Collapse Series (Book 9): State of Allegiance

by Summer Lane

  “Welcome,” Hanale says, no flicker of emotion on his face. “We must go inside now. It’s not safe here.”

  He gestures for us to follow, and his men surround us, quiet and intense—their eyes on all of us. I get the feeling that they don’t get visitors much, and that worries me, somehow.

  We walk through the terminal. It is outside, open air. The structures rise up on all sides of us, dark brown wood and pineapple tiles reaching above our heads, awnings to shield from the pure Hawaiian sun. A couple of souvenir shops are empty and hollow, including a former airport cafeteria.

  At last, we walk inside a building filled with decrepit TSA security equipment. The machines and scanners have been pushed aside, and there are tables and chairs set up here. There is a crude map of the island and its roads and highways on the wall.

  “This is safer,” Hanale says, nodding. “Sometimes the Ku sends drones to watch us from the east side of the island. It is better that we do not expose ourselves for very long.”

  “The Ku?” Chris replies.

  “Yes, militant fighters on the Hilo side,” Hanale explains, folding his arms. “They have retreated into the old ways, the ancient ways. Yet they still use technology against us.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “You have local enemies on this island?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Hanale replies. “Many enemies.”

  “Well, Hana-hut, I suggest you start talking,” Manny says.

  “It’s Hanale,” Elle whispers.

  “Ah, right.”

  Hanale twitches, then gestures to the map on the wall.

  “You’re here to help us, yes?” he asks, hopeful. “We have been waiting for aid for a very long time. This island has left us isolated from the outside world. The Navy ignores our radio transmission for help. They are afraid that we are the enemy, but we are not.”

  I don’t look at Chris; obviously, this man thinks we are here to provide military support to the survivors on this island. I’m not about starting things off on the wrong foot by telling him that we’re not.

  “Tell us about your militia,” I remark. “And about your enemies?”

  “It is a long story,” he says, “but I will try to shorten it for you. When the Collapse began in North America, we were yet unaffected here on the islands. Several planes went down over the Pacific, and those tourists who were attempting to fly back to their native countries were stranded here. We lost all communication with the rest of the world—and then we lost our power, too. The shipments of food and fuel stopped coming. After several weeks, people began to go hungry. The stores here were looted and raided. People began to retreat into selfish survival ways, hoarding supplies and killing anyone who dared ask for help.” Hanale’s eyes grew dark, hooded. “It was a dark time. The island people here grew very desperate. The cattle ranches of Waimea were raided and the cattle were stolen. Islanders formed gangs and began picking their way through the neighborhoods of Hawaii, stealing food and medical supplies, destroying the hospitals, and taking prisoners.”

  He pauses, and I can see the sadness in his face.

  “This is not exactly an island of aloha these days,” Hanale says gravely. “There was a very small military presence here and on Oahu, in the beginning. A small contingency of United States forces remains here, cut off from the rest of the world. A small number of their men are what comprise the Hawaiian militia here on the island.” He shakes his head. “Most of the military left to fight the Akua, and they never returned.”

  “The Akua?” Em says, frowning.

  “The common enemy,” Hanale replies. “Omega is not the only name for them, Commander.”

  Em nods, understanding, and Hanale continues. “Those of us who were left behind—and the few military men who remained on the island—formed the Hawaiian Militia,” Hanale goes on. “In the beginning, there was martial law, and a C.O. by the name of Burns. He was killed by the Ku. Since then, we have taken the leadership into our own hands in order to survive.”

  “Tell us about the Ku,” I say.

  “They are a splinter militia,” Hanale explains. “They are rogue. They have taken over the Hilo side of the island, but their aim is to completely control everything. They are stronger than we are—almost two thousand men and women willing to fight. They are savage and brutal. They idolize the goddess Pele, and they believe that she lives in the volcano.”

  “That’s kind of archaic,” Elle states flatly. “They’ve reverted to tribal living. Reminds me of the Klan in Hollywood.”

  “They are dangerous,” Hanale says, glaring. “They have a leader who has acted as a sort of prophet for the Ku, and they believe everything he says. He is sympathetic to Omega’s cause, as well. He preaches that this modern Collapse was meant to bring about the cleansing of Hawaii, to take us back to the glory of the ancients.” He sighs. “They are little more than anarchists.”

  “Aside from the Ku, who sound pretty freaking hostile, by the way,” I say, “have you had any Omega movements here on the island? Have they attacked you at all—other than an EMP?”

  Hanale shakes his head.

  “No,” he replies. “I believe Akua—Omega—intended for us to tear ourselves apart. The isolation of being on this island has driven many mad. If that was the enemy’s purpose, they have succeeded.”

  “You have radios?” Chris asks.

  “Yes, we were able to repair some of our radios,” Hanale replies. “But we have received no help or aid. We have occasionally spotted naval ships off the coast of Hawaii, but they don’t answer our calls for help. They continue to ignore us, condemning us to death.”

  I don’t look at Chris to gauge his reaction to Hanale’s final statement. I don’t have to.

  “We’re here on recon,” I tell Hanale, without missing a beat. “That’s all we can tell you—and if we succeed, we might be able to help you and your men get the Ku under control.”

  “Or wiped off the map,” Manny adds cheerfully.

  Hanale looks long and hard at me, then says, “In the beginning, we had more radios, but the Ku destroyed many of our outposts. You and Commander Young are well known throughout the militias around the nation – that much we have gleaned from the airwaves. Even the European Rebellion has heard of you. Or at least that was the last we heard, about six months ago, I think.”

  “There’s a European Rebellion?” Elle asks, blinking.

  “Yes. France, Spain, England, Sweden, and Ireland have formed a coalition against the Omega front.” Hanale tilts his head. “That is the extent of our knowledge, however.”

  His words send a shiver down my spine.

  Other countries are fighting back. Not just North America.

  It is hopeful news—great news! As far as I knew, England, France, Spain, and the rest of Europe were totally dominated by Omega. Perhaps the tables have turned. Perhaps people have decided that enough is enough.

  “Is there someplace we can stay while we’re here?” Chris asks.

  “Yes, of course,” Hanale replies. “But before I show you the barracks, I need to know what you will be needing from my men and me. Weapons? Vehicles? I understand the importance of secrecy, but if we are going to help you, you’re going to have to give me something to work with.”

  “Great,” Chris says. “We will need vehicles and any weapons that you can spare. We’ll also need maps of the roads and highways, and a briefing about any hostiles’ locations and threats, as well as their weaponry.”

  “We can provide all of this for you,” Hanale confirms. “In return, I ask that you bring us military assistance. Please.”

  “Agreed,” I say, bowing my head. “Thank you. We appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  A beat of silence goes by, and General Hanale says, “Follow me, and I will take you to your barracks.”

  “What about the chow hall?” Manny asks bluntly.

  “Yes, that too, Lieutenant Costas.”

  We leave the building behind and
step outside, peering into a relatively empty street paralleling the airport. There are several bus stations, their signs faded and yellow. The only signs of life here are the military Humvees and Jeeps parked on the side of the road and the Hawaiian militiamen standing guard outside the building. They straighten up and watch us like hawks as we near them—like we are alien specimens, shocking and abnormal.

  And maybe we are. It’s been a long time since outsiders have set foot in Hawaii …

  Two soldiers open the doors of a large Humvee, big enough to fit all of us inside. We clamber in, Bravo squeezing onto the floor, resting his head on Elle’s lap. I sit against the left window, next to Elle, Em on her right. The Humvee rumbles to life, and the convoy moves quickly out of the airport, turning left onto a long avenue lined with clean-looking palm trees.

  General Hanale drives our Humvee. We reach the end of the street and turn left, headed toward the uppermost tip of the island on an abandoned two-lane road called Highway 19.

  “If you are all from California,” Hanale says, “then you are used to large highways and freeways with many lanes. In Hawaii, we have one lane for each direction of traffic, and in the days before the Collapse, these roads were packed with cars. Now we have the roads all to ourselves.”

  He laughs a little, like this is some kind of private joke.

  “Earlier you said the Ku Tribe from the other side of the island has drones,” I remind General Hanale. “What do they use them for?”

  “To observe us,” Hanale answers, his expression growing dark in the rearview mirror. “They spy on our troop movements. Most of the time, we are able to spot the drones and shoot them down, but sometimes they evade us. Once, they sent a drone over the mountain. It was carrying a bomb. They landed it in one of our refugee camps and killed nearly fifty people.”

  “Sounds like the Ku is just as bad as Omega,” Em remarks.

  “I cannot say.” Hanale shrugs. “I have not fought Omega. I have only fought for the survival of my people on this island and defended them from the Ku. But it is all the same battle—the battle to survive, the battle for our humanity.”

  I watch the scenery flash by as we drive, black volcanic rock stretching for miles in every direction. Sometimes it is sharp and jagged, and in other places, it is piled up as if someone swept it neatly with a broom.

  “On another note,” Hanale exclaims, flashing a smile, “you have arrived on a good day—the sun is shining, and there is no rain. It is very beautiful.”

  I don’t disagree. The sun is brilliant and the sky is incredibly blue, splashed with puffy white clouds that hover on the lush green mountains. It’s definitely a different kind of beauty than California—this beauty is bright and colorful, vibrant.

  “So, Hansel,” Manny asks, “where are we headed now?”

  “It’s Hanale,” Elle hisses, annoyed.

  “We are going to our main base,” Hanale says, ignoring Manny’s mistake. “Pohokuloa Training Area. It was used for training soldiers before the Collapse … now we use it as a forward operating base—the FOB.”

  “I’ve heard about this place,” Em says, chewing on her bottom lip. “It’s near the Hualalai Volcanic Mountains. Some of my friends trained there. Don’t you have an airport here, too?”

  “An airstrip,” Hanale corrects. “It’s very small, the Bradshaw Army Airfield.”

  We keep rolling along the coastline. On the left, along the shore, there are occasional bursts of green golf courses and palm trees bunched together near large collections of buildings. The off-roads leading to those areas are fenced off and abandoned.

  “Resorts?” Chris asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Hanale confirms. “Very big, very nice resorts. Completely abandoned. The only people there now are the few refugees who have found homes in the empty rooms. But there is hardly any food. No clean water—they are experimenting with building a desalination plant of some kind.”

  At some point, we reach a turn-off point and we veer toward the right, heading in the direction of the volcano. The scenery shifts rapidly, going from sharp, black rock to golden-green pastureland. Our progression is slow and steady, but I am enjoying the view. I can see the northern mountains of the island on my left, shrouded in dark, smoke-like rain clouds.

  “It rains nearly every day in Waimea,” Hanale explains, watching me in the mirror. “That is where the cattle were taken from. We have some left, but they are very few now.”

  We keep going, turning along small roads and winding through single-lane avenues. Occasionally we pass vacation homes or old Hawaiian abodes on stilts, painted in bright shades of blue or green. We turn onto a highway that looks fairly modern—a novelty from what I have seen of this island so far. It ascends straight into the hills, empty and wide open. I force myself to breathe evenly.

  I do not like wide-open roads. We make easy targets here.

  Chris glances at me from his seat in front of mine, offering an encouraging nod. As he does so, Uriah looks away and stares out the window, his fists tightening.

  Here, the clouds are a mixture of pure white and dark rainclouds, sitting on the ground at the base of the hills. Large, circular hills rise up out of the ground, massive mounds of black volcanic soil. The hills are covered in the most gorgeous green grass and foliage I have ever seen. That, combined with the clouds drifting at ground level, give everything a golden, heavenly feel.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Elle says quietly. “It doesn’t seem like we’re at war here. Not at all.”

  I smile a little and think, But we are. This beauty is just temporary. An illusion.

  The jaw-dropping landscape cannot be allowed to distract us from the reality of the battle between our forces and Omega. Just because Omega hasn’t touched this place yet doesn’t mean they’re not planning to. As far as I’m concerned, Omega won’t stop until they control everything, everywhere.

  Eventually, we reach Pohokuloa Training Camp. I see the airstrip on the right, surrounded by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, and heavily guarded by Hawaiian militiamen. We roll off the road, straight into the camp entrance, going through checkpoints and entering the base.

  We drive for a while, very slowly, before coming to a halt near a collection of weathered, curved metal barracks. There is an odd assortment of buildings sprinkled here and there, some of them covered in grass or overgrown by green, flowering plants.

  The Humvee comes to a halt and Hanale exits the vehicle. We follow suit, and as I take a step outside, I realize that the temperature has dropped substantially and there is a cold breeze. I sigh, pretty sure that my body has no idea how it wants to react to the climate here.

  I lug my backpack and rifle over my shoulder, taking in the camp. For the most part, it is open and exposed, but I can see how the militia here has reinforced the walls and expanded the camp to accommodate more soldiers than it was originally designed for. Trailers and mobile homes have been brought into the camp, and the fences have been moved farther out to accommodate the extra buildings. Guard towers have been built. Concrete walls and sandbag chicanes fortify their defenses, and guards constantly patrol every inch of the wall, both on foot and in vehicles.

  “My quarters are here,” Hanale says, pointing to a building marked with a crude painting of a sharp fish hook—a Polynesian symbol for good luck and strength. “I share quarters with the other commanders and lieutenants. The rest of the fighting force is housed in these barracks.” He gestures to a smaller metal building toward the back end of the camp. “That is where you will stay—it is marked with a blue star. The chow hall is directly across the road. You will know it is time to eat when they ring the bell.

  “Rest tonight, eat well. Tomorrow I will supply you with what you need for your mission,” he continues. “I will meet you in the chow hall at 0900.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chris replies. “Thank you, General.”

  Hanale bows his head, and then he leaves us. Just like at the airport, the e
yes of every Hawaiian militiaman and woman is on us. They stare openly, some of them curious, some of them glaring and cynical. It is not very hard to figure out that most of the fighters here aren’t crazy about the idea of outsiders being here.

  “Even in the apocalypse, nobody in Hawaii likes tourists,” Manny mumbles. “Everybody around here except for Handsy looks like they have a coconut shoved up their ass.”

  Elle rolls her eyes and trudges toward our barracks. She, like all of us, is tired and hungry.

  I do the same, approaching the front door of the metal barracks, pushing it open with the toe of my boot. It is empty, with enough cots for ten people. It will just fit all of us inside. The walls and ceiling are metal. It’s cold inside, with concrete floors and a single bathroom in the back of the building.

  “Well, this is nice and cozy,” Manny says. “Top bunk is mine.”

  He climbs up into the first bunk by the door, dangling his long legs from the bed. I stand and stare at the room as people file in around me, setting their gear on their mattresses. Vera sits wearily on a bottom bunk, and I can tell that she already misses Andrew.

  I am suddenly so tired that I feel frozen.

  “Cassie?” Chris says.

  “I’m good,” I reply, quickly. “It’s just the humidity.”

  I shake myself out of it and throw my stuff on the bunk near the back wall, wedged into the corner, right beneath Em Davis.

  “So, this is Hawaii,” I state, looking out the window. I can see Mauna Kea from here, its sloped volcanic dome casting a shadow over all of us. “It’s not what I thought it would be.”

  “Honestly,” Elle remarks, “when is anything what we think it’s going to be?”

  “Good point,” I reply.

  She sets her scabbard and sword on the bed, laying it beside her on the mattress.

  “Where did you get that sword, anyway?” I ask.

  Elle gives me a strange look and answers, “It’s mine. Cheng was keeping it for me.”