by Summer Lane
The jets let their weaponry loose on the mercenary forces. Their missiles explode behind us with brilliant accuracy, precision and timing. A rush of pride fills my heart. That’s the United States Air Force coming to our aide. How cool is this?
Well. It would be cool if everything didn’t suck.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the jets to blast the enemy and blow everything to kingdom come. I close my eyes, concentrating on Chris’s hand on my head, on Jeff’s breathing beside me. After what seems like forever, the noise subsides and Chris eases his grip, slowly rising from his position. I roll to my side, dripping in sweat and mud, caked from head to toe in ashes.
Jeff’s face is deathly pale, but he has no exterior wounds. I’m guessing he has a concussion. I’m guessing we all have one.
“Move,” Chris commands, crouching. “Do not break cover.”
I nod, licking the blood off my lips, staying low in the shrubbery, slinking into the trees. The interstate dips here into a small canyon. There’s a large green water tank, along with a single acre of dead grapevines. Who opted to grow grapes right in the middle of a freeway I have no idea, but whatever. People are weird, right?
Chris stays in communication with the rest of the surviving members of the convoy using his radio, but my radio is dead. The top of the device is smashed, crushed when the Humvee flipped over.
I stop and take a breather on the other side of the water tank. Pieces of paint are peeling off the rusty rungs of the ladder that leads to the top.
“We’ve got a few miles back to base,” Uriah pants. His hair falls in dark waves across his face, but the dirt and grime make it impossible to identify any other distinguishing features. “We won’t make it back in one piece.”
“We won’t even have to try,” Chris replies, keeping a firm grip on Jeff’s arm. His brother looks like he’s about to barf. “I’ve got someone coming to pick us up. We just have to get to a safe place to get inside the vehicle.”
“I don’t want to get blown up again,” I mutter.
“The Air Force just eliminated the mercenary forces,” Uriah says. “We’ve got nothing to worry about at the moment.”
“Right, right. There’s only a five thousand man army coming around the corner.” I shrug. “No big deal.”
“Enough,” Chris states, pointing to the end of the small canyon. “Through there, right at the edge of northbound freeway is where our ride will be.”
“It’s not Manny, right?” I say, swallowing.
“No. It’s not Manny.” Chris eggs me forward. “Go ahead with Uriah. I’ll follow with Jeff.”
“But-”
“-Now.”
I bite back my arguments and do as I’m told. I am a soldier, after all. Following orders is starting become natural. Sort of. Uriah moves out and I follow, scared to death that a sniper will pop out of the bushes and kill me. It’s easy to do. I do it all the time.
Thirty agonizing seconds pass before we find cover, run underneath the interstate overpass and pause, waiting for Chris and Jeff to catch up.
“I heard you have quite a reputation as a sniper, Yankee,” Uriah says, breathing hard. “Is that true?”
“Maybe,” I reply. “And you can call me Cassidy, by the way.”
“I’m Uriah.”
“Nice to officially meet you.”
“Yeah, same here.”
Chris comes around the corner, steadying Jeff. Poor kid doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to go on much longer. Chris’s radio crackles.
“Alpha One, we are in position, over.” Max’s voice.
“Copy that. On our way,” Chris replies.
“Man, radio makes everything easier,” I comment.
“Let’s go,” Chris says. Reminding us that we’re trying to get from point A to point B. Like, now. So we run through the last strip of open space under the interstate. I can’t help but feel like the giant cement pillars holding the sloping freeway up look like ancient ruins. Remnants from another civilization. Another time.
In some ways I guess there’s truth to that.
As we round the corner, we approach an uphill slope on the side of the interstate. We begin to climb, and by this point every step I take is beyond exhausting. Like dragging cinderblocks on my feet. My calf muscles burn, my lungs ache. Spots dance across my vision, threatening to take over completely.
We reach the top.
I kneel on the cement and take a few desperate gulps of oxygen, aware of the presence of a small convoy about twenty feet away from us. Our men. Has to be.
Chris, Jeff and Uriah crawl up behind me. And even now, overwhelmed as I am with physical stress, I find it funny that I am the first one to reach the top.
Tiny but mighty, I think. And fast.
Max exits the lead vehicle of the convoy, slamming the door shut behind him. He rushes over and helps Chris and Uriah handle Jeff’s weight.
“What happened to him?” he asks, brown eyes dark with concern.
“He got hit in the head,” Chris pants. “Help him inside. Let’s roll.”
Chris takes my arm – out of habit or merely because he’s still protective of me – and we walk together towards Max’s vehicle. We clamber into the backseat, Uriah right behind us. I collapse as the doors slam shut. The vehicle surges forward at full speed. Even if the Air Force did take out the mercenaries, there’s always a chance that some sicko stragglers were missed. We don’t want to get blown up again.
“How much time do we have?” Max asks from the front. “Chris?”
“Not much.”
Uriah and I share an uneasy glance.
I know what they’re talking about.
This is round one. Round two hasn’t even started yet.
Chapter Fourteen
The clock is ticking. Our militia forces have gathered Headquarters again this evening. The tension is thick in the air. Thick enough to cut with a knife. I’m sitting at a table in an old Jack in the Box – our current location for our medical staff. Chris, Uriah, Jeff, and dozens of other soldiers are being checked out by our medics. I stare numbly at the worn carpet as an anonymous doctor works on me.
“You’re lucky, kiddo,” Desmond would say. “You should be dead.”
I know, right? But I’m not. Not yet.
I peel my jacket off and hang it on the back of the chair, exposing the bloody mess that is my body. It’s not as bad as it looks. Tiny pieces of glass and shrapnel have lodged themselves into my skin. When I hold my arm up to the light, it glitters. There’s not a lot that can be done about the miniscule glass shards stuck in my arm, so I don’t worry about it. I just watch them check out Chris as I sit, studying his expression. He’s exhausted – anybody can see that. But his posture is tense and rigid, his face tight.
He’s not giving up.
Neither am I.
“Are you okay, Cassidy?” Sophia is wearing a medical jacket, helping the grossly understaffed medical team treat the wounded. “What happened out there?”
“What didn’t happen?” I shrug. “The Air Force came just in time.”
“Rivera didn’t order that strike. That was an independent decision on the Air Force’s part entirely.” She lowers her voice, sitting on the chair next to me. “I don’t know why Rivera wouldn’t send backup.”
“Because he’s an idiot,” I state. “Duh.”
“It’s not even logical, though. When you’ve got five hundred men out there that could potentially die, you send backup, right?”
“I guess he doesn’t consider the militias quite as valuable as his own platoons,” I reply. “Or he has something against Chris.”
“But what could he possibly gain from…?” she trails off, never finishing the sentence. “Cassidy, I’m sorry I got mad at you. I was upset and I was just unloading. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I lace my fingers through hers.
“I know,” I say. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“You haven’t heard anyt
hing from him, have you?”
“From Alexander? No.” I sigh. “How’s Jeff?”
“Fine. He’s got a concussion, but that’s all.”
It could be worse, I guess.
“What about Derek? Is he doing okay?”
“I haven’t seen him since he got back from the scouting mission.” She clears her throat at the mention of the moment she discovered Alexander was missing. “Who’s that guy?” She points to Uriah.
“That’s Uriah,” I reply. “He was the sentry guard at Camp Freedom.”
Uriah has washed the grime off his face, revealing an olive complexion and slightly shaggy, jet black hair. His eyes are dark – so dark they’re almost as black as his hair. It’s a striking combination, I have to admit.
“We’ve got a few hours before Omega comes around the corner,” I state.
“I know.”
“If Rivera won’t work with us, then we’re only half as strong as we thought we’d be.” I close my fist. “Is there anyplace on this planet where stupid people don’t end up being in charge of everything?”
Sophia shushes me, alarmed.
“Don’t talk that way too loud,” she warns. “There’s a lot of loyalty to Rivera in the National Guard.”
“Our militia is loyal to Chris.”
I grab my canteen of water from the table and take a long drink. The liquid oxygen does me good. I stand up and walk over to Chris, lowering myself into a chair next to him.
“Well?” I ask. “What’s our next move?”
“I talk to Rivera,” he replies.
His voice is strained, tired.
“What are you going to say to him? Thanks for screwing us over? I mean, come on. He’s an idiot. What’s his problem? He was supposed to back us up! That was the deal!”
“Technically, there was no deal,” Chris answers, raising his eyes to mine. Green eyes tinged with red. “We’re here strictly on a volunteer basis. We use their vehicles, their weapons, everything. Rivera’s men are under different orders.”
“He’s still an idiot,” I say.
“I’m not arguing with you about that,” he grins. “I’m just stating a fact.”
I sigh heavily and slump against the chair.
“This was supposed to be easier,” I say.
“Life was supposed to be easier, but here we are.” Chris leans forward and takes my hand. “You’ve grown a lot, Cassie. The way you conduct yourself in high stress situations is a lot different than how you survived last year.”
“Last year I was a stupid kid from L.A.,” I say.
“You weren’t stupid, just naïve.” He presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. “That was part of your charm.”
“Are you saying I’m not charming anymore?” I smile.
“You’re charming, just in a different way.” He kisses my hand once more, winking. “Let’s go talk to Rivera.”
“Us?”
“I want you there. Come on.”
We rise slowly, sore and drained. As we exit the Jack in the Box, I spot Manny’s biplane resting on the offramp/runway leading into the rest stop. I feel a small sense of relief. If his plane made it back in one piece, so did Manny.
“How many hours do you think we have until the first wave hits?” I ask.
“Maybe three.” He looks grim. “Tops.”
We are so screwed.
And yet I don’t voice my opinion out loud, as if giving life to the negative thought will make it a reality. I just don’t want to die yet. I want to hold onto the hope that somehow, someway, we’ll all survive this.
Or maybe I’m just a hopeless optimist.
Headquarters is filled with people. Derek is one of them, leaning casually against the bar, under a rainbow of dusty piñatas. He gives us a two-finger salute as we walk in the door. I smile, glad that he’s feeling better. A group of officers that are unfamiliar to me are gathered around Colonel Rivera – National Guard men from his platoons. Not that it should matter. We’re all National Guard here. But the resentment is there, simmering under the surface.
These are the people that left us alone at the front lines.
“Young, good to see you made it back,” Colonel Rivera states. He taps his cigar against the tabletop, standing near a lantern casting light on a group of open maps. “Hart, you too.”
Yeah, I can see how happy you are, moron.
It’s taking everything I have to keep my mouth shut and let Chris do the talking.
“We could have used backup out there,” Chris says simply.
“I couldn’t do that, boy. Too much risk. You were in a hole and sending my men up the interstate would have gotten them killed.”
“I would have sent my men to help yours.”
“That’s your method, not mine.” Colonel Rivera’s face is cold and hard. “This is war. Don’t get emotional, just look at everything strategically.”
“Strategically?” I snap. “We were ambushed by mercenaries on the front lines! You could have sent help and you didn’t because you’d rather make the militias do all the hard work so you can send your men in after us. Easier for you, and half of our men get sacrificed in the process. How is that supposed to be teamwork?”
A stony silence drops over the room.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
“We all have opinions,” Colonel Rivera replies slowly, never flinching. “Thanks for sharing yours. Now let’s move on.”
“You’re a jerk,” I say under my breath.
“Cassie…” Chris warns quietly.
I dig my fingers into the palms of my hands with so much pressure that I actually draw blood. How can he not be angry about this? How can Rivera be such an absolute moron? How can anybody be okay with this?
“We’ve got three hours at the most until Omega comes around that corner,” Chris says firmly. “We’ve got some forces out at the Chokepoint, but we’re going to need everybody out there. Everybody. Call in air support. We’ll take these suckers out little by little.”
“My men will follow your platoons,” Colonel Rivera replies. “You’re proficient in guerilla warfare techniques. Clear a path up the side of the hill and my men will be right behind you.”
“Why not join us at the front lines?” I say, seething. “Your men are just as capable as ours.”
A hushed murmur breaks out within the officers’ ranks.
“You don’t keep things to yourself, do you?” Rivera comments, twitching. “This is the way it’s going to be. Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll leave it,” I state.
“We’ll take it,” Chris replies, silencing me with a look. “But my men will not take the brunt of every attack. It will be equal. We’re a team, and we’ll operate like one.”
Rivera says nothing. He just watches us with a rigid, catlike expression on his face. I fix him with my most powerful glare as Chris steps up to the table of maps. They review the plan one more time. And I just stand there and watch. Derek and I lock gazes. He shakes his head slowly, as if to say, There’s no way this is going to end well.
I don’t want to agree.
But I have a terrible feeling about this.
A powerful clap on my shoulder jolts me out of the morbidity settling over the room. “Cheery gathering of folks, isn’t it?” Manny asks. His face is layered in black ashes and smoke. There are white circles around his eyes where his flight goggles were.
“He didn’t give us backup,” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
“He’s a military commander,” Manny replies, keeping his arm around my shoulders. “What do you expect? Politics, politics, politics.”
“Politics has nothing to do with it.”
“It has everything to do with it.” Manny shifts. He smells like fuel. “Men in power, they’re too often corrupted by it. Seen it happen a time or two before. That’s the two things age gives you, you know.”
“What two things?”
“Wrinkles and wisdom.” He winks. “Mostly wisdom in my case, of
course.”
“Ha. Ha.” I smile. “Thanks for backing us up today, Manny.”
“That’s what I came here for.”
“Still. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, of course.” He pops his canteen of whiskey out of his pocket. “Drink?”
“No, thanks. I have enough to deal with.”
“It’ll take the edge off.”
I take a sniff.
“It smells disgusting.”
“I won’t argue with that.” He takes a swig. “But it works.”
I shake my head, noticing Angela standing at the table behind Colonel Rivera. Her eyes are red and her skin is pale. Stressed? Probably. I bet I look worse, though.
“Are we going to survive?” I ask.
There. I said it.
Manny takes one more long drink, drops it back in his duster pocket, and looks at the ceiling. “There’s always a chance,” he says. “And that’s all we need.”
“We need more than a chance. We need hope.”
“We have it.” He gestures around us. “Here we are. Hope.”
“This is like the day of reckoning. We either sink or swim.”
“Or we sink and build a submarine.” Manny laughs at his own joke. “Not everything is so black and white, my girl. Success and failure isn’t just win or lose in this situation. It’s progress. It’s pushing back. It’s standing up for our homeland. If you start thinking about everything that might happen, you’ll drive yourself out of your head.” He pulls at the gold shield necklace hanging around my neck. The chain Chris gave me for Christmas last year.
“Bad things happen. And good people try to fix it,” he continues. “Sometimes we win. Sometimes we lose. It’s not up to us to decide what’s going to happen. We can only kick the can around while we’re here and do our best.”
“Since when did you get so wise?” I ask.
“Since I got wrinkles.”
I close my eyes, letting the background noise slowly fade away. I focus my concentration on one thing: My family and my friends.
They give me hope.
They give us a chance.
After everything that’s happened in the past week, I forgot that Vera Wright even existed. She and Angela are standing next to me near the hood of a retrofitted suburban. The moon is glaringly white against the night sky, casting a powdery glow over the Tehachapi hills. Behind us is the flat expanse of the central valley, a literal bowl reaching in every direction as far as the eye can see, each corner created by a line of mountain ranges. In front of us is the opening to a canyon with two massive interstates jutting out of its mouth.
