I Was Just a Quiet Civilian Nurse at an Off-Grid Oregon Compound Until the Commander Saw the Trident Tattoo on My Arm and Locked the Compound Gates
The compound was a beehive of false activity. Guards patrolled with rifles, checking non-existent biohazard seals on every doorframe. The tension was a palpable thing, but the men acted as if nothing was amiss.
I found Toby Higgins in the main supply depot, whistling off-key as he stacked crates of MREs. He was a lanky kid, maybe twenty-one, with a perpetually cheerful expression that seemed out of place in this grim fortress.
“Hey, Maya!” he greeted, pushing a mop of sandy hair from his eyes. “Heard about the lockdown. Crazy, huh? Commander O’Malley says it’s a new superbug.”
I forced a smile, the corners of my mouth aching. “Something like that.”
I watched him hoist a heavy crate onto his flatbed. Toby was the compound’s only civilian supply driver, granted access to almost every sector.
This was my chance.
“Toby, I’ve got a problem,” I said, lowering my voice. “The overflow medical tent has a pallet of plasma bags that need to go to the south checkpoint storage. They’re empty, just taking up space.”
He scratched his head. “Empty plasma bags? Usually, those just get incinerated, Maya.”
“Not these,” I insisted, injecting urgency into my tone. “They’re part of a new clinical trial. We need to log them manually before disposal. O’Malley’s orders, straight from the top.”
It was a blatant lie. O’Malley hadn’t said a word to me since that morning.
Toby’s eyes widened at the mention of the commander. “Oh, right. New trial. Got it.”
He was easy to manipulate, trusting, and desperate to please. His mother’s house in town needed repairs, he’d told me once. Every extra dollar counted.
“I’ll bring them over,” I said, leading him towards my tent. “It’s just a small stack.”
Under the cot where Marcus had just been treated, I had two crates already packed. Inside, beneath layers of sterile cotton rolls and fake plasma bag packaging, were the stolen shortwave radio parts I’d scrounged from the defunct comms room last month. A coil of fine copper wire, a small antenna, a power inverter I’d jury-rigged from a discarded battery pack. And the wire cutters.
I needed those cutters more than anything.
Toby didn’t hesitate, carefully loading the crates onto his flatbed. He didn’t question the weight, or the way I meticulously taped the lids shut. He just wanted to do his job.
“South checkpoint, then,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up. “Be back in twenty.”
As his truck rumbled away, kicking up mud, a chill snaked down my spine. I was using him. A good kid, caught in a web he didn’t even know existed.
The guilt was a heavy stone in my stomach, but survival demanded it.
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