Collapse Series (Book 6): State of Vengeance

by Summer Lane

“Since you’ve left,” Buckley continues, “Camp Freedom has managed to survive against the insurgents. About two months ago, they came out of the hills – ambushed us in the middle of the night. Killed almost half of us.” His eyes darken. “It was a bad time. But we survived. Since then, Jones and what’s left of your father’s Rangers have been searching for them. I am amazed that you were able to track them down and destroy them.”

  “They got what they deserved,” I say, unflinching.

  “There is a reason for your reputation, I suppose,” he concludes.

  “What reputation is that?” I ask.

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I’d be more than happy to show you to the Young’s cabin,” he offers.

  “I know where it is,” I reply. “But thank you.”

  I head toward the door. I am suddenly very tired.

  My little team gathers around me, and it strikes me then how lucky I am to have a group of friends like this. These people are not just comrades – they are family. Despite our differences or disagreements.

  The war has forged in us a bond like no other.

  “Sleep well, people,” Desmond calls out.

  I push the door open.

  The snow is bitterly cold. I shield my eyes and trod through the early morning blizzard. It’s disorienting, so I grab Uriah’s arm as we trod through the slippery, icy road.

  I look around. Everything is different – and it’s not just because of the weather. Several cabins are empty, their roofs caved in, charred black. The remains of several vehicles lie near a stretch of the fence behind the General Store.

  The evidence of Omega’s attack is still here. I shiver. Their touch makes the place feel tainted, somehow.

  Strange.

  We follow the road, walking in silence. Everyone is exhausted, too tired to speak. We come to the Staff Circle, a collection of cabins in a makeshift cul-de-sac. I spot the Young’s cabin immediately, their familiar front porch, the same green shutters on the windows.

  This is the closest thing to home I have left.

  I hurry forward, climbing the steps. Uriah is right behind me, along with Manny, Arlene, Elle and Bravo. I hesitate, my heart fluttering in my chest.

  Nervous? No way. I can’t be.

  It’s just been too long since I’ve been here.

  I knock. There’s no answer. Several moments pass, and I knock again.

  And then the door opens, and I smile.

  “Surprise,” I say.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Isabel’s jaw drops. She is taller than when I saw her last, almost as tall as me. Her wild blond hair sticks out in every direction – as always – and she is wearing standard-issue refugee supplies: coarse blue jeans, boots and a thick sweater.

  But it’s her face that’s changed.

  Her left cheek and eye have been completely ravaged. Her left eye is milky and damaged, glassy and sightless. Her cheek is scarred, burned. A long, red gash runs from the bottom of her cheek down her neck, stopping at her collarbone. I am so shocked that I stand there and stare for a moment, totally at a loss for words.

  “Cassidy!” Isabel exclaims. She flings her arms around my neck and pulls me close. “I can’t believe you’re here! I never thought I’d see you again!”

  I embrace her.

  “It’s good to see you, sweetie,” I say, kissing her forehead. “It’s been a long time.”

  I step into the living room of the cabin, my team following on my heels. Isabel searches the small party, her face falling. She looks at me, her expression asking a thousand questions.

  “Where’s Chris?” she asks. “Where’s Jeff?”

  “Chris is safe,” I say. “He’s in Monterey.”

  “What about Jeff?”

  I don’t answer the question. I had not even thought about the fact that nobody here knows that Jeff is dead. For me, it has been a sad reality for so long that I have forgotten that not everybody knows what happened to him.

  Instead I say, “We’ve got a lot to catch up on. We’re all tired, Isabel. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Young?”

  “Well, I’m right here.” Mrs. Young stands in the doorway, a thick flannel shirt tucked into cargo pants. Her wispy gray hair is knotted in a bun. Her eyes are tired. But there is a huge smile on her face. “Cassidy Hart. My dear girl.”

  She hugs me tightly. It is a welcome embrace.

  I feel safe here.

  And then her smile falters as she looks around the room.

  “Where are my sons?” she asks.

  “Chris is fine. He’s in Monterey,” I tell her.

  “And Jeff?”

  I don’t know how to tell her this. The burden of being the one to have to admit that her son is dead is a heavy one. It makes me sick inside.

  “Jeff was killed in action,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”

  She stares at me. Her face pales.

  “He died bravely,” I assure her. “Fighting.”

  She lifts her fingers to her lips and closes her eyes, sinking into the couch in the middle of the room. No one says a word. Isabel sits beside her adoptive mother and rests her cheek against her shoulder.

  Mrs. Young begins to cry.

  I kneel down and take her hand.

  “I did everything I could to save him,” I say. “I swear I did. In the end, there was nothing anyone could do.”

  “I never wanted him to go to war,” she whimpers. “With Christopher, it was different. He was born to fight. But Jeff…” She chokes on a sob. “He was just a child.”

  “He was a man,” I reply. “And a good one.”

  The room echoes with her cries. It is torture for me, knowing that she will be eternally wounded – just as I am. The pain of loss will sting forever. It will fade, but it will always leave a scar.

  “Where’s your husband?” I ask. “I can tell him, if you want.”

  She looks up at me, peering through teary eyes.

  “My husband,” she whispers, “is dead.”

  “What?” I stand up, shocked. “How? When?”

  Mrs. Young continues to cry. She no longer pays any attention to my words. Her sadness is too deep – too intense.

  “It happened when the insurgents attacked,” Isabel explains in a quiet voice. “They came in the night. I was asleep. They broke through fences and killed a lot of the people living in the cabins in the meadow.” She bites her lip. “He went outside to try and help.” She lifts her shoulders. “He never came back.”

  Manny sits down on the only other chair in the room.

  “Damn them,” he says. “Damn them all.”

  “I went looking for him,” she goes on. “That’s when this happened.” She motions to her face. “I got caught in a fuel explosion. Stupid thing to do. I guess I’m lucky to be alive.”

  To steady myself, I turn to Uriah. “There are bedrooms upstairs,” I say. “Everybody find a place to sleep. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow after we rest.”

  He nods, leaning forward. He kisses my cheek.

  I do not shove him away or reprimand him, because I know that there is no romantic intent in his kiss. It’s meant to comfort me, and for that, I’m grateful. Vera walks to the creaky wooden staircase with Elle and Bravo. Manny and Arlene are right behind them.

  They ghost out of the room, respectfully remaining silent.

  I sit on the couch next to Isabel and slip my arm around her shoulders. I close my eyes.

  And I sleep.

  *

  When I wake up, I am curled in the corner of the couch, a heavy afghan draped over my shoulders. The fireplace in the corner of the room is crackling. I sit up, feeling groggy. Isabel is cross-legged on the rug, staring at the flames.

  “Isabel?” I say, orienting myself. “What time is it?”

  It is dark outside.

  “You’ve been sleeping since you got here,” she replies. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

  I rub my eyes.

  “Wow.” I look around. “Is e
veryone else sleeping, too?”

  “Some of them.” Isabel never takes her gaze off the fire. “Uriah went somewhere – I don’t know where. Manny left, too. The others are upstairs, still.”

  “And Mrs. Young?”

  “You can call her Margaret, you know.” She sighs. “Calling her Mrs. Young makes her sad.”

  I slowly unfasten the buttons on my jacket, peeling away the filthy layer of clothing. My weapons and ammo are on the floor near my feet.

  “Is she okay?” I say. “Is she sleeping, too?”

  “Yeah.” Isabel slowly gets off the floor and sits beside me on the couch. From my vantage point, her face is perfect – pale, with pinched, rosy cheeks and blue eyes. But when she turns her head, the injuries on her cheek and eye is visible.

  It looks terribly painful.

  “Can I ask you something, Cassie?” she says.

  “Of course.”

  She hesitates. “Are we…are we winning the war?”

  I inhale and rest my hands on my knees.

  “That’s a loaded question, kid,” I answer. “The truth is, we’re neither winning or losing. We’re just fighting.”

  “So we’re going to be okay, right?”

  Her expression is desperate. She reminds me of myself.

  I don’t lie to her. She’s felt the pain of loss – and the physical pain of injury. Omega has reached its nasty, poisonous claws into her life and ripped a chunk out of it.

  So I don’t tell her that it’s going to be okay.

  Instead I say, “We’re going to fight.”

  She nods, understanding.

  “Is there a place I can shower?” I ask. “I haven’t rinsed off in a couple of weeks.”

  Isabel wrinkles her nose.

  “Eww.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  She gets up. “I’ll show you,” she says.

  I follow her through the lower level of the cabin. It smells like wood smoke and pine dust. It’s a comforting scent. She stops at a large bathroom in the bottom level. “There’s running water,” she says, motioning to the shower. “And it’s hot. Just don’t use too much.”

  I muss her hair up.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She rummages around in a dusty cabinet in the wall, pulling out a bath towel. It smells like fabric softener. I take a long whiff and close my eyes.

  “This smells like my house,” I murmur. “I’m pretty sure I used to use this brand.” I drop the towel on the sink. We light a couple of candles and Isabel tiptoes upstairs, bringing me back some clean clothes.

  I start to close the door, but she stops me.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she grins.

  I lock the bathroom door and lean against it. There is a mirror, but I can’t see much by candlelight. What little I can see is terrifying. I look like a feral animal, my hair matted, my face dirty and grimy.

  I don’t recognize myself. So I look away and undress, fiddling with the water faucet. The shower comes on and hot, steaming water spills from the spout. Heavenly. I jump in and let the water run over my hair, rinsing away the mud and gunpowder. Water dribbles into my mouth and rivulets race down my cheeks.

  And then I grab the wall, dizzy, heart racing.

  I shake myself.

  This isn’t waterboarding, idiot, I think to myself. Man up. Or woman up. Whatever.

  But the uncomfortable, suffocating fear is still there when I get my head wet. I feel a rush of fear, and every memory of being tortured by Connor resurfaces, becoming real again.

  At last, I stop fighting it and shut the shower off, standing there, naked and gasping for breath. Not my finest moment, but it occurs to me that maybe I’m suffering from some kind of trauma.

  Before the EMP, it may have been called PTSD.

  There’s no name for it, anymore.

  I step out of the shower and pull on a clean pair of black cargo pants and a white T-shirt. Against all odds, the gold chain that Chris gave me is still hanging around my neck. I kiss the shield and comb my hair out with my fingers.

  It feels good to be warm and clean. It’s such a luxury.

  I put on clean socks, lace my boots, and step into the hall. It’s probably only three o’clock in the morning, but that’s okay. I slip into the kitchen and light a candle on the counter. I use the small flame to navigate through the cupboards. There is a lot of food here – canned goods and packages of sealed food.

  I pull out a bag of potato chips and open them, and then grab a can of my favorite post-apocalyptic food – peaches. Chris and I shared many conversations together over a can of peaches. Back when we were foraging through houses in Squaw Valley to survive.

  Before everyone I knew started dying.

  You’re so depressing, Cassidy, I think to myself. Lighten up.

  But the thought remains true. I crunch on potato chips and savor the sweetness of the canned peaches in the silence of the kitchen. I enjoy the solitude. I am never alone anymore. There is always someone with me, watching me – or shooting at me.

  Privacy is something that I sorely miss.

  When I am done eating, I find a bottle of water in the cupboard and drink the whole thing. Words cannot explain how amazing it feels to be hydrated, fed and clean again.

  There is literally no better feeling.

  I go back into the living room. Isabel is asleep on the couch. I walk closer. She is grasping something in her hand. I kneel down and take a peek.

  It’s a bullet – and it looks like she took it from my ammo belt on the floor.

  I rest my forearm on my knee. In sleep, Isabel looks like her childlike self. The girl that I used to know. But now she has changed – gone is the snarky little blonde.

  In her place is a sad girl who has lost too much.

  Not unlike myself.

  I stand up and walk to the window. The curtains are drawn, but I peek outside. Icy frost covers the glass. As I close the curtains again, the front porch outside echoes with the sound of footsteps. The door opens and Uriah walks in. He is dressed in black, covered in white snowflakes. His eyes and cheeks are red, raw.

  “Cassidy,” he says, breathless. “Come on.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You’re going to want to see this.”

  He holds out his hand. I button my jacket and we walk outside together. He flicks a flashlight on, illuminating the darkness. It doesn’t help that much – all it does is highlight the ice swarming through the air.

  I hold tightly to Uriah’s hand as we trudge through the snow, the slush soaking my pants. We are headed down a familiar path, toward the meadow. I remember this place in summer, when the plants were green and the temperature made me sweat.

  When we reach the meadow, the familiar stretch of grass is covered in snow. Generator-powered spotlights are shining across the open space as militia soldiers frantically scrape away the last bits of snow. The blizzard is dumping more as fast as they can clear it, but there is a clear strip.

  “It’s Manny’s airstrip!” I yell. “Why are they cleaning it up?”

  The sirens go off. I close my eyes, remembering the first time I heard those sirens. At the time, I’d thought we were under attack. But they were only heralding the arrival of Manny Costas – who could be coming now?

  The fear of the unknown keeps me rooted to the spot.

  I hear the roll of thunder rumbling through the sky – I realize that it’s not thunder at all. It gets louder and louder, shaking the ground. The lights from some sort of aircraft become visible.

  I strain to see through the flurries of snow in the air. Although I am not standing on the meadow, the propellers from the plane send a wave of ice through the air. I shield my face with my arms.

  The plane is huge, heavy. It’s a C-7 Caribou. Its wide wings reach across the open strip of meadow, the propellers slicing through the air. The engine roars. My ears ring. The large, hulking metal mass roars down the meadow. It is impossible to hear anything above the scream of th
e engine and the turbo propellers.

  It comes to a halt at the end of the meadow. The lights on the wings are bright. Militiamen from Camp Freedom hurry to help open the rear door. I walk to the end of the plane as the ramp in the rear folds down. There are soldiers inside the cargo area, and they are ready for war. All of them wear camouflage fatigues, bulletproof vests and ammo belts. They’re carrying heavy guns.

  “Who are these people?” I ask Uriah.

  Commander Buckley appears from the blizzard and Manny is with him.

  “These men, Commander Hart,” Buckley says, “are a little something we like to call the Angels of Death. A special ops unit.”

  “That’s dramatic,” I reply.

  Manny laughs erratically, a wide smile on his face.

  “Welcome home, boys!” he yells above the howling wind and the sound of the propellers slowing down.

  The men walk down the ramp. None of them look too thrilled with the miserable weather. But it’s not until I see a familiar face that I understand Manny’s excitement or Uriah’s mysteriousness.

  “ANDREW!” I cry, my heart lifting.

  Andrew – my dear friend and one of the best snipers and techies on the planet. He is standing tall, radios on his belt and a backpack of supplies slung over his shoulders. He looks healthy – recovered.

  I run forward and hug him.

  “Commander,” he says, embracing me. “It’s so good to see you. Thank God you’re here.”

  “I don’t understand,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”

  “You said you needed help,” he says. “We got your message on the radio.”

  I close my eyes, on the verge of tears.

  “Thank God.”

  “You didn’t think we’d miss it, did you? I’m the radio guy, remember?” He taps the radio on his belt. “But it’s also miserably cold out here, so I’m going to cut this reunion short and head inside, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” I hug him again. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Andrew.”

  “Me too.” He looks around. “Where’s Vera?”

  I smile. “She’s at the Young cabin.”

  “Ah.” He pauses. “Everyone made it out of Sky City alive?”

  I sigh.

  “It’s a long story,” I say. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.”