[ WP ] As it turns out , the desolation is not worldwide , you 've just been living on an `` Apocalypse Reserve '' your whole life .

My entire life, my parents had one rule that stood out over the others: never go over the demarcation line. They were willing to look the other way if I was late getting home ( especially if I was bringing a rabbit, or the occasional deer ), and they had even turned their backs when an argument between twelve-year-old me and twelve-year-old Stan Francis turned into a fistfight, letting me give Stan his lumps for what he ’ d said about my family. Once, my father caught me half-drunk on the moonshine that the Francis family makes in their basement, and pretended I was just sick so my mother wouldn ’ t find out. 
 
 But never, ever, ever go over the demarcation line. I only ever got close the one time, on a hunt with Dad. We ’ d ventured out past 3rd Street, where the ivy and the trees were beginning to reclaim the land in earnest, and the deer hunting was best. I was tracking a buck, and didn ’ t pay attention to where I was going. My father came crashing out of the underbrush, scaring my buck away, and hauled me back. He muttered nervously about the need to observe the quarantine, pointed to the green survey tape wrapped around the trees, poles, fences... everything. Making a clear line, one that I ’ d almost crossed. 
 
 My dad didn ’ t yell, he never yelled, but he did explain, somberly, that people who crossed too far over the line didn ’ t come back. The line had been there since he was my age, he said, and people had died getting it set up. On the other side was... whatever it was that kept us quarantined. It wouldn ’ t cross that line, so long as we respected it, so we shouldn ’ t cross that line either. 
 
 But a funny thing happens when you ’ re nineteen, bored, and tired of the settlement you grew up in. You start being annoyed that you ’ ve only seen the same hundred or so people your entire life. The girls you grew up crushing on, they lose their luster. They start to feel... I guess the best way I can put it is “ small-town ” even though I can ’ t know what that means. Despite being in the center of what was one of the biggest manufacturing hubs in the Rust Belt, everyone starts to seem like a country bumpkin. 
 
 And of course, you are as well, as I certainly was, even though I spent my early mornings reading whatever I could get my hands on, even though I gladly pedaled my ass off for the pleasure of browsing through the Wikipedia archives saved on the bicycle-powered server, even though I was always the first in school to have my hands up... I was still a kid from the settlement on Dawnview Road, on the wrong side of the line of demarcation, living on an island of survival in the middle of what used to be Detroit. I was just as bad. I had an arrogance about it then that I don ’ t have now. 
 
 It ’ s been a few years, but I can tell you that the process felt epic. It started with a thought: if people died to chart the line of demarcation, they shouldn ’ t have died for nothing. Not only that, but others had lived, right? So there must be a safe way across. 
 
 The older generation talked a lot about an expedition that had gone over, but never returned. They couldn ’ t be hailed on the big military radio we had in our settlement, so it was assumed they died of whatever was on the other side of the line. But, my youthful mind suggested, it was also likely they ’ d lived and hadn ’ t found a way to contact us yet. Or were being prevented from it. 
 
 The first forays, I followed the deer. They seemed to be able to go across the line without much issue, seemed to know where it was safe and where it wasn ’ t, and if I got caught, I could just say I was stalking dinner. It worked, in no small part helped by the deer meat I was bringing back from my forays across the line. It seemed like the deer were crowded up against our settlement, forever hidden just behind the trees, and I was starting to think that was just how they lived... and then I found the trail. 
 
 It wasn ’ t much. It went through a couple hundred yards of buildings and trees, the concrete and wood joining together to create a jungle of glass, steel, and leaves. Out there, it was easy to lose track of time, so as I worked my way down the trail, making sure to follow the deer when I could, I had to constantly keep an eye on the sky. 
 
 After a few weeks of going and stopping and coming back, mapping the trail every step of the way, I came around a bend I hadn ’ t reached before, and there was the pond. Or the fountain, I suppose. A watering hole for the deer. A multitude of trails branched off, and I left a stack of rocks next to the trail I ’ d come in on, so I ’ d be able to find it. 
 
 Deer trails aren ’ t much different from ant tunnels. They ’ ll converge on a point, meander for a while, but follow them long enough and you ’ ve found another point they converge on. Little islands, out there in the no-man ’ s-land. Survivable. Farmable. 
 
 I would be a hero. Thinking it would be so only caused me to explore with increased fervor. And each time I ’ d go out, I ’ d go a little further. A little further. Soon, I was trekking half-a-day out, much to the chagrin of my worried parents. 
 And then I found the fence. 
 
 It confused me at first. Chain link, it rain up and down the median on Grove Avenue, which was industrial buildings on both sides. There were signs dotting it, but I couldn ’ t read them from my side, so I walked along it. The deer tracks along the fence told me I wasn ’ t anywhere unsafe, and eventually, I found a break in the chainlink, and popped over to the other side. 
 
 One of the signs was conveniently nearby: “ QUARANTINE ZONE - Your safety can not be guaranteed past this point ”. 
 
 Quarantine? On this side of the fence? Did that mean there was a thin, permeable membrane of infected land past the line of demarcation, and then clean, liveable area? Did that mean we could finally embark past the line of demarcation, to expand, to thrive, to rebuild? 
 
 I ’ d never heard a car before, let alone one of those little electric numbers. I didn ’ t hear it pull up behind me, and when I saw it, my first frantic thought was “ robot ”. I froze, thinking if I didn ’ t move, it wouldn ’ t be able to see me, because that ’ s how I thought robots worked. 
 
 The man who got out of the little electric car that looked like a robot was older than my dad. His hair was grey, and was tucked under a fur cap with a patch on the front. His clothes were blue, and on one hip, he had a pistol. It was shiny, looked new. Nothing like the dull, rusty sidearms my father and the rest of the Settlement ’ s council carried. 
 
 “ Christ, ” the man said. “ Which side of the fence you come from, kid? You ’ re not supposed to be out here. ” 
 
 Slowly, I reached my hand toward my rifle, until the man in the blue clothes said “ I can see you doing that, you know. Which side... never mind. I don ’ t know why I ’ m even asking. ” He reached over to his lapel, squeezed something on a black, corded box that was clipped there, and spoke. “ Yeah, I finally got it. It ’ s another refugee from the reserve. ” 
 
 I finally found words. “ Your radio... your radio works? Are you from the others? Who went over the line? ” 
 
 “ What? ” The man furrowed his brow at me. “ Of course the damn radio works, we don ’ t have the jammers on this side. ” 
 
 “ Jammers? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Jesus, kid, ” the guy said, shaking his head. “ You neo-primitive nuts are something else. You gon na drop the roleplaying thing, or are we gon na have to roll dice or something? I don ’ t know what you freaks do in there. ” 
 
 “ Wait, ” I said. “ Reserve? ” 
 
 The box on his shoulder, the radio, crackled to life. “ Christ, Gary. You get all the easy calls. ” The man squeezed the box again. “ Yeah, pretty sure this one ’ s second generation. ” 
 
 “ Oh, fucking fun, ” came the reply. 
 
 “ C ’ mon, kid, ” the man said. “ Get in. I got ta take you to the fuckin ’ social worker in charge of you people. We got ta make sure you got all your shots and shit. ” He walked back to the little electric car, opened the door. 
 
 I ’ d lived my entire life as a survivor, whether it was real or not. And I ’ d become acquainted well enough with that fight-or-flight sensation, and learned to trust it. Learned to let it carry me when things didn ’ t feel right. When my entire back tensed, like a guitar string being tightened and tuned, I knew what was happening, and I let it happen. I ’ ve never regretted letting myself break into a run. Never thought twice about running back up the trail, back to the settlement. Never doubted that I should go home, shut up, and never tell anyone what I ’ d seen. 
 
 The last I saw of the man in blue clothes, he was reaching for something on his belt, his eyes rolling in frustration, just beginning to register that I was moving back over the fence, through the tear. 
 
 I never got so far over the line that I ’ d ever be in danger of seeing him again.
