The Queer Rebels

Chapter 25: Fracturing

I slam on the brakes.

I'm on a deserted road, pocked and cracked. Crumbling buildings are in the distance. Weeds have started to reclaim this stretch as wild.

With the helicopters overhead and smoke coming from the compound, my first instinct is to flee.

To avoid what is unfolding in front of me.

To save my own life.

Or close my eyes and try to wake myself up from this nightmare.

I'm such a chickenshit. I slam my palm on the steering wheel and let out a tirade of curses.

Where would I even run to? I have a car that I can barely drive, and I don't even know how much juice the batteries have left. Not that I have a destination in mind.

The city is out of the question.

Even if my mother–the only family I would trust–took me in, all that would do is put her in harm's way.

I don't know any other locations outside of the city. I never even graduated from the common bunk room.

And Marcy is still there. At the compound.

Marcy.

If I do nothing else, I have to at least try to find her. To get her to safety.

With a deep breath, I steel my resolve and ease my foot off the brake. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I make my way down the road and to the edge of the compound's surface lot.

The Queer Rebels' sanctuary, once a place of hope and transformation, is now a scene of frantic escape.

While there are helicopters in the sky, I don't notice any ground forces. No trucks or armored vehicles. At least not yet.

Loud voices boom down from the choppers. "Stay put!" they order. "Surrender!"

But it's clear that without ground support, people aren't listening. I see groups of people rushing towards cars. A few speed away. Some individuals are picking up stones and chunks of crumbled asphalt and hauling them towards the hovering machines.

I see others using their training, projecting monstrous holograms. And I am sure others are camouflaging themselves to near invisibility.

With a yank on the steering wheel, I pull the car over to the curb, place it in park, and grab the keys from the ignition. I figure I have a better chance of making it across the parking lot on foot. If they're firing live ammunition, I'd rather not be in a large moving target.

I don't know where the smoke is coming from. Did the authorities fire at them? Or drop canisters of smoke bombs? Tear gas?

For the past several weeks, I've been mostly inside the compound. It's large enough that I haven't felt claustrophobic or the need to walk around outside. The atrium's glass ceiling has certainly helped. But, as a result, I haven't explored the parking lot or surrounding areas.

All I know is what I can see from the bunkroom's window.

I pause and look around. Where would Marcy be? Still in the bunk room? Or has the compound been evacuated?

With the chaos unfolding, I doubt Sequoia has been broadcasting announcements over the speakers.

There is no way for me to know where Marcy was when everything started, who she is with, or where she is now. So, with no better plan, I decide to head towards the back of the lot, where the windows to the common bunk room are.

I run around the edge of the parking lot, doing my best to stick to the shadows. I don't have the right tech to change my clothes, but I am wearing dark colors. With any luck, the authorities won't notice me.