The sound of the generators buzzed in the night air. It was calming to him, lulling him to sleep. He knew the sound meant power, comfort, some semblance of a life he had known only briefly. Not one he missed for what he recalled, just one of worldly comforts and electricity aplenty.
His dreams crept into his consciousness as he blinked between wake and slumber. His rough blanket was warm but only mildly comforting; they had acquired them when they arrived at the jail. Well, the former jail.
After the cessation, there was no law and order effectively in place in most tribes. The East coast referred to their separated factions as “tribes”, at least, those who were civilized. Many guerilla groups called themselves “clans”. Tribes were more organized and practiced rationing and civility in their governments.
His was the Gophen. Begun by his uncle thirteen years ago. He heard stories of society before the cessation and border wars had taken over the country, but most his age had never seen society as it was pre-federal takedown. He was glad for that.