Chapter 17: The Camp

The group sat rigid in the back of the truck, surrounded by steel walls and shadows. The air was thick with tension, and the clatter of the engine was the only sound, broken occasionally by the soldiers’ muffled voices. The tight quarters made breathing feel claustrophobic, each breath sharp and short.

Paris strained her ears, catching bits of the soldiers' conversation. Laughter—cold, mechanical—echoed from the front of the truck.

“…the list. Which one do you think is on it?”

“Not sure, but I hope we got one…”

Paris’s stomach twisted, her pulse quickening. She turned to the group, whispering, "Hunter was right." The words felt like ice in her throat. Janice, sitting beside her, trembled, her voice barely a whisper.

"My family… my family," Janice choked out, burying her face in her hands as tears fell freely.

Steve, trying to offer comfort, reached out to her. “If they’re as tough as you, Janice, they’ll be okay.”

Janice smiled weakly, wiping her face, but the fear lingered in her eyes.

The truck screeched to a halt, and the doors swung open, letting in the harsh, sterile light of the camp. Armed soldiers lined the perimeter, their eyes trained on the group like wolves eyeing prey. The camp was a fortress—concrete walls stretched as far as they could see, topped with coils of barbed wire. Towers loomed in the corners, each manned with soldiers gripping rifles, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

The group hesitated, watching the soldiers, their weapons still clutched tightly in their hands.

"Out. Now." A soldier barked, his voice cutting through the thick silence.

They stepped out cautiously, their eyes scanning the camp, taking in the militaristic precision of the setup. It was too perfect, too secure. It felt less like safety and more like a trap waiting to spring shut.

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"Get in line," another soldier ordered, his tone leaving no room for defiance. The group hesitated, but eventually complied, their eyes still on the walls, the barbed wire, the soldiers watching their every move.

As they gave their names, a chill ran down Paris’s spine. Her name was the only one that mattered to them.

"Paris Shepard," one of the soldiers muttered, checking a list. "Come with me."

Eli stepped forward, his voice hard. “No, sir. We stick together.”

The group tensed, raising their weapons, the air crackling with tension. Paris could feel the fear rising like bile in her throat.

Mills, the soldier with ginger hair and a flat-top, stepped forward, his rifle raised. “If you want safety, I’d suggest lowering your weapons. Now.”

Paris’s mind raced. The weight of Hunter’s warnings, the sight of Janice’s desperation, the need for answers—it all swirled together in a storm inside her head. She knew they couldn’t win this standoff, but she couldn’t lose the chance to find out what was really happening here.

She slowly lowered her crossbow, meeting Eli’s gaze. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. Eli hesitated but nodded, his grip on his shotgun loosening.

“Son,” Eli growled at Mills, “I’m trusting you with her, but I’ll have my eyes on you.”

Mills didn’t flinch. He merely gestured to a soldier beside him, the one with "Leader" on his badge, who pulled out a large metal box.

“Put your weapons in here,” Leader said. His tone left no room for argument.

Travis glanced at the others. “We don’t have a choice. Too many of them.”

Reluctantly, one by one, the group handed over their weapons, watching as they disappeared into the box. It felt like giving away the only thread of control they had left.

Mills grabbed Paris by the arm, his grip firm but not cruel, and began leading her away. “Come on. This way.”

The further they walked from the group; the tighter Paris’s chest felt. Her mind buzzed with questions, but one thought overpowered the rest—Am I safe here?

“Are we safe?” she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

Mills didn’t look at her. “Yes. As long as you all comply.”

But Paris wasn’t convinced. The camp was too clean, too orderly. It felt wrong. The soldiers’ rigid movements, their lifeless expressions—it was as if they had prepared for this long before the outbreak had even begun.

And then she heard it—a sound carried on the wind, faint at first, but unmistakable. Screaming. It sent a chill down her spine, her heartbeat quickening.

Mills kept walking; he loosened. Paris’s eyes darted around, searching for the source of the screams, but there was nothing. Just the cold, sterile buildings, the soldiers on high alert, and the distant wails that sounded more like echoes of the damned.

Where are they taking me? Paris’s thoughts raced. What is this place?

Her heart pounded in her chest as they neared a door. Mills pushed it open, revealing a long, dimly lit hallway. It was too quiet. Too clean. And somewhere in the distance, the screams continued.