State of Rebellion (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

  I do a headcount of the men in my platoon. Everybody here? Good. I didn’t lose a single soldier. Great news, especially since it’s my first mission as a Lieutenant. A tall, lean young man with cropped black hair is standing at the back of my platoon. I don’t know his name. He’s holding his left arm, his hand covered in blood. Concerned, I walk up to him.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” I ask.

  “Andrew, Ma’am,” he replies, grimacing.

  I look around for a field medic. They’re occupied with other soldiers that are more badly hurt. I roll up Andrew’s shirtsleeve. He’s been shot through the arm – looks like a clean wound, though. In and out. A flesh wound.

  “You are a very lucky guy,” I murmur. “This didn’t even scrap bone.”

  “If you say so, Ma’am,” he replies.

  I flip my knife out of the pocket in my boot and cut away a strip of cloth at the bottom of my black undershirt. I’ve got a tiny emergency first aid kit on a pack nestled snugly on my back. I whip it around, unzip it, and open up some alcohol wipes. I swab the wound. He winces but doesn’t complain. I wrap his arm in clean bandages, tie the strip of cloth around that, and nod.

  “You’re good to go,” I say. “Check in with the Medical Staff when we get to base.”

  He smiles. It’s a kind, sweet smile.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he replies. “For everything.”

  I’ve never known what to do with gratitude, so I just remain silent, zip up my little packet and sling it across my back. And I leave. I gather my platoon into one spot and watch as Chris approaches me through the crowd. He’s flushed. He’s mad.

  “What was that?” he demands. He’s wearing black combat gear, a captured weapon in one arm, held at the ready. “Who gave your position away?”

  “It was my fault,” I say, swallowing a sick feeling in my stomach. Why am I taking the blame for this?

  Because that’s what a good leader does, I think. They take responsibility.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Chris gives me a long, hard look.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” he states. He glances at Sophia’s face, then back at me. Perhaps he knows the truth. “We’re returning to base.”

  I nod.

  “Nice recovery, though.” Derek shows up, covered in ash and sweat. His short blonde hair is hidden beneath a black skullcap. “Not bad, Hart.”

  “Thanks.” I gesture to the twisted mass of metal that used to be the gate around the camp. “You didn’t do too bad, either.”

  “Ah, Max is the brains. I just plant the explosives.” He shrugs. “This was a lot easier than I thought it’d be.”

  “Easy is a relative term,” Alexander replies.

  “I mean, compared to the last time we engaged Omega.”

  “We were betrayed and ambushed.”

  “Exactly.” Derek smiles at me. “See you at base, Hart.”

  “See you,” I say.

  We head towards our just arriving truck convoy, on the other side of the distribution center. It’s under the freeway. It’s been staged and waiting for our arrival. Vera is talking with Chris when I arrive, and he’s listening intently. I grind my teeth together and make a point of avoiding looking in her direction. She’s probably giving him a point-by-point recap of everything that happened to her platoon during the attack. I’m sure their execution was flawless.

  I check my team one final time, making sure that they’re assembled in their transport vehicles. Everybody’s fine. I walk to the lead Humvee. I get in the backseat and slam the door. Weary.

  A few seconds later, Chris gets in and takes the seat beside me.

  Silence.

  “You took the blame for Sophia’s mistake,” he states simply.

  I say nothing. Then, “It’s my team.”

  “It wasn’t your mistake.”

  “My team. My mistake.”

  The driver starts the engine and the convoy starts to move. We’ve got roving gunners in jeeps and ATCs keeping an eye on the roads as we rumble through the city, twisting and turning between old shopping centers and neighborhoods.

  “Cassidy,” Chris says, lowering his voice. “You’re a good leader.”

  I study his profile, noting the tightness of his jaw.

  “You don’t seem too happy about it,” I surmise.

  “Because you don’t need me anymore,” he says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental.”

  “I’ll always need you,” I reply.

  I need Chris more than I need anyone else. Even if the entire war against Omega is an utter failure and we all end up enslaved - if I have Chris, I can survive.

  He doesn’t answer. He just reaches over, takes my hand, and holds it for a few minutes until we reach Sector 20. His hand seems so big compared to mine.

  “I’ll always need you,” I repeat as we pull into the base.

  He pauses and looks at me, green eyes brimming with emotion.

  “And I will always need you,” he says.

  Chapter Ten

  Today is my birthday.

  I sit on the edge of my bunk, staring at the wall. I am twenty years old. The barracks are empty. I’m the only one here.

  I pull my backpack out from under my bed. I rummage through the contents. I pull out my knife, a gift from Jeff, Chris’s brother. The one with my name engraved on the handle. I haven’t used it for a while, afraid of losing it in combat. I strap it onto my belt and take a deep breath.

  Happy birthday to me, I think.

  I head out into the hall. The long corridor is made of concrete, glowing with dull lighting. At the end of the hall I turn left, ducking into an open room. The Chow Hall. It looks like a high school cafeteria, minus the linoleum and plastic chairs. This room is full of metal benches, hard flooring and a counter with soldiers dishing out food. It smells like a barbecue and it’s loud with voices and clatter.

  Sophia is sitting with Alexander on the far side of the cafeteria. Derek and Max are there, as well. Chris is talking with Jeff at the entrance, and I practically walk right into Chris’s chest as I enter the room.

  “Hey,” Chris says. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Commander” I reply with a smile.

  “You’re wearing the lucky knife,” Jeff comments.

  “Yeah. Today’s special, I guess.”

  “What’s so special about today?” Chris asks.

  His hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, his face no longer scruffy with stubble. The beard is shaved close to the skin, setting off his luminous green eyes. He looks more handsome than ever, and I’m reminded how different we all look when we’re clean.

  “It’s just a special day,” I shrug.

  It’s just my birthday.

  Chris and Jeff follow me to the food line. We grab trays, utensils and plates. The breakfast is comprised of eggs and potatoes. Rich in calories, protein and starch. Enough to keep an army going.

  And lots of coffee.

  We join Sophia and the others at the table.

  Today is my birthday, and it’s a good day. A great day. I’m safe and sound. I’m sitting next to my friends and the man I love. I have food and water. I’m fighting for a good cause.

  Even in the middle of the end of the world, I can have a good day.

  We finish our meals and head out of the Chow Hall, towards the training center. This is our routine. Breakfast, then drilling the militiamen and women. Everyone has to be kept on their toes.

  But our routine is interrupted by Angela. She’s walking towards us, flanked by Vera. “The Colonel has called an emergency meeting,” she says. Her graying hair is pulled into a bun that matches Vera’s. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What’s going on?” Chris asks. All of us change direction, heading back to the briefing room further underground. “Angela?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighs. “But it’s not good.”

  Alexander accompanies us, since he and I are b
oth officers. Lieutenants, to be exact.

  “Come on, Sophia,” I say.

  “I’m not an officer,” she mumbles. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I frown, unable to argue with her at the moment.

  “Okay.”

  She heads off with Jeff and Derek, while Max joins us, too. By the time we reach the briefing room, I’m buzzing with worry. What’s wrong? The Colonel is waiting with his arms crossed, a cigar in his mouth. Of course.

  “We’ve got forty-eight hours,” he says.

  The doors slam shut behind us.

  “What do you mean by that?” I demand.

  “Omega’s moving faster than our estimates,” Colonel Rivera replies. “We have to move out ASAP to set our forces at the choke point.”

  “Whoa, hold it,” Derek interjects. “We were supposed to have one more week to plan for this.”

  “Plans change,” Colonel Rivera says. “Warfare isn’t predictable, son.”

  “We can be ready to move by morning,” Chris replies, calm.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Here.” Colonel Rivera takes a map out of the desk drawer and unrolls it across the table. It depicts two major interstates converging into one highway at the base of a mountain range.

  “That’s the Grapevine,” I say, a chill crawling up my spine.

  I haven’t been back to those mountains since I escaped from Culver City.

  “That’s right. The Tehachapi mountains, south of Bakersfield and the main highway coming out of Los Angeles.” Colonel Rivera answers. “Enemy forces will be using the I-5 highway to move their troops into the valley. They’ll have troop transports, armored vehicles, artillery, air support. Our scouts are gathering intelligence as we speak and relaying reports via radio from Los Angeles.”

  “What about air support?” Alexander replies.

  “They’ll have some, but no more than we’ll have.”

  “We have air support?” I say.

  “We will.” Colonel Rivera takes a long drag on his cigar. “We’ll be deploying all of our troops here at Sector 20.”

  “There are at least five thousand enemy combatants headed this way,” Alexander says. “We’re outnumbered five to one.”

  “That’s why we’ll choke them on the interstate,” Chris replies. “We have a good chance of stopping their advance if we can face them in tight, steep, rocky terrain. We can maneuver faster than they can.”

  As they talk, I study the map. I remember that interstate well. Chris and I drove the last stretch of it after a violent encounter at a gas station in Santa Clarita on our way out of LA. Desperate, dangerous mobs roved the freeway. They stole my car and destroyed it.

  So yeah. Not many happy memories of that road.

  “Be honest with us,” I say, interrupting their discussion. “What are our chances?”

  Colonel Rivera shakes his head.

  “Kid, this is war,” he replies.

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what chance do we really have of pushing them back? Of stopping their advance into the valley?”

  “The odds aren’t in our favor,” Alexander agrees.

  “We’ve got something worth fighting for,” Chris shrugs. “We’re motivated, and we’re smarter than they are. They’ll be met by National Guard forces on all entrance points into the valley. They won’t be expecting much of a fight at that particular ambush point, and that’s how we’ll lure them in.”

  “What happens if we can’t stop them?” I ask. “Then what?”

  Silence.

  “We’ll stop them,” Chris answers. “We have no choice.”

  I nod slowly, moistening my lips.

  “Or die trying,” I whisper.

  Because if we can’t stop Omega’s push on the west coast, they’ll take over California. And that could be the beginning of the end of the militia’s rebellion.

  Hours later in the Dugout, I’m staring at a half melted birthday candle in the palm of my hand. There’s a huge cabinet along the back wall stuffed with odds and ends. Items like napkins, paper plates and sealed bags of candy. The kind of things nobody can buy anymore. The birthday candle is something I found in the bottom drawer next to a bottle of champagne that has never been opened.

  There are only a few people in the Dugout tonight. Sophia is sitting with Alexander at a couch in the far corner. He’s got his arm around her shoulders as they talk in quiet voices. Funny how things have changed between them. How she’s been confiding in him more than in me lately.

  Other soldiers are gathered around a plastic table, their feet kicked up, playing poker. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back pressed against the wall. There is a tense feeling in the air. The anticipation and fear of what’s about to happen. About leaving. Deploying would be the proper term, I guess. Whatever. Either way you slice it, we’re likely marching off to a major bloodbath.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I whisper. “We’re all going to be okay.”

  I’ve been repeating this phrase over and over to myself for a long time now. It’s not that I haven’t been in combat before. I’ve seen plenty of firefights and held my own with the tough guys. But this is going to be different. This isn’t a hit and run attack. This is a full on nosedive into a major battle. The lines have been drawn, and once we get out there, there’s no escape. It’s not like fighting in the mountains. Make a mistake? Hide behind a tree.

  Out here there’s nowhere to hide.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” Chris says. His shadow falls over me as he gets down on his knees, scooting beside me. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you holding a burnt candle?”

  I offer a weak smile and hold the candle up to eye level.

  “Today’s my birthday,” I shrug.

  Chris smiles sympathetically.

  “You should have told me.”

  “Well…it’s not like you can get me a box of chocolates.”

  “A guy can try.” He slips his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close to his chest. “Happy birthday, Cassie.”

  I sigh, enjoying his warmth.

  “I always thought I’d be celebrating my birthday in Disneyland for my twentieth,” I say. “My Dad and I had plans.”

  “Plans sometimes get postponed.”

  Chris says the words, but we both know that postponed is the least offensive word he could possibly come up with to substitute for the world ended and screwed up your plans.

  “We should go out to dinner sometime,” Chris says.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s going to happen. And the electricity is going to come back on, too,” I reply sarcastically.

  He tilts his head, nodding at the glowing lights on the ceiling of the Dugout.

  “If the National Guard can do it, the rest of the country can, too,” he says. “That’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. So we can turn the power back on. So we can start over and rebuild.”

  I trace my finger over the edges of the buttons on his jacket.

  “You have to promise me something,” I whisper.

  He leans closer.

  “Promise me that when we get out to the front lines,” I continue, “we’ll stay together.”

  Chris slowly brushes the hair away from my face, studying my expression.

  “We’ll stay together,” he promises.

  “I love you,” I say. “You know that, right?”

  He nods, kissing me on the forehead. But he says nothing, not returning the words. And that bothers me for some reason. How hard can it be to say I love you? Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe…

  A few soldiers are sitting at various places in the Dugout, pen and paper in hand. I don’t have to ask to figure out what they’re doing: writing their wills. Their goodbye letters to their families and friends. Because if they don’t come back – and there’s a good chance they won�
��t – they want to leave their loved ones with something to remember.

  Hours later, as I’m getting ready to settle in for the night, I grab a scrap of notebook paper from my backpack and a pen. I spread the paper out on my knee and take a deep breath.

  Dad, I love you. I love you too, mom, even though I haven’t seen you in forever. Sophia, Derek, Max and Alexander: thanks for being my friends. It’s nice to know that if I’m going to die, I’ll die fighting side by side with the people I trust and respect more than anybody in the world. Chris, I love you. Meeting you was the only thing right about the end of the world. Thank you for taking care of me.

  Cassidy Hart

  20 Years Old

  Codename Yankee

  I fold the paper and stick it in the pocket of my boot. If I die, this is the first place they will look for a last will and testament, right next to my name and blood type written in permanent marker on the side of my boot. I now understand the angst of every young man or woman who has gone to war. Writing your own will when you’re twenty years old is not something I thought I would be doing when I graduated from high school not long ago.

  I fold my hands together and close my eyes.

  Let us survive this, I pray. Please.

  That’s all I want. That’s all any of us want.

  Survival.

  Chapter Eleven

  The entire National Guard force is rolling out of Sector 20. Aside from personnel that have been left behind to guard the base, there are a little over one thousand soldiers with us. Our convoy is massive, made up of military and civilian vehicles. SUVs, motorcycles, cars, pickups, armored vehicles. I am riding in a Humvee with Chris and Angela. Max, Derek, Alexander, Vera and Sophia are assigned to other vehicles in the group. If something happens to the officers in one vehicle, you don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak. Colonel Rivera is somewhere near the front of the convoy.

  Chris is in the front passenger seat. I’m sitting behind him, Angela on my left. The small, thick windows of the Humvee shed bright daylight into the backseat. The top gunner in the turret of the vehicle is alert, watching the sides of the streets for ambushes. Right now we’re weaving our way through the streets of Fresno, passing old shopping malls and ghettos. Shaw Avenue. Willow. Ashlan. Besides the gangs, the city is virtually deserted. There’s hardly any food or fresh water here, so why would people stay?