Collapse Series (Book 7): State of Destruction

by Summer Lane

  “No need,” I reply. I open the chopper door. The blades whip my hair into wild circles as I exit the aircraft. Jack takes a pair of metal handcuffs from the chopper and dangles them in front of me.

  “Would you do the honors, Commander?” he asks.

  “Gladly.”

  Jack drags the pilot out of his seat and tosses him onto the ground on the airstrip. He yells and spits at us in his native tongue, his face turning a muted shade of purple. Jack snaps the handcuffs around his wrists. He writhes and kicks and grips Jack’s head, trying to smash his skull against the ground.

  I act quickly. I snap a handgun from my holster and pull the trigger, nailing the pilot in the leg. He screams and grips the wound, screeching in mad pain.

  Jack takes a step back, breathing hard.

  “Thanks,” he pants.

  “No problem,” I say. “So. Where was the island? What was it called?”

  “One of the Farallon Islands,” he tells me. “There’s a small collection of them just off the coast of San Francisco. It’s no secret, Commander.”

  “What are you going to do, now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come back to the militias,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head.

  “I would like to,” he replies. “But I cannot. I have one wish left in this world, Commander, and that is to be with my wife, and to hold her hand when she dies.”

  I bite my lip.

  “Here,” he says. He reaches into his jacket and draws a knife from the inside pocket. It is my knife! The knife from Jeff Young. “I thought you might like to have this.”

  “Proper,” I reply, swallowing tears. “You have no idea how much this means to me.” I take the knife, run my fingers over the hilt of the weapon, and stuff it into my belt. “Thank you.”

  He dips his chin.

  “Good luck, Proper,” I say, looking him in the eye.

  “Do me a favor,” he replies. “Win this war.”

  I crack a smile.

  “I plan on it,” I say.

  I do not know what he is going to do. I don’t know if he is going to leave the city or go back to the Farallon Islands. I don’t know if he’s going to stay here.

  I hope he goes back to his wife, and that she can see him before she dies.

  I am back in the city, which means I am one step closer to warning the militia that Veronica is planning to unleash a chemical bomb.

  I turn away from Jack Proper, and from the pilot screaming on the ground. I harden myself to the confusing reality of the last three days, and I disappear into the streets of San Francisco, leaving Jack Proper to meet his fate.

  *

  Anger.

  It flows through my veins as I rush through the shadows of the city, pushing closer and closer to the shoreline.

  Regret.

  I am full of it. I wish I had killed Veronica when I had the chance.

  Sadness.

  The knowledge that the militias are paying the ultimate price for the destruction of Red Grove is heavy on my mind.

  Revenge.

  I want it more than ever. I want vengeance to rise up and swallow Omega whole in the wake of their destruction.

  Longing.

  If only the world could return to the way it once was, before the madness, before the end. Before the Collapse. Before my dad was dead, before everything I knew and adored became ashes at the hands of an all-seeing, deeply evil enemy.

  These emotions wash through my very soul, raging like a hurricane. The pain medication that Jack Proper gave me has worked its temporary magic, and I am able to move swiftly, with only mild pain. The only discomfort I feel is the discomfort of my heart.

  I feel cold, somehow. I sense that we are getting closer to the end.

  The end of everything.

  What if Veronica has already released the chemical weapon? What if the poison is falling from the sky as we speak?

  I try not to think about it. Because if that is the case, there is nothing I can do to stop it. I will be dead in an instant, just like thousands of others.

  But I hope I’m wrong.

  I reach the shoreline docks. There is a massive amount of militia activity here. Coastguard cutters are swarming through the bay. Two battleships are hovering in the water, guarding the perimeter just past the Golden Gate Bridge.

  I approach the docks and the flurry of soldiers there. Vehicles are roaring down the streets and our Blackhawks are still transporting troops to different ends of the city.

  It is in the wake of the chaos and the destruction that I see a familiar face on one of the Coast Guard Cutters bobbing near the docks.

  “Captain Ray!” I yell.

  I dart across the street, approaching the tall, dark man with the captain’s hat. He stares at me as I approach, looking like he’s just seen a ghost.

  “Commander…Hart?” he stammers.

  “Captain,” I say, nodding. “Where is Commander Young? Are the militia leaders still on Alcatraz?”

  He blinks, dumbfounded.

  “I believe they are, but…Commander. You’re a dead woman.”

  “Hate to disappoint you, but I’m still pretty alive, actually,” I grin. “I need you to take me to Alcatraz. We don’t have time to catch up.”

  I jump onto the boat, my boots hitting the deck with a dull thud.

  I look at him, unmoving.

  “Come on,” I say. “This is life or death.”

  He manages a nod, then shouts a couple of orders to his crewmen, who are also looking at me with the same shocked expression that their Captain is wearing on his face.

  “Commander Hart,” he asks me, pleading. “How are you alive? Commander Young issued a statement that you had gone missing in action during the mission to Red Grove.”

  I put my hands on Captain Ray’s shoulders.

  “I survived,” I say. “That’s all that matters. Please get me to Alcatraz.”

  He accepts this, and in minutes, the cutter is pulling into the bay, speeding across the frigid water, toward Alcatraz Island. I grip the railing, the salty spray peppering my face. A rocket explodes somewhere near the edge of the city, on the west side of the downtown district.

  God, I hate this sometimes. This violent brutality.

  Will it ever end?

  By the time we arrive on Alcatraz, my hands are shaking. Maybe I’m exhausted, or maybe it’s the trauma of the past few days. I don’t know. But I am suddenly afraid—afraid that I am too late, and that I can’t save the militias.

  As soon as we dock, I am the first one off the cutter. Captain Ray is right behind me. “What’s happening, Commander?” he asks, still looking at me with an alarmed expression.

  “Get ready to leave the city,” I tell him, jogging down the docks. “They’re planning something big. We need to retreat.”

  He says nothing, but I can tell that this has registered, and he turns away, leaving me to my business. I’m not sure why, but I am struck with the feeling that I will never see this man again. I glance at him over my shoulder, and then I look away.

  I shake off the premonition.

  I head toward the Schoolhouse, where I know I will find Arlene, at the very least. I stop dead in my tracks. The Schoolhouse has been burned to the ground. All that is left is the charred, black structural support beams.

  “What the…?” I mutter.

  I turn my gaze upward, toward the main prison building. I force myself to look around—to pay more attention to my surroundings—and realize that there is hardly anyone left on the island. Boats are leaving, not arriving.

  Has everyone been evacuated?

  Where is Chris? Where is Manny? Where are Andrew and Uriah and Elle and Bravo? Where is Vera? My mind spins. If I can’t locate them, I can’t warn them!

  Stupid, I think. Use your head, Cassidy. Maybe they’ve already figured it out. Maybe they’re already retreating.

  I turn toward the docks. Captain Ray is still there, anxiously watching me
.

  “You said everyone was still here!” I yell.

  “That’s what I assumed, Commander!” he replies. “I don’t know what’s happening!”

  What is happening? Was the Schoolhouse hit with some sort of rocket or RPG? I didn’t think they were coming this far into the bay. I don’t understand.

  Where is everyone?

  My mind spins and I can feel the onset of pure panic. If I can’t locate Chris and the others, I can’t warn them about Veronica’s threat to unleash a chemical weapon. I don’t have much time. Once she finds out that I am no longer a prisoner on the Farallon Islands, she will implement her plan.

  Or a plan that’s much, much worse.

  I look at Captain Ray.

  “Take me back into the city,” I say.

  “You think you’ll find the others there?”

  “It’s as good a guess as any.”

  He doesn’t argue the point. I head back to the boat. There is nothing left for me on Alcatraz, and I step onto the deck of Captain Ray’s vessel once more.

  *

  I head back into the city. I say goodbye to Captain Ray. He nods his farewell, content, I suppose, to stay faithful to his little vessel until he is forced out of the harbor altogether. I move up the shoreline, asking soldiers along the way if they have any idea where Commander Young is. Because if I can find Chris, I will be able to find the rest of our leadership.

  I’m out of luck. Nobody has any idea where he could be, which is just as well. If I can’t find out, that means the enemy can’t find out, either. I have no access to radios. Alcatraz is smoking. Flames are beginning to leap from the windows of the main prison building. The entire island looks like a barbecue pit.

  The chaos is intensifying. This could truly be the end of San Francisco as we know it. I head toward a cell of American troops holding out just on the edge of the Fisherman’s Wharf. The main pier is a sad shadow of its former glory, its restaurants and tourist traps smoked out and charred. Convoys roar in and out of the roads while counterstrike teams rig rockets to shoot across the bay, back toward the enemy.

  “…there’s a cell of troops coming in on foot…” I hear one soldier yell.

  “…how many?”

  “…no idea. But they’re starting to drop their foot soldiers in already.”

  I listen to their words, and it suddenly hits me. If Veronica is sending foot soldiers into San Francisco, then she is not planning to bomb it. She is planning to take it by sheer force.

  I catch a deep breath, relieved for a moment.

  We might stand a chance, then. The horror of a chemical weapon being dropped on our heads is momentarily removed from my mind.

  “Soldier!” I yell, approaching the American militiaman who was relaying the message to the rest of the troops. He reminds me of the soldier on the bridge—the one who was killed by a piece of shrapnel. He’s young—he hardly looks old enough to have graduated high school.

  “Where’s your unit commander?” I demand.

  “Who’s asking?” he yells back.

  “Commander Cassidy Hart!” I reply.

  That seals the deal. He nods and points to a Humvee parked just on the edge of the dock. “He’s over there!” he shouts.

  “Thanks!”

  I jog across the chaotic lineup and round the tail end of the vehicle.

  “Uriah!” I exclaim, shocked.

  “Cassidy!” He is dressed in all black, with a scarf tied around his head. “God, you’re alive!”

  He shoves between two soldiers and crushes me into a tight, desperate embrace. I cling to him, overjoyed to have contact with a familiar face.

  “How?” he asks, pulling away, looking into my eyes.

  “Long story,” I reply.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Again. Long story.” I look around. “What are you doing commanding this unit?”

  “We’re trying to keep Omega out,” he replies, shouting into my ear to be heard above the din of battle. “We’re split up, commanding the remaining units. We just got word from our scouts that Omega is sending a foot army our way.”

  “We’re outnumbered, Uriah!” I yell, serious. “We can’t protect the city. We have to pull back and regroup!”

  “With WHAT?” Uriah demands. “We have no more backup. This is IT!”

  I pull away from Uriah’s grip and look around.

  “Where’s Chris?” I ask.

  “Why do you care?” he demands.

  “What kind of a question—”

  “Everyone thought you were DEAD, Cassidy!” Uriah interrupts. “We haven’t had time to mourn yet—we’re still trying to hold the frontlines!”

  I feel physically wounded by his statement, somehow. As if he’s trying to prove to me that the war is more important than my life in his eyes, and he’s intent on hurting me to get the point across.

  But why?

  With Uriah, I am never sure.

  Several moments pass. I am about to argue with Uriah when a scout approaches us from the front of the Humvee. It is a young girl, her hair stuffed under a beanie. It takes me only a moment to recognize her: Elle.

  “Cassidy!” she yells, bewildered. Right behind her is Bravo. He barks twice, recognizing me, too. “You’re alive?”

  “Let’s skip the part where nobody can figure out how I’m alive,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Scouts are reporting a force of ten thousand troops coming in on the south side of the city,” she says, shifting her gaze between Uriah and I. “And ten thousand more on the north side. And another coming in on the west side. That one is fifteen thousand strong.”

  “Thirty-five thousand,” I mutter. “God help us.”

  Those odds are not good. We have maybe eight thousands troops in the entire city of San Francisco. We are outnumbered many times over. We are going to have to retreat—there’s simply no other way to survive an onslaught this massive.

  I give Uriah an I told you so look.

  “Where is Chris?” I demand once more.

  Uriah’s jaw ticks and he slams his fist down on the front of the Humvee.

  “I’ll take you to him,” he says.

  He looks defeated. I feel sorry for him. Why?

  Maybe it is because deep down, I know that there is a part of him that will always love me, and he will never be truly ready to accept the fact that my heart belongs to Chris—no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t so.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We find Chris on Market Street. The bustling boulevard is a mere ghost of its former glamour. Black smoke billows around the tops of abandoned apartment buildings. Several vehicles screech by. A helicopter roars overhead. I crane my neck and look up, wondering if Manny is piloting one of the many aircraft in the sky.

  “Where’s your uncle?” I ask Elle.

  We cross the street, bypassing a wrecked trolley car and a newspaper stand that has been melted down and twisted—the byproduct of some kind of explosion. Bravo keeps close to Elle’s legs as we move. Uriah leads the way, silent and brooding.

  “He’s evacuating the refugees out of the city,” Elle replies, breathless. “We’re trying to move them out as fast as we can, before Omega’s foot soldiers get here.”

  I understand this. San Francisco has ceased to be a safe haven for defenseless survivors like Mrs. Young and Isabel. Our first priority is to remove them from the line of fire, and then deal with the troops coming in.

  Uriah goes into a building on Market Street. It’s a large music store, with windows boasting peeling posters of bands and musical artists from a time now forgotten.

  In the far end of the music store, I see Vera and Andrew, along with Arlene, huddled with several members of the Angels of Death. And there is Chris, stationed by the window, his jaw firmly set, his eyes on the road outside, sparkling with the embers of war.

  When we enter the building, Uriah steps aside and I push past him and Elle and the dog. I stand there, silent and still, as Chris turns arou
nd and his eyes fall on me. I see shock, maybe even fear. His hand drops to this side, leaving the stock of his rifle.

  “Cassidy,” he states, simple and firm.

  “Chris,” I reply.

  I search his face, and I see a long, angry red gash on the side of his cheek.

  I rush across the store, bypassing tables of jazz discs and collectible rock and roll vinyl records. I throw my arms around Chris’s neck, holding him close, breathing in his scent of sweat and gunpowder and all things familiar to me.

  He returns the embrace, his hands gripping my hips.

  “I knew you weren’t dead,” he whispers into my ear.

  Why did you leave without me? I think. Why didn’t you stay and look for me? Why didn’t you dig through the rubble? I was right there in front of you! Instead you strung up dead bodies on cables and left them to rot.

  I guess I shouldn’t be angry.

  Vengeance—something Chris repeatedly warned me against—has finally touched him. He has tasted vengeance, now, and because of it, we are all tasting something else: destruction.

  I pull away from him and look him in the eye, knowing full well that everyone in the room is staring at us.

  “I talked to her,” I say.

  Chris’s face turns cold.

  “Veronica?” he asks.

  “Long story short,” I reply, “I found her. The Farallon Islands, just off the coast of the city.” I turn to Arlene, who is silently watching us from the corner. “I went there with Jack Proper, the prison guard. Remember him? He’s Omega. He made me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

  “You surrendered yourself to the enemy?” Chris says, his voice dangerous.

  “When I woke up,” I answer, “I was buried under a pile of rubble in Red Grove. You were gone. Everyone was. I was alone.”

  I lock eyes with Vera across the room. She looks away, touching her forehead to Andrew’s shoulder.

  “We lost you in the firefight,” Chris replies, a slight—barely readable—tremor in his voice. “We finished the mission.”

  “You hung up the Western Council like deer in hunting season,” I return.

  “You say that like it’s an accusation,” Chris replies, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s not how we fight. We’ve never done stuff like that before.”

  “Hey, you’re talking about some of the sickest minds on the planet,” Chris answers sharply. “These are the same people who planned the systematic extermination of millions of innocent citizens, the same people who wiped out Canada, Washington and Oregon with a nuclear bomb. These are the same people who killed your father, Cassidy, and my father, and my brother. And everyone else we’ve ever loved.”