Page 6 of Storm Caller

What’s going on?

Rook stares straight ahead as I study his profile, confused about so many things. I thought he was just some guy who decided to attend Amery to find a better life, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been mistaken this entire time.

He told me he has superiors. People he reports to.

He told me The Shield was lying.

And now this man is bowing to him.

The questions crowd together, blending into one pulsing mass behind my eyes.

The man on the left reaches over, flips open a panel, and punches a few buttons. The energy buzzing across the gate winks out, leaving us a clear passage into the camp.

“Welcome home,” he says.

We file through in a single line, electricity sizzling against the vertical poles flanking the entrance.

Dozens of people swarm the compound, dressed in more of the same molded leather armor, paired with pieces of mismatched tactical gear I recognize from New Manhattan.

Calliope gestures for Rook and me to follow, while August dogs my heels like an annoying shadow.

“Where do you think I’m planning to go?” I ask, gesturing to the humming fences surrounding us.

He just grunts.

The rest of our escort scatters, disappearing into the lengthening shadows of the compound’s buildings, but several people stop to watch us pass. I wonder how often they welcome newcomers into their fold.

Although welcome is maybe a bit too strong a word.

My hands curl at my sides as I resist the urge to fidget, hoping to project an air of confidence, but I’m not sure how well I’m succeeding.

Solitudes.

My entire life, I’ve been told they’re barely human, living scattered across the Wastes, chasing down starving animals for sustenance. But then Rook arrived at Amery and began to dispel that notion, and now I’m faced with the certainty that nothing I’ve been told was the truth.

They’re organized. They’ve built something that looks like a city. And though it’s nothing like New Manhattan, it’s also not the wild, barren nothing I expected.

We pass buildings made of corrugated metal and brick. Food smells waft from the largest one, suggesting a cafeteria. Another boasts a red cross hanging out front—a hospital. On top of every building is a network of solar panels, all tipped toward the sky.

At first, I assumed we’d entered a temporary encampment, but the farther we walk, the more I’m convinced this is a home.

This isn’t temporary at all. This is something constant.

Calliope turns a corner, revealing an area filled with small round tents, each with a lantern hanging outside its door. Campfires burn between them, surrounded by chairs and people holding cups as they converse in low voices punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

It’s all so . . . cozy.

So simple and yet utterly profound.

All of it was a lie.

What if The Shield was just mistaken? What if things were different when General Sol lived in the Wastes? What if they don’t know about any of this?

But a kind of certainty roots through my heels, anchoring me to this present and this truth.

We were lied to. Told things about the Solitudes and the Wastes that weren’t really true. Taught to fear and shun anything beyond the perimeter of New Manhattan.

The question is why.