N I N E T E E N.

                                    

                                          
Time has no meaning anymore. I don't know what day it is, or what time, what month. None of it matters; the only thing about time that actually matters is that we're against it. By my rough estimation, it's been roughly a month in a half, six weeks, that we've been out here. We passed the ruins about four days ago and have found no signs of the bunker. 
                          
My father always used to tell me that whatever happens, hope must remain.
                          
But here, in the Wilds, where life itself isn't much of a life at all, hope cannot survive. 
                          
My legs are sore, my head throbs, my eyes ache, and my muscles scream. I consider myself to be in pretty good shape but this journey is throwing me for a loop. Heck, we haven't gotten to the bunker and already I'm starting to get exhausted. I might make it back on pure adrenaline, if nothing else.
                          
Oliver frowns at the map, a face I've been seeing a lot of. At 22, he's the oldest of the group and has taken it upon himself to care for the rest of else and lead us. I don't prefer being led but I trust that Oliver knows what he's doing. If he gives up, then it really is a lost cause.
                          
"Oliver, can we take a quick break?" pants Aria. She isn't looking to great either, with ratty locks and red, scratched skin. Living in the Wilds has taken a toll on all of us. And considering Aria's the clean one, I don't even want to look at myself. 
                          
"We have to keep moving, Ari." He says, firmly but not unkindly. She grimaces but continues to hike along. If there's one thing Aria, Lucas, and I have in common, it's that we all respect Oliver immensely. 
                          
We've reached an incline of sorts, and my thighs burn as we climb, a solemn procession. We're running out of rations and magazines, both of which are critical for our survival. If we make it to the bunk before we run out of rations, we'll be able to restock. If we don't... well, I guess I'll finally get the chance to try those caterpillars they eat in Africa. 
                          
We crest over the ridge and freeze. About ten feet away are another ragtag group of people, holding their weapons up defensively. They're not more than sticks and rocks tied with twine, but anything that can stab is deadly in my opinion. They wear patched clothes and their expressions are guarded.  They look like tribal warriors, living off the land.
                          
I can't imagine how they've survived; I'm barely scraping by and I've only been here about six weeks. But for all I know, it could be six months. It's all so hazy in my mind. 
                          
They creep forward in sync, moving low and slow. They remind me of the cats I saw in the zoo ages ago; a lithe, fluid grace. 


                          
"Who are you?" One of them, a woman, calls out.
                          
"I could ask the same thing," replies Oliver smoothly. 
                          
"Explain why you are on private property."
                          
I scoff. "We didn't exactly see a sign." 
                          
She turns her head towards me, tilting her head. Her black hair is cropped closely around her head, obviously an amateur job. It just makes her look fiercer. 
                          
"Anyone who lives in these woods know the boundaries."
                          
"Umm, we don't live here, in case that wasn't clear." Lucas drawls. The woman's eyes sharpen and she clenches her weapon so tight that I wouldn't be surprised if the stick snapped entirely.
                          
"Where did you come from, then?" She asks slowly, sizing us up.
                          
"From inside the border. We've come to find the bunker and retrieve the serum." 
                          
Whispers ripple through the other five people behind the woman, and I strain to catch snippets of their conversation. The woman scrutinizes us suspiciously.
                          
"Where is your proof?" 
                          
"Oh, oh, I have it!" Aria exclaims, as if she's on one of those jeopardy shows my mother loves. She sets her bag down and rummages through it eagerly. The woman arches one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
                          
So much for first impressions. 
                          
Aria stands up, triumphantly waving a crumpled note between her fingers. She hands it to the woman, who snatches it from her. Her eyes fly over the page and she deliberates for what seems like hours. Finally, another guard, a man this time, approaches her.
                          
"They're the ones, Olive. It's clear." 
                          
Olive. I'll have to commit that name to memory. Olive sizes us up one last time but spins on her heel briskly.
                          
"Come on, then. If you really are the drafted ones, we don't have much time."