Camp
Ferrer lowered his binoculars. He could barely see the camp on the plain below his mountain home. There was no smoke, hadn’t been for a couple of days. He suspected nobody was alive down there. They were either dead or they’d moved on somewhere else. Poor bastards.
He’d worked at the camp for 2 years, first as a field agent patrolling the local area for illegals and then as an admin in a cushy air conditioned office. The camp had been processing immigrants from the border, but as the situation fell apart it had become a refugee camp for Americans.
It was back in his patrol days that he’d found the mountain home. Built as a hideaway by some rich exec from the music industry he suspected. It was the survivalists dream, packed with food, guns and ammo, equipped with a generator, solar and a well. It was well hidden too. You wouldn’t find it unless you knew where to look, which was important in times like these.
Like most of the people working at the camp, he’d felt proud of his job. Defending America from the criminals, the rapists and the scum from south of the border. He had hated immigrants. Then things changed. He’d decided he hated whining hungry useless entitled Americans more.
As time went by the army trucks delivering food became less regular and the quality of the food dropped. He saw men fight over tins of beans. One day while duplicating overtime rotas he’d seen the camp calendar. Seen the cut off date. No more trucks. No more food. Nothing. All day he thought about the trucks and the mountain home.
After dark he checked out a Hummer and went AWOL. Nobody came after him. Two days later he watched as a hercules aircraft sprayed the camp with something bad. From the mountain home he’d seen the fires and had bad dreams about what had happened down there.
So here he was up in the mountains, alone but alive. Plenty of food, water and electricity up here ladies, more than enough for two. Or three if he could hook it up. He cackled to himself, spat on the ground and headed inside for the night.
Geraldine and Mandy watched the pudgy pale geek spit on the ground and retreat into his fancy wooden house. If anything he seemed bigger than last time they’d seen him. Camp food hadn’t been great. Up here he had supplies and a hunting rifle. He wasn’t going anywhere. That was good. They liked it when the food looked after itself and didn’t move around too much.
15 June 2019 (first draft).
He’d worked at the camp for 2 years, first as a field agent patrolling the local area for illegals and then as an admin in a cushy air conditioned office. The camp had been processing immigrants from the border, but as the situation fell apart it had become a refugee camp for Americans.
It was back in his patrol days that he’d found the mountain home. Built as a hideaway by some rich exec from the music industry he suspected. It was the survivalists dream, packed with food, guns and ammo, equipped with a generator, solar and a well. It was well hidden too. You wouldn’t find it unless you knew where to look, which was important in times like these.
Like most of the people working at the camp, he’d felt proud of his job. Defending America from the criminals, the rapists and the scum from south of the border. He had hated immigrants. Then things changed. He’d decided he hated whining hungry useless entitled Americans more.
As time went by the army trucks delivering food became less regular and the quality of the food dropped. He saw men fight over tins of beans. One day while duplicating overtime rotas he’d seen the camp calendar. Seen the cut off date. No more trucks. No more food. Nothing. All day he thought about the trucks and the mountain home.
After dark he checked out a Hummer and went AWOL. Nobody came after him. Two days later he watched as a hercules aircraft sprayed the camp with something bad. From the mountain home he’d seen the fires and had bad dreams about what had happened down there.
So here he was up in the mountains, alone but alive. Plenty of food, water and electricity up here ladies, more than enough for two. Or three if he could hook it up. He cackled to himself, spat on the ground and headed inside for the night.
Geraldine and Mandy watched the pudgy pale geek spit on the ground and retreat into his fancy wooden house. If anything he seemed bigger than last time they’d seen him. Camp food hadn’t been great. Up here he had supplies and a hunting rifle. He wasn’t going anywhere. That was good. They liked it when the food looked after itself and didn’t move around too much.
15 June 2019 (first draft).