October 3rd, 1997
Camp Lone Star 12, Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA)
Amarillo, Texas
Local Time 3:26 PM
Army Sergeant First Class Jacob Belew sighed as he surveyed the long line of refugees zigzagging on the trampled county fairground, waiting for their assigned box of rations. They all had the same tire, unnaturally thin countenance. The ones missing clumps of hair and stuck in thousand-yard-stares were the real standouts, having been the lucky ones from Houston, Dallas, and other vaporized big cities.
So far today, the National Guard troops babysitting the ration lines had broken up two separate scuffles, which was a record low over the past month.
Just then, his teammate, Air Force Master Sergeant William Candy, tapped him on the shoulder and gestured over to the operations tent. Belew nodded to Army Sergeant Zack Davies to take the helm.
Inside the tent already waiting were the local police chief, Warren Jefferson, and the commander of the National Guard unit, Colonel Lawrence Whitaker, leaning over a giant map of the country spread out on two fold-up tables. Candy formerly addressed the forlorn officer as he removed his crimson beret upon entering the tent. While Candy and Belew were both part of a separate chain of command, they still followed customs and courtesies to the the officer out of both courtesy and shared adversity. Whitaker glanced up and smiled in greeting, then fell back into a frown as his gaze dropped back down to the map.
Laid out across it were various thumb tacks color-coded to illustrate the situation. Locations like LA, DC, and NYC were stamped with grim red or black, while others like Chicago and Minneapolis were marked by hopeful yellows. Belew noticed as Candy grimly replaced the yellow over Atlanta with a broken red tack. Over the course of the past month, the color ratio had drastically changed from favoring green, to a scattering of yellow slowly being swallowed up by red.
Belew turned to his compatriots. "What's the latest, gentlemen?"
The haggard sheriff tried to put on a smile. "Some good news," he replied, before his smile faltered, "and some bad news."
The stoic colonel clarified. "We've been contacted by state officials, saying we will receive resupply by air tomorrow."
Belew smiled in relief. "That's great news. What's the catch?"
Candy spoke up, in his native East German accent. "We're still continuing to lose contact with other locations. A week ago, I spoke to the controller over in Camp 6, about a hundred miles from here, who told me they were expecting an air resupply. I haven't heard from them since."
The smile collapsed from Belew's face. "So, what does that mean?"
"We don't know," Whitaker declared, "but it don't look good."
"You think the Soviets have compromised our command and control?"
The colonel shrugged, but Candy shook his head. "Something doesn't feel right."
As they all thought about this, a cold winter chill slapped the sides of the tent and skimmed the tips of dead grass outside, rotting since the last bit of sunlight disappeared over a month ago.