by Summer Lane
“Cool down, Anita,” Chris tells her, raising an eyebrow.
Anita snorts.
“We’ve fortified the defenses around the city,” he continues. “The Navy is here. The Air Force is patrolling the coastline. We’re safe for now. I suggest that we rest and meet here in the morning.”
Silence.
“Fine,” Vera says, clipped. “I’m starved, anyway.”
She turns on her heel and flounces out of the room. I feel bad for her – she is worried about Andrew, one of our best friends. He was shot last night by Sophia right before she died…he is currently in the medical building, recovering from his wounds.
“Excuse me?”
The voice is so quiet, we hardly notice it. I turn and see Elle standing very close to me. She is as quiet as a ghost, and I hadn’t even seen her creep up on me. Her crystal-blue eyes survey the room. Anita and the rest of the leaders gathered here wait for her to speak.
“Omega is like a predator,” she says. “They wait until we can’t see them, and then they attack. Because if we know they’re coming, they know that we’ll just pull back or hide or defend ourselves, right?”
Anita rolls her eyes.
“I did not come here to listen to a child talk about warfare,” she says.
I give Anita a scathing glare, and she falls silent once more.
“Go on, Elle,” Chris encourages.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is,” Elle continues, taking a deep breath, “well, while we’re all so busy waiting for them to come back to the coastline in ships…what if they’re coming up behind us? What if this is just another distraction?”
Uriah shakes his head.
“That’s a good point, Elle,” he answers, “and we’ve considered that. But we only have so many defenses. We’ve got to concentrate them where we know Omega will hit the hardest.”
Elle wrinkles her brow, but says nothing. I wonder what she’s thinking, this mysterious young girl from the city. As the leaders disperse and leave the room, spent and exhausted from the Battle of Monterey, Chris and I linger. I exchange a glance with him and catch Elle as she is headed out the door.
“Elle?” I say.
She looks at me.
“What’s bothering you?” I ask. “What are you thinking?”
For a long moment, I think that she is going to bolt. She looks a little like a deer caught in headlights. Her grip on Bravo’s harness tightens, and then she relaxes, like she remembers that she is talking to me – someone she can trust.
“I just have this feeling,” she says. “I feel like this is cat and mouse. They’re playing with us. They want us dead, we’re in their way. Something bigger is coming. I can feel it. Fighting with us all the time seems like a waste of their resources. I don’t know…” She looks at me. “Can’t you feel it?”
I stare at her. A cold, icy chill slips into the pit of my stomach.
I have felt it. So has Chris.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I can.”
*
We do not go back to the Naval Postgraduate School. The grounds are littered with rubble, and I do not want to look at the place where Sophia died. We retreat to old military housing units near the seashore. It is heavily guarded here. Chris and I arrive in a Jeep. We drive in silence. I am too exhausted to talk anymore. He is too deep in his own thoughts.
The housing is from World War II, white plaster and thin glass. There are bushes and trees surrounding the small huts. Vehicles zoom around the compound. Fences keep the buildings secure. I stagger out of the Jeep and walk toward an empty building.
The door is open. I walk inside. It is cold and damp. There are mattresses on the floors, and I suspect they were used to house new recruits for the militias. Aside from that, the bungalow is bare. An old kitchen is in the back, and a bathroom is around the corner. There is no one else here, so I put one foot outside and wave to Chris. He exits the vehicle, his jacket slung over his shoulder, mud crusted over his black boots.
When Chris shuts the door and we are alone, I feel more tired than I have been in years. I press my back against the wall and close my eyes. I want to sleep for a hundred years, and when I wake up, all of this will be over and everything will be back to normal.
“We’ll be okay,” Chris says quietly.
He places one hand on each side of the wall above my head, close enough for me to smell his scent – sweat and blood and gunpowder.
“I know,” I reply.
I touch his chin and kiss him softly. He pushes his chest against my body and I wrap my arms around his neck, threading my fingers through his dirty-blond hair. He kisses me – a gentle touch at first, but it soon turns desperate and powerful. I slide my hands to his back, fingers brushing over the taught muscles in his shoulders and waist.
I feel hot inside, and suddenly I forget about everything else. My focus becomes one thing: Chris.
I’m not complaining.
I stand on tiptoes as he kisses me, a full foot shorter than him. He hoists me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, boots digging into his belt. He twists around and leans against the wall, his fingers tangling in my hair and his lips on my neck.
“There’s nobody else coming in, right?” I ask, breathless, flushed.
“No,” he replies. And then he grins. “I locked the door.”
“Ah, you devious man.” I smile, and he slides down to the floor and I am kissing him again and every other thought and worry goes out the window. He slips his hands down my arms, strips off my jacket and flings it across the room.
“That was in my way,” he says, flashing a wry smile.
“Right, right.”
I strip off my bulletproof vest. Chris pulls it over my head and slaps it on the floor. Without it, I am twenty pounds lighter and my shoulders feel free. There is a gold chain hanging around my neck, and on the chain there is a small shield. It was a gift from Chris – a Christmas present from long ago.
“You still have it,” he murmurs.
“Of course I do. It’s my lucky charm.”
He kisses the shield.
“It must work,” he says, “because you’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” I echo. “With you.”
“Yes, with me.” He pulls me closer and kisses me again, sending shivers down my spine, starting a fire in the pit of my stomach. “And you’re not going anywhere else tonight.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” I tell him.
He pulls his shirt off and I place my hand in the center of his warm, muscular chest. There is an ugly scar on his shoulder, where he was once shot during the Battle of the Grapevine. A tattoo of a cobra wraps around one of his biceps. Just under his armpit, near the bottom of his ribcage, there is another tattoo that I haven’t noticed before. It’s very small.
“What does that say?” I ask, tracing the tiny script with my finger.
“It says ‘the shadow of death’,” he replies. He leans his head back, his hands behind his head. “Jane was big into religion. She liked the twenty-third psalm. You know. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me’?”
“I’ve read it,” I reply softly.
“When she died,” he goes on, “everything that she believed in – everything that I believed in – became a sick joke. I had the shadow of death tattooed on my skin to prove my point.”
“What was your point?” I whisper.
“That no matter what I did, I wasn’t safe – and neither were the people I loved.” He shrugs. “I thought of it like a curse mark.”
“I didn’t know you were so superstitious.”
“I kept getting screwed over, Cassidy.” He shakes his head, clears his throat. “My friends died in combat, my wife got murdered by terrorists. I hated everybody and everything and I just wanted to kill the enemy – every day, as many as I could, as long as I could fight.”
I touch his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I say. �
�I know it was difficult.”
He stares at the wall, and for the first time since I have known him, I see the crystal shine of tears in his eyes.
“You changed me,” he whispers. “You showed me what it meant to exercise mercy and humanity again. You saved me.” He pauses. “When I thought you had died on that Coast Guard Cutter, I thought I would die, too. If anything ever happened to you, I told myself that I would find a way to end my life. Go out in a blaze of glory. Kill as many bad guys as I could to avenge your death.”
There is a long silence. I hold my breath, he gathers himself, and then he says,
“But I knew that’s not what you would have wanted. You would have wanted me to keep fighting. You would have wanted me to keep leading.” He holds my face in his hands. “So that’s what I did. Cassidy, you’ve saved my life so many times. I don’t deserve you.”
A tear slips down my cheek, onto his hand.
“Yes, you do,” I say. “We deserve each other.”
I kiss him long and hard. He clutches the small of my back and tightens his grip. “I love you,” he says.
“You can never say that enough,” I laugh. “I love you, too.”
He lays me down on my back and kisses my forehead, touches his lips to my neck and traces his mouth all the way to the curve of my collarbone.
“No matter what happens,” he says, “this will never change.”
I slip my legs around his waist and pull him down to me.
“Never,” I say.
It is one of the few things I know to be true.
Chapter Three
Run, don’t stop!
I sprint through the trees, drenched in sweat, legs burning, barely able to breathe. The world flashes by in a blur of green and blue. I hold a heavy rifle in my hands, pushing myself harder and harder. I can hear my pursuer, and although I know who it is, I cannot let her catch me.
Not this time.
I keep running until I reach the edge of the forest. A clearing stretches out before me, golden grass waving slightly in the breeze. It is early spring, and the warmth of the sun touches my cheeks as I enter the meadow.
I do not look back. I keep going.
It is only when I reach the other side that I slide to a grinding halt, bringing the rifle up to my shoulder. My pursuer stops and rolls to the ground, crushing the grass. She holds her hands up.
“You’re dead,” I say. “I’ve outrun you and outgunned you.”
There is an amused smile on my lips. I lower the rifle and pull the bandana off my forehead, sweat dripping down my face. Sophia Rodriguez stands up, and she is panting too hard to reply.
“Nobody,” she says between breaths, “can ever take you down in practice.”
I sling the rifle over my shoulder, my hands on my knees, inhaling and exhaling.
“You’re the fastest,” she continues. “You’re better than me.”
“Chris can catch me,” I reply.
“You’re always the best,” Sophia answers, and the expression on her face looks sad. “Always will be, probably.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t get all weird on me,” I say. “It’s just war games.”
“No,” Sophia sighs. “It’s actually war.”
We have been training every day since Chris and his militia – the Freedom Fighters – rescued us from Omega’s slave labor camp. My muscles are stronger than they have ever been. I am learning to move quickly and quietly. I am a good marksman. In fact, my ability to shoot is perhaps my strongest skill set.
“We should go back,” Sophia says suddenly. “It’s almost chow time.”
I look across the clearing. It is so peaceful and quiet here, I almost wish that we could just live here and wait for the apocalypse to end. No more fighting or enslavement or wondering what will happen if Omega finds us.
But I know that is not rational.
I must fight.
I would never forgive myself if I didn’t.
*
The sky is clear. The smoke has finally dissipated. The ocean breeze has carried it away, but the visual evidence of the Battle of Monterey is everywhere. Buildings are in ruins. Rubble is scattered across nearly every street.
Omega is gone, but only temporarily.
Our safety here was always an illusion. Smoke and mirrors.
I will never believe in safety again.
I lie with my head on Chris’s arm. He is sound asleep, breathing evenly. I trace my finger down the center of his chest, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.
It is a cold morning, but Chris is keeping me warm.
I smile at the ceiling, sit up, and smooth my hair. Not that it helps.
I head toward the bathroom. I briefly shower in cold water, pull on my spare uniform and peer at my reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. The edge of my right eye is black and blue, and my bottom lip is split. My cheek is bruised. There are gashes on the side of my neck where Sophia dug her fingernails into my skin during our fight.
I drop my gaze and stare at the grimy sink.
Don’t think about her any more, I tell myself. She made her choice and you made yours.
I know that this is true, but the reality of her death still stings.
It hurts because she did not die side by side with me in battle.
She died as my enemy, and that will haunt me forever.
I open the bathroom door and step into the bungalow. Chris is sitting on the mattress. He looks at me as I emerge, smiling crookedly.
“Sleep well?” he teases.
I blush and sit beside him.
“You would know,” I reply.
He takes my hand, kisses it, and holds it against his knee.
“We’re outnumbered,” he says at last. “All of this fighting…all of this backbreaking to get into the Alliance…and we’re still outnumbered. Omega will keep coming. They won’t stop. If what Harry said is true – if Omega has infiltrated every level of society in the country – what can we do to stop it?”
“Why would you say that?” I demand, afraid. “You’re the one who’s always believed that we can win this war. More than me, even! You’ve always had hope. Don’t say stuff like that.”
“I’m stating facts, Cassie,” Chris replies, raising an eyebrow. “This is not a fair fight. We’re fighting for our lives. Omega is just fighting for a foothold.”
“So we’re motivated,” I say and shrug. “We’ve got more incentive than they do.”
Chris shakes his head.
“We could be fooling ourselves. This could be the end.”
I look at him. Words form in my mouth, but I can’t force them past my lips. Chris has always been the leader of this movement – the one who has believed that no matter what, we will win. I don’t know why he would say this. While the facts might be correct, I refuse to believe that we will lose this war.
We just can’t.
“I won’t give up,” I tell him. “I will never stop fighting.”
Chris smiles, but there is sadness in his eyes.
“Neither will I,” he agrees. “Fight or die, right?”
I mock fist-bump his hand.
“Right,” I say.
“What do we do with Harry?” I ask quietly. “I know I asked you earlier, but still…what’s our timeline with him?”
“We interrogate him,” Chris replies, without hesitation. “And then we kill him.”
I nod.
If anyone deserves death, it is Harry Lydell.
But then I think of all the blood on my hands and I wonder: am I really so different than my enemy?
Yes, I tell myself. I am not an aggressor. I am a defender. There is a difference.
But that will never change the fact that I have taken lives. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life…however long that may be.
I miss the old world, but deep down, I know that we will never be the same. Society will never be rebuilt. We are doomed to a new civilization of post-apocalypt
ic survivors deprived of technology and organized government.
We must repeat our own history in order to live again.
We must die, so that we can be reborn.
*
We leave the bungalow and enter the clear, crisp morning. The sunshine is a much-welcomed warmth on my face. I savor it before we step into the chow hall. It is an old building with tables and chairs. When we walk in, militia soldiers stop and stare: first at Chris, then at me.
Whatever, I think. I don’t care.
I walk to the food line – a long bar of buffet food – and shovel items onto my plate. It smells good inside, like scrambled eggs and bacon. Chris follows. We fill our mugs with steaming cups of coffee and take a seat in the corner, near the open windows.
Manny walks in with Elle a few moments later.
“I’m going to talk to Manny for a second, hang tight,” Chris excuses himself, then walks over to the crazy pilot, discussing something about flying overwatch and last night’s battle. Elle stands silently beside him, listening to every word, her dog close beside her, silent and pensive.
Vera enters the building and offers a weak smile to Chris.
He says something to her and she replies. They begin talking and I roll my eyes, reminded of a similar scene not so long ago in the mountains – in a cafeteria, even. I used to sit at a table and watch Chris and Vera talk while I huddled up with Sophia, talking about Chris and the war and whether or not we were going to survive life in the militias…
Sophia, why did you have to betray us all?
But now I am a new girl. I am a woman, I guess. I am a leader.
I am struck with the knowledge that while I will never be beautiful like Vera, I will always be honest, and I will always be the one who is willing to lay down her life if it is asked of her.
I look over at Chris. He finishes speaking with Vera, and she and I exchange a look. She nods, a half smile on her face, and I nod back. Chris sits beside me and touches my shoulder.
“You seem deep in thought,” he says.
“I was just analyzing the meaning of my life,” I reply.
“Do share.”
“I’m not Marilyn Monroe but I’m a good shot and I pack mean left hook.”
