For two days Terrence roamed Summerland casually asking guards if they'd ever been to Concord. It didn't matter if he knew them well or if they were complete strangers, their mouths were snapped up tight. The lockdown had everyone spooked and no one was talking. Including his wife. Fed up with his secret missions and long spells away from home, she'd made a habit of avoiding him, finding excuses to leave whatever room in their condo he happened to be in. So Terrence spent his days pacing the perimeter of the Summerland gate, pretending to be watching the watchers but really just killing time. He slept on the couch, staying up late adding to his empty whiskey bottle collection.

As Barrett predicted, three uneventful days passed and the guards became lax in their duties. During the mid-morning shift change, Terrence slipped away. Terrence felt naked without his body armor as he slinked westward through the mist hanging over the city streets. His set had the MPD emblem stitched over the heart, its conspicuousness good for approaching for MPD outposts but a major problem if he were ever captured. In a sack he brought with him three pistols, two knives, and enough food to last three days. When he crossed the Juneau he clambered to the river's edge and smeared scum and grit on his face, neck, and forearms. He rinsed himself poorly then repeated the process. It smelled foul.

He had passed through Concord once on recon years ago, one of his first assignments after graduating from the Rock. Project Unification was drawing to a close and there was a brief and bitter struggle between the families regarding how to move forward. Reichman and Reyes wanted to expand west over the river to the old freeway, but the Johnson family and Lukowskis argued that the MPD forces would be stretched too thin, and argued for strengthening their hold on territory east of the river. The military minds won out and Concord, which at that time was nothing more than a dozen lean-tos on the lawn of an old mansion, was spared. Everyone knew that Concord had continued to grow but it became official policy to pretend the settlement didn't exist. As Terrence approached the Concord of today he thought, My how times have changed.

The settlement's perimeter was marked by burned out cars stacked three high, backed by sheets of corrugated steel and wedged into place with iron beams. The wall zigged and zagged around permanent features of the old city. Terrence walked along it, trying to snatch a glimpse at the fortress set back at least a city block from the wall: Barnum's Bazaar.

"Hold it right there," a voice shot through the mist.

Terrence stopped and raised his hands, uncertain which direction to face. "I've come to trade."

"Step forward. Keep your hands up and come on through," the voice said.

The sound of shrieking metal and a car door swung open, pushed by a long rod affixed to the handle. Terrence ducked his head and walked through the hollowed out vehicle. With another shriek, the rod jerked back and the door slammed shut. When he emerged on the other side he found himself not inside the walls, but in a holding area. Before him on a table were three empty ammo boxes, each fixed to a set of miniature rails like an old train car, stood open. Behind them was a black rubber curtain, slit into strips.

"Put your weapons and whatever it is you mean to trade in the boxes," the haggard voice said. "All of them." Terrence hesitated but, realizing he was committed, he did as he was told. He wanted to keep the pistol holstered at the small of his back but thought better of it. "That all? Try to smuggle a weapon in and we'll use it against you as punishment. That's the rule," the voice said.

"That's it," Terrence said and watched as the box rolled back through the curtain, its lid snapping shut like a trap. After a brief pause, a door in the far wall swung open silently.

Terrence stepped into Concord.

A green overgrown field spread out before him. In it, a toddler lurched after a young girl and they disappeared in the long wet grass in a squeal of giggles. Behind them loomed the three-story brick mansion flanked by grand towers: the monstrosity known as Barnum's Bazaar. At a glance he counted four heavy caliber machine guns jutting from the top floor windows. Terrence swallowed.

A grizzled man wearing a fedora with a bullethole through it stepped torward him. "Hands up fella, time for your frisk," he said not impolitely. Satisfied after an efficient pat down, he hauled over a lockbox with a yellow 31 stenciled on the top. It was fastened shut with a combination lock, his food items stacked on top. He handed it to Terrence.

"First time here? Barnum's doesn't open until nightfall. Hold onto this box. Barnum has the combination. He can open it when you're ready to trade, or you can get the contents back on your way out. We deal squarely with people here. Other rules: no fights, no stealing, and no harassing people. Don't even look at the kids. Penalties range from expulsion to execution, depending on the jury's mood and who you've offended."

Terrence's eyes were drawn back to the brick behemoth and its blackened windows. "Can I have a look around?"

The grizzled man shook his head. "I wouldn't. We're not accepting new residents and we don't like talking to outsiders. No good can come of it. Can you read?"

Terrence blinked. Then he nodded.

The man pointed at the Bazaar. "On the porch there you'll find a few cases of books, put there to help kill time. It's no lending library so don't think about borrowing. Some folks here are real possessive about the books."

Terrence thanked him and the man disappeared back into his station in the wall. Terrence lugged his locked ammo case toward the Bazaar porch where, for lack of anything better to do, he thought he would eat a snack. Maybe, incredibly, even do a little leisure reading.