Free The Myriad Resistance by John D. Mimms Page B

understood the gist of what the symbol represented and Myriad sounded like as good a name as any. “Come on, Abbs … let’s go get some breakfast, I’m starving.” I said, smiling and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She slipped the chain over her head as I held her long black hair up for her. I knew my nose wouldn’t allow me to taste breakfast very well, yet it didn’t change the fact that I was famished.
    â€œWhere are your mom and sister?” I asked, noticing their absence as we stepped out the door.
    â€œMom is at the mess hall already; she didn’t want to wake you up this morning and Steff …” she trailed off then smirked. “She refused to eat any of the ‘slop’ we were serving and disappeared into the woods.”
    â€œIs she all right?” I asked.
    Abbs shrugged.
    â€œYeah, she’ll go off and pout for a while then come home when she is hungry.”
    Steff was always the whiney, persnickety child growing up. Her twelfth birthday seemed to put those characteristics into overdrive. I loved her more than anything, but damn she could be difficult. I didn’t blame the girls for being upset about their new living conditions. I was not crazy about them myself. At least Abby seemed to be handling it in stride.
    By comparison, the outside of our cabin was pure paradise. Gently sloping forested mountains surrounded us on all sides. A large clear lake shimmered through the woods about a quarter of a mile from the cabin. The surface reflected the trees, giving the strange impression of Impal trees. I have heard Impals described as if they were a shimmering lake in the morning sun. For the first time, I could see the correlation. The lavender sky coupled with yellowish clouds completed the surreal setting.
    The woods surrounding the cabin provided a thick canopy. A small percentage of sunlight could penetrate the dense vegetation. In fact, the only opening I could see was where the sun was shining through the front window of our cabin. Several cabins peppered the woods around the lake. Most were similar to ours, some larger and some smaller. All of them shared the ancient appearance of years of exposure and neglect.
    We made our way down a winding trail through the woods and down a steep slope. When we reached the bottom, we emerged in a clearing centered by a large rectangle shaped building. It was every bit as old as the cabins. I could hear the sound of voices inside, like several people having a muted conversation. Barely audible over the voices was the electronic buzz of a radio broadcast. As we got closer, a strange scent caught my swollen nose like something was cooking. I wasn’t sure if it smelled good or not.
    The building once served as the old mess hall for the miners. The inside was filled with several rows of long tables framed on each side by long wooden benches. There were about a dozen people huddled on both sides of the table opposite the door. Barbara, Burt, Danny Bradley, Charlotte McVey, Derek Vandeputte and Taylor Farris occupied the table closest to me. They were mixed with six people I did not know, four men and two women. Burt waved and motioned toward a table at the back of the room. There was a small propane camping stove set up beside a stack of paper plates and a row of bottled water. A solitary man stood behind the table.
    â€œGet you some breakfast and come on over!” Burt called.
    Abbs patted me on the back, strolled over, and set down next to Barbara. I walked over to the man at the stove to see what was cooking. It turned out my nose would not have made a lot of difference. The only things on the menu were fried Spam or Vienna sausage, grilled toast (plain) or dry cereal.
    â€œWe can’t store anything perishable,” the cook said with an apologetic frown. “There’s no power out here and the nearest ice machine is at the country store a few miles away.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” I