by Summer Lane
After several moments of conversation with the guard, Chris returns to our vehicle and slams the door.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Chris replies. “He says refugees from the mountains passed through here a few days ago. They’re with the rest of the civilian survivors in the baseball stadium on the bay.”
He slowly accelerates, leading our convoy onto the bridge. I stare up at the massive structural supports, the metallic sheen of the bridge reflecting the ashen sunlight filtering through the clouds. The wind rushes over the bridge, streaming over the hood of the truck. I press my cheek against the window, straining to see every inch of the wide, open San Francisco Bay. I see boats docked in multiple harbors and the Pacific Ocean stretching to the west.
Sitting in the harbor, with its lowest walls facing the sea, is the baseball stadium. I see no lights or flashing billboards, but I do see a helicopter taking off from a makeshift landing zone right outside of the stadium.
“There it is,” I point out.
“I’ve seen it before on television,” Vera murmurs. “It’s smaller than I thought.”
“It’s also not lit up like a Christmas tree,” Andrew replies. “Imagine what the city would be like in its heyday.”
I bite my lip. I am sure it would have been beautiful.
We drive over the bridge, taking an off ramp that dumps into a major boulevard paralleling the harbor. It feeds directly into the baseball stadium, and before I know it, the massive structure is looming before us. There are militiamen and women here. I see white tents constructed around the base of the stadium. Signs direct refugees and survivors in different directions. There is a line of civilians at each tent. Some of them are young, some of them are old. Some of them are children, clutching backpacks or jackets, shivering in the cold—alone.
The convoy rolls to a halt. I gather my nerves and open the door, stepping into the chilly San Francisco air. The entrance to the stadium is made of brick, accented with black and orange colors. The sign reads Willie Mays Gate. The gates are shut and locked, with only one entrance—and a long line to get inside.
“CHRIS!”
A woman is pushing through the gates of the stadium, running toward us, the wind whipping her hair back. She’s wearing a faded pair of blue jeans and an oversized plaid shirt.
It’s Mrs. Young—Chris’s mother. I hardly recognize her. She looks thinner than the last time I saw her—paler, gaunter. She flings her arms around Chris’s neck and begins sobbing. I have never seen her so upset before. I stand a respectable distance away, sharing a sideways glance with Vera and Andrew.
“They told me you had checked in at the Bay Bridge,” she says softly, between tears, placing her thumbs on her son’s cheeks. “Oh, my son. I’m so thankful to see you alive and well. I was afraid we’d lost you in the mountains forever.”
“I’m fine,” Chris assures her, rubbing comforting circles into the small of her back. “We’re all fine. We all made it out. And so did you.”
He does not mention the fact that Alexander Ramos is dead.
The Angels of Death slowly leave the vehicles of the convoy, assembling outside the stadium entrance. Behind us, the crowded confines of the downtown district of San Francisco is black and white, void of normal activity. There is only military noise, and nothing more.
“Cassidy,” Mrs. Young says, reaching her hand to me. I walk to her and she folds me into a tight embrace. “It’s so good to see you alive, sweetheart.”
I squeeze her, relieved that she is here. That she is alive, too.
“Likewise,” I say. “Are you okay? Where is the rest of—”
“Isabel is inside. It’s safer for her in there.”
“How many refugees are staying in the stadium?” Chris asks.
“Right now?” Mrs. Young answers. “Probably three thousand. People are flooding here like never before. The militia is corralling everyone in the stadium. It’s easier to take care of the survivors if they’re all in one place. But food and supplies are running low.”
“Where’s Manny and Arlene?” I ask.
“The leadership from Camp Freedom is on Alcatraz,” Mrs. Young says.
“Alcatraz?” I exclaim. “As in, Alcatraz Island? The prison?”
“They’re using it as a base of operations.”
“And the Pacific Northwest Alliance?”
Mrs. Young cringes.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this…” she says quietly.
“Just say it,” I tell her.
She looks at Chris.
“The Alliance isn’t here,” she replies. “I don’t know why. But the San Francisco National Guard and the Freedom Fighters are all the protection we have here.”
“Wonderful,” Vera says. “Fantastic. Our own alliance didn’t even bother to show up.”
Mrs. Young keeps her hands on Chris’s arms.
“What are you going to do, son?” she asks.
He puts his arm around her, shielding her from the bay breeze.
“I need to go to Alcatraz and connect with the leadership,” he tells her, but his eyes are on me. “We’ve got questions and we need answers.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Young agrees. “I know.”
“I’ll come back for you,” he replies.
“I know you will.” She smiles. “I’m safe here. They’re taking good care of us inside the stadium. Just keep the city safe, and everything will be fine.”
Easier said than done, I think.
“What about Harry?” I ask.
“What about him?” Andrew replies.
“We can’t just drag him with us to Alcatraz.”
“There’s a militia prison right here on the bay,” Mrs. Young tells us. “They’re calling them the shoreline docks. Omega prisoners of war are being kept there.”
I look toward the rear of a convoy, where I know Harry is sitting, chained to the seat.
“We can leave him there,” I say to Chris.
He nods.
“And after,” Chris says, “we hit Alcatraz.”
“They’ll be expecting you.” Mrs. Young sighs. “Everyone is buzzing about your arrival. Word travels fast.”
It amazes me that, even in the midst of the apocalypse, the grapevine is still alive and well.
“Are you Commander Young?”
A tall, stately black man with dark eyes exits the stadium, heading out way. He holds his hand out and Chris takes it, shaking heartily.
“I am,” Chris confirms. “Can I help you?”
“Is this your team?” the man continues. “The Angels of Death?”
Chris tilts his head in confirmation.
“Amazing,” he breathes. “The militias and the National Guard were afraid they’d lost you for good. The mountains have been a no-go zone since…well, since everything.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
He looks at me.
“Commander Hart, I assume?” He shrugs. “I’m Captain Ray.”
“Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am. National Guard. I’ve got a vessel here in the bay. I’ve volunteered its use for the militias.”
I brush the hair out of my eyes.
“Can you give us a ride to Alcatraz Island?” I ask.
Captain Ray flashes a brilliant smile.
“Commander,” he replies, “that’s exactly what I was hoping you would ask. It would be my pleasure.”
I look at Chris.
“Let’s get Harry to the prison first,” I tell him.
He agrees.
I look at the team—the entire force of the Angels of Death.
“Let’s find out what’s going on,” I say. “Come on.”
Chris bids a short, emotional farewell to his mother, telling her to stay in the stadium with the other refugees. I can tell by the expression on his face that he is worried about her, but there is nowhere else she could be right now. A survivor camp is the safest place for her and Isabel.
We get back into t
he car, having received instructions from Captain Ray how to reach the shoreline docks and the holding center. First, we will take Harry to the prison, and then we will take Captain Ray’s boat to Alcatraz Island.
I steel myself.
Here we go again.
*
Alcatraz. It looms around me like a dark castle, floating beneath a layer of gray fog. I keep my hands firmly on the railing of a ferry, my eyes never leaving the dock. As we pull in, I take a deep breath, relieved.
We made it.
Earlier we left Harry at the Holding Center, located on the shoreline docks, near the downtown district of San Francisco. We were able to find the harbor easily enough. Captain Ray’s vessel was a commandeered ferry, easily capable of holding the entire team of the Angels of Death. Formerly a tour-ferry, Captain Ray has volunteered his services—and his boat—to the militias.
“Between this and the coastguard cutter they let me use,” Captain Ray had chuckled as we boarded, “I like to think I got one of the best jobs in the war.”
And there was Alcatraz in the distance.
Now it is right in front of me, rising above the fog. Everything else—the water, the city, and even the Golden Gate Bridge—is invisible. The fog is too thick. There is only the island. There is only the prison.
We exit the ferry and walk onto the dock. Chris is first, then me, Uriah, Andrew, Vera, and the remainder of the Angels. It is bone-cold, a cold that only the ocean could bring.
It reminds me of the biting air in Monterey and I shudder, thinking of all that happened there.
No flashbacks, I think. Just do your job, Cassidy.
Alcatraz Island is small. The main cellblock is ahead of us, looking across San Francisco Bay. There are several abandoned buildings on the edge of the island. They have been turned into lookout points for the militia and National Guard. There are many armed militiamen in the yard, patrolling and running errands here and there.
“How many men do you have on this island?” I ask Captain Ray.
He knocks his cap back a couple of inches and scratches his forehead.
“Maybe two hundred? We’ve tried to keep it tight, here,” he replies. “The less people we’ve got on the island, the less people can betray us, if you catch my meaning.”
I nod, thinking of the several betrayals we’ve had within our ranks within the last year. It makes perfect sense to me. I pull the collar of my jacket up around my neck, shielding myself from the harsh cold.
We walk to the end of the dock, into the island. It’s bare and dark, and I imagine myself as a prisoner here, so many years ago, stuck on an isolated island just out of reach of a vibrant city.
“Commander Hart!”
I look up, gaze snapping to the crest of the hill. A dog is standing there. He looks at me, barks once, and I see a slim, dark-haired girl catch up to him and run past.
“Elle!” I exclaim.
I smile widely. Her pale, cherubic cheeks are flushed with color as she runs to me, wrapping me into a loving hug. I embrace her, complete relief filling my body.
“You’re alive,” she breathes, pulling away. “I knew it.”
Bravo watches me, his dark eyes dazzling in the foggy light.
“Is everyone else here?” I ask.
“Mostly. Mrs. Young and Isabel are on the mainland, with the rest of the refugees,” she tells me, but she looks at Chris as she speaks. “They’re safe.”
“We know. We were just there.”
“Manny and Arlene are here,” she continues, bringing her blue eyes back to mine. “Everyone made it out.”
“Good,” I say, relieved. “Thank God.”
She places her hand on Bravo’s head, just behind his ears.
“Come on,” she tells us. “I’ll take you to them.”
The Angels of Death go one way—to the main building in the island—and Chris, Vera, Andrew, Uriah and myself follow Elle and Bravo. We take a right and end up at an old school building. Many of the windows have been boarded up, but the doors are wide open, and there is a lot of militia activity going on around and inside the edifice.
The paint is a muted green color, peeling off the walls. Elle leads us in through the front door. The lower level has been completely cleared out. There are tables and maps pinned to the walls. It is a familiar sight, and so are the people inside the building.
Manny is standing at the end of a long table, his long leather duster wrinkled and dirty. His wild gray hair is swept back under a red bandana. When we walk inside, his weathered face dissolves into a joyous smile.
“Cassidy, my girl!” He brushes past the table, laughing uproariously. “You’re alive!”
He claps me into a powerful hug. The air rushes out of my lungs, and I laugh, beside myself with joy. He smells of leather and fuel.
“Manny,” I say, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s to see you, too, my girl. All of you!” He laughs again, grabbing Chris’s hand, slapping Uriah on the back, and winking at Andrew and Vera. “We were afraid you wouldn’t make it.”
“You’ve got some things to explain,” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. “Like why you didn’t evacuate us from Sky City.”
Manny’s face darkens for a moment.
“All will be explained,” he promises. “But hold onto your hats, will you? A lot has happened since we last talked.”
“Yeah, you can say that again,” Vera mutters.
From behind us, I sense movement. I spin around, and I see Arlene standing there, her gray hair pinned beneath a faded baseball cap. She doesn’t look nearly as overjoyed as Manny is to see us.
“I see you made it,” she says. “Good.”
“Wow, don’t go overboard with happiness or anything,” Vera deadpans.
“She’s had a long day,” Manny interjects, flashing a wry smile. “We’ve all had a long day. Actually, it’s been a long year, hasn’t it?”
He laughs again.
“Look. We’ve got questions, and we need answers,” I say, turning my gaze to Arlene. “A lot of answers.”
“As well you should,” Arlene answers. “A lot has changed.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I reply, “and I’d like to know why.”
Arlene walks to the table. She takes a deep breath.
“Should I tell them, or should you?” she asks Manny quietly.
Manny’s infectious smile disappears, and he becomes still.
“You,” he answers, somber.
Arlene turns around, swallowing. I think I see tears in her eyes.
“Washington State,” she says. “It’s gone.”
*
I had expected news like this. The dark nuclear cloud that hovers in the atmosphere, the ashes falling from the sky. We all knew Omega had destroyed something. I hadn’t thought it would be Washington State.
“Why Washington?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Intimidation,” Arlene replies. “Washington doesn’t have a very strong military presence. They had sent their reinforcements here, to California. Omega destroyed them as a warning.”
“How much is gone?” Chris asks, tense.
“They bombed everything. First Seattle, then Portland and Eugene, Oregon. British Columbia and Vancouver. Sacramento, California.”
“Sacramento?” I whisper.
I take a step forward and seat myself in one of the many chairs around the table. I am dizzy with shock and horror, thinking about the thousands—if not millions—of innocent people who were killed in this bombing.
“They took Sacramento, too?” Uriah says. “No.”
“How are we not dead?” Vera demands through gritted teeth. “Sacramento is barely two hours away. When will the radiation sickness kick in? When will the skin peel off our bones? When will we die?”
Her voice is desperate, hysterical.
“Vera, calm down,” I say.
I tell her to be calm because it is helping me stay calm.
“Most of the
radioactive and radiological fallout is being carried east,” Arlene says. “It’s sparing us from the heavy-duty poisoning. If you go outside, stay covered. You’ll be okay as long as you’re indoors.” She gestures to the long sleeves, gloves and the scarf wrapped around her neck. “We’ve implemented mandatory showering to scrub possible radiation from clothing. The water is dumped into the ocean, so there’s no chance of it poisoning our drinking supply.”
“What’s the casualty count for the cities that were bombed?” Chris asks.
“We don’t know,” Arlene replies. “We’ve had no contact with anyone aside from scouts and messengers. There were few survivors. As of now, the Pacific Northwest Alliance no longer exists—they are in hiding, and scrambling for survival.”
I feel sick. Totally, completely sick.
“How the hell are we supposed to recover from this?” Vera demands, her voice shaking. “Canada, Oregon and Washington were all allies!”
“Not everybody is dead,” Arlene tells us. “There are survivors. Omega bombed the heavy population centers. The cities along the coastline. Like I said, many of the Alliance’s military reinforcements are here in California, so not everyone is gone. The Alliance is simply…scrambled. The bombs disrupted everything. We can’t even send more aircraft into those cities. They’re nothing but nuclear hotspots now. Very dangerous.”
I fold my hands together, my knuckles turning white.
“What else?” I ask.
Arlene and Manny share a glance.
Manny says, “The reason I didn’t return to Sky City to retrieve your team was because the C-7 Caribou was attacked. Omega located me. Engaged anti-aircraft missiles. I barely managed to crash that metal beast into the trees. There was no way I could fix her and get back to camp fast enough to come and retrieve you.” He looks at me. “I’m sorry, my girl. I did my best.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“That makes two of us. By the time I reached Camp Freedom, the first bomb had already been dropped.” He looks distressed. “We lost all radio contact with Washington. Then Canada. Then Oregon.”
