State of Rebellion (Collapse Series) Page 3

  “We can’t let that happen,” I grit out, anger ripping through my veins. “This is our home. How can people be so stupid? How could they let something like this happen? Didn’t our military or government or somebody know this was coming? They had to have some kind of clue!”

  “They probably did,” Dad says, patting my knee. “But Cassidy, when it comes right down to it, people are going to save themselves first, and then worry about everybody else. You can bet that our government – if they knew this was coming – took that approach. The population was collateral damage. We’re on our own, and if we want the invaders out, we’ll have to take care of it ourselves.”

  Great. Just wonderful.

  “That’s not fair,” I say, exhausted. All I can think about are the poor men and women that died yesterday. Horrible, agonizing deaths. And they weren’t soldiers. Not really. They were former schoolteachers and parents and plumbers and insurance salesmen. People that should never have to go to war. “I hate it.”

  Nobody speaks. The peripheral crowd around the campfire falls silent.

  Irritated, – no, terrified – I get to my feet and stalk away from the fire, fear threatening to overpower me. I might break down and start sobbing if I’m not careful.

  First the EMP.

  Then Omega.

  And now China is sending a million man army to the west coast.

  We’re dead. It’s over.

  I sit on my butt at the base of a sugar pine. The sweet scent is refreshing, but it’s not enough to lift my spirits.

  “Cassidy, you can’t get discouraged.”

  Sophia sits down next to me, threading her fingers through mine.

  “I know. I’m sorry, I just…” I trail off. “It’s been a long two days.”

  “It has.” She leans forward, stretching her legs out. “We’ve never talked about what our lives used to be like, have we? It’s always war, war, war. Fight, fight, fight. My mama and I owned an art gallery in New York. Did I ever tell you that?”

  I smile, picturing Sophia wearing a beret, puttering around a penthouse apartment with a paintbrush in her hand.

  “No,” I say. “You never did.”

  “Well, we did.” A longing expression crosses her face. “My mama was an artist, and we sold her paintings out of a little shop near Long Island. My parents were immigrants, you know, and it was always their dream to open up an art gallery for my mother’s paintings.” She sighs. “My father was a shoe salesman at Macy’s.” She starts laughing. “Isn’t that funny? An artist and a shoe salesman. And there I was in the middle, just trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “Well…” I say. “What did you want to do?”

  “Art. Just like my mama.” She licks her lips. “My brother was going to school to be a graphic designer, you know? We were so proud. The first person in our family to ever go to college.”

  “You must miss them.”

  “I do. Every day.” She squeezes my hand. “But that was then and this is now. We have to deal with each day that’s given to us. It could be worse. We could be dead, couldn’t we? At least we’re here. At least we can talk about happier times.”

  I bite my lip, fighting tears.

  “You’re right,” I say. “You’re completely right. What would I do without you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We both giggle, embracing each other.

  “Now it’s your turn,” she tells me.

  “My turn?”

  “Tell me something happy. Something that you remember that makes you smile.”

  “Don’t you think we’re going to make ourselves sad talking about all of this stuff?” I point out. “I mean, it’s gone, right? We can’t go back.”

  “No,” she replies, offering a rueful smile. “We can’t. But if we don’t remember what it was like yesterday, we’ll forget what we’re fighting for.”

  “Normalcy,” I say. “We’re fighting for yesterday.”

  “Right.” She grins. “Now come on. Tell me something happy.”

  My mood lifts. Something happy?

  Yeah. I think I can do that.

  We leave for Camp Freedom the next morning. I’m feeling better. I mean, sure. The fact that Omega is sending a boatload of troops onto American soil is eating at my nerves big time, but you know what? There’s nothing I can do about it at this point. I can only take one day at a time, and right now that means my first priority is putting one foot in front of the other.

  As we walk, a familiar, friendly face pops up beside me.

  “Hey, Cassie,” Jeff Young says, winking. “You holding up okay?”

  “Yes.” I shove him playfully in the shoulder. He bears a remarkable resemblance to his brother Chris, but where Chris is a man, Jeff is still a boy. And I mean that in a metaphorical sense.

  “You look a lot better than you did two days ago,” he remarks. “That was a nasty hit you took.”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to forget.” I sigh. “Do you have any idea where we’re going? Did Chris or my dad say anything about the location about the basecamp?”

  “No,” he shrugs. “I guess after what happened with Harry Lydell, everybody’s a little uptight about sharing information.”

  “It wouldn’t kill Dad to share some information with me,” I grumble.

  “He probably doesn’t want to give you info that could get you killed.”

  “Thanks for putting it so bluntly.”

  “That’s what I do.” He laughs. “Good to see you walking again, Cassidy.”

  “Thanks.”

  I have to rest a bit more often than the others because I’m still healing, but that’s fine. It’s better than being dead. Dad leads the front of the group with the Rangers – about forty men and women in all. Most of them are substantially older than me.

  Old dogs, I think, amused. But they can sure kick some butt.

  “Are you holding up okay?” Chris asks, sliding down next to me. He’s been leading the front of the Freedom Fighters all day, periodically dropping back to check on me. “Do you need to rest again?”

  “No, I’m good.” I squeeze his hand. “So. Have you, um, talked with my dad about…anything interesting?”

  He raises an eyebrow, stopping to help me crawl over a fallen log. We’re traveling into the high mountains, now. The foliage is thinning out as the air gets colder. Lodgepole pine trees dot the landscape, and the sparser cover makes it important for us to pay attention to our position. We don’t want to climb up an open meadow and give our location away.

  “What kind of interesting things?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Just stuff.” I make a weak attempt at a poker face. “Maybe…something about us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. Us.”

  His lips twitch, a clear sign that he’s fighting laughter.

  “Oh, that.” He threads his fingers through mine, shifting his heavy pack. Adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. “No. It hasn’t come up.”

  Call me shallow, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. Stupid as it is, I kind of wanted Chris to walk up to my dad, say, “Hey. I’m in love with your daughter. I promise to take good care of her.” Chivalry, you know?

  Instead I get: No. It hasn’t come up.

  “You’ll have to tell him sometime,” I point out.

  “He’s figured it out, Cassie.” He gestures to our intertwined hands. “He’s not blind.”

  “Still. I think you should say something.”

  “Why me? You’re his daughter.”

  “You’re a grown man!”

  “You’re a grown woman.”

  I bite my lip. Am I? My birthday is in two weeks. I’ll be twenty.

  “I guess so.” I shyly glance at his face, gauging his expression. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to be there when I dump it on him.”

  “Dump it, huh?” He breaks out in a wide smile. “That’s a nice description.”

  “You know what I mean!” I shake my head.
“I just want him to like you.”

  “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  He’s right. But, strangely enough, it’s somehow comforting to worry about something as normal as whether or not my father will approve of Chris. It’s a lot easier than sitting around, wondering when Omega will jump out of the bushes and put a bullet in my chest.

  Just saying.

  “You two having a heart to heart chat back there or something?” Jeff calls back. He’s helping his mother scale the side of the mountain. Decomposed gravel and loose shale slide down the slope, making it easy to trip and take a tumble to the bottom. “Come on. Pick up the pace!”

  “This isn’t a marathon, you know!” I say.

  “Oh, yeah? Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “You two,” Mrs. Young murmurs, smiling. Her gray hair is falling in soft wisps to her shoulders. Mr. Young – an aged version of his two sons – climbs up behind her and takes her hand. “Let them be, Jeff,” he says, winking at me.

  I sigh. A flash of normalcy on an otherwise totally odd day.

  It’s nice.

  We stop to have lunch, resting under the green tent of the forest. Our food consists of supplies the militia had time to gather up before they fled the base camp. Dried meat, crackers, canned vegetables. Water. Gone are the days of sandwiches and bottles of soda.

  As we hike, I catch up with my dad. We have a conversation that lasts for hours. I give him a recap of everything that’s happened to me since we got separated after the EMP. Everything from escaping through underground tunnels in Bakersfield to getting imprisoned in a slave labor camp under Vika Kamaneva. For some reason, talking about what I’ve been through in the last year makes everything seem that much more real. Like waking up from a dream.

  Yes, it actually did happen. Yes, the world really did end.

  Yes, it’s a lot to swallow.

  At least Dad and I are back together.

  “So,” Dad says at last, just as evening starts to set in. “Chris Young. What’s going on between you two?”

  “Oh. Um…”

  Idiot. You’ve been rehearsing this all day.

  “Chris and I…we’ve been through a lot,” I shrug. “We’re kind of together, I guess.”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “He’s a lot older than you.”

  “I know.”

  “A lot older.”

  “Older isn’t bad. I mean, you’re older.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  We duck under an overhanging, mossy branch. The temperature has dropped substantially, so I pull my jacket out of my backpack and wrap it around myself.

  “He’s a good man,” I say softly, glancing behind us.

  Chris is overlooking his militia, alert and ready.

  “I believe you,” Dad replies. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him completely overnight.”

  “You don’t have to.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “But you will, eventually. You’ll see what I see. He’s special, Dad. There’s nobody like him.”

  He shakes his head, kicking a rock down the trail.

  Seriously?

  “You’ll see,” I press.

  “I’m more concerned about the age difference than anything else.”

  “It’s not exactly cradle-robbing, Dad. I’m going to be twenty.”

  “He’s almost thirty years old.”

  “He’s twenty-eight.”

  “Exactly. He’s a man. A SEAL. Tough guy.” Dad exhales dramatically. “Don’t get caught up in something you can’t handle. The last thing you need right now is a relationship that consumes you. Our lives right now are walking the razor’s edge already. One wrong move and you can throw everything out of balance. Be careful.”

  “Chris is the only reason I’m alive,” I state. “You have no idea what he’s been through to keep me safe. He took control of this militia just to break me out of Kamaneva’s labor camp. Who does that? He’s not your typical guy, Dad.”

  Dad falls silent. He opens his mouth to say something just as Isabel sidles up next to me, twirling a piece of moss between her fingers.

  “Look,” she says, holding it under her nose. “A mustache.”

  “Wow. Impressive.” I grab it, holding it beneath my chin. “But a beard is cooler.”

  “Nothing is cooler than a mustache.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  I rub her head, mussing her blonde hair. Dad walks faster to keep up with his men. I roll the moss between my fingers, watching the back of his hat bob up and down with each step.

  I guess that concludes our father-daughter chat.

  It could have gone a lot worse.

  Right?

  Chapter Four

  Our trek into the high mountains lasts exactly four days, just like Dad said it would. The woods are quieter here. The shadows are deeper. And the weather is cooler. I can’t detect a single sign of human life. We occasionally spot deer or squirrels, but that’s it. No people.

  I decide that this is a good thing, given our track record of run-ins with unfriendly locals in the mountains.

  Dad and Chris have been talking off and on all day in hushed voices. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t want me to know about it. As ticked off as I am that they’re keeping secrets, I don’t let it eat at me for long. Cassidy Hart, the girl who left Los Angeles with a backpack and her grandfather’s pistol, no longer has time to worry about petty things.

  Funny how priorities change.

  “I’m very ready to be done with this hike,” Sophia comments, walking beside me. The last couple of days have been nothing but a sheer uphill climb through slippery terrain. “How about you?”

  “Yeah,” I pant. “I’m ready.”

  We walk for a couple more hours before Dad and Chris slow our group to a halt. I peer ahead, spotting a small clearing. Wait. It’s not a clearing, it’s a road. Sophia and I share a bewildered look. We’ve been making a point of avoiding any and all roads. Why? Because roads mean people and people could mean Omega.

  I weave my way through the militias, coming up on Chris’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “We’re almost to the camp,” Dad replies. “Let me walk in front. They’ll recognize me.”

  I peek at the road. There is no asphalt, only dirt. Pieces of black pavement make it obvious that this was a road at one time, but fell out of use. On the other hand, the road is big enough for a large vehicle, and the overhanging trees make great cover. Nobody can see you from the air.

  Then again, I haven’t seen any active aircraft since the EMP hit. I wonder why. Omega has trucks and computers. Why not airplanes and helicopters, too?

  Another mystery for another time, I guess.

  Up ahead, two large concrete blocks are sitting in the middle of the road.

  “What…?” I begin, trailing off as I scan the sides of the path. Nothing but thick green bushes and trees. The perfect place for an ambush.

  “This is a checkpoint,” Dad says, seeing the expression on my face. “There are three of them before we reach the camp.”

  “Where are the guards?”

  “They’re here.”

  I nod. Given the heavy foliage, I’m going to assume that our every move is being observed by militiamen hidden in the forest. When we reach the concrete blocks, a man steps out of the bushes wearing camouflage gear. He’s got a rifle, and his face is smudged with black and green paint.

  “Eagle One,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

  I turn around, noticing from this angle the sentries posted within the trees, dressed in camouflage gear. We’re surrounded at gunpoint, and I can feel Chris tensing up beside me. He doesn’t like this situation.

  But Dad doesn’t seem concerned.

  “Hey, Uriah,” he greets, an almost smile on his face.

  Almost.

  “This is the unit we went to back up downstairs,” he continues. “The Fre
edom Fighters. This is Alpha One, and this is my daughter.”

  Uriah’s eyes widen, looking unnaturally white against his painted face.

  “You found her,” he exclaims. “Nice going, Boss.”

  “Thanks. Alert the other sentries that we’ve got company, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sentries posted around this checkpoint, lower their weapons, but they don’t come down to greet us. They have a job to do, after all. The guy named Uriah waves us forward and I follow Dad and Chris between the blocks of concrete, continuing on our way down the road.

  “So do they just live out here?” I ask in a hushed voice.

  “Who?” Dad says.

  “The sentries.”

  “No,” he chuckles. “They rotate shifts, just like any other military base.”

  “Are they all under your command?”

  “No. Some of them come from other militias.”

  “How many militias are we talking about?” I press.

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  Again with the secrets. How annoying.

  Sensing my irritation, Chris squeezes my shoulder. I smile softly, grateful for his presence. He doesn’t have to say a word. I just know that he’s there. Always. And that’s a greater comfort than anything else.

  We pass through two more checkpoints. The final one is the hardest. The guard posted up front knows who Dad is, but he’s a stickler for safety and demands the security password. Dad gives it quietly. More guards appear, inspecting our gear. The Freedom Fighters are being questioned. Chris steps forward and answers everything pointblank, unhesitating. By the time we’re done, we’ve gained access to the road again. I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding and wipe the sweat off my forehead.

  After a good five more minutes of walking, I see it.

  “Oh,” I whisper. “That’s not what I pictured.”

  “What did you picture?” Chris asks, curious.

  “Something like the Alamo, I guess.”

  Hello, Camp Freedom.

  Camp Freedom.

  An appropriate place for the Freedom Fighters to kick back and regroup. There’s a brown sign erected on a cement block in front of the chain link fence at the entrance. The words, CAMP FREEDOM, have covered over whatever the sign used to say.