by Summer Lane
I hold onto that small spark of optimism and move closer to the cold air. The slit of light is still there. I reach my hand out and feel an open space of maybe two feet. I pull myself forward. My head pops out of the hole.
Fresh air.
I crawl forward. I feel a sharp, stabbing sensation just below my ribs. I wince and stop moving. I have pulled myself from beneath the wreckage of a fallen building. It is nearly nighttime, and the dim, gray light of the waning day is casting a shadow over Red Grove.
The buildings are charred and black. The trees are smoldering. It smells of death and smoke. Dead bodies are everywhere, most of them black and burnt. I stay on my knees, taking in the destruction, shivering in the cold. My rifle is gone—I don’t know where. I still have two handguns strapped to my leg, along with a knife.
I try to stand, but I fall back to the ground from the pain near my ribs. I curse under my breath and hold my stomach, crawling away from the wreckage. Everything comes back to me in a single, shocking moment: the mission, the Grove, the fight. I remember the building falling around me, and Chris disappearing into the smoky haze of battle.
After that, there is nothing.
I force myself to stand. The pain is almost unbearable. I hobble away from the smoldering remains of the grove and sink into the trees, collapsing on a bed of fern. I look back at Red Grove, lifting my hand to my mouth.
There are two cables strung between the trees, just behind the amphitheater. The bonfire has fizzled out. The large Omega statue is black and charred. And hanging on the cables are the dead bodies of every member of the Western Council, strung up by their heels, their faces pale and lifeless.
Their wounds are fresh. Blood still slips from their bullet wounds, dripping down their bodies and pooling on the ground below them. I stare in horror.
This is not something the militias do.
This is something Omega would do.
What happened? Did Chris kill them and order them to be hung by their heels? Was he sending a message to Veronica—to all of the enemy?
I lean forward and vomit. My vision is blurry and my head splits with an aching pain. I do not want to see this, but I keep staring, terrified with the level of destruction that we, the Angels of Death, have inflicted here.
I finally tear my gaze away, my heart beating out of my chest.
I unstrap my armor-plated vest and heave it over my head, panting with the effort. I check my earpiece. There is nothing but static on the radio waves. I unzip my jacket and roll up my shirt. More pain shoots through my abdomen as I look down and examine the wound that is causing me so much discomfort. I gasp. A piece of sharp metal has dug its way into my skin, jutting out of my body like a knife.
I almost vomit again, seeing such a foreign object wedged inside me. I slowly close my fingers around the metal, fingers trembling, and give it a tug. Fiery, horrific pain envelopes every nerve in my body. The edges of my vision turn black.
“Come on, you can do this,” I tell myself, grimacing.
I know that I must remove the shrapnel, or I will never be able to get on my feet and get out of here. I pop open the deepest pocket of my combat pants. There is a small metal box, slender and thin, filled with first aid equipment. I have always kept it in my pocket, because you never know when you might be separated from your team…like right now.
I open it and look through the contents.
Sutures, rubbing alcohol, gauze and bandages. Not much, but enough to get by. I take a deep breath. I know that I cannot give my brain any time to expect the pain that’s coming, so I take both hands, grab the shrapnel and give it a tremendous tug. The metal shard—which is only a few inches in length—comes out. Blood gushes out of the open wound and I scream with the intensity of the pain. I feel like I’ve just ripped my guts out—and hey. I probably have.
I throw the metal away from me as silent, fat tears roll down my cheeks. I am not embarrassed to cry from the pain. I blindly grab the package of rubbing alcohol wipes and rip it open. I swab the wound. The alcohol hurts like hell. I moan softly, doing my best to refrain from screaming again.
After I clean the wound, I pack it to stop the bleeding, then I wrap the area tightly in gauze, tape it, roll my shirt back down, zip up my jacket, heave the armor-plated vest back on, and check my weapons. I lean my head against the tree behind me, staring at the sky. Daylight is gone. Night is here.
I slowly pull myself to my feet. The wound still throbs, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was. There is no longer a foreign object digging into my guts every time I take a breath or make a movement.
“Come on, Cassidy,” I tell myself. “Get back to the team.”
I take a step forward. Then another, and one more. I just keep moving, pushing the pain away and willing myself forward.
I imagine that Chris and the Angels of Death assume that I am dead or missing in action—the latter of which is the same thing as being dead. I wonder how long ago they retreated. Hours? Minutes? It couldn’t have been longer than twenty-four hours.
I force myself to move a little faster. I know the layout of the forest fairly well from studying the maps and coordinates of the woods prior to this mission. I need to head south, and then I will reach the San Francisco Bay again. Even from here, I can smell the salty sea air coming from the ocean water.
I can do this. I can make it. I’ve done far more difficult things.
The darkness of the forest closes in around me. The trees become black, unshapely monsters. I slip on mud and trip over rocks. In my weakened state, my balance is bad and my strength is all but gone.
I have to stop and rest. My mouth is dry, my lips are cracked and bleeding. I have not been this weak in a long time, not since I was shot in the shoulder during a skirmish with Omega back in the days of guerilla warfare in Squaw Valley…back when my father was still alive, and Jeff was still alive, and Sophia was still my friend. Before all of this.
Before the Angels of Death were hanging Omega leaders by their heels on cables.
I shudder and press on.
As I move through the forest, my head spins. I stumble and fall several times, cutting my hands and smacking my cheek against a rock. Delirious, I try to crawl forward, but I imagine the hands of the dead reaching out to me, burned and disfigured faces of Omega soldiers. I cover my ears and curl into a ball, shivering in the cold and squeezing my eyes shut.
I do not know how long I stay here like this, but eventually the dead leave me, and I slip back into the peacefulness of the darkness.
*
The heavy blades of a Blackhawk wake me. I jerk upward, gasping for breath. I look around. It is early morning. In the sky, several choppers roar over the canopy of trees, heading toward the bay.
I slowly climb to my feet, still weak and dizzy, but more stable than I was last night. Around me, the woods pull me in. The forest is close to my heart—it always has been. It always will be.
I will always be the girl who became a soldier in the mountains.
I will always love the woods.
I check my wound one more time. It has stopped bleeding. The gauze is beyond disgusting, but I have nothing to replace it with, so I leave it where it is. I walk through the forest. I am balanced now, but I am still hungry and thirsty.
As I walk, I find it hard to concentrate on anything other than the prospect of downing a tall glass of water. More Blackhawks rumble through the air. I hear the scream of fighter jets, ripping through the sound barrier, going supersonic.
I move faster. My heart flutters.
Something is happening. Something is changing.
But what?
I come to a small creek in the midst of the forest, carving a path through the mud and fern growing in the fertile soil. I drop to my knees and study the water. It does not look contaminated…and even if it is, what am I going to do about it? I need water. Without it, I’ll die.
So I take a chance.
I lean over and cup my hands, bucketing the water into my mouth. The liquid
is freezing cold and refreshing. I close my eyes. The relief my body feels is palpable. Granules of dirt wedge between my teeth, giving the water an earthy quality.
I drink until I’m nearly sick, then sit there for a moment.
Hydrated at last, my brain begins to clear. The mental fogginess dissipates and it dawns on me in that moment just how incredible my situation is.
I survived Red Grove. Fleets of Blackhawks and fighter jets are being sent into San Francisco. The Western Council is dead.
And in the distance, I hear the boom and rattle of detonations and explosions. Small Shockwaves shudder through the forest floor. The leaves on the trees rattle.
I stare straight ahead, glimpsing the movement of the ocean through the curtain of trunks and limbs.
I slowly get to my feet and walk through the woods, breaking the cover of the trees. I can see the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, and just beyond that, the open sea. The cold ocean air slaps me in the face with enormous force. A stone drops to the pit of my stomach.
A dozen Blackhawks are over the city of San Francisco. Rockets carve a smoky trail through the air, threading through the metal support beams of the bridge, landing in the harbor with a crackling pop, some landing short, some striking militia vessels bobbing in the water.
And in the open sea, beyond the city, I see an endless blockade of Omega battleships pushing closer to shore, bringing our doom.
Chapter Thirteen
Here I am, standing in the midst of the ashes of civilization, and all I can think about is how it used to be. The glittering, glorious arches of the San Francisco Bay Bridge stretch for what seems like miles into the sky. The wind whistles across the metal and the open road. There are cars here and there, but mostly, there is just ash.
Everything is gray and colorless. It’s like an endless fog, an eternal purgatory of darkness. Thick, black clouds hang overhead. It has been a long time since I have seen the moon or the stars. I have not felt the joy of the sun on my skin in ages. As time goes on, the weather becomes colder, and the air brisker.
Winter is coming early.
I fear it.
The gentle lapping of the Pacific Ocean below the bridge is the only piece of normality remaining. But as I look over the edge of the bridge, I notice grimly that the water holds a brownish tinge, stained deep with the same gray as the sky and the air.
I want to cry, but I have no tears. I am dry.
As dry and spent as the weathered world around me.
The end has finally come.
Now all that is left is to survive, whatever the cost.
These thoughts – thoughts of the end – rings through my head as I look around me. The Bay Bridge really is a mess. I stand on one end, overlooking the stretch of bridge between the city and me. I’ve got a clear, unfiltered view of the battleships. I count one dozen, but I’m sure there are more. They are close enough that I can see the tiny silhouettes of soldiers on deck.
Rockets from the militia inside the city and on Alcatraz Island sail back across the sky. And I simply stand and watch it, a spectator for a moment instead of a participant. It is an odd feeling. I am detached, watching the slow and steady destruction of the world around me. I see the carcasses of vehicles on the bridge, writhing in flames. There are soldiers on the bridge—militiamen—and they are scrambling to defend their frontlines.
I experience a sense of hopelessness.
All of this is nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a game of intimidation. What can we really do against a fleet this size? Nothing. We are simply delaying our doom.
I walk onto the bridge. The freezing air of the Pacific Ocean stings my cheeks and tosses my hair into circles. I am dressed in my black militia uniform, limping slightly, holding the wound on my side. I must look like death.
A militiaman at the end of the lineup sees me. The rattle and boom of explosions and gunfire is deafening, and I cannot hear him, but he mouths to me,
“Commander Hart!?”
I nod.
He is young, deeply tanned and tall. He runs to me and puts his arm around my shoulders, seeing that I am wounded, and supports my weight. I lean against him.
There is a lineup of vehicles just behind the front lines on the bridge. A convoy. He takes me behind the first Humvee in the row.
“We were told you were dead, ma’am!” he yells in my ear.
“I didn’t get the memo!” I reply, a sly grin on my face.
He smiles.
“What’s the situation, soldier?” I ask him.
“Retaliation!” he yells back. “This is Omega’s payback for what the Angels did to Red Grove. This is their vengeance.” His eyes are dark. “I don’t think we can hold them off, Commander!”
I look to the ocean.
The bristling terror of the battleship blockade lies before me. I have never seen anything so intimidating. Not like this. The sheer military might of Omega is displayed before me, making our guerilla warfare tactics look like child’s play.
“Did Chris Young and his team make it out okay?” I ask.
The soldier nods.
I feel relief. Thank God.
“Commander, if we don’t—”
He is cut off. Three rockets plow into the bridge. I hit the ground, covering the back of my neck. The explosions happen simultaneously. Several of the cables on the Golden Gate snap and spring back down to the ground, hissing like snakes. One of the cables cuts through the air and slices right through a militiaman’s body. Hot shrapnel explodes through the air. Smoke billows across the bridge, black and acrid. Small bits of debris cut into my arms. I choke on the smoke and it tears up my vision, making everything blurry. I turn away.
The soldier beside me stares at me as the smoke swallows us, toppling forward. A piece of metal shrapnel is lodged in his back, jutting through his chest. Blood spills from his mouth, his eyes go glassy. He is dead.
I have no time for sorrow.
I throw myself between the vehicles as the smoke rolls across the bridge. I hear yelling and screaming. I blindly grope through the darkness and my fingers find the dead soldier’s boot. I feel my way through the smoke and remove his rifle from his back and sling it over my shoulder. I take his ammunition.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
And that is all that I can do for him.
I dig in my jacket for the goggles that I used during our parachute jump into Red Grove. I find them and slip them over my eyes. I am thankful for my long sleeves and scarf to cover my mouth and nose.
I crouch between the vehicles, breathing evenly. I see dead bodies scattered across the bridge. So many casualties. A massive chunk has been taken from the west side of the bridge. The cables lay on the ground, motionless, massive and deadly. Several militiamen have been cut down in their wake.
Now what?
Get off the bridge NOW.
A deep, suffocating premonition hits me.
This bridge is going down, and if I don’t get into the city, it’s going to take me down with it. So I stand up, look for any survivors and turn my gaze toward the city. I can’t see through the smoke. Not yet.
I dig through the rubble and yell for survivors.
There are none. Our frontlines at the bridge have been taken out.
Good God. There are least forty dead men and women here.
I feel like screaming, like crying. Like throwing up my hands and sobbing for hours, devastated at the loss of life that lies before my eyes.
But I do not.
Like any good warrior, I do not do what I want.
I do what I must.
I steel myself, check the perimeter one last time, and I run. I run for my life, knowing that Omega is just beyond the smoke, armed and dangerous. I sprint. I do not feel the pain from the wound in my side, only because of the adrenaline pumping through my body, willing me onward.
But the bridge is a lot bigger than it looks.
I run and run, and I find myself only halfway across the bridge. I am past the
smoke, now, and I reach a small clearing. I see the Omega ships in the bay, and I see Alcatraz Island. We have our battleships sitting in the harbor, but only a quarter of the amount that Omega has.
I am almost at the end of the bridge when the final strike hits. I do not have to turn around to know what it is. Besides, there isn’t time. It is a massive explosion. The bridge screams and screeches as the metal is torn apart and the cables snap. I run faster than I have ever run in my life, the blood rushing in my ears.
The bridge rumbles under my feet. I cross the threshold of the Golden Gate and my boots hit the ground. I move away from the bridge and duck behind an abandoned car on the road.
The bridge creaks and shakes. The massive metal supports—the most famous arches in the world—begin bending inward. The asphalt in the middle of the bridge crumbles away, falling into the water below. Vehicles and dead bodies slide into the Pacific as the bridge breaks apart with an earth-shattering scream.
The first support beam slowly dips forward with a metallic moan, crashing into the ocean, spraying seawater everywhere. The second beam does not fall. The far half of the bridge collapses in a flurry of dust, smoke, debris and broken cables. It sinks into the bay with a flourish of frothy bubbles and noise.
It disappears, burying my soldiers in the deep, blue depths. The Golden Gate Bridge has been ripped in two, and the assault has begun.
I look to the heavens and scream,
“Why are you doing this!?”
I don’t know who I am talking to. The universe? God? I don’t know.
Why is this being allowed to happen?
Why so much death? Why so much destruction?
I sense movement behind me. Even in my beleaguered state, my reflexes are still sharp. I raise my rifle into my shoulders and spin around, my finger on the trigger. I pause, assessing the figure before me. He is mildly familiar. Dark skin, dark eyes. Tall, muscular build.
“Jack Proper,” I say.
He nods, slowly.
“Commander,” he replies. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
*
As pieces of the Golden Bridge topple into the gray water of the bay, I stare at Jack Proper, the prison guard from the holding center downtown. He is standing there, a gun slung across his back. His hands are up in the air.
