletons of trees and remnants of what was once beautiful green farm fields. Ran had seen pictures of what the area used to look like. It was now unrecognizable. Satisfied that there wasn’t any threat, he descended the ladder to rejoin his team.

“It looks clear to me.”

Nordica grabbed her shotgun and pulled a shell from her bag. “Although I’d prefer to do this under the cover of darkness, I think we need to move immediately,” she said, turning to Tsui. “What do you think? It’s possible they could have guards on the walls within range to spot us.”

Tsui nodded his head in agreement. “I think we need to get moving too. We can’t wait another 24 hours. If there are guards up there, they would spot us at night with their goggles anyways.”

Nordica put the shell into her shotgun and pumped it. “Let’s move, guys, the survivors aren’t going to wait for us much longer,” she said, heading towards the ladder.

The storm drain was slightly less than a mile from an old highway, another token of good luck, with plenty of old vehicles to use for cover. Nordica led the four TDU soldiers through the maze of broken-down cars. The wind beat down on them without mercy, burning any uncovered skin. Ran looked down at his bare arms and noticed there were blisters forming. He tried to roll his sleeves down, but they wouldn’t go much further than his elbow.

“We need to find cover!” he shouted.

Nordica knelt in front of an old truck, glancing at her watch.

“Gather round. Let’s take five. Tsui, you keep watch on our six.”

Juliana stopped and reached inside her bag, retrieving a small white bottle.

“Here, use some of this on your arms. They look like they’re starting to burn,” she said, handing him the bottle.

“Thanks,” Ran responded, taking a knee next to Nordica.

“The way I figure it, we have about five miles left before we reach the silo,” Nordica said, in between drinks from her canteen. She coughed and wiped the excess water from her lips.

The group sat, eating what bits of food they had brought with them, listening to the howling wind. For a few moments Ran felt as if everything was going to be fine. He forgot the massacre from a week earlier and watched a pair of clouds crash into one another, further blocking out the weak sun.

Ran felt an itch, and clawed at his face to feel another sore forming on his forehead. He took a moment to rub some of the lotion Juliana gave him on the spot. The wind wasn’t the only enemy in the Wastelands. There were also radiation pockets that could burn you as fast as the wind could. It was possible they had passed through one already and the sores on his body were radiation poisoning.

“Let’s move out,” Nordica commanded.

Ran forget the sores and put the bottle of lotion into his pack. In the distance he could see the remnants of a dead forest, the dark trees lining the horizon like foot soldiers ready for battle. The trees would not offer much more protection from the wind, but it was better than being out in the open. He strapped his rifle to his back again and took off after the others.

It only took an hour to reach the edge of the dead forest. Ran and Nordica hugged the tree line, or what was left of it. Every once in a while they would come across a tree that appeared to have a green leaf, but every time Ran went to touch it, the leaf would crumble into ash in the palm of his glove. There wasn’t much that could survive in the Wastelands.

Ran liked survival stories. He enjoyed finding anomalies in an otherwise lifeless world. There had been a time he came across a plant living in a small pocket of life just outside the Tisaian walls. He was scavenging for supplies when he found it. It survived against all odds, living through season after season of harsh conditions.

“Keep focused, Ran. We could be walking into a trap,” Tsui whispered.

Ran nodded and continued on, his rifle drawn, waiting to blast anything that moved. He saw the tree line ended just yards away from the old building. The structure was surrounded by an ancient metal fence, topped with a layer of barbed wire. At the front gate an old sign swayed back and forth in the wind, creaking and groaning with every twist. Ran read the sign aloud as he made his way closer. “Government Property; Trespassers Will Be Subject to Arrest and Prosecution.”

“Arrest us,” Nordica said, passing through the open gate with her rifle drawn.

“This must not have been much of a military base in its day,” Ran muttered from a few yards behind.

“It wasn’t really a base,” Nordica replied quickly. “In fact, there’s only one building here.”

Ran found cover behind a large dead oak tree and pulled out his binoculars to get a better look.

He scanned the building first; stopping on a large antenna that rested obliquely on the roof, pointing towards the gray skyline. Then he glassed the compound, finally stopping on a pair of metal doors in the middle of the lot.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Tsui whispered from his six, startling him.

“What do you make of this?” Ran asked, handing the binoculars to Tsui.

“Looks like that’s the silo we’re searching for. Hasn’t been used in years, from the look of it.”

Ran stole another glance around the trunk of the tree, scanning the area to see if he missed anything.

“I think you’re right. If there are any survivors they’re already in the building, which seems unlikely, considering we haven’t seen any scouts at all.”

Satisfied the base was empty, Ran took off running and dove behind a concrete block where Nordica had taken up position.

“I’ll go first, you cover me,” she said, already in flight before Ran could raise his weapon.

Ran kept his rifle trained on the building as Nordica sprinted towards another fence, which was swinging awkwardly back and forth in the wind. Nearing the building, she crouched and rested her back against the concrete wall before motioning for the rest of the soldiers to follow.

As Ran sprinted towards the structure a wave of trepidation overtook him, one he felt only when he was sure something was going to go wrong. He had felt something like it the day the CRK attacked the headquarters.

“Halt, you sons of bitches! Get on the ground now!” a voice screamed from the roof.

Nordica jumped back from the wall, her gun raised, while Ran stopped dead in his tracks and pointed his rifle towards the roof.

Where are they, where are they? Ran thought, desperately trying to get a target, his cross hair scanning the roof of the building frantically.

“Drop your freaking weapons before I put one between your eyes!” the voice screamed again.

Ran continued to scan the roof top with his rifle, watching Nordica crouch-walk towards the front door of the building. If this had been a trap and there were Knights waiting, then they would already be dead. Whoever was on the roof was not part of the CRK.

“We’re looking for our squad.” Ran shouted back. “We aren’t here to harm you.”

“Like hell you’re not; you’re on my property!” the voice shouted again.

“We’re here to meet with the rest of the TDU!” Ran shot back quickly.

“I don’t know of any TDU!” the man screamed again. “You have ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing on my property before I start shooting. And five seconds are already gone!”

Ran looked back at Nordica, his rifle shaking, unsure what to do.

“We’re part of the TDU!” Ran repeated. “You must know of the TDU?” Ran asked, as he began to realize they may have stumbled upon a lonely straggler.

“Like hell I do!” he shouted back.

“Listen, I’m going to put my rifle down, and so will my friends, and we can talk this out. I promise we aren’t here to harm you or steal from you. We were supposed to…” Ran paused, deciding it wouldn’t be safe to tell the entire truth.

“We’re just looking for a place to rest and then we’ll be on our way.”

Ran caught Nordica staring at him and shaking her head.

Silence crept across the compound. Ran knew if Nordica had the chance, she would take the straggler out. With all the killing in the past week, Ran didn’t want to see anyone else die.

“Can we rest here for the night? We have some food and supplies we can trade with you.”

Ran stood completely still, his arms burning from holding his rifle pointed at the roof top. “See, I’m dropping my weapon. And my friends will too,” he said, as he slowly knelt and placed his rifle at his feet. He turned and motioned Tsui to as well.

Ran waited, his eyes darting back from Nordica to the roof. Well, this is it, he thought silently, desperately wishing he could tell his arrogant friend how much he actually cared about her.

“Stay where you are. I’m coming out,” the voice shouted back again.

Ran took a deep breath and motioned Nordica over to him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nordica asked.

“I think we’ve stumbled across a straggler, not a trap set by the Tin Cans. If they were here, we would already be dead.”

“Where are the others, then?” Nordica snarled back.

Ran frowned. “I think we’re it.”

For a split second, Ran caught a glimpse of sadness in Nordica’s demeanor. It was a rare moment and was interrupted as the front door to the building swung open.

The two soldiers turned to watch an older man walk out into the wind, shielding his eyes from the dust and ash. He wore a tattered old flannel shirt tucked into a pair of denim jeans. It was something neither of them had seen in years. He gripped a shotgun in his right hand, with the barrel pointing at the ground. His face was thinly bearded, with specks of white hair clinging to his wind burnt cheeks. He wore a green cap with an image of a yellow tractor.

“I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors out here. In fact, I haven’t gotten any in about a year now.”

Nordica and Ran looked at one another, realizing what they had feared was true. They were all that was left of the TDU.

The man propped his shotgun against the concrete wall of the building. “I’m the only one here,” he responded. “Looks like you three will be the first visitors to join me for a meal, in…” the man paused. “Well, in about four years. Since my wife died,” he said, looking down at the dirt.

“Four visitors,” Juliana yelled, approaching the building with her hands in the air. Nordica and Ran turned, while the man picked up his shotgun again.

“It’s okay, sir, she’s with us,” Nordica said calmly.

The man lowered his weapon and approached his new guests, offering his hand to Nordica, who was closest.

“The name’s John,” he said, shaking each of their hands one by one.

“Like I said, it’s been a few years since I saw anyone out here. In fact, the last person I saw I had to shoot because he tried to steal my stash of food. Y’all aren’t going to try and steal my food, are you?” he asked, raising his brow suspiciously.

Juliana looked at the man. “No sir, we’re not here to steal your food.”

The man chuckled, dropping his expression. “I’m just messing with you.”

The four TDU soldiers looked at one another quizzically. They weren’t sure whether to laugh or turn and run.

“Yeah I used to get that reaction a lot. I changed my name to my grandfather’s once I moved out here. I haven’t known anyone named John for a long time, so I thought it would be a good change.”

Ran laughed. “I knew a John a long time ago. He was deported because the Justice Committee thought he was an immigrant.”

“Well, I suppose I should invite you in for dinner,” John said, motioning his guests towards the door.

The four soldiers followed him cautiously into the building. The inside was a single dwelling with two beds against the north wall, a kitchen table against the east wall, and a couch in the center of the room. There was also a bathroom and supply pantry, both in horrid shape, but nonetheless appearing to be in working order.

Nordica followed the others into the house, resting her bag on the worn carpet. In the corner of the room she saw a door slightly ajar, hidden by darkness. She assumed it was one of two entrances to the silo, but decided to find out more information later, after John had gained their trust.

Dinner was a large plate of spaghetti and canned spam rolled up into meatballs. A bright candle burned in the middle of the wooden table, illuminating the home cooked meal in front of them.

“I raided the best of my supplies to make this meal. I hope y’all like it,” John said with a grin. He didn’t hesitate before attacking his food with a fork, shoveling it into his mouth.

Juliana smiled in pleasure after her first bite. “Wow. You’re almost as good as cook as the one we used to have at our headquarters.”

“I don’t know about that, but these meatballs are better than I’ve had in a long time,” Nordica chimed in.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ran said, plopping another meatball into his mouth.

“Thanks. It’s been…” John paused and looked down at his plate. “It’s been awhile since I cooked for anyone. So I was worried how this meal would turn out.” He shook his head, changing the subject. “So I don’t mean to pry into your business, but what happened to your headquarters?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ran looked up from his meatball before plopping it in to his mouth. He figured if John invited them in for dinner he wouldn’t be that upset when he found out his home was a rendezvous point for a rebel group in the middle of a war.

“It was discovered and destroyed. We barely escaped,” Ran replied. “I’m sure you’re aware of the wall surrounding Tisaia not twenty miles from here.”

John nodded.

“We’re in the middle of a war with the State, and last week the Council of Royal Knights destroyed our headquarters and killed most of our friends.”

John dropped his fork onto his plate and brought a handkerchief to his mouth, wiping spaghetti sauce from his white beard.

“You all are fighting the CRK?”

“Yeah, so you have heard of it?” Nordica asked.

“Of course I have, I moved out here to escape Tisaia fifteen years ago when things started to change radically.”

“Holy shit, we got lucky meeting you. We were ordered to rendezvous at the Silo,” Ran added.

John wiped his lips once again with the handkerchief.

“Silo?” he asked.

“Tsui, why don’t you fill John in on what we’re talking about?”

Tsui nodded, placing his fork and spoon down softly on the table. The massive Asian man scooted his chair back from the table so he could cross his legs.

“Our intelligence said that in the year 1965, the United States Army built a nuclear missile silo under this building. The silo was decommissioned in the early 1990s, when the Cold War with the Soviet Union ended. The United States put the silo up for sale to private citizens, but it never sold, and according to our records, it has remained idle ever since.”

“One of our recon teams came across this location a few years back,” Nordica said.

“This place was idle. Idle until I got here,” John said, laughing. “Hell, I had no idea there was a silo under here. Which brings me to my next question, where is the damn entrance?”

“You mean there isn’t an entrance in this building?” Ran asked politely.

“If there was an entrance don’t you think I’d know about it?” John shot back, somewhat annoyed with Ran’s question.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry,” Ran replied.

“After you’re all done, I suggest we get some shuteye. In the morning we can start combing the area for some sort of an entrance,” John said, sipping ale from an old wooden glass.

The most successful establishments in Rohania were bars. Most Rohanians made very little money, scraping together a living by bartering and selling what they could. At night the pubs collected most of the credits earned by these hardworking people during the day.

Nathar and Creo sat in a dimly lit booth in the back of Rira’s Pub. It was an irritatingly loud joint, and made up for the solitude the two soldiers had grown accustomed to the past couple days.

Picking the pub was an easy decision. Not only was the owner a long time sympathizer of the TDU, he also had several exits in the back.

The two sat comfortably in their newly purchased pea coats hoping they would blend in with the crowd, watching patrons come and go; some drunk were, others were nearing the point.

Rira was a small man in his late 50’s with a booming voice. Those that knew him never double crossed him. He was one of the most honest black market dealers in Rohania, honest as black market dealers came. And he expected his clients to show him the same courtesy. When they skipped a payment or failed to hold up their side of a bargain, he would send his henchman, Lupai, after them.

When Lupai wasn’t breaking people’s kneecaps for Rira, he was selling small arms to anyone with the credits to buy them. The TDU had used him for years and he had shown fierce loyalty to Obi, which is why Creo trusted him.

Tonight Creo wasn’t going to be discussing weapons—tonight his mission was to procure soldiers. And something inside him told him Lupai was the right man for the job.

A thick layer of smoke hovered over the bar, prompting a deep cough from Nathar. He pretended not to care, but Creo knew the man better. It wasn’t often the young soldier voiced his opinion, but one of the things he hated most were watering holes just like Rira’s and the filth that patronized them.

Creo understood. His friend had asthma and smoke inflamed his lungs and he was still recovering from a bad cold he had developed.

The Spaniard did not, however, share Nathar’s hatred of bars. He was used to the people and enjoyed the potent, thick smell of cigarette smoke. He grew up in places just like Rira’s, and felt a strange sense of nostalgia while waiting for the arms dealer.

It was a half-hour before Lupai entered the building, with two equally large men who appeared to be bodyguards. Their eyes gave them away, darting from booth to booth, scanning the shadows for danger.

At first glance Lupai looked like any other Rohanian resident. His facial hair was thick and his mop of dark brown hair hung down to his shoulders. He wore a thick pea coat and pair of worn trousers. What set him aside from the average citizen wasn’t his appearance, it was his wit and charm.

Most Rohanians never received a diploma, and those who didn’t drop out of school to work by the age of 14 didn’t receive much of an education. The schools were old and, like everything else in Rohania, in severe need of routine and major maintenance. They were understaffed and most of the curriculum was developed by the teachers. If a teacher wanted to spend the day talking about the last time they got drunk, there was nothing to stop them.

Creo recalled hearing that Lupai received a formal education in Lunia. His wit, combined with his rough appearance, allowed him to evade the Knights, who had hunted him for years.

Creo and Nathar scooted over in their booth, making room for Lupai and his bodyguards. They approached slyly, eyeing the two TDU soldiers through their sunglasses.

Lupai brushed his long brown hair out of his face and sat down across from Creo and Nathar, cracking a grin full of pearly white teeth. He nodded at his two guards and they disappeared into the dark smoke of the pub, hiding in the corners and waiting to be beckoned again.

“So, I hear you two have had a tough week,” he said, smirking and pulling a half-spent pack of cigarettes from the bowels of his trench coat. “The Tin Cans finally caught up to you?”

“It was only a matter of time,” Creo responded.

Lupai paused, scratching a match against the wood table and lighting his cigarette. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke into the air, watching it disappear in the cloud above their booth.

He laid the burning cigarette down on the table and folded his hands. A look of seriousness washed over his face, his smile disappearing in the dim light.

“You have my sympathies, but this is a dangerous time. So let’s get to the details quickly, shall we? How about you two tell me what you need and I’ll tell you what I can provide.”

“We need new recruits, at least half a dozen of them, and…” Creo said, hesitating.

“And we need some explosives,” Nathar piped in.

The brightness in Lupai’s eyes seemed to grow with every pass of the loosely dangling light above their booth.

“We need double the explosives we bought from you last time,” Nathar continued.

“Ah.” Lupai said, sitting back in the booth and folding his arms, his eyes studying the two soldiers across from him.

He took a deep breath and leaned back towards the table. “Your request comes at a bad time,” he whispered, turning to see if anyone was listening.

“Fear runs rampant in Rohania right now. Those who have sympathized with your cause in the past have lost hope. The CRK has been advertising the attack last week everywhere. They say the TDU is gone, eradicated…” he paused again.

“I don’t know if I can come through with this many men. And the explosives, I can’t sell them to you if I don’t know what they’re going to be used for,” he finished.

Creo got up from his seat, Nathar quickly following him. “You know we can’t tell you what they’re for, which is why Obi trusted you in the past. If you can’t meet this request, then we’ll find someone else,” Creo said.

“Times have changed, gentlemen. That stunt you all pulled in the trolley station a couple of weeks ago. It killed a lot of innocent people. I don’t like it when my weapons kill innocent people, but I’m sure we can work something out,” he said, revealing his pearly white teeth again and motioning the two soldiers back into their seats.

“I suppose my policy can be bypassed, if, say, you assure me collateral damage will be kept at a minimum and…” Lupai paused again, his grin getting wider. “If the price is right. Do you get my drift?”

Creo and Nathar nodded in agreement, settling back into the booth.

Lupai smiled again. “I can spare four men right now. That is it. I’m sorry, but until the TDU reemerges with another attack to give this area hope, men will be in short supply.”

“Four will work,” Creo said reluctantly.

Lupia offered his hand across the table. “We have a deal then. Your men and supplies will be waiting for you at this address,” he said, handing Creo a small slip of paper.

“If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” he said, scooting out of the booth and disappearing back into the crowd.

Nathar and Creo both took another swig of their ale. “Let’s get back to the junkyard. This freaking place gives me the creeps,” Nathar said.

Creo caught one last glimpse of Lupai before he followed Nathar out the closest exit. This guy better be as good as Obi says he is, he thought, heading into the dark bowels of the alleyway.

Mulia jumped off the back of an old pickup before the guard riding in the bed could push him onto the dirt street below. A squad of Knights marched by him, their armor clanking noisily. It was a sound he had learned to accept, one as common as the morning alarm.

He paused to glance up at the familiar sight of immigrant camp #4. It was dusk, and the search lights on the guard towers rising far above him were already brighter than the moon hovering above them. There was never a moment of true darkness in the camp. Never a reprieve for the exhausted immigrants, rounded up like livestock and forced to live in tents, before being deported back into the Wastelands.

The camp was surrounded by monstrous electric fences and backed up to the great walls. There was no escaping. Anyone that tried ended up dead.

The only way into camp was a 20 foot tall metal gate. It screeched open three times a day. Once in the morning for immigrants lucky enough to have a job; again at three in the afternoon, for any newly rounded up immigrants, and then at dusk, when the immigrants returned from their jobs.

Mulia ran his hand through his greasy, thinning hair, waiting for the gate to open. He watched a pair of Knights striding in unison towards him like a robotic centipede, their armor clanking as they walked.

“Move it,” said one of the Knights.

Mulia jumped out of the way, dropping his hands to his sides and his gaze to the ground. Eye contact with the guards wasn’t forbidden, but for the past four years in captivity Mulia had never looked a Knight in the eye. He knew his role and accepted it. It was this mentality that helped him form a mutual relationship of convenience with nearly every guard in the camp. He did this by showing them respect and following their every command. It wasn’t that he lacked a conscience or respect for himself, he simply wanted to survive. And so far he had done exactly that.

There were also the memories from his past that played a distinct role in his survival. He vaguely remembered his childhood, but his journey to Tisaia was burned into his memory like a tattoo. From the time the raiders pillaged the shanty town he grew up in, to the subsequent trip his father financed to smuggle his family into Tisaia, these memories were as much as part of him as the scars on his back.

Mulia knew what life was like outside the walls, and he would do anything to keep from going back out there. He would rather kiss the boots of the Knight who gave him the scars on his back than be thrown back into the hell and misery of the Wastelands.

He looked back down at his feet and saw the radiation scars lining both of his legs. Every day he remembered how he got them and the cave he and his parents took refuge in when the trip to the storm drains went astray. His family hadn’t made it more than 20 miles before the same group of raiders caught up with them and cornered them in a cave. Their guide took off the moment he saw the raiders, but his family was not so lucky.

It took only a few days for the symptoms of radiation poisoning to manifest. His mom and sister didn’t live much longer than that. He would never forget watching his sister, the life slowly draining from her, a combination of terror and confusion burning in her eyes. Nor would he forget the sores and boils over his Mother’s arms and head where her hair had fallen out. And worst of all was his last image of his father, firing his shotgun harmlessly at the Raiders while their bullets tore through his soft flesh.

Ironically, it was the guide that saved Mulia after the pirates had taken what they wanted and left him for dead. The skinny, toothless man dressed in raggedy tan military fatigues carried him all the way to the great Tisaian walls without saying a word. He turned Mulia over to a sympathetic family living in Rohania. They tried to help him, but his wounds were too severe so they took him to a hospital where he spent a month healing. He never found out why the guide returned for him. Was it a sense of regret from abandoning his family, or something else? He would never know.

“Get moving,” another guard said, nudging his rifle into Mulia’s ribcage. He moaned in pain but continued forward, cringing at the sound of the two ton gate slowly creaking open. It was a sound he heard every day, multiple times a day, and one his ears still rebelled against.

“Let’s go,” the guard said again, his voice muffled by the breathing apparatus inside his helmet.

Mulia hustled towards the customs station. He was a gunsmith, having been taught the trade by his father in the trading town years ago. It was there he learned how to build guns, change out parts, and fix pretty much any gun that came his way. This made him invaluable to the guards, who constantly needed their weapons serviced. It also meant he was strip searched at the end of every working day to make sure he wasn’t stealing any parts. In the past four years, Mulia had made certain every part he did steal for his TDU contacts was never detected.

A sharp pain shot down his leg while he ran, reminding him of the secret place he kept bullets and parts squirreled away for the TDU. He stopped for a second to massage his thigh, where a loose piece of skin covered a hollowed out piece of flesh, just large enough for a round of ammunition or a part to a gun. The wound was a result of the radiation poisoning. It was one of many places where the amateur TDU doctor opted to remove flesh rather than let it heal properly when he was first brought to Tisaia. At first the pain was excruciating, but over the years of hiding weapon parts he grew mostly numb to the pain.

After his strip search he was free to head back to his corridors where his tent mate, Kalah, would be preparing dinner from their rationed food.

The camp was set up in three rows of tents with 30 in each row. The middle row was reserved for families, while the outside rows were used by single occupants. With four guard towers rising far above the camp, it was designed so the CRK would have full range of view at all times.

Most of the guards were Knight Cadets and were training for service, but some were veteran Knights who transferred to the camp for a variety of reasons. The most infamous veteran was Royal Knight Nemir. His hatred for immigrants dated back to when his brother was killed in an uprising at the camp years ago.

Mulia made it to his tent just as the street lights glowed to life.

“Just in time for dinner, my friend,” Kalah said, without looking up from a pot he was stirring. Mulia nodded and sat down on his cot, slowly slipping out of his work boots. He leaned back and watched the old man stir the stew slowly, checking the density with every other stir.

Kalah was a master cook. It was the only thing keeping him from being deported to the Wastelands. The Knights grew so fond of his cooking, they continued to delay his paperwork so he could stay in the camp’s main kitchen.

“I heard Nemir beat another young man today.”

Mulia shrugged. “Someday he will get what he is owed.”

“That day may be approaching quicker than we thought,” Kalah said, a sly grin streaking across his old dark weather-beaten skin.

Mulia sat up, his interest sparked. “What do you mean? I thought we lost contact with the TDU after their headquarters was destroyed.”

“Ah, but we both know the TDU had other locations. The Tin Cans can never kill them all. New freedom fighters will replace the fallen. History proves the just are always victorious in the long run.”

Mulia shrugged again. He wasn’t in the mood to argue tonight.

“There is something else you may be interested in,” Kalah said, picking up on Mulia’s solemn demeanor.

“The Samoan is fighting Royal Knight Tinus at the Golden Dome tomorrow night. Many of the immigrants believe he can win.”

Mulia finished taking off his work boots and caught his friend’s excited gaze.

“Don’t get your hopes up. Tinus has never lost a battle in the arena and I don’t expect he will tomorrow. Besides, you know the fights are rigged.”

Kalah frowned and looked back down at his stew. As a young man he had driven a cab in New York. He survived the nuclear blast in Manhattan and escaped to a refugee camp set up on the east coast before Tisaia was ever formed. He immigrated to Tisaia a decade ago when the refugee camp finally collapsed from disease and famine. He had seen so much in his years, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever see an immigrant win their freedom in the Golden Dome.

Kalah took the pot of stew off the fire and placed it on a pad atop a crate between their two cots. He scooped a steaming spoonful of the dish into two small bowls, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the bowl before handing it to Mulia.

“Hope you like,” he said, with another grin, revealing the last three teeth in his mouth.

“Thank you. I have something for you too.”

Slowly Mulia pulled up his pant leg and peeled back the three inches of dead skin on his thigh. He reached into the opening and pulled out an inch long piece of metal.

“Is that what I think it is?” Kalah asked, beaming.

“It is. This should complete the sniper rifle I have been working on for over a year. When the riots start, we shall be ready,” Mulia said, his voice at a hoarse whisper.

He picked up his bowl and began to shovel the hot stew into his mouth, stopping momentarily to cool it with his breath. Kalah quickly followed suit, and the two men ate the rest of their dinner in silence. When they were finished, Kalah rinsed the bowls with a small bit of left over water and placed the bowls neatly on top of the crate.

Normally Kalah would tell a story before bed, or the two would read, but tonight he was exhausted. Mulia blew the flame out in the lantern hanging from the wood rafters of their tent and lay back down in his cot, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Goodnight, Kalah,” he said, closing his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the camp in the distance, the chatter of voices and the smell of fires cooking exotic dishes he had never heard of before. He felt oddly at home for the first time in a very long time. The sensation lasted only a few moments and was interrupted by the memory of the pirates, the Knights, and the world he lived in. He would never have a home. Not until the Knights were gone and the TDU restored peace and human rights to the last great city on Earth.

“Goodnight, Mulia,” Kalah replied, blowing out the candle on the wooden crate. “Soon we shall be free, my friend.”