Collecting bands

Miniscule droplets of drizzling fog collected on the fabric of her hood, condensing and dashing forward in rivulets to collect at the edge before dropping onto the front of her poncho. The pre-dawn chill saturated the blue washed landscape, deepening the lonely silence as she approached the line of green lit kiosks stationed in a regimented grid. The concrete was chipped and cracked, spindly grasses taking advantage of any weakness in the vast flat space. Periodically a green light flickered, teetering before it's inevitable failure, adding it's casualty to the slowly growing monument of darkness in the artificially glowing green field.

She assessed the line as she walked, selecting the kiosk with the strongest illumination then searching the landscape for movement. The weak fog shifted slowly, mutating light and shadow into illusions of shapes and phantoms of passing forms. It's trickery forcing her to regulate her breathing and focus on discerning the physical from fiction. She pulled the damp fabric back from her wrist holding it steady beneath the scanner at the same time trying to moderate the surge of hope that welled in her chest. She'd been to countless registration centers, though none this large, many were devoid of power allowing her to move on without even a swell of possibility, but most that'd had power were exhausted of bands. 

The green laser passed silently over her skin illuminating her implanted code, she scanned the horizon again before allowing her attention to focus on the screen. The small blue intake box flashed up "82D-009CZ-6222, Mara Fielders enter your PIN" with a ten key pad beneath it. Her fingers lightly tapped out the four numbers she'd chosen a lifetime ago, the four numbers that had distinguished her among the throngs, designed to protect her from would-be thieves and fraudsters. The screen went blank as it assessed the validity of her entry. She forced herself to again scan her surroundings ensuring the desolate lot was in fact as devoid of life as it's silence indicated. The feeling of exposure vibrated on every nerve in her body. The days of finding comfortable anonymity in busy crowds seemed like something she'd imagined in a dream rather than a reality of recent memory. The girl she'd been would have revelled in the hard witted, vigilant, independent person she'd become, not comprehending the weight of experiences that it took to get here. That girl, in the comfort of mundane normalcy would have fantasized the heroic survivor ignorant to the loss of life that accompanied such a title. She almost despised her past self at the same time she longed to be her again.

A buzz and the muted sound of plastic dropping onto metal  broke into her momentary revery, she quickly finished her scan while snatching the band from the tray with as discreet a movement as possible, not bothering to look at the screen again, it's standard message "Please proceed to triage for assessment" having lost importance or intrigue long ago.

She turned and moved to the next steadily lit kiosk with the same pace she'd approached the first. "Breathe in through the nose out from the throat" a woman's voice with an affected air of calm and presence repeated in her head meanwhile her heart pounded so heavily she was sure it echoed among the endless kiosks standing like so many soldiers in formation.

She repeated the process, carefully measuring the speed and cadence of her movements to show no change in attitude. To convey her success as much a danger as standing so exposed among the rank and file of plastic, metal and concrete. She did this twice more before retreating to the small nearly bald rise to the east. 

There a wooley copse of pine and oak sheltered her and she took her first easy breaths. She looked back across the damp lot of sickly lit kiosks, the far edges obscured in the fog which thickened, pressed tighter by the nearly imperceptible morning thermals. The sun was beginning it's daily trek through the sky above, it's routine entirely oblivious to changes on this distant orbiting planet. At least in this there was some remnant of life before. She dug one of the plastic bands out of her pocket and examined it's pristine face. The only printing on it was a small barcode beneath her name, but that's all she needed. She fastened the band around her wrist loose enough so that it could be pushed above her implant to be scanned simultaneously. The second she staged in her boot and the third in her ruck sack. Continuously she checked the horizon such as it was, watching for any flicker of motion, listening for the scuffle of shoes on pavement, the snapping of a twig or anything that would betray another presence.

It wouldn't do to stay here for much longer and although her stomach protested she shouldered her pack, spreading her poncho over it to keep it dry and visually less tempting. She headed northward, moving steadily trying to keep to any cover provided along the edge of the registration center. She walked on as silently as she could guessing it to be another two city blocks before she would reach the triage gates. The fog surrounding her slowly becoming more opaque as the first rays of the sun broke over the valley. Eventually the rows and columns of kiosks gave way to a disarray of stanchions and fluttering fabric tape. A once orderly maze now powerless to direct even a single visitor. Finally the gray shapes of concrete barricades loomed grudgingly through the mist, she slowed her pace, caution prevailing over eagerness. 

She worked methodically looking for signs of habitation, fresh scrapes in the gathered dirt and weeds. Any clearing or conglomerate of resources. Though the air was heavy with moisture any significant occupation would still produce an odor, the dead smell very different from the living, but as a whole humanity always carried with it a stench that permeated the environment it infested. It was the easiest to detect and almost impossible to avoid. She snorted in amusement remembering the various scented candles and their ridiculous names. How she used to carefully select one to light in her apartment when company was expected, as though "Vanilla Pumpkin Cookies" could mask the odor of everyday inhabitance. Rather it added a heavy, sweet layer to the existing smell of living, her living, her life. But here, now, she smelt dirt and dry late-summer grass enlivened with dew, aging steel and thirsty concrete. She moved along the barriers towards the first of many evenly spaced gates, whether they concealed the relief of sustenance or the disappointment of rot she could not yet know.