Collapse Series (Book 10): State of Hope

by Summer Lane

  “You must understand,” Saul counters, his tone calm. “If Omega would have learned that I was alive, they would have concentrated the most deadly of their efforts on capturing me, and I would have endangered the militia movement in its earliest days of conception. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “Why the boat?” Manny demands. “How did you end up on a fishing boat?”

  “Diego and I were hiding out up north, on the coastline, just outside of Monterey,” President Banner replies. “We were attacked by Omega patrols – whether or not they knew who I was, I can’t say, because I don’t know. We escaped on the boat…barely. Patrols were everywhere. So we stuck close to the coastline. I’d heard rumors that Cambria was safe, so we docked here.”

  “And you’re ready to join the militias?” I ask. “Why now?”

  “Because the situation has reached its most desperate hour,” he says. “I had hoped that the United States military would bounce back – rebuild. And, for the most part, that has happened – because of the help of militia groups like you.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. President,” Vera says, her tone sharp, “but when the country died, the office of presidency died along with it. The country that you were elected to lead no longer exists-”

  “Which brings us to the assumption,” Uriah interrupts, “that your authority here and influence is not as important as you think it is. That’s not meant to be disrespectful, sir. It’s a statement of fact. I don’t think Omega cares if you’re alive or dead anymore – we’re past the point of caring about things like that. This war is about us, not you. It’s about the people.”

  “I agree,” Saul answers, tipping his head. “I’m here because I think it’s time to begin rebuilding the structure of leadership in this country. Give the people what they need. Give the militias and the survivors someone to follow – give them a country again!”

  He says the words with such conviction, such pride.

  “I think it’s a little premature for that,” I say. “We’re fighting for our lives as it is. Trying to structure a political system in the middle of World War Three is something that should only happen if we manage to get out of this thing alive.”

  “I agree,” Uriah replies.

  “As do I,” Manny toasts, offering a smug grin to the president.

  “We can’t put our focus on the wrong area,” I reiterate. “If we do, we’ll be consumed by the enemy – it will make our defeat easy for them.”

  Saul leans back in his chair, shaking his head.

  “Don’t you understand?” he presses. “The people need something to follow. Right now, there are militias everywhere – but no cohesive unit of leadership. The Pacific Northwest Alliance has dissolved, and nuclear strikes have peppered the entire West Coast for months. Millions have died. The East Coast is even worse – Omega has done more damage there. Most cities are little more than massive graveyards. Washington, D.C., doesn’t even exist anymore-”

  “-now there’s a real loss,” Manny snorts.

  Saul ignores him, continuing, “A unified government would bring all of the militias, military camps, survivor colonies, and remaining military fortresses together. We would form a single, massive, unified front against Omega. Think of the power we would have against the enemy!”

  I consider this. Perhaps he’s right – maybe that is what we’ve been lacking all along. After all, we haven’t had much communication with the rest of the country since the Collapse. Each state has stood alone in its desperate fight against Omega. Maybe if we were united, we could stand a chance of winning…

  “It’s an idea,” I say quietly. “But not one that we could just jump up and put into motion immediately. We have other things to worry about.”

  “Like the nuclear weapons that we found for Admiral Boyd,” Em says, sighing.

  “You have nuclear weapons?” Saul asks, surprised.

  I give Em a sharp look. She turns away, embarrassed that she spoke those words out loud – words so carefully guarded, words that people died for in Hawaii.

  “Kind of,” I reply, suddenly uncomfortable, unwilling to elaborate.

  He’s the President of the United States, Cassidy, I tell myself. He should know about Project Spire…shouldn’t he?

  Yet there is the other side of me – the practical side – that knows little to nothing about this man, why he is here, or what he is willing to do in order to enact his plan of unifying the states under an organized government once again.

  “This is incredible news,” Saul continues. “Nuclear weapons could change the tide of the war.”

  “We’ll deal with that,” I say. “For now, you’re not the president. You’re just another refugee at Camp Cambria, and I outrank you for the time being.”

  The words are harsh and clipped.

  But it’s true; I don’t owe him anything, even if he was the President of the United States in a pre-Collapse world.

  Saul doesn’t glare at me – he doesn’t even look angry. He just appears tired – worn and overwhelmed. His shoulders droop and he hangs his head. He’s disappointed, I suppose, in our reaction to his plan.

  “Hey,” I say, standing up. “It’s not like it’s a bad plan. It’s a good plan. Now just isn’t the right time. We have limited resources and communication power. We have to use it to fight – not play politics. I understand that politics are what you know, but that’s not what we know, and it’s not what we care about. We’re just here to keep our homes safe, and our friends and families from dying at the hands of Omega. We’ve seen enough death – we’re ready to put an end to it.”

  Saul doesn’t argue. He understands – I can see it on his face.

  “I suggest you get some rest, Mr. President,” I say. “You look tired.”

  “Commander Hart,” Eugene Miller pipes up, chipper as always. “Admiral Boyd’s fleet will be here by tomorrow. He just sent a message over the radio to our communication center.”

  “Good,” I reply.

  We can figure out what to do with those weapons then.

  Slowly, everyone begins to rise. Militiamen and women crowd around President Saul Banner, asking him questions and chattering on and on. Some people even ask him for his autograph. I sit and watch him closely, Uriah my partner in my quiet observation.

  “I don’t know if I can let myself trust him,” I say quietly.

  “I know,” Uriah replies. “Same.”

  Saul stands up, shaking hands, embracing women who are star-struck at seeing the handsome president up close – a man so long assumed dead that it’s almost like seeing someone rise from the grave.

  “The question is,” I joke, “did you vote for him?”

  I can’t help but smile when Uriah answers, “Saul Banner? No way.”

  ***

  The next morning, I wake at the foot of Chris’s bed, my cheek laid against the scratchy hospital blanket. I blink and straighten up, gray light filtering into the room through the window. Chris’s skin is deathly pale, his flesh horribly cold. I touch his forehead, wincing at how much he feels like a piece of marble.

  The heart rate monitor is slow but steady – and that gives me hope. I lay my hand against his chest, taking comfort in the fact that I can feel it there, a bit of warmth, at least. I kiss his cheek and whisper, “Please wake up. I can’t do this without you.”

  I say the words, and I know it’s not true.

  I can do this without him.

  I just don’t want to.

  I reluctantly leave him, finding my way to my own quarters – a private room on the second story of an old tourist shop, overlooking the main street in Cambria. I have a small bed and bathroom, a stack of clean clothes provided by the refugees here, and easy access to the rest of my team, who are staying in the lower levels of the building.

  I try to take my mind off Chris – and the president – and everything else going on for a few moments. I grab a hot shower, dress in clean clothes, braid my hair, count the bullets in my mags, clean
my rifle, and change the dressing on my arm. The skin was sliced open during a vicious fight with a tribal enemy – the Ku – on Hawaii a few days ago, and it still hurts like hell.

  I wince as I clean the wound and change the bandage.

  ‘That’s going to leave a gorgeous scar,” I mutter sourly.

  I play with my gold engagement ring on my finger, sighing, and then throw on a jacket.

  Movement, constant movement.

  I survive because I never stop moving – both physically and mentally.

  I go back downstairs, wandering aimlessly down the street, rolling President Saul Banner’s words around in my head, dissecting his story. How believable is it that he was the only one who escaped the Atlas Onepresidential bunker? Is he telling the truth? And if so – how could he simply hide and watch the war pass him by, when his own wife and child were taken – and probably killed - by Omega? Didn’t he have any desire to fight back?

  I certainly would.

  And I do, every day.

  At last, I come to a building once used as a tourist information center – it is now a communications center for Camp Cambria. Radios buzz inside, and technicians are steadily working on old computer monitors, attempting to build their own digital systems from scratch – a desperate effort to connect with a technological realm now all but extinct.

  Andrew is here with Vera, and they are both hunched over a radio. Andrew is explaining something in great detail, and Vera is nodding, her expression clearly annoyed; yet she is holding back, because she loves Andrew, and because that is what love is: compromise.

  At least that’s what it feels like to me, I think.

  “You got those maps and papers from the ship?” I ask.

  Andrew looks up.

  “Hmm?” he says. “Oh, yeah. Right. Over here, Cassidy.”

  Vera mouths, “Thank you.”

  I try to smile – but I can’t quite do it.

  My thoughts are still with Chris.

  The room here is divided into several offices, and the first one is empty, except for several plastic tables that have been moved in. Maps and spare pieces of paper are lined up neatly along the surface, and I place my hands on the first table.

  “This is everything?” I ask.

  “Everything,” Andrew confirms. “And let me tell you…this stuff is weird.”

  When we found President Saul Banner on a small fishing boat on the coast of Cambria, he was traveling with just one man: Diego, the thin, young man who is a former member of the Secret Service. Inside the captain’s quarters, I confiscated everything that we found with the president, which included a stash of maps and notes in his own writing.

  I look at a map of the United States. Red eyes are drawn over thirty-two different states, including California. There are random notes scribbled everywhere: Not safe in Frisco, must keep moving…Militia is getting stronger…the time is now or never…Mary, Abbi, where are they?

  The notes have no cohesion – they are jumbled and messy, scrawled on spare pieces of paper. Yet the most interesting thing of all are the maps. President Banner has marked every location where he thinks Omega has taken over.

  “How did he know where Omega was making troop movements if he’s been in hiding?” I mutter.

  “My thinking exactly,” Vera drawls, frowning. “And look at this: it’s a list of all of our names.”

  She hands me a piece of soiled yellow paper:

  California Militia Leaders:

  Commander Chris Young – Alive

  Commander Frank Hart – KIA

  Commander Cassidy Hart – Alive

  The list covers pretty much everybody connected with every militia in the state.

  “He was keeping track of us,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, and it gets even more interesting,” Andrew offers, tossing another map in front of me. “He’s tracking Omega’s leaders, especially Veronica Klaus. He’s obsessed with it – it’s crazy. I can’t figure out if he’s just passionate about keeping track of the enemy or if he’s hiding something.”

  “He’s definitely hiding something,” I reply. “But he’s smart – he’s not going to admit to hiding anything. He’s going to flash his pretty smile and hope everybody goes weak in the knees. Well, not me. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. There’s something about all of this that doesn’t add up.”

  “Right,” Vera agrees. “He expects us to believe that he just happened to stumble across Camp Cambria at the same time that we did? Yeah, right. There are no coincidences anymore.”

  Vera and I are in agreement on this, at least.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I say. “Just us. Maybe he’ll be more honest if it’s just me.”

  “He’s a politician. He couldn’t be honest if his life depended on it.”

  “Well, maybe it will,” I snap.

  “Cassidy, he’s still the president, you know,” she says. “Maybe not the acting president, but remember…he cares about this country as much as you do.”

  “Doubtful,” I reply.

  My own callous attitude surprises me.

  I’m just stressed, I tell myself. That’s all it is.

  Vera says nothing, but I know that she is thinking exactly what I am thinking: what will happen when the rest of the militias find out that the President of the United States is still alive? Will they welcome him with open arms, or will they condemn him for his lack of involvement during this massive struggle against the world’s biggest enemy?

  For President Banner’s sake…he’d better hope it’s the former reaction.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, the sun breaks through the cold fog for the first time since we arrived. I find myself standing at the door to President Saul Banner’s room, across the street from the alehouse, in the same building where Commander Miller and his son reside.

  Admiral Boyd and the naval fleet are a few hours off the coast of Cambria. I knock on the door, alone in the hallway – the floor lined with ugly shag carpet, reeking of cigarette smoke.

  The door opens, and there stands the president.

  It’s so strange, seeing him here and talking to him, face-to-face.

  He looks as tired as he did yesterday, his handsome face lined with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot.

  “Mr. President,” I say. “Can we talk?”

  His eyes widen. Surprised?

  “Of course, Commander,” he replies, taking a step back. “Come in, please.”

  I walk into the room – little more than a studio apartment: one bed, one couch, one desk. The window looks toward the alehouse.

  “Have a seat,” he offers, gesturing to a chair.

  “No thanks,” I say, walking to the window. “This is more of a business visit, I guess.”

  “Is something wrong, Commander?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m pretty good at reading people. It’s one of my best talents – so I’ve been told.” He smiles a little. “I’ll have a seat myself, then.”

  He sits on the chair, folding his fingers together.

  I lick my lips. Nervous?

  He’s just a man, I tell myself. No need to be scared.

  Yet somehow, I am. Without anyone else to bounce off in conversation, I am acutely aware that it is just me and the president.

  Be brave. He’s just one man.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “You’ve obviously been tracking not only Omega troop movements but our movements, too, for a long time. You know more about militia names, locations, and forts than some of the highest ranking leaders in this rebel movement. How is that possible?”

  “You forget, Commander Hart,” Saul replies, “that I was the president. I had access to a lot of information inside Atlas One. I was able to monitor the first four months of the invasion very closely – and afterward, I still had a little access. I went first to a safe house in Los Angeles and kept up on militia movements there. As you know, L.A. was hit with
a chemical weapon, so I was forced to leave there, too. Since then, I’ve been keeping track of troop movements on my own, following the rumors, the militias, and the refugees.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why just follow and listen? Why not join the fight?”

  Saul hesitates. “I have very good reasons for everything that I have done.”

  “I’d love to hear an example of one of those reasons,” I press.

  “I’m a motivated man.” He stands up, rifling through the desk. “Before I ran for president, I was a senator from New York City – you knew that, though, I suppose.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say, a note of cynicism in my tone. “I can’t say I really followed politics before the Collapse. Didn’t care much.”

  “I see.” He pulls a picture out of the desk. “This is my family. My wife, Abbi, and my daughter, Mary.”

  The woman beside him in the photo is beautiful: long, dark hair and chocolate skin. The daughter is maybe seven or eight, favoring her mother in appearance – dark skin, dark eyes, and a kinky mop of brown hair.

  “I remember seeing this picture,” I comment. “It was published in every newspaper after you won the election.”

  “Yes,” Saul confirms. “It’s my favorite picture of us. You see, Commander, I promised my wife and my daughter that if I became president, I would keep them safe. I would shelter them from the mudslinging and the dangers of life in the public spotlight.”

  “And how did that work out for you?” I ask.

  “Not terribly well,” he admits, clutching the photograph. “When you’re the president, you give up your privacy, and your family does, too, like it or not. After the Collapse, Atlas One was how I was going to protect them. There’s a limited amount of room and supplies in the bunker…some of the cabinet wanted to leave my wife and daughter behind, to preserve more of the leadership. I wouldn’t stand for it, so they let them come with us.” He sighs. “In the end, it didn’t do any good. One night, the alarm went off, signaling a breach in the bunker. It was chaotic – sirens blaring, lights flickering on and off, gunfire, screaming…” He hangs his head. “I couldn’t get to them in time. I heard my daughter calling for me, screaming for help. I saw Omega troops flooding through the base. I watched them kill everyone. Everyone.”