IT'S A clear night- the first Devon has seen since the day he first lost touch with his parents so many weeks ago. He can almost see the stars through the smoke and debris that line the horizon- an expression of rare beauty in his broken world- but this does little to lift his fallen spirits. He's come so far, searched so hard, followed every clue that was given to him all the way to stupid, Trump-loving Mr. Bedford, and for what? A close encounter. A just-miss. A trick shot thrown his way. 

Nice try, Devon. 

The Trumpets had his parents, and it was only a matter of time before they would have him, too. Perhaps, he would go to them voluntarily. There was only so long one could aimlessly wander a bomb-shattered wasteland before the creeping beginnings of insanity started to set in. He could see himself running to one of their refugee camps, begging for some semblance of normalcy, some link to the shattered remains of his old life. There would come a day when he would trade what was left of his freedom, his lofty ideals, for the simple comfort of a toothbrush and a real bed to sleep in. 

A toothbrush sounds great. 

Suddenly, his parents' decision- if it had even been their decision in the first place- didn't seem so treacherous anymore. 

"So, what's your apocalypse story?" 

It had been a while since the girl- Maia- had spoken to him. She was obviously accustomed to walking alone, in silence, and he clearly hadn't made the greatest first impression on her with his ill-timed humor. Now, it seemed, she finally seemed to be giving him a chance. 

"I don't have much of one. Nothing as interesting as a Californian's would be, anyway." 

Maia nods, gazing over at the crumbling remains of a library to her left. "Everyone's story's the same, anyway. Got kicked out of their home by the Trumpets. Family's killed or up at one of the refugee camps, but you won't suffer the humiliation of being taken in by the same people who caused you to become a refugee in the first place." 

"Got that right," Devon laughs, pausing for a moment mid-stride. "It's getting late. Don't you think we should, you know, find someplace to spend the night? We've been walking for at least four hours straight, and since we obviously aren't going to find any food, we might as well get some rest."

"We?" Maia raises an eyebrow as she surveys the area, taking note of a relatively intact storefront across the debris-littered street. 

"I mean, did you enjoy being alone out here?" Devon replies, annoyed. I'm just happy to have found another person and here she is, judging that person!

"You have a point," she shrugs. "That Whataburger up there looks like it's in pretty good condition. I wonder if we could spend the night there, and then find a department store to raid in the morning for water and supplies. An even bigger if- if we could find a car and gas- I'd guess we could make it to the edge of civilization in a few days. At that point, we could think about getting to Canada."   

"Wait, Canada?" 

"Yeah," Maia replies, as if leaving the country is the world's most obvious decision. "The outside world needs to know about what's really going on in America. They've got aerial footage, but not enough eyewitnesses are making it out. We've gotta get the UN- or at least a few foreign governments into this. When they find out how many people he's uprooted and killed, they're bound to at least try to do something about Trump!" 

Before Devon can respond to her ambitious proposition, he's silenced by the unmistakable click of a gun being raised to position. 

"Put your hands in the air. Don't move. Don't even turn around," A harsh, throaty voice commands. All Devon and Maia want to do is turn their heads to find the source of the voice, but the direct threat to their lives curbs their curiosity and they stand perfectly still, facing each other, as they raise their hands above their heads. 

"Now, you will follow my instructions exactly or physical pain may come into the picture. Nod your heads if you understand." 

Devon cuts his eyes over at Maia, but she doesn't look at him. Her expression is consumed by fear as she nods vigorously. 

"Good. You may turn around." 

Devon whips around to see three men behind him, all holding guns pointed directly at him. They stand slightly offset from each other, angled so that no matter in which direction he may choose to run, one of them could shoot him within seconds. 

"You're going to come with us to our base, where you'll answer some questions. Our rules are simple enough: if we like what you have to say, you can stay with us. If not, we're feedin' you to the sharks- pardon me- turning you in to the government." 

The man who's been talking- the one in the middle- concludes his speech methodically, suggesting that he's said this many times before. All of the men wear sunglasses and bandanas tied around their mouths to guard them against the pollution, making it near impossible to discern their expressions. Yet, to Devon, none of them seem cruel- only duly cautious in the unpredictable, Trumpet-ridden environment. 

At least they're not Trumpets. 

"For Dump's sake, Leo, let 'em put their arms down- look at 'em, they're kids!" the man on the far right protests. He's significantly shorter than the other two, and holds his gun with less confidence. Probably didn't use it much before...this happened. 

"Alright, you may relax," the first man- Leo-says, a hint of distrust lacing his voice. "Just don't try anything- if you're Trumpet spies, I can guarantee you won't make it back to your superiors to report on us." 

"Leo," the third man sighs, lowering his gun. "Let's take 'em back, and put that gun down, will you?"

"Alright," Leo hisses through gritted teeth. "Follow us, kiddos. It won't be a long walk."