Whatever. I’m turning into an ice cube so I don’t care anymore.

Bakersfield is basically a big flat city in the middle of a desert. Today there’s not a soul in sight, but I’ve gotten used to the absence of people over the last four and half days. We take an off ramp into the heart of the city, right where there’s a big blue and yellow sign that says Bakersfield. Everything is flooded with water. Any buildings that I see have the windows punched out. All the restaurants and grocery stores are especially ravaged.

Other than the deserted landscaping and abandoned city, I can look out to the left of the freeway and see big open fields. John Wayne’s oil fields, my dad would always tell me if we drove up north on the freeway. Apparently the big man with the gun made some extra cash drilling for oil out in the middle of nowhere.

Typical cowboy.

“Where is it?” I ask, confused. “Where are all the people?”

“If there’s a camp here,” Chris observes, “it should be near the city center…maybe.”

He doesn’t look too sure. We walk down a curving road that goes right underneath the Bakersfield sign. After a few hundred feet we come to a cluster of hotels and restaurants. I almost scream with surprise.

There are people everywhere!

Big chain link fences are surrounding the entire shopping center, marked with signs that read EMERGENCY RELIEF CAMP. Men, women and children are sitting around the edges of the fence, most of them wearing garbage bags to shield from the rain. There are military trucks parked on the asphalt and officials wearing black uniforms standing around the buildings.

“This is an Emergency Camp?” I say, disbelief flooding through me. “Everybody here’s wearing garbage bags!”

“Those are ponchos, actually,” Chris corrects, a wry grin on his face. “And don’t move. What do you see there?” He points to the outer edge of an old motel. An official is standing next to a soldier in a light blue uniform. Both of them are armed.

“What are they armed for?” I whisper.

We sink back into the shadows of the trees, watching the camp through the leaves. “Good question,” Chris says.

I spot an elderly woman moving around the parking lot, fenced off and guarded by the black uniformed men. There are stockpiles of supplies. Some people are climbing up and down the outdoor stairwell of the old motels. Others are milling around the fast food restaurants.

“This is weird,” I say.

“This is wrong,” he replies. His hands tighten into fists beside me, and I can feel his entire body tense. “Follow me.”

I do, even though I have no idea what he thinks he’s going to do. As far as I can tell, there is no ENTER HERE sign anywhere around the camp, and there’s certainly no Red Cross truck. Something is seriously whacked.

Chris leads me through the park across the street from the shopping mall turned relief camp, pausing behind a parked car on the curb. We kneel beside it and, since it’s almost nighttime, stand up and approach the fence. My heart starts beating faster, even though I couldn’t say why I’m getting anxious. I just am.

Chris turns and follows the curve of the fence, going around the shopping center, ducking behind every other abandoned car on the street. So far nobody has noticed us. They’re all staring at the puddles on the ground or sitting motionless with their eyes closed.

Like a bunch of zombies.

Chris raises his hand and makes a fist, the signal to stop.

I almost run headlong into his back just as he drops to the ground in a crouch. We’re on the other side of the parking lot, looking out over the shopping center. The fence covers a lot more ground than I thought, and the weird thing? There’s no open space. No exit, just a gated entrance with a few guards hovering around it. There’s also a lot of wicked-looking barbed wire looped across the top of the fence.

 It’s like…a cage.

“Chris…” I whisper, a chilling thought creeping into my mind.

“I know.” All of the sudden his gaze hardens. He swears. “My god.”

“What?” I demand, struggling to see across the street. “What is it?”

“More.” He presses his forehead against his hand, taking a deep breath.

I search the parking lot in frustration, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. All I can see is a bunch of people gathered on the other side of the compound. On our side of the street there’s a big, black plastic covering a bunch of supplies.

“They’re bodies, Cassie,” Chris hisses, turning my chin towards the sheet. “Underneath. Dead bodies.”

I suck my breath in, staring at it. He’s right. The sheet is covering a bunch of objects stacked on top of each other. Little red spots are seen around the corners. Dried blood? I slap my hands over my mouth in order to avoid screaming.

“No. This isn’t happening,” I moan, kneeling like a sick person.

Chris places his hand on the small of my back, smoothing my hair away from my face. He turns my head upward, one hand on each cheek. “We have to get out of here,” he whispers. “Can do you that?”

I manage to nod, horrified.

He smiles like he’s proud of me and grabs my hand. Both of us back slowly away from the camp, but Chris stops me and makes a motion for me to kneel in the bushes and be quiet.

 “Who are these people?” I mutter, shaking. “What kind of army does this?”

Chris wrinkles his brow, bowing his head. Both of us listen to the distant chatter of the conversations between the uniformed men.

“German,” he whispers.

“What?”

“They’re speaking German,” he replies. “And if I’m not mistaken…” he pauses, concentrating on listening. “There’s a little French in there, too.”

“Is this some kind of foreign invasion?” I breathe.

“I don’t know.” Chris points to the men wearing the dark blue uniforms. There is a black patch on their sleeve, over which is a white O. One of the guards turns around, and I can see a larger insignia stitched on the backside of his jacket. It reads: Omega. The O is significantly larger than the rest of the lettering, designed to hold a picture of the continents of the world inside the sphere. “I’ve never seen a uniform like that.” He rests his arm on his knee. “What the hell does Omega stand for?” He nods towards the guys in the black. “They don’t have any ID at all. They could be mercenaries.”

“Omega could be an acronym,” I suggest, my voice quivering. “I don’t know. Chris, please. Let’s get out of here.”

He studies the scene before us for a moment longer before he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me down the street, scanning up and down for movement. We reach the Bakersfield sign again and keep walking until we find another freeway onramp, but that’s when we hear the noise.

It’s music.

Chris and I share a glance, surprised. It seems to be echoing down the street. It sounds like pop music. “What’s going on?” I whisper, bewildered.

Chris doesn’t look like he knows. Without a word, be both silently agree to creep down the street and scope out the source of the music. We pass a few empty businesses — some loan companies and a coffee shop — until we reach the corner. I poke my head around the edge of a brick building and stare.

Generator-powered lights are hooked up to the tops of the buildings, and there are people in this area of the city. They are not fenced in, but most of the buildings are covered with weird graffiti. I can’t make out what it says; Chris doesn’t comment. Some more guards in Omega uniformsare patrolling the sidewalks, identifiable by their blue uniforms. There are posters in the window that say something. I can’t quite make it out…I duck back when a trooper turns his gaze towards the corner.

The back of my head presses against a bookstore window. I look up, noticing that a poster is taped to it. I snatch it away, reading the bold lettering in the dim lighting: