“What the hell is this?” Alexander asks. “A power point presentation?”

Chris holds up a hand, a wordless warning to be silent.

I look up, my eyes falling on a projector mounted to the ceiling. A burst of color blossoms on the screen. Speakers in the wall crackle with an electric hiss. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

It’s been so long…this is so alien.

An image appears. It looks like security footage. A grainy picture of a large parking lot. There’s a Wal-Mart and a collection of fast food restaurants and clothing stores in the background. It’s night. Everything is glowing with color. Cars are driving through the parking lot.

“What is this? Derek mutters.

There’s a clock at the bottom of the film feed. As soon as it hits 1832 hours — 6:32 p.m. — the lighting in the shopping center shuts off. The Wal-Mart sign, the restaurants, the car headlights. Everything. Several vehicles careen off the road and smash into parked cars.

“This is footage from the night the EMP hit,” I say. “How did you get this?”

“Satellite,” Colonel Anderson replies. “There are devices that the military — and the government — put into use that were resistant to a technological attack. We’ve used images and footage from those devices to learn more about what happened that night.”

It switches to another image. This one is of an outdoor patio along a fancy walkway near the beach. The lights are glowing brightly. People are dining at tables with white napkins and wine glasses. The power goes out. Everything turns black.

I bite my lip.

“The following images are footage we received from a satellite,” Colonel Rivera says. “It’s not pretty.”

The image is similar to something you’d see on the weather channel. A long distance shot of the earth from above the atmosphere. I can clearly make out the eastern coastline. It’s a sunny day, and from below something disrupts the landscape. There is no audio — not that there would be from a satellite in outer space. There is a sudden, blinding flash of light. The screen goes dark. A few moments later the screen resolves to show a cloud growing across the coastline. And that’s when it hits me: This is footage of a nuclear bomb detonating in Washington D.C.

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Colonel Rivera shuts the projector off. The lights come back on. The room is dead silent. No one knows what to say. What can we say? The mushroom cloud represented the instant death of millions, the agonizing radiation poisoning of millions more. The beginning of the end.

“Omega will bring their invasion force into the east and west coast,” Colonel Rivera says, his voice a hollow echo in a room full of shocked people. “They will bring a force of five thousand troops from Los Angeles into the central valley. We will meet them at the mouth of the foothills and choke them out.”

“How long do we have until they get here?” I whisper.

Colonel Rivera takes his cigar out of his mouth, taps it on the edge of an ashtray, and holds it between his fingers.

“Two weeks.”

Warfare is all about patience. It’s the same thing, day after day. Sheer, complete and utter boredom occasionally interrupted by sheer, complete and utter terror. For the first time in my life, I realize why organization and structure is so important in the military. It’s not just to keep guys in line. It’s about keeping guys from going out of their minds with impatience.

We’ve been here at Sector 20 for one week and the waiting is driving me crazy. There are no windows that allow us to see outside. The barracks are sterile and boring. The bright spots in the day are our meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. The chow hall is also a huge underground room. The food is filled with protein and calories — meat, potatoes and vegetables — and for that I am incredibly grateful.

I go on scouting missions with Chris during the week, looking for enemy activity. This is my escape from the mundane routine of life on a military base. I get to see the sky at night and watch what society has become. And let me tell you, it’s not pretty.

Nomadic gangs rove the urban areas, pillaging everything that’s been left behind since the EMP hit. You think downtown Fresno had a gang and graffiti problem before the EMP? You should see it now. It looks like a can of spray paint threw up on every blank wall and billboard in the county. There’s hardly a single building in the city with even one window still intact. We avoid the roving Omega patrols, who seem content to bide their time, waiting for backup to arrive.

Occasionally on our scouting missions we will see buildings erupt into flames, casualties in gang wars or just a random spark catching fire. The city is not safe, but gangs ignore us. Our firepower and numbers are far superior to theirs. And they know it. They would have to be suicidal to start a turf war with us.

During the daytime hours I stick with Sophia. We stay in the Dugout, a nickname for the day room at the base for soldiers to spend time away from their barracks. There’s a pool table, a library, couches and board games, along with items that have been salvaged from abandoned houses. Last night somebody brought Uno and Connect 4 from a loft apartment downtown.

It’s not like we’ve got video games anymore.

But when I’m not in the Dugout watching the soldiers play games or read books, I’m keeping our men drilled. Since I was made a noncommissioned officer for the militia forces in the National Guard, I’ve got some authority now. It’s my job to make sure that the volunteer militia force is kept sharp and ready. This is what keeps me from going insane being stuck in an underground tin can with a thousand people.

We practice shooting, fighting and military maneuvers. Exercising and remaining fast and fit is an absolute must. I make sure everyone has equal time standing guard duty and running scouting missions day and night to keep an eye on potential Omega troop movements. Oddly enough, I consider myself kind of like Chris’s activities coordinator. I make sure things are running smoothly, that the men and women are healthy and capable, and that our soldiers are keeping their sanity within the confined living quarters.

And Chris? His job is to come up with the military strategies, enforce discipline, and fine-tune the militia’s skills. As the days pass I see him as less of a hardened, battle-worn Navy SEAL and more of a calm, steady leader.

I guess I’m not the only one who’s matured.

The National Guard has provided us with fresh clothing, weapons and ammunition. In fact, that is the best part of being here. We’re no longer working with salvaged equipment. We’ve got the best of the best.

On our seventh day staying in Sector 20, Chris takes me to one of the supply rooms on the base.

“This,” he says, “is all yours.”

I step into the room. Weapons and equipment are hanging from every nook and cranny. It’s a goldmine of war goodies. Chris, however, is holding up a single object. A rifle. It’s brand new, it’s sleek, and it’s awesome. He hands it to me.

It’s mine.

I curl my fingers around the weapon, the metal cool against my skin. I test the weight. Not too heavy. Just right for my size. A scope is mounted on top of the weapon.

“I’ve really needed one of these,” I say.

“You’re a great shot without optics,” he replies. “With it you’ll be unstoppable.” He hoists a backpack. “I packed this for you. It’s got a new uniform, supplies, equipment. Upgraded radio, night vision goggles.” He grins and pulls out a small handgun. “There are some nice toys in here, too. This one’s just your size.”

“You packed this for me?” I asked, touched. Because with all of the things he’s got to worry about, it’s beyond sweet that he would go to the trouble of getting supplies together for me. “Thank you.”