𝗧𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 | an apocalyptic novel ©

Chapter 5

No Man's Land

1995

Maxine

The small portable Television sitting on the camping table crackles with static. When the young soldier in the tent with me mumbles something under his breath and smacks its side, the static miraculously vanishes, giving way to a slightly pixelated news broadcast.

"All refugees are now encouraged by the law to seek shelter in the camps, until further notice. Future residences and matters are now being discussed."

I pull my legs to my chest and rest my chin on my knees as I look at the Television.

Since when were all channels broadcasting the same? At what point did Soap Operas change to updates regarding the weather situation? Even kids' channels are not visible on the schedule anymore.

I don't see the soldier staring at me, at first. "Are you alright?"

My eyes jolt up to his. "Oh- sure."

Am I alright?

The sun is out, and the light shines through the viscous material of the tent, casting a numb warm yellow tone over my white bedding.

I got assigned to a makeshift bed – consisting of a thin mattress on a stretcher, the same kind of bed every refugee was given here.

So far, I wasn't allowed to contact my parents. Also I wouldn't ask, since the telephoning fees from the Bronx to Florida would skyrocket and I still have my letter to send.

And because I had to discard my purse and my wallet, I don't have spare change or my ID.

The only things keeping me company in this plain shelter tent are the buzzing of the Television, the chirping of the crickets outside in the grass, three other people – total strangers to me - and the soldier now crossing his arms over his broad chest. Apparently, my response wasn't true to what he'd liked to hear.

"What's your name?"

My eyes shoot up to him. "M-Maxine Caleb."

Why does he need to know?

Why doesn't he need to know?

I'm speaking to an authority here...

"Commander Forther, we need you on the outer perimeters," his radio starts to crackle to life, just when he nods to my response. With one last look at me, he pushes the flaps of the tent aside and leaves.

A sigh escapes my lips. This whole situation feels obscure.

I already miss home.

I miss my mother and her embraces, I miss my father and the stories he used to tell on warm evenings when we used to sit outside – when we still could.

If someone had told me that I'd end up in a shelter in the Bronx when all I wanted to do was visit my friend and crash there, I'd have laughed at their face.

Life can turn boring. Two days ago, I was a seamstress working in a small tailoring shop in Florida, and now I'm treated as a refugee.

They didn't ask, it was assumed. No traveling destination had to be stated, we were all pushed into the same box. Perhaps, it was the poor attempt of the government to keep us at bay.

My eyes scan the tent. It is quite spacious, but when I consider how many people reside here, it is sickening. Forty people, counting me in.

With three tents in this district, the entire camp is split into four districts with similar layouts.