Chapter 1.
The year is 2095. The Washington Frontiers hold the line of Pasco against the Las Vegas Regime, fighting to keep the states from being swallowed whole. Lives lost, families devastated by violence, destruction, and bloodshed. Theories spring about the motives of each state: some say the Frontiers want Vegas’s synthetic fuel production, others think the Regime wants complete, unbroken control.
Roxana sits at the rough-hewn wooden table as the makeshift house groans in the settling dark. A plate of venison sits in front of her, ceramic clinking around her as she stares blankly at the meat.
“Thank you for your help with the hunt, Roxana. That knife is yours,” Mr. Baxter says, his mouth full of venison. He is a man who discovered her wandering out in the scorch a few days ago.
She turns her head left to him. “Yeah. Thanks,” she manages, before looking back down at her plate.
“I could have helped too,” eleven-year-old Jackie protests.
Mrs. Baxter clears her throat and swallows hard. “No, too dangerous. Don’t want them head-huntin’ bandit bastards or God knows what picking you off. Already worried about your father going out there, especially with this fourteen-year-old running around.”
“I can handle myself,” Roxana snaps at the woman, her head whipping right. Her brow furrows.
Mrs. Baxter chuckles. “All of ya youngin’s say that.”
Roxana ignores her and saws into her venison. Her mind drifts to the war; a dark smile tugs at her lips at the thought of dropping some Regime soldiers. She even wonders what it’s actually like to kill.
She finishes chewing as Mr. and Mrs. Baxter and their son get up from the table, carrying their plates to the sink. The legs of their chairs scrape against the wood flooring. Roxana finishes her food and leans back in her chair, her heart hammering against her ribs at the thought of her plan once the house goes quiet.
“Um... Mr. Baxter? Where did you, uh... say the Frontiers were recruiting?” Roxana asks, standing from the table with her plate in hand, the ceramic cold in her palm.
Mr. Baxter, standing to the right of the sink with his back to her, adjusts a battery pack plugged into the wall. He looks over his shoulder, the dim light shimmering on his dark hair.
“North of here, in Harpers Town... or—” He stops, glancing back at the wall. Roxana looks over at the grease-stained fridge, then walks up to place her plate in the sink.
“Or where?” she asks, a flick of impatience in her voice as she lifts the brim of her tan cap slightly.
He sighs. “Okanogan. I wouldn’t go there.”
Roxana leans her back against the ledge of the counter in front of the sink, her interest instantly piqued.
“Well, Roxana, thanks again for helping gut the doe. Have a good night,” he says, giving her a nod and running a tired hand across his brown-stubbled face.
She forces a small smile and nods, watching him exit the kitchen. She crosses her arms over her chest, a sharp smirk playing on her lips. She’s going to raid the fridge the second the house goes quiet. Her right hand drifts down to the hem of her sand-caked jeans, brushing the rough leather sheath of her knife. She leaves the kitchen, her booted feet making the floorboards groan.
Her arms tingle at the thought, but she knows she has to leave anyway; she can’t stay here. She turns the plan over and over in her head as she sits on the old blue-and-black striped couch. She removes her cap and places it on the cracked coffee table, the plastic lenses of her dirt-bike goggles gleaming in the dim living room light.
She loosens her hair, shaking her head lightly so the dark strands slap against her face, the faint smell of the shampoo she used earlier hitting her nostrils.
Roxana’s eyes snap open in the absolute dark. She stretches her arms and legs, feeling the adrenaline prime her veins. Now is the time. She sits up, swinging her legs so her boots plant firmly onto the rug stretching between the coffee table and the couch. She slips her feet into her tan boots, fastening the laces entirely in the dark, relying on muscle memory. She feels around for the backpack set beside her on the right, slowly rising to her feet while making sure the makeshift floor doesn’t creak or groan. Grabbing the handle of her pack, she moves silently toward the kitchen.
Every movement is delicate. She pulls her cap down low. The moonlight casts a cold, blue haze through the small kitchen window behind the sink. She unzips the center compartment of her pack before reaching out for the refrigerator handle. It opens with a soft metal clang from the racks inside. Light spills out over her, the cool rush of air hitting her olive-skinned arms. She glances over her shoulder into the dark hallway. Empty.
She turns back to the fridge, rapidly stuffing canned food, bottled water, and leftover packaged venison into her pack.
Adrenaline courses through her arms, pulling a sick, wide grin across her face. She loves the risk.
CLICK.
The kitchen overhead floods with harsh light. Her heart seizes.
“THE FUCK ARE YA DOIN’!” Mrs. Baxter’s southern voice barks in fury from behind her.
Roxana slams the refrigerator door shut with a violent bang, hoisting the backpack by its center strap. She rushes past Mrs. Baxter, sending the older woman stumbling, and crashes through the front door into the cool night air. She sprints left, cutting away from the small makeshift settlement. Her shins brush against brittle sagebrush and tall dead grass; her boots crunch sharply into the sand with every desperate stride. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t care.
She reaches the cracked, abandoned asphalt of the road and halts, chest heaving, listening over her shoulder. No one is chasing her. She got lucky. Zipping the remaining gap of her bag, she slings both straps over her shoulders and turns north. Silhouettes of old, rusted cars line the pavement to her left and right, downed power lines spilling copper guts across the broken road.
“Fucking idiots,” Roxana mutters in a surge of raw triumph as her boots start clomping rhythmically against the pavement.
She pulls a faded, grime-soaked scrunchie from her pocket, sweeping her black hair back into a messy ponytail as she rounds the hood of an abandoned sedan. The only sounds are the steady whine of the wind and the drone of crickets, the cool night air skimming over her sweat-drenched skin. A smile lingers on her lips as she walks past a truck flipped completely onto its roof.
She is going to join the Frontier’s cause. The urge to kill throbs like a pulse, filling the cold void in her mind and gut. A sudden gust sweeps down the corridor, stirring the dust on both sides of the asphalt. Roxana shivers slightly, wishing she had grabbed a long-sleeve shirt instead of her thin tank top.
