Getting out of the barracks was easier than I expected—almost too easy. Wearing a lieutenant colonel's uniform with his name patch helped, of course. The full-head motorcycle helmet hid my face, and the guards only saw the rank. They saluted and opened the gate without a second glance.
Cold morning air hit me as soon as I sped off. The loose uniform snapped in the wind, and the chill made my fingers stiff around the handlebars. The sun rose earlier than usual, casting a pale glow over the ruined landscape. I was grateful for that light.
From L-Zone, I cut through a back route toward P-Zone. Even pushing the engine at full speed, it took two hours. I stopped at an abandoned gasoline station on the outskirts of P-Zone and filled the tank, and that small decision saved me—everything from R-
