No one has ever brusquely told me to take off my clothes from the business end of a high-powered assault rifle before. We stand huddled tightly together in a group, expecting the worst. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the bright artificial lights, and I briefly wonder how they even have electricity. I blink and notice a woman standing inside, smiling at us. I hold my breath, waiting to see if the soldiers are going to follow us in, but they don’t. I stare at the pretty blonde woman. She is wearing a pair of jeans, a turtle neck sweater, and, of all the ridiculous things to wear during a zombie apocalypse, a pair of red high heels. I make a snap judgement that the three of us can probably take her. “What’s going on?” Megan demands, and the woman’s smile melts off her face. “Lieutenant Nichols didn’t explain our procedures to you?” she questions. Megan shrugs. “He pointed his gun at us and told us to come in here and take our clothes off,”
