Page 47 of Citadel

We’ve made it around the town and have almost reached the highway when we hear a sound.

It’s familiar although it’s not nearly as common as it used to be.

An engine. More than one.

Vehicles.

Approaching us right now.

Breanna doesn’t hesitate to plot a strategy or even take a breath. She grabs my arm and drags me back in the direction we came—up a hill and into part of an old church, one of the only buildings left standing in town.

She obviously knew exactly where it was and that it was one of the only shelters that might provide us safety nearby.

We duck into a corner for a minute. Then she stands up and peeks out the closest window. “Shit,” she breathes.

I’m trying to be good and follow her lead, but some things are impossible to ignore. I straighten my legs so I can see out the window too.

It has a clear view down the hill and onto the old highway. What I see there makes me gasp.

Travelers aren’t nearly as common on the roads as they were two years ago. By now most people have either migrated to the middle of the country or settled or died. But we do see them occasionally passing by Monument. Folks whose food and provisions have run out and are in search of a new home. Or those hearing rumors about more developed civilization surrounding the former cities in the middle of the continent—Houston, Saint Louis, and Chicago are supposed to have built their infrastructure back, including electricity, hospitals, and schools—and they have standing armies for protection.

But other stories have trickled back this way as well. Those armies enforce order as much as guard against outside threats. And leaders exert authoritarian control.

It’s probably inevitable. People are scared, and so they’ll give up certain freedoms for safety. No one can blame them. Certainly not me.

But I’ve heard too many stories that make me nervous, and either way it’s a long, dangerous trip to an uncertain destination.

Monument is as safe and comfortable as we need.

But the thing is, as travelers become less frequent, it’s become easier to tell the difference between well-intentioned migrants and roving criminals. What we see down on the highway are definitely not migrants.

We’re too far away to see faces, but there are at least three Jeeps and several motorcycles. Far too many men with assault weapons.

It bigger than any traveling gang I’ve seen in years. Sixty or seventy of them that I can see.

If we were merely a minute later, they would have overtaken us as we were crossing the road.

The very thought makes my stomach churn. I cover my belly with one hand.

Breanna slants a glance over to me. “We better hope they get out of the area soon.”

“Maybe they’re just passing through. You don’t think they’d try to attack Monument, do you?”

She shrugs. “Hopefully not. I think we could probably hold out, but it wouldn’t be easy. We need to get back soon to give them some warning, just in case.”

“But they’re heading away, aren’t they?”

“It looks like it. But if they’re in this area, they’re going to be a threat. Who’s to say they won’t turn around? And maybe this group here isn’t all of them. I don’t like that they’re around.”

“Yeah.” I rub at my eyes, which are feeling too dry. It would be nice to have some eye drops. “Me either. But we need to wait until they’re gone before we leave this church.”

“Of course. We’ll give it at least fifteen minutes after they’re out of sight. Then I’ll check things out to make sure it’s safe.”

We’re talking in hushed whispers although it seems evident that no one else is close at the moment. I want to argue with Breanna’s final claim, but I bite back the objection.

I’m not going to be silly or obstinate here. Breanna knows how to navigate outside the walls far better than I do. If she thinks she needs to scout things out before I leave the shelter of this church, then I’ll trust her on that.

It seems safer for us to stay together, but what the hell do I know?

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