“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.

“What do you think?” I whisper to Sophia.

“I think it’s the safest place we’ve been in a long time,” she replies.

No kidding.

“The west side of camp,” Dad explains, “is where the men stay. Ladies, you’ll be across the meadow in the east side. Each side has a shower and toilet facilities.”

“Oh, whoa.” I blink. “Are you saying there’s running water? Indoor plumbing?”

“Yes.” Dad smiles. “We’ve got our own supply up here. You’ll be briefed on the rules for using water. Dinner is at eighteen-hundred hours every night in the chow hall. Breakfast is at oh-seven-hundred. Everybody pulls their weight around here, so you’ll all be rotating sentry duty and helping with other tasks.”

Sounds fair.

“As for the militia leaders,” Dad continues, turning to Chris. And me. “You’ll need to come with me when you’re ready.”

“Find a bunk and get settled,” Chris commands his men. “Stay alert. I’ll be back.” He nods at Alexander Ramos as he takes his men towards the barracks. An unspoken command to keep a watchful eye out while he’s gone.

The women gather and head across the meadow. Chris and I follow Dad back up the road, towards the entrance of camp.

“How big is this place?” I ask.

“We’ve got a couple hundred acres,” Dad replies. “The roads twist around quite a bit. There are a lot of abandoned leaseholder cabins that we’ve been using to house families with children. We’ve got our own well, our own generators, and every vehicle that was here when the EMP hit has been made operational again. We’ve got such a diverse bunch of people here, finding men with the skills to do that wasn’t hard.”

“Excellent,” Chris comments. “Where to now?”

“To meet the other militia leaders.”

“Then why am I coming?” I remark. “I’m not in charge of anything.”

Neither of them answers.

We reach the entrance to camp, and I notice for the first time that there are people coming in and out of the general store. Somebody’s carrying a cloth sack. They heave it onto a gardening wagon and start pulling.

“Do you actually sell stuff here?” I ask.

“We barter for the most part,” Dad corrects. “People here trade for supplies and services.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any community inhabited — since I’ve seen a community — that I’ve almost forgotten what it was like.

“Here we are,” Dad says.

He pulls off his hat and wipes his forehead with his bandana. We’re standing in front of the Headquarters building.

“Okay, listen,” he goes on, lowering his voice. “All you have to remember is to be respectful when we go in here, and everything will be fine.”

He gives me a pointed look.

Sheesh. No faith in me whatsoever.

We climb the steps. Dad approaches the front door. Neither of us says anything. We just wait. Dad knocks a couple of times.

“Here we go,” Chris mutters.

The door opens. Dad walks inside and we follow. The interior of the cabin is cool and open. The furniture has been removed, and all that remains is a huge table in the middle of the room. The walls are covered with maps and charts. Large windows cast natural light inside, and around the table are a few people dressed in combat fatigues.

“Frank.” A tall, slender woman with snow white hair stares at us. “You’re back.”