Indiana, the eastern suburbs of Gree City, night.
A half-collapsed residential house's basement, the entrance half-covered by collapsed bricks and twisted steel bars.
The air in the basement was so foul that it seemed almost wringable.
The damp, earthy smell, the strong, sharp smell of gunpowder, the stench of sweat, the scent of blood, and the faint smell of urine from the corners.
A dozen U.S. Military soldiers huddled here, remnants who had luckily escaped to this place after the collapse of the 13th Infantry Division. Their uniforms were tattered, faces smeared with grease, eyes bloodshot, filled with a numbness stripped bare.
In the corner, a radio was working, its knob carefully tuned to a specific frequency.
What came out was not official war reports or morale-boosting music, but the voice of a woman, who now secretly spread among soldiers, called herself "Lily," from the "Voice of American Freedom."
