by Summer Lane
I swallow a lump in my throat.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
We gather our gear and pile into the pickup, watching for signs of Omega scouts or patrols. We seem to be okay, though. The majority of the drones and helicopters last night were heading south or east, leaving us relatively safe for the moment.
I get into the front seat with Uriah. Mary and Abbi sit behind us.
“Hey,” I say to Mary, touching her cheek. “This is for you.”
I pull a piece of hard candy from my backpack, feeling uncharacteristically generous. I don’t know why, but it really bothers me that this kid doesn’t smile. I can see trauma in her eyes, and I’d like to ease it, if only for a moment.
She takes the candy in the palm of her hand.
“Thank you,” she says, shyly. “I like candy.”
“Me, too.” I smile. “You know, back in the day, when I was new to fighting, I used to forage for food in old houses and stores…and I’d always take the candy. Chris used to tell me, ‘Don’t eat candy. It’s not like we have a dentist that can treat you if you get cavities.’ But I didn’t care. I ate it anyway, because I loved it.” I zip my pack shut.
Then, in a small, hesitant voice, Mary replies, “Who’s Chris?”
Cold sadness washes through me. I say, “Somebody I used to know. Someone I loved.”
“I love my daddy,” she goes on. “I can’t wait to see him.”
Abbi smiles, mouthing, Thank you.
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you, too,” I reply.
Uriah guns the engine and we take off, tearing away from the farmhouse, back onto the roads. For a while, we are silent as we drive, and then I ask, “Mrs. Banner, how much do you know about Veronica Klaus? You were in her private chamber. I’m assuming you were privy to a lot of information that floated around there. Can you tell us anything about Omega’s next move?”
Cheng’s final words float in my head.
“Be…careful…Athena Strike…is not the real attack…look to the leadership….be on your…guard…Veronica is planning…they’ve always been planning…”
An ominous warning, and thus far the true meaning of it has not hit home. I don’t know what he’s talking about, other than the fact that Veronica Klaus is planning something even bigger than the Athena Strike…and what could be bigger than that? Nuclear war?
I hope not.
“I know very little,” Abbi admits. “We were only with Chancellor Klaus when she wanted us to see something…for example, she forced us to attend the executions of militia leaders and civilian prisoners. She dragged us through slave labor camps, showed us Omega fortresses. She was quite proud of all Omega has accomplished.”
“What do you know about the Athena Strike?” I press.
“I know that the entire fleet is no more than three hundred miles off the coast of California,” Abbi answers, quickly. “I know they have over a million soldiers ready to put boots on the ground, and I also know that Chancellor Klaus is expecting the militia forces to surrender within the next two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Uriah says, alarmed.
“Yes.” Abbi looks away. “She believes the million-man army will annihilate every militia fighter left in this fight, including the leadership.”
“She’s wrong,” I say, although that’s just stubbornness talking.
My fear has a lot more to say on the subject.
“And then?” I insist.
“And then,” Abbi continues, “Chancellor Klaus will take her place as the Supreme Leader of the Western Omega Confederation, as deemed fitting by Omega leadership.”
“New question,” I say, raising a hand. “What do you know about the rest of the Omega leadership? All we know is that there’s an HQ somewhere in Beijing called Olympus where the primary leaders of the Omega movement meet together. Veronica Klaus is their puppet, isn’t she? What power does she really have?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” Abbi answers. “I don’t know everything about Omega, but I did learn a few things since our capture. For one, each member of Olympus in Beijing has been promised leadership of their own slice of the world as they lead the Omega troops to victory.”
“And Veronica was promised the West Coast if she could defeat the militias?” I ask.
“Veronica was promised North America,” Abbi corrects. “All of Canada, all of the United States…you get the picture. I know of only one other Omega leader by name, and he is Chancellor Damien Ramses. He, for example, has been promised Africa, France, Spain, and England.”
“They’re highly motivated, then,” I muse. “They get to rule over whatever they conquer in Omega’s name. But who do they answer to? There must be a higher power.”
“They are the higher power,” Abbi explains. “They gather together and decide who will take which territories, and how. To conquer an entire planet, they must cooperate with each other. To my knowledge, the Omega leaders function like this…”
Here, she pulls a notepad and pencil from her pack, drawing a circle. She divides the circle into seven slices, marking each one: Africa, South America, North America, Europe, Australia, Antarctica, Asia. In the center of the circle, she draws an O. Each slice of the pie juts into the O, interconnecting everything together.
“Chancellor Klaus keeps an illustration quite similar to this in her private quarters on the Athena flagship,” Abbi says. “Omega sees the world as divided into these seven major sections. For each section, there is a designated chancellor, and beneath each chancellor, there are district prefects who help to run the cities, counties, and states. There are hundreds of prefects, and they all answer directly to their chancellors. The chancellors all have an equal amount of power, so long as they stay true to Omega’s call.”
“Which is…?” Uriah presses.
“Extermination, Submittal, and Repopulation.” Abbi sighs. “They must push Omega propaganda and religion, currency and culture. Total domination and utter population control. The list goes on.”
I think about the first wave of Omega attacks: the EMP, the killings of millions upon millions of people from coast to coast. The extermination of the masses, their attempt to destroy any chance of resistance. And then there was the second wave, which brought slave labor and forced enlistment into the Omega army, and the endless onslaught of fighting between militia survivors and Omega soldiers.
“Repopulation,” I repeat. “That’s the last step of their takeover?”
“It was supposed to be,” Abbi agrees. “But it also was supposed to have happened a long time ago. They weren’t planning on such a massive militia resistance. They have civilian populations under Omega control all over the world – they’re ready to be transplanted here as soon as the militias are crushed.”
“A new world,” I mutter. “They’ll write every good thing out of the history books.”
“They won’t have history books,” Uriah comments.
“How does someone get to be a chancellor in an underground secret society whose goal is total and complete global domination?” I wonder. A half-joke.
“The chancellors who control Omega,” Abbi replies, “are blood-bound to the cult of Omega. I’m sure you know that Omega is not the only name for our enemy; every culture and language has a different representation of who they are. Chancellors are the generational offspring of centuries and centuries of Omega leaders. They did not fall into their positions accidentally: they were born into them. It is their birthright, heavily veiled in secrecy and the occult.”
“Some say they worship Satan,” Uriah mentions.
“You’ve been to Red Grove, haven’t you?” Abbi asks.
“We have,” I confirm.
“They are very superstitious, but let’s be honest…they worship power.”
“I agree with that.”
Silence reigns for a moment before Abbi continues.
“Commander Hart,” she says carefully. “As grateful as I am to be rescued, and as valiant as the effor
ts of the militias have been to stop Omega…I have seen their power. I’ve been to Europe, to Asia. Everything there – thousands of people, the only survivors of the genocide and holocaust – all under Omega control. We are nothing but a drop in the bucket. We don’t stand a chance against them.”
“That’s what they want us to believe,” I tell her firmly. “They scare us with numbers and bombs, with fear tactics and drones…but they can’t kill our spirit. And don’t tell me that the people who are oppressed by Omega wouldn’t love to be free. Of course they would. In the end, Omega has created millions of enemies – not slaves.”
Abbi looks at me for a long while, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“I hope you’re right,” she says. “But when Athena Strike arrives, and we have only thousands of men against a million-man army…”
“We’ll fight,” I interrupt. “And if we die, that’s how it ends. Fighting. With purpose.”
At this, Abbi bows her head, looking out the window.
I give her a brief overview on her husband’s appearance at Camp Cambria, the arrival of troops from Sector 13, and the implementation of martial law. She absorbs this, and I am careful not to make any sarcastic remarks about the president or General Beckham…Abbi is the first lady, after all.
Or at least, she was.
Hours pass. We pick our way through back roads and abandoned cities, siphoning gas from dead cars. We have to forgo our usual RV point…considering the fact that we were forced to abandon our original mission plan, the Black Hawks wouldn’t know where to pick us up, anyway. All in all, we reach the outskirts of Camp Cambria in the late afternoon, when the fog is beginning to roll over the coastline again.
When we arrive in camp, Arlene is waiting in front of the alehouse, as if she knew we were coming. She beams when she sees Manny climb out of the truck, and they embrace. Devin May crosses the street, his right leg bandaged, clutching a crutch as he hobbles to Em, who is jumping down from the pickup bed. He grins, and they kiss.
I hug Arlene next.
“Youuu…did it,” she says, fighting her speech impairment. “Gooood to…see you…safe.”
“You too.”
Uriah opens the door for First Lady Banner and Mary. They climb out, and Arlene holds a hand to her chest. In a moment of clarity, Arlene says, “Welcome, First Lady.”
Abbi Banner smiles a little and then looks around the streets.
“Where is he?” she asks, glancing nervously at me.
“President Banner will be at HQ,” I reply.
Arlene frowns, and then she shakes her head.
“What is it?” I say.
“We’ve got a hot news flash for you,” Devin announces grimly. “President Banner and General Beckham are in Morro Bay.”
My eyes widen.
“Why?”
“The states are convening,” Devin explains. “They’re holding their first convention at 7 o’clock tonight.”
I look at my watch.
Only two hours away.
“Are you kidding me?” I exclaim, flushed with anger. “They were supposed to wait for us to get back – we’ve only been gone a week!”
“Cassidy-”
“Who’s going to represent California at a state convention if I’m not there?”
“There are no California representatives, and if you’d-”
“He thought we were going to get killed. He didn’t think we’d come back with his family. He assumed the worst and just rolled right ahead with his plans.”
“Cassidy, it’s not like that,” Devin growls, irritated with me. “Listen. The Athena Strike Fleet is maybe one week away from attacking – they’re moving faster than anybody imagined. The states were forced to convene earlier. The president had no choice. But if you get in a car and hit the road, you’ll be able to make the convention before it’s too late.”
I take a deep breath, harness my frustration, and look at the first lady.
“Looks like we’re going on another drive,” I say.
“And I’m coming with you!” Father Kareem bursts out of the makeshift medical tent. “I was praying that you would survive.” He stops and kisses the first lady’s hand, bowing reverently. “An honor, my lady.”
“Father-”
“Commander Hart.” He places his hands on my shoulder, all of his wildness and erratic behavior vanishing from his eyes. “I am coming.”
“Fine.” I holster my gear yet again, tired and exhausted from a long mission. “Let’s go. We’ve got a convention to crash.”
Chapter Sixteen
I see the rock before I see the ocean. It stands stark and immense against the sky, like a crystal ball balancing on a sheet of glass. Beneath it, Morro Bay is nestled snugly against the coastline. However, unlike pre-Collapse days, it is fenced off and barricaded with patrols, guard towers, and concrete chicanes.
Black Hawks thunder in the skies, slowly circling. In the distance, I see Admiral Greg Boyd’s naval fleet hovering just offshore. And everywhere…people. People in the streets, waving flags, throwing flowers to the asphalt, holding signs that say things like Welcome, Militias! or Freedom from Tyranny!
We roll down the highway in our lone vehicle, coming to a halt at a checkpoint just outside of the city. An American soldier walks to the window, and I recognize him from Camp Cambria…he belongs with Sector 13.
When he sees me behind the wheel of the Humvee, he snaps a quick salute.
“Commander Hart!” he says. “Welcome to Morro Bay, ma’am. We weren’t expecting you.”
“I know,” I reply, sourly. “We need to get to the state convention. Where can we find it?”
“They’ve just convened, Commander,” the guard replies. “They’re meeting downtown, in the gymnasium of Morro Bay High School. It was the only building with enough seats…”
That’s all the information I need. The gates open for us and I press my boot against the accelerator.
“Speed demon alert,” Vera mutters.
I look over my shoulder, at the first lady and her daughter sitting behind us. Both are silent. Abbi’s lips are pressed firmly together and she stares out the window, white with nerves. Mary is equally as quiet, clinging to her mother like a life preserver.
We screech down the roads, and it’s not hard to figure out where the high school is. It is just off the freeway, the sign nearly overgrown with weeds and grass. I roll the vehicle to a halt in front of the sign. We get out, cold air pressing down on our chests.
The guards around the gym converge around us. I look around, noticing vehicles from around the country with license plates from Arizona, New Mexico, Texas…
Something stirs in me…excitement?
No way.
Vera, Andrew, Uriah, and Father Kareem close in around Abbi and Mary Banner. Given the circumstances, I ordered Manny to stay in Camp Cambria with Elle, as well as Em. All of them are weak and tired from their brief imprisonment in Compound C, and I want them to rest while I’m dealing with President Banner.
“I have to see President Banner,” I tell the guards. “I’m sure he’d want to see his family.”
A lieutenant – young, barely eighteen from the looks of it – observes Abbi and Mary, eyes widening. “Good God,” he says. “You did it! President Banner said you’d been killed!”
I cock my head.
“Did he?” I say. “Lieutenant, take me to the president.”
“But Commander…the convention is underway, I wouldn’t want to interrupt-”
“We’re PART OF THE CONVENTION!” Vera thunders. “We are representing California, stupid. Let us in – we’ve been through enough in the last week. For the love of God, please!”
The young lieutenant raises an eyebrow, unperturbed.
Yet he says, “All right. Follow me.”
Score, I think. Let’s get this over with.
We cross the small campus – clean and white, empty and abandoned. The gymnasium is generic, and the doors are closed, hea
vily guarded. The lieutenant makes a motion, and the guards open the doors for us.
I steel myself.
We walk inside. The gymnasium seats are filled with people, risers on both sides of an open basketball court holding at least two hundred people. A small stage has been erected in the center, and Sector 13 guards stand there, stoic, armed. An American flag sits on the stage, and there is President Saul Banner, his voice echoing loudly in the building, dressed in a blue suit. He looks neat and handsome.
For a moment, I’m suspended in time, because the realization that the people in the stands are not simply an audience – but in fact, representatives and fighters from states around the country – hits me like a ton of bricks. Unconscious tears fill my eyes as we walk in.
My anger, my frustration, my worries…for a single moment, it all vanishes. I am merely looking into the faces of fighters from my country, suddenly connected, and it is the first time this has happened since the Collapse.
The doors slam against the wall, reverberating in the gymnasium.
President Banner stops talking.
Every eye is on us.
First, Banner’s gaze falls on me, and I can see his shock. He stares openly, slack-jawed and shaken.
He really thought we were dead, I realize.
And then he sees his wife and his daughter, and a sound escapes his lips – a desperate, shocked cry. He stumbles across the podium and jumps to the floor, racing toward his family. Abbi throws up her hands and sobs, while Mary runs to her father, yelling, “Daddy, Daddy!”
“Abbi! Mary!” President Banner cries, pulling them into a warm embrace. He holds them tightly, tears streaming down his face.
I watch in silence. The audience oohs and ahhs, and then everyone is on their feet, raucously applauding the reunion. President Banner is openly crying and laughing all at once, smothering his wife and daughter in affectionate kisses. Here, in this moment of time, he doesn’t look like the president. He just looks like a man, reunited with his family. A loving father and husband, like many of the people here.