State of Rebellion (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

  I realize that this is one of the first signs of weakness I’ve seen from Omega. If they had a firmer grip on the central valley, this farmland would be utilized. With a Chinese army on the way, they’ll need food and water. And I’m not seeing a lot of that today.

  Good news for us, bad news for them.

  We hit the outskirts of Fresno in about three hours. The roads that the convoy takes are backcountry dirt avenues and boulevards woven between abandoned orchards and farming property. Colonel Rivera gave very specific instructions and coordinates that allow navigation through enemy territory without being spotted by scouts. We hope.

  Growing up in Culver City, I didn’t have much of a reason to travel north to a place like Fresno unless I was visiting relatives or going on a school field trip. It looks nothing like I remember. As we roll into town, I look out the back of the truck, studying the scenery as we flash by. Gas stations, strip malls and cracked asphalt. Dead trees. The foul stink of long-burning fires eating through piles of rubble. Fast food restaurants with shattered windows and broken doors. Billboards covered with bright, vulgar graffiti.

  Not the most beautiful tourist hotspot in the world.

  “It’s not right,” Sophia mutters.

  “What’s not right?” I ask.

  “This. Being out of the trees. In the open.” She shakes her head. “I don’t like being exposed. It makes me nervous.”

  “We’re all nervous,” I reply. “We’ll adjust.” I smile with confidence I don’t have, then change the subject. “You know, my dad and I used to take vacations up to our cabin in the mountains. We’d stay up there during the summer and then go back to Culver City. It took me a few days to adjust to all the cement and pollution in the city after being up in the wilderness for so long. This is like that.”

  “It’s a lot different,” Vera says suddenly. “Because this isn’t like coming back from vacation. This is just going from one warzone to the next.”

  I meet her cold, blue-eyed gaze.

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I answer.

  “If you only had a brain,” Sophia adds, and we both stifle laughter. Vera flushes bright red and curses us under her breath. Ticked? Maybe. But she had it coming.

  And that’s all we say. I’m in no mood to get into a pointless argument with the ice queen today. Besides, we’re almost there. Even against the pale moonlit sky I can make out street signs still hanging from rusty streetlights. Just a few more minutes.

  Our convoy rumbles ahead, never stopping. Never hesitating.

  “We’re here,” I say.

  “The linkup point?” Sophia asks.

  “Yeah.” I stand up, walking to the rear of the truck. I step onto the back gate and stand there, one arm on the truck wall to keep my balance. The outriders on motorcycles and quads buzz past us, checking point and flanks for danger. I know that Manny is somewhere high above us, watching for danger from his vantage point in the sky. “Standby,” I say, turning to Sophia.

  The truck is slowing down. Not too much. But enough. “Just stay put.”

  A convoy of National Guard vehicles and troops are waiting at the far edge of a former Wal-Mart. The parking lot is a sea of dead vehicles. Weeds are growing through cracks in the pavement and sidewalk. Our outriders on the small vehicles roar back and forth in front of us, giving us the all-clear to move ahead. From here I can see the lead Humvee that holds Chris and Angela blazing the path for the rest of our vehicles. Our convoy heads straight towards the National Guard forces behind the building.

  I keep a firm grip on the truck’s handholds, praying under my breath that we’ll make it to the base in one piece. We’ve been safe so far…but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t go wrong from here to there. I hold my standing position, unable to force myself to sit on the bench and stare at the wall until we get there. I need to know where we are.

  After a steady ten minutes of following the National Guard forces, we pull away from the city a bit, staging on the outskirts of town. There are empty fields here, clustered with half-built construction sites and scattered debris.

  Up ahead, a chain-link fence stands around a burned out building marked Poison Control Center. The back of the edifice has been blown up. Black smudge lines the cement. There’s not a lot of glass left in the structure.

  The convoy slows to a crawl while a heavy steel gate swings open. We follow the lead vehicles to the rear of the building. The road slopes, dipping into an underground parking garage. The door rolls up just enough to fit the vehicles under the ceiling. The sound of the engines echoing off the walls is deafening.

  And then, without warning, there’s a blast from a siren – three times. The convoy halts. I help the guards unlatch the truck’s tailgate. Militiamen and women leave the transport quickly, eager to stretch their legs.

  Vera gets up, wordlessly hands me my backpack, and leaves the truck. I swing it over my shoulder, wondering why she bothered to hand me anything, and wait for Sophia. We stick close to each other, and I’m vaguely reminded of being rounded up out of a semi-truck not so long ago when I was imprisoned in a labor camp with Sophia...I look at her and she gives me a halfhearted smile.

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says.

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “At least we’re not enslaved this time.”

  “Never again.”

  We’re here by choice. When I step off the truck, my boots hit blackened cement. The ceiling is high above us. About two stories high, actually. Pipes and support beams wind their way across the ceiling. We’re inside what looks like a giant garage, lit by white lights powered by generators. Our men are leaving the vehicles, looking around the place with dazed expressions on their faces.

  What is this place?

  It’s been a long time since some of these people have been inside a building. Many of them have been living in the mountains since the day the EMP hit. Confined spaces can be pretty shocking after that kind of lifestyle. It’s an adjustment for me. It smells so…urban. Diesel fumes, gasoline and hot metal.

  Large white lettering is painted across the far wall.

  SECTOR 20

  I meet Chris’s gaze from across the room, a silent agreement echoing between us: This is going to be a lot different than fighting in the mountains.

  You know that feeling you get when walk into a room full of strangers and nobody looks up to say hello to you? That’s how I feel when I walk into the barracks for the first time. Women are everywhere – all ages, but mostly between fifteen and thirty years old. It’s an interesting scene. I feel no fear, no nervousness. I’ve been through too much for that. I simply am. We are all here for one reason, for one purpose. And that unifies us.

  Women from other militia groups that were staying at Camp Freedom are among the new arrivals here. Vera is bunking three beds over. She avoids my gaze, and I remember that she handed me my backpack on the truck. A simple gesture. A kind gesture, even. Coming from her, I have no idea what the motivation was behind it. She notices me watching her and looks up. She opens her mouth as if to say something right as Sophia decides to intervene. “I’ll take the top bunk,” she announces. “That way we can be next to each other.”

  “Sounds good,” I agree.

  Vera clenches her jaw. Whatever she was going to say remains unsaid.

  Sophia assembles her gear on her bunk.

  “There’s no ladder,” she says. “This is criminal.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “I guess. As long as you don’t mind me bouncing off the bottom mattress when it’s time to get up in the morning.”

  We both laugh. After we settle in we check out the bathrooms, which are no more than a huge hall of showers separated by thin plastic curtains. There’s a dressing room, a row of sinks and a long line of mirrors. I leave, not wanting to glimpse my reflection. I’ve had enough stress today without having to look at my face, too.

 
“This is a little more crowded than the barracks at Camp Freedom,” Sophia says. “I’m used to sleeping in a room with just our militia.”

  “If we could sleep in Kamaneva’s labor camp, we can sleep anywhere,” I reply. “We could sleep on the concrete floor with the rats.”

  “And then there were the ones that didn’t sleep at all.”

  And the ones that didn’t wake up in the morning.

  We both pause, chilled by the memory of our imprisonment. I physically shake myself and lean against the bunk. “So,” I say. “Let’s go find out what the next step is. I’m not going to sit around and wait for Rivera to give me an order.”

  “Okay,” Sophia shrugs. “But Rivera’s not in charge of what we do, is he? We get to use their weapons and equipment, but we answer to our militia leaders.”

  “But which militia leaders? There are a lot of different groups here.” I look around the room. The ages, sizes and ethnicity of the women here are very diverse. I wish I knew what everyone’s story was. How did they get here? What happened to them after the EMP? Why are they fighting in the militia?

  Their story is a lot like yours, a little voice says. That’s what unites all of you.

  “The commanders have called a meeting.” Vera brushes past us. “Your presence is requested.”

  I fight the urge to make a smart comeback.

  Sophia and I head out of the barracks, down a long concrete corridor that descends further beneath the ground. It smells musty, but the temperature is nice and cool. Two gigantic steel doors are at the end of the hall, guarded by soldiers. Sophia and I follow Vera through the doors, entering a vast concrete chamber. There’s a long table, sturdy chairs and maps on the walls. It looks like a top secret briefing room from a spy movie. It’s unimaginably large. Vera, Sophia and I can only stare at everything, awed.

  Colonel Rivera is sitting at the head of the table. Chris and Angela are there as well. Derek, Max and Alexander have showered and dressed in new National Guard uniforms. Chris is wearing combat pants and a brand new jacket, his beard freshly trimmed. He looks clean. He looks great.

  Me? Not so much. I need new clothes and a shower, too.

  “Have a seat, ladies,” Colonel Rivera says.

  If he notices that I’ve brought Sophia with me to a bigwig meeting, he doesn’t show it. Chris doesn’t question her presence, either. We’re all on the same side here.

  “Here’s the situation, folks,” Colonel Rivera begins. An unlit cigar is clenched between his teeth as he talks. “You Freedom Fighters need to establish a solid chain of command, with one command officer to interface directly with me. How you structure that chain of command is up to you, but I recommend that you establish Officers and NCO ranks that parallel ours.”

  “NCO?” Sophia mouths.

  “Non-commissioned officers,” I whisper.

  “I’ve got my own platoons outfitted and mission ready,” Rivera continues. “You need to move ahead and get yours squared away.” He grinds his cigar between his teeth, glowering at us. “Well? Which one of you fine guerilla warfighters is going to be the Militia Field Commander?”

  The room remains silent. Then all heads turn towards Chris.

  So we are picking a single commander today. Somebody needs to state the obvious. “Chris,” I say.

  Angela fixes me with a cold stare, turning back to Rivera. “I agree,” she replies, a thin smile on her lips. “Chris has the practical experience and background for this task. He will be a fine field commander.”

  Well, duh.

  “How about it, Alpha One?” Colonel Rivera growls, impatient.

  “I’ll do it,” Chris says, locking gazes with me. “I’ll need help.”

  “Angela, you will of course retain staff authority as militia leader,” Chris says, nodding at her. “I will handle combat operations. As to the officer corps, Alexander, Max.” He nods at each of them, leaning forward, looking directly at me. “And…Cassidy.”

  I stare at him. Me? An officer?

  He smiles. Vera stiffens, but says nothing to protest the appointment. I don’t speak, only nod slightly to indicate that I accept the appointment. What am I going to do? Say no?

  Not happening.

  “I’ll need new weapons and equipment for my troops,” Chris says, turning to Colonel Rivera. “Give us what we need, and we’ll be ready to go.”

  “Excellent.” Colonel Rivera folds his arms. “Now that we’ve got that squared away, let’s get one thing straight: this base operates solely on its own electricity. It was built years ago as a failsafe in the event of a catastrophe for the elites, if you will. A place for federal and state leaders to bunk out in the event that something huge went down. It was a way to preserve the chain of command, from the Executive Branch down. Well, folks, the catastrophe is already here, and the feds and everyone else in between never made it to the shelters. So the National Guard utilized them.” He stops and surveys the room. “The Federal Government has been protecting itself from a possible EMP attack for years. True, Washington D.C. and the Eastern Seaboard have been nuked, but remnants of the government still survive. State governments. State militias. State law enforcement. Our leaders are gone, but what we’ve got in this base – and in bases across the country – is access to electricity, food, water, weapons and information.”

  “Define information,” Chris says.

  “Sit back and enjoy the show.” Colonel Rivera grabs a black device off the table. A remote control. He dims the lights with one flick of a button, and a white screen rolls down from the ceiling.

  “What the hell is this?” Alexander asks. “A power point presentation?”

  Chris holds up a hand, a wordless warning to be silent.

  I look up, my eyes falling on a projector mounted to the ceiling. A burst of color blossoms on the screen. Speakers in the wall crackle with an electric hiss. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

  It’s been so long…this is so alien.

  An image appears. It looks like security footage. A grainy picture of a large parking lot. There’s a Wal-Mart and a collection of fast food restaurants and clothing stores in the background. It’s night. Everything is glowing with color. Cars are driving through the parking lot.

  “What is this? Derek mutters.

  There’s a clock at the bottom of the film feed. As soon as it hits 1832 hours - 6:32 p.m. - the lighting in the shopping center shuts off. The Wal-Mart sign, the restaurants, the car headlights. Everything. Several vehicles careen off the road and smash into parked cars.

  “This is footage from the night the EMP hit,” I say. “How did you get this?”

  “Satellite,” Colonel Anderson replies. “There are devices that the military – and the government – put into use that were resistant to a technological attack. We’ve used images and footage from those devices to learn more about what happened that night.”

  It switches to another image. This one is of an outdoor patio along a fancy walkway near the beach. The lights are glowing brightly. People are dining at tables with white napkins and wine glasses. The power goes out. Everything turns black.

  I bite my lip.

  “The following images are footage we received from a satellite,” Colonel Rivera says. “It’s not pretty.”

  The image is similar to something you’d see on the weather channel. A long distance shot of the earth from above the atmosphere. I can clearly make out the eastern coastline. It’s a sunny day, and from below something disrupts the landscape. There is no audio – not that there would be from a satellite in outer space. There is a sudden, blinding flash of light. The screen goes dark. A few moments later the screen resolves to show a cloud growing across the coastline. And that’s when it hits me: This is footage of a nuclear bomb detonating in Washington D.C.

  I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Colonel Rivera shuts the projector off. The lights come back on. The room is dead silent. No one knows what to say. What can we say? The mushroom cloud represented the i
nstant death of millions, the agonizing radiation poisoning of millions more. The beginning of the end.

  “Omega will bring their invasion force into the east and west coast,” Colonel Rivera says, his voice a hollow echo in a room full of shocked people. “They will bring a force of five thousand troops from Los Angeles into the central valley. We will meet them at the mouth of the foothills and choke them out.”

  “How long do we have until they get here?” I whisper.

  Colonel Rivera takes his cigar out of his mouth, taps it on the edge of an ashtray, and holds it between his fingers.

  “Two weeks.”

  Chapter Nine

  Warfare is all about patience. It’s the same thing, day after day. Sheer, complete and utter boredom occasionally interrupted by sheer, complete and utter terror. For the first time in my life, I realize why organization and structure is so important in the military. It’s not just to keep guys in line. It’s about keeping guys from going out of their minds with impatience.

  We’ve been here at Sector 20 for one week and the waiting is driving me crazy. There are no windows that allow us to see outside. The barracks are sterile and boring. The bright spots in the day are our meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. The chow hall is also a huge underground room. The food is filled with protein and calories – meat, potatoes and vegetables – and for that I am incredibly grateful.

  I go on scouting missions with Chris during the week, looking for enemy activity. This is my escape from the mundane routine of life on a military base. I get to see the sky at night and watch what society has become. And let me tell you, it’s not pretty.

  Nomadic gangs rove the urban areas, pillaging everything that’s been left behind since the EMP hit. You think downtown Fresno had a gang and graffiti problem before the EMP? You should see it now. It looks like a can of spray paint threw up on every blank wall and billboard in the county. There’s hardly a single building in the city with even one window still intact. We avoid the roving Omega patrols, who seem content to bide their time, waiting for backup to arrive.