Male Omega troopers move in and surround us. A couple of pickup trucks covered in mud roll in, each of them hauling trailers. My jaw drops. It’s been months since I’ve seen a working vehicle outside of Omega’s designated military Humvees. This isn’t possible. Not unless Omega was a lot more prepared for an EMP than we were. In that case, I can think of several theories…

But not right now. Troops are popping open the trailers. Ladders, sacks and boxes are packed into the bed. Kamaneva points to the trucks. “You will harvest the entire orange crop,” she announces. “Fill your sacks, bring them back to this point, then place them in boxes. You will have water periodically, when troops provide it. You start today. There’s no introductory period. Go.”

Just like that. I finally got a job.

Sophia and I lace our hands together, moving towards one of the pickup trucks. The early morning sunlight is breaking over the horizon, illuminating the distant Sierra Nevada mountain range. I can see Mt. Whitney sparkling with snow from here. It must be nice to be unmoving and unaffected by everything around you. To stand for thousands of years and stay the same.

I’d like to be a mountain.

Then again, I’d also like to visit McDonald’s. Welcome to my world.

“You.”

Sophia and I come to a halt at the same time. Kamaneva is standing a few feet behind us, her hands clasped in front of her. Up close I notice the wrinkles around her eyes. The frown lines around her mouth. She’s older than I thought.

“You’re friends?” she asks.

I manage to shake my head.

“Hmm.” She steps closer, placing one finger under our chins. “I had two daughters, once. They were young like the both of you.”

I fight to keep my expression neutral.

“One of them died,” she goes on. “The other one lived.”

She removes her fingers and steps back.

“It would be such a pity if you found yourselves in the same situation.”

She gives us a long, hard look before turning around and stalking off. Sophia stares after her. “What the hell was that supposed to mean?” she whispers.

I lick my lips.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Hey, you two! Get to work!”

Grease the guard is back. Darn. He throws two cloth sacks at our feet. Sophia and I bend to pick them up, slipping the thick strap over our shoulders. Some of the other women are hauling heavy ladders into the field. Omega guards are barking orders. Everybody is tense, afraid to ask questions, afraid to defy the instructions.

We’re terrified.

It would be such a pity if you found yourselves in the same situation.

Who is V. Kamaneva? She comes across as strange and cruel. And I haven’t even seen this woman in action yet. Sophia and I follow the other workers into the fields, Grease keeping close to us. “You pick the oranges, put them in the sack,” he commands. Then he points to the end of the row of trees, where male prisoners are bringing out large boxes. “You put the oranges in there. Other workers will sort them. You don’t worry about that. You just pick.” To my surprise, he gives us a smile. A creepy, make-me-want-to-crawl-in-a-closet smile. Sophia pushes up next to me. “Is it just me or is he bad news?” she asks.

“He’s bad news,” I say. “And his hair is disgusting.”

Shoot. Hair.

Something I don’t have a lot of anymore. I start to get teary-eyed again but I take a deep breath, look up at the orange trees, and try to zone out. Think of something else. Something other than the fact that I’ve been forced into slave labor.

Like why Omega needs us to pick oranges.

“What’s the point of this?” Sophia states as we walk towards a group of women placing a ladder against a tree. “How does picking oranges help Omega take over the world?”

“Well…” I lower my voice, conscious of the armed Omega men standing guard on the edges of the fields. “You said you thought something big was going down on the East Coast, right? Omega has a lot of troops over there.”

“Right.”

“You said it could have even been a nuclear war.”

“Yeah, so…?”

“So Omega has got to be some kind of cover name. An organization that nobody’s ever heard of doesn’t just pop up out of the blue, nuke New York, hit the East Coast with a full frontal assault and then start taking over the country.” I run a hand through my choppy hair. “Somebody big is behind this, and you and I just aren’t getting the full story because there’s no way to communicate with people who really do know what’s going on.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t answer the orange question,” Sophia deadpans, raising an eyebrow. “World domination and fruit packing…? Come on.”

“I’m guessing Omega needs food,” I reply. “Look at it this way. If you’re an invading army, you’re going to need some way to feed your troops. If New York is really nuked, then it’s possible that other places are too. Omega’s going to need food. That would explain why they’re bringing us here. They need us to harvest what’s already here and then start planting new food.”

I hug my arms around my chest, surprised that I put the pieces together without Chris’s help. He’s always the one who explains Omega’s evil intentions like a boss.

An Omega guard yells at us suddenly, telling us to quit standing around, working our jaws. It scares the crap out of us to get singled out of the entire group like that, so we climb up a ladder and start picking. I’ve never done this kind of work before, and at first it seems pretty easy. Pick an orange, put it in your sack, climb back down when it’s full, and then dump the oranges in the bins for the male workers to haul away.

It’s fine until you do it over and over again. Without food and water. Without breaks. And without a place to use the restroom. It goes from easy to torturous in a snap.

“There really aren’t very many troops in the Central Valley,” Sophia says to me as we’re hauling a huge sack of oranges to the end of the field. The sun is high in the sky, and we’ve been working for at least four hours. My arms are sore. My neck is sunburned, and despite the cold temperature, I’m soaked in sweat. “How much food can it take to feed a few soldiers?”

I drop my eyes to the white bins at the end of the field, making sure nobody can hear me. “Maybe they’re getting ready.”

“For what?”

“For backup.”

Sophia’s mouth forms a little O as we reach the bins, dump our oranges in, and head back to the trees. “If they’re on the East Coast…maybe they’re working their way closer?” Sophia suggests.

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Something else is going on. But have you noticed how all of these troops are Russian? Soviet Union, anyone?”

“The Soviet Union did not invade the United States,” Sophia says, smirking. “They don’t exist anymore. Besides, it’d take a lot more than Russia, don’t you think?”

“Right. They couldn’t do it alone.”

Isn’t that the truth? Nobody could take over the world’s greatest superpower without some serious firepower, some serious planning…and some serious big wheels backing them up. There’s a lot more to Omega than meets the eye.

Not a concept I’m thrilled to realize.

Omega is like an annoying relative that you can’t get rid of. They’re always there, waiting for you to make a mistake. Waiting for you to cross an invisible line. And when you do cross that line, you’re dead.

Game over.

My first day at the labor camp is nothing short of miserable. I lose my hair, my clothes, my dignity and my independence. Something I don’t lose is my appetite or my need to drink clean water. Hunger and thirst are the two things at the forefront of my mind as the hours pass.

Throughout the first day, Sophia and I work hard, picking oranges, putting them in our sacks, taking them to the bins. Rinse and repeat. It’s very boring. Very tiring. We don’t get any downtime. At around two in the afternoon a pickup truck drives up to the corner of the field.