Bracing against the stiff, gritty wind trying to shove her off of her feet, Samantha shifted her battered pack onto her other shoulder, stepping carefully over broken glass and wide cracks in the rough, weedy pavement. Ahead, she could see a lump in the street that was surely a body.
With the sole of her boot flapping with each step, Samantha drew in a ragged breath and kept going. Instead of giving into the tears that wanted to drown her in disappointment and fear, she took another step. When she passed the uniformed man, who had been shot in the back, she wiped away a stray tear, telling herself it didn't matter if they were all dead. There would still be something she could use, maybe even a radio she could listen to for some idea of where to try next.
Longing for the warmth of the sun she could only just make out behind the thick layer of debris covering the sky, the Storm Tracker instinctively stayed to the left as she came to the top of a hill, where the wind was sharper, stronger…reeked.
Glad for her goggles in the heavy smoke that swirled over the top of the road in waves, she moved between the trees so she wouldn't be outlined by the dim sky. Kneeling down, Sam looked own at the place she would have been, where she would have died, if not for the chopper crashing.
Buried inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex, the huge steel doors to the government's once impenetrable compound were open, releasing pillars of thick, black smoke. They drew Samantha's eye repeatedly as she looked over the devastated shack city that was spread out far into the distance. There were no signs of survivors.
The fences which were supposed to protect the cave-like entrance were gone. Entwined with blackened strings of holiday lights, she could see parts of barbed wire littering the sprawling refugee camp that lay smoldering on the canyon floor at the base of the enormous stone entrance. The sign announcing what was inside wasn't visible through the smoke and flames still shooting out of the airtight doors.
The refugee camp was a sad, pathetic mix of moldy, box homes. Most covered in plastic, boards and wood of every kind formed haphazard living quarters. There was also a crowded cemetery at the far corner, telling her that these people had come here just after the War. These were the families of those who'd been taken in the draft and they had been here ever since, slowly dying on the indifferent doorstep of safety. Had anyone been let in?