We’ve been down here an hour, but besides a few refugee stragglers that wandered in shortly after we did, no one else has come from above.
The noise worsens and the trembling grows more violent until it all stops. One of the spaceships, a large one, must have taken off. There is nothing else that can make the ground quake like that. But ships weren’t allowed to leave without Graft’s approval… except with Graft dead…
“One of us should go up and take a look around,” Benjamin suggests. “Maybe ask around?”
Already planning on doing that, I lift my hand. “I will.”
He spins to face me from where he’s sitting in a rolling chair at the main desk. “I had a feeling you would say that.”
I shrug and shake out my shoulders, walking to the door and peering down the hallway. It’s been so quiet up until the ship. My instincts are twinging: something big has changed.
I scan the shadows down the hall and the blown-out opening. I can just glimpse a couple of the rusting cars beyond. Not hearing anything, not even low chatter, I wonder where the other refugees that came fleeing down here went. “I’ve been sneaking around the encampment every chance I’ve gotten. I know my way around at this point.”
“I wasn’t going to stop you,” Benjamin says, swiveling back around.
I turn and cock a brow at him. “Good.” Facing the hallway once more, I check the other direction before squinting back at the cars. “You guys wait here.”
“Just take a look and come back fast, okay?” Quinton interjects. “If the fighting has stopped, I’m sure you’ll know quickly. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. At least don’t put yourself at additional risk.”
“Be careful,” Olivia adds. She’s sitting on the ground by the front corner, her back against the wall with her arms draped over her bent legs. There’s a half-eaten military ration in her hand.
I give her a tight smile. “I will.” Though I can’t promise them I won’t put myself at risk. Not that long ago, it was my job to do just that.
Stepping out of the room and heading towards the cars, I search for signs of soldiers or other refugees amongst the thick shadows and the spaced out spotlights that are making them. Once I move into the larger area with the cars, I spot a dozen or so people hiding and lingering between them, quietly waiting things out like we have been deeper inside.
“Do any of you guys know what’s happening?” I ask, whispering loudly from right outside the blown-out wall.
Several people glance at me and shake their heads while an older, middle-aged woman with cuffed hair and a teenage boy huddled at her side meets my eyes. “Someone killed Commander Graft.”
“I know.” I take a step toward her. “But about the gunfire since? Do you know anything about that?”
A man in the back speaks up. “It’s all happening at the entrance to the camp. The soldiers are shooting each other.”
Pacing further out, I peer in the direction of the tunnel. With only a single spotlight between me and the bend towards the exit, it’s too dim to glean any more information. Re-facing the refugees huddling between the cars, I address them once more. “You guys should go deeper. There are rooms with furniture and beds and doors to barricade yourself behind. There’s food—military rations. My friends are down there, and it’ll be safer for you if someone comes down here firing a gun.”
Some of them shuffle around but I don’t wait to see if they listen to me, already turning for the tunnel and creeping ahead. As I get closer to the entrance, I hear distant shouting coming from outside, then different voices quickly closing on me. I dodge to the side as two refugees abruptly appear. We all freeze with short-lived panic before releasing a collective breath.
“There are others down below. Go,” I tell them, waving them on.
They start to rush past me when we hear another shout in the distance, and I grab one of the refugee’s arms—a middle-aged man with shaggy brown hair and a beard. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“A group of soldiers started killing some others. Commander Graft is dead. A bunch of soldiers left on their ship and there has only been intermittent gunfire since. The infirmaries are full of people who’ve been shot.”
“Has anyone taken over command?” I ask, releasing him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Those that are left are still at the entrance or the infirmaries.”
“Thank you. Tell the others down below what you’ve told me,” I say before turning away and carefully walking up the stairway out. Taking in the long shadows cast by the tent and the crates, I realize it’s going to be night soon.
“I—I will,” the man calls out behind me.
Bending low, I venture outside. More shouting comes from the direction of the entrance. Seeing another straggler, an elderly man looking around like he doesn’t know where to go, I indicate the tunnel behind me and tell him to follow it until he finds the others.
Why is there still shooting?
Slowly, and pausing to inform other refugees I find about the tunnel, I work my way to the middle of the encampment, past the soldier’s barracks. As I go, I see fewer people aimlessly running around searching for shelter.
Turning for the encampment’s entrance, I see faint smoke drift through the gate and soldiers manning the two lookouts on either side. One raises a rifle and gunfire goes off in my ears.
