by Summer Lane
Because I’m afraid of what his answer might be.
“Commander,” Manny says. He steps inside the house. His hair is as wild as ever. His leather duster is stained with blood and mud and grease. He’s a sight to behold – and I realize how much I appreciate this man. This crazy, brilliant pilot from who-knows-where.
“We’ve got a situation,” Manny continues.
My heart sinks.
Another situation?
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Sector 20 is radio silent,” he says. “Either Colonel Rivera never made it back to base or they packed up and moved.”
Colonel Rivera. The chief officer of the National Guard unit in Fresno.
I grasp the wall, dizzy.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gasp.
“Easy, Cassie,” Chris warns, hooking his arm around my waist. “Have you tried contacting other Underground radio outposts? They might know.”
“Yes,” Manny replies. “Sector 20 just disappeared. If you ask me, that’s not a good sign.”
Obviously.
“What do we do?” I ask Chris, looking up at his face.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Finally he says,
“We go back anyway. And we find what we find.”
I hope it’s better than what we found here.
Chapter Fifteen
“Light bulb!” I exclaim.
I sit up straight, breaking the monotony of the sound of the engines. I’m sitting in the front seat of an armored Chevrolet Suburban. Chris is driving. Manny and Vera are in another vehicle. Uriah and Derek are in a Humvee, and Andrew is in the backseat, along with a ton of technological supplies and weaponry. We have been driving for two hours, and we have finally broken out of the Tehachapi Mountains. The valley is beautiful this evening, glowing with the orange and pink colors of the sunset.
“What are you talking about?” Chris asks.
“You said Harry was talking about going up north to some kind of a meeting,” I say. “Sacramento. That’s where he was going.”
“You don’t think there’s some kind of parley going down, do you?” Andrew comments. “Because who the hell would want to parley with Harry Lydell?”
“That makes sense,” Chris agrees. “But if Sacramento is a militia stronghold, he shouldn’t be anywhere near there.”
“What if the gathering isn’t just a meeting…?” I say. “What if it’s a negotiation?”
“That’s more likely.”
“And if Omega is negotiating, that means they’re getting weaker.”
“Which means we might be gaining the upper hand.”
I hope so. Either that, or Omega is stalling, waiting to make another move.
We don’t arrive in Fresno until early morning. It takes hours to rumble through Bakersfield and the surrounding towns in our convoy. As we travel through the darkness, I glimpse flashes of neighborhood subdivisions and shopping centers that have been destroyed in showdowns between militias and Omega. Scout vehicles and motorcycles have been sent ahead to clear the districts for us, but that doesn’t put my mind at ease. I close my eyes and try to sleep, anyway.
It doesn’t work.
When we arrive in Fresno, I instantly sense something different as we rumble down familiar boulevards like Blackstone and Ashlan. The distant sounds and echoes of gunfire are non-existent. I roll down my window a few inches. Nothing. The dead streetlight at the corner of Herndon and Blackstone has been knocked over. Two buildings have been totally destroyed.
“Something definitely went down while we were gone,” Andrew says.
“It wasn’t good,” I reply.
By the time we reach the entrance to Sector 20, I am expecting the worst. Andrew has been staying in radio contact with the rest of our team in the other vehicles, and their reaction to the current state of Fresno hasn’t been good, either.
The chain link fence around the base is broken. I swallow thickly. I haven’t seen this place since before we deployed to the Chokepoint to face down Omega’s five-million man army. Honestly, I never thought I would see it again.
I figured I’d be dead.
“The base has been compromised,” Chris states, stepping on the brakes. A huge chunk of the building is missing – blown apart. We stop the convoy near the front gate. I open the passenger door and walk to the property line. There isn’t a soul in sight.
Chris follows me to the gate.
“This was an attack,” he says.
“The base is probably still intact inside,” I surmise.
“Probably.”
“So what do we do?”
“We can’t stay here. Rivera is gone.”
“Where the hell would he go?” Alexander states, slamming his car door. “Why would he leave?”
Chris takes a moment to answer.
“Our best bet,” he replies, “is to keep moving.”
“And go where?”
“Sacramento.”
“Do you think that’s where Rivera went?”
Chris props his boot on the fence.
“There seems to be a correlation, don’t you think?” he asks, smiling faintly. “Sacramento is the place to be.”
“We don’t know what it’s like up north,” Andrew points out. “It could be totally hostile territory.”
“No,” Alexander replies. “The Pacific Northwest Alliance – whoever they are - has taken San Francisco, and Mexico is fighting their way from San Diego. I think our chances are better up north than here, actually.”
“But who’s going to defend the valley?” I say.
“Maybe that’s what the gathering in Sacramento will decide,” Chris answers. “We need to move now. Every minute we sit here is a minute wasted.”
I consider this.
“I agree,” I say. “I think we should go, too.”
It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that no one argues with the decision. With Sector 20 abandoned, what else can we do? It’s the only logical option that I can think of.
So we get in our trucks, our SUVs and our Humvees.
And we leave Sector 20 behind.
Again.
The northern part of California is uncharted territory, as far as I’m concerned. Fresno is as far away as I’ve gotten from Los Angeles since the EMP hit last year. As we drive beyond the city limits, a feeling of anxiety takes hold of me. I realize that without Sector 20, my dad will have no way to find out what happened to me or where I went. Likewise, I’m traveling away from him.
Although I am obviously able to function without my father these days…the fact remains that I am being pulled even farther away from my dad – and the Youngs, and little Isabel. How will Chris’s family even know that Jeff died?
They’ll probably guess when he never comes home.
But what if we never come home, either?
We take the old Highway 99. It runs parallel to the main highway, which is piled high with debris. In some places, the wreckage has been cleared away by Omega troops so they can get their vehicles through. But today everything is silent. There is no troop movement as far as I can see. As we drive closer to residential areas and small towns like Chowchilla and Merced, I see signs of civilization. People on the overpasses, lurking in the shadows. But no military presence.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“If Sacramento is anything like Los Angeles,” I say, “then we’re going to have a heck of a time getting inside.”
“It’s not like Los Angeles,” Andrew answers. “It’s a rebel stronghold, remember? We should be welcomed with open arms.”
“You’re forgetting something,” I point out. “We deserted the National Guard to form this rescue unit, remember? Colonel Rivera isn’t exactly going to be pleased to see us.”
“What are they going to do?” Chris interjects. “Refuse our help? They need all the help they can get.”
“Plus, you are Alpha One,” I wink.
We
hit the city of Ripon. It has taken us four hours - far longer than it would take for a regular traveler. But weaving through backstreets and avoiding potential gang areas takes time. The giant water tower near the edge of the freeway is blackened with smoke. The overpass near the rest area is cracked in two pieces, obstructing the southbound lanes. The drive-in restaurant and gas station looks like they got bombed. There’s hardly anything left besides faded signs and piles of rubble.
“Well, isn’t this cheery?” Andrew remarks.
“Check in with the others,” Chris says.
Andrew snaps his radio on and contacts the other vehicles. So far, so good. Everyone’s still here and we haven’t run into any trouble. I mean, except for the fact that everything in the state is a freaking garbage dump…yeah. No trouble.
Ripon is only one hour away from Sacramento – driving at freeway speeds. Unfortunately, our travel time is at least double that. As we get closer to the city, the old Highway 99 becomes more difficult to follow, until we have to abandon it altogether. We use maps to navigate through surface streets, getting lost repeatedly in the little towns of Ceres and Lodi.
The scenery here is quite a change from the myriad of dead orchards and hot urban cityscapes of the central valley. Miles of moist marshlands and grazing territory for cattle spread from here to the mountains. The sky is a deep blue. The temperature is cooler.
“I see it!” I exclaim, pointing.
Sacramento is clearly visible in the distance. The skyscrapers gleam against the late evening sunlight. It seems ethereal. A stark contrast to the ravaged skyline of Los Angeles.
“Now that’s a nice city,” Andrew comments.
“From a distance,” Chris replies, untouched.
I study his hands on the wheel. The scars are still there, angry reminders that just over a week ago, he was in a very bad place with very bad people. If anybody has reason to be skeptical, it’s Chris.
“So do we just drive in on the freeway or what?” I ask.
“There will be checkpoints leading into the city,” Andrew replies. “They’ll want us to identify ourselves and our destination. We should be fine. We’re militia, not Omega. We’re welcome here.”
“Welcome is such a relative term,” I mutter.
Chris pats my knee. We roll off the side road and hit the freeway. There is no wreckage here. Everything is wide open and clean. The houses along the freeway are abandoned. The bushes and weeds are ridiculously tall.
“This is creepy on so many levels,” Andrew says.
We drive beneath a series of overpasses. We are the only vehicles on the road. It is creepy, I have to agree. The closer we get to the city, the more tense I become. A city means people and people means trouble.
“Chris,” I whisper. “Roadblock.”
The freeway is blocked up ahead with two flipped semi-trucks and berms of earth. Military trucks, towers, and personnel as far as the eye can see. A fence around the city limit. Chris and I are in the lead Humvee. Guards in camouflage uniforms monitor our approach. An American flag is flying from the top of the first guard tower.
“Easy, Cassie,” Chris says, tapping my cheek with his finger. “They’re on our side.”
The suburban rolls to a stop. Chris turns off the engine. He opens his door. He keeps his hands up – a sign that he means no harm, I guess. A soldier comes out of the guard tower. I open the passenger door and step outside, mimicking Chris’s movements, walking toward him. The fence line buzzes with activity. I watch the soldiers. They are eyeing us curiously, but they don’t have the expression of men who are alarmed. And I know that look.
Chris exchanges a few words with the head guard. I’m on the other side of the car, and his voice is too soft for me to hear above the sound of engines and the wind whipping my hair into circles. In the distance, I hear the sound of a helicopter.
It makes me a bit queasy, given my recent experience.
“And this is…?” I hear the guard say, pointing to me.
“Commander Cassidy Hart,” Chris replies. “One of my best.”
He flashes a quick, wry grin in my direction. Then he’s all business again.
“Well, it’s good to see you, Alpha One,” the guard finally says. “Tell you the truth, rumor had it that you and your entire militia was dead. If you listen to Rivera tell it, you were dead the day you left.”
“Rivera is here?” I say. I walk around the front of the suburban. The rest of the militia remains in their vehicles, waiting for a signal from Chris. A confirmation that we can move forward.
“Yes, ma’am.” Closer, the guard is young. Maybe high school – maybe younger. He’s barely big enough to carry the rifle in his hands.
Then again, the same goes for me.
“He came through here with his forces, then?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies. “Two weeks ago, ma’am.”
“We’ve heard that there’s a rebel meeting going on downtown,” Chris tells the guard. “What do you know about that?”
“Well, sir,” the boy replies, “they’re having a big meeting down at the Capitol Building pretty soon. Rivera, Wright – all the militia commanders and National Guard leaders. Something big is going down. Ever since Mexico and Canada started pushing against the invasion, things have been getting more organized.”
Canada, eh?
“How do we get to the Capitol?” I press.
“Follow this road,” he says, “and take the third exit.”
He continues to give us the rest of the directions.
“You’ll have to go through several checkpoints, sir,” he tells Chris. “We’ll notify the outposts via radio that they should expect you. I can tell you that there’s going to be a lot of people that will be happy to hear that you’re still alive.” He grins at me. “And you too, ma’am.”
I feel my cheeks warm and turn toward the city. One skyscraper in particular reflects the sunlight beautifully. The entire building is made of glass that acts as a mirror – almost completely disappearing into the sky. The gates around the roadblock are pulled back. The guard salutes me and walks back to the guardhouse.
“Cassidy…” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. He’s standing next to the hood of the car. “Are you ready to do this?”
I meet his strong, steady gaze.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
And for the first time in a long time, I feel as confident as the words that come out of my mouth.
Chapter Sixteen
I feel like I’m staring down a long, lonely walk at high noon. We’re waiting inside the suburban on the other side of a yellow bridge. We have already been through checkpoint after checkpoint. A roiling, muddy river sweeps under the bridge. It has broken the banks at some points, flooding sidewalks and pathways paralleling the river.
Across the bridge, there is a ragged collection of damaged skyscrapers and boulevards, abandoned metropolitan electric rail tracks and empty riverside restaurants. It’s the sad remains of civilization. A sick joke. There is nothing here but a military presence and the desperate hope for the return of a civilized society.
We slowly begin moving across the bridge, having already checked in with security at the guardhouse. American flags seem to be everywhere, fluttering from windows, trees and lampposts. People are trying to keep their morale up. They’re reminding themselves that this is still America.
I mean, I think it is.
Time will tell.
No one has spoken since we began crossing the bridge. The radio – constantly filled with chatter and code words and updates – is now silent. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels the solemnity of what we’re doing. Somewhere deep inside me, I can sense it:
This is going to be a whole new ballgame.
When we roll onto the pavement of the long avenue of Sacramento’s Capitol Mall, the Capitol Building and its glittering dome is gleaming white and pure against the dusky evening sky. Somehow it has escaped the effects of the war’s devastation. It’s l
it up like a Christmas tree, glowing with interior lighting. There are blockades and concrete barricades in security rings around the building itself. Soldiers are patrolling and snipers are on top of every building on the strip.
“You think we did the right thing, coming here…?” Andrew whispers.
“Yes,” Chris answers. Firm.
There is no hesitation in his answer, and I draw strength from that. As we reach the end of the street, we stop at another checkpoint. The guard there asks for our names and identification. They have been expecting us, and we are directed to take our vehicles to a large building on the north side of the park. We roll into the loading area and get out of our vehicles.
“This is a hotel,” I state, looking up at the pretty edifice – there are too many stories for me to count.
“It was,” Chris corrects. “Now it’s a fortress.”
And he’s right, of course. There are soldiers everywhere. The lobby is huge inside, with shiny flooring and a concierge desk that is being manned by a woman in a National Guard uniform. The sound of phones ringing and the electric lighting inside the building are jarring. It’s as if we have stepped into the past – back when things like this were normal. Our team is assigned rooms on the upper floors. Vera looks pleased with the arrangement. I stare at the paper hotel room map that the man at the front desk gives us. He is dressed in uniform, like we are.
“I’m Commander Chris Young,” Chris offers. “And this is Commander Hart and our team. We’re here for a meeting at the Capitol Building…?”
He leaves the sentence as an open question.
“Yes,” the man replies. “It’s an honor, sir.” He smiles at me. “The negotiations will be held tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. You’ll want to find the Senate Chambers – that’s where the other militia leaders will be.”
“Thank you,” Chris says, nodding. “We’ll be there.”
Andrew, Uriah, Alexander and Manny are studying their hotel maps. They, like me, are scanning for exits and entrances. What is the fastest escape route? Funny how our minds are always on the defensive.
