by Summer Lane
“Go right ahead,” I reply, sharp.
“Pardon my language, Commander,” she says, briskly. “But do you mind explaining to me what the hell just happened?”
“You tell me,” I respond.
“One of our civilian refugees is lying dead on the ground, shot right in the center of her forehead!” she says, trembling with rage. “Eighteen others are wounded. Is there a reason for this blatant display of hostility? Because that is not something we welcome here, Commander.”
She is shaking with rage, looming over me like a dark shadow.
“President Bacardi,” I say, surprised by my own sense of calm. “Those so-called refugees threatened to kill a member of my ranks, and one of my soldiers got pushed too far. Those people attacked us – not the other way around.”
“Really?” President Bacardi raises an eyebrow. “According to the refugees, one of your people” – she says the word like it is poison – “stabbed a civilian through the hand with a fork after he made a harmless joke about a dog.”
“That dog is part of my militia,” I say, “and he was threatened. We protect our own.”
“Are you telling me that the entire fight inside the hall was started because of a dog?” she says, eyes flashing.
“I’m telling you that the fight was started because my men were defending themselves,” I reply. “And anybody who threatens us will find themselves dead.” I take a step closer to her. “We’re fighters, President. We kill people – that’s what we do best, remember? So the real question is, why would someone be stupid enough to cross us?”
She stares at me, cold fury burning through her eyes.
“These people are not soldiers,” she says. “They’re just refugees, trying to stay alive.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say.
Mauve’s lips curl into a hard sneer.
“You will learn how things work here soon enough,” she tells me.
I don’t reply. I fix her with my coldest glare and move away from the chow hall, back toward the Begich Towers, leaving the mess behind me.
***
I am standing at the window in my quarters, staring over the harbor, when someone raps on the door. Vera is sitting on the couch, and she springs up.
“Visitors,” she says. “Great.”
She stalks to the door. Both of us are still on edge, barely having washed the blood from the chow hall fiasco off our hands. I watch her open the door. Em Davis stands there, a hard, steely expression on her face.
“May I come in?” she asks.
I nod.
She walks into the room. Vera stands in front of the door, her arms crossed over her chest, ready for a fight. My stance is almost identical – I’m ready to get yelled at again, to get chewed out.
“Commander Hart,” Em says. “I’m sorry about what happened this morning.”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised.
“I understand why you reacted the way you did,” she goes on. “I would have done the same thing, defending my men or my dog.”
“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it.
“I also came here to warn you,” she goes on. “President Bacardi was hesitant to welcome you and your men here in the beginning because of your…reputation. What happened today only confirmed her feelings.”
“What feelings? And what reputation are you referring to?” Vera demands.
“Commander Hart and the Freedom Fighters,” Em explains. “You guys have a bit of a rep as hard-hitting, hotheaded fighters. In other words, most militias are afraid of you. They know you’re dangerous.”
“We’re all on the same side here,” I say. “Our only enemy is Omega.”
“President Bacardi doesn’t see it that way. She sees you as usurping her position of leadership.” Em shrugs. “She’s a strong woman, and she has fought hard to get this city to where it is today. She won’t let anybody take it from her.”
“That’s not what I’m here to do!” I exclaim. “I’m here to look for help, because California is dying.”
“I understand that, too,” Em says, dipping her head. “Which is why I’m here.”
I place my hands on the back of the couch.
“President Bacardi might be the resident politician,” Em continues, “but I’m still the commanding officer of the Whittier Militia, and I’m making the decision to help you.”
“How do you plan to do that?” Vera asks.
A mischievous smile touches her lips.
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Chapter Seven
We leave Begich Towers with Em. Only Vera, Uriah and myself go with her. Em moves quickly through the parking lot, her eyes darting back and forth, her motions tight and controlled. She is nervous – I can see it, I can feel it. Going up against President Bacardi must not be something she does very often…if at all.
Her personal pickup is parked on the edge of the parking lot. I climb into the front passenger seat and Uriah and Vera get in the back. The windows are icy, coated with snow. She scrapes it off and then slides behind the wheel. The engine sputters to life. The heater struggles to warm the inside of the cab, leaving us to shiver in the frigid temperature.
“So where are you taking us?” Vera asks.
Em keeps her eyes trained on the road, pulling out of the parking lot and jolting across the railroad tracks. “The Roamers,” she says. “They’ll be able to help you.”
“The Roamers?” I echo. “I thought they were religious zealots.”
“They are. But they’re great fighters, always willing to help kick Omega’s butt.”
“That’s religious enough for me, then.”
“It should be.” Em smiles slightly. “By the way, if President Bacardi knew I was doing this, she’d probably try to kill me.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She has no authority over me…not really.” Em curls her gloved hands around the steering wheel. “But she has the ear of the people here…she can make anybody’s life a living hell, and I need the support of the refugees.”
No, I think. You need the support of the militias.
“Sounds like President Bacardi’s a real pain,” Vera says. “Why do the people love her so much if she’s such a crackpot?”
“Because she’s a smart crackpot,” Em replies. “And like I said, she brought this place from being harmless Whittier to being the safe zone that is Yukon City.”
“What did she do that was so special?” I ask.
We drive parallel to the railroad tracks and speed away from the city park and the towers, running alongside the harbor. The cold, dark water is choppy amidst the slabs of glacial ice bobbing in the bay.
“The whole place was anarchy before she came,” Em explains. “Civilians were living here, without any military protection or authoritative guidance. Every kind of person from every different walk of life. Food started to run low and survivors were at each other’s throats. Things got ugly – kind of like this morning, but way worse.”
“So Mauve was the voice of reason,” I guess.
“Yeah,” Em replies. “She was that and a whole lot more. She rallied the majority of the camp to her side, and they started organizing the city into sections. She was the architect behind growing crops, even in the dead of winter. We built greenhouses with artificial sunlight, and we’ve got livestock, too. Medicine, even.”
“And when did the militias come into the picture?” I ask.
“About six months ago,” Em answers. “Bacardi sent a message to the militias, asking for medicine for our hospital – they were running low on supplies. The militias responded by sending most of what she needed, but they were impressed with this place, so they dug in here too, for the same reason that the United States Military used it as a defense base during the Second World War.”
“Because it’s hidden,” I say.
“Yep, it’s practically impossible to find and has defensible perimeters.”
“And I’ll bet President
Bacardi wasn’t expecting a military occupation.”
“No, I arrived with my militia and the National Guard,” Em confirms. “She’s been against us since the beginning. Honestly, she can’t do anything about us being here. But she has a lot of influence over the people, and if they hate us, they can make our experience here pretty miserable.”
I lean back in my seat.
“In the end,” I say, “we’re still the alpha dogs.”
I hear Uriah laugh quietly, and I know that he agrees with my logic.
“I don’t disagree,” Em says. “I’m just saying: President Bacardi can be difficult to deal with.”
We put more and more distance between us and the Begich Towers, until we are approaching the Maynard Tunnel again.
“Whoa, I thought the Roamers were inside the city!” Vera exclaims.
“They’re right outside. They like their privacy.”
I throw an uneasy glance behind me, at Uriah. My eyes say, Should we do this?
He nods, slowly.
Of course we should. This could be a way for us to get help for California.
Em checks in with the guards at the checkpoint, and then we are rolling into the Maynard Tunnel, the darkness closing in around us. I don’t like it, but I don’t say anything. I can’t imagine rolling through this tight, enclosed space for two and a half miles is anyone’s idea of a good time.
“I’m glad you came,” Em says, “It’s good to hear something about the outside world. I was in Camp Pendleton until the militias sent me here. I was with the Marines.” Her face tightens. “We had some trouble, some tragedy. I don’t know. I was glad to come up here, to escape. But now I wish I was back in the fight.”
I turn to her.
“Why do you have to wish?” I ask. “You can help us, too. We need all the fighters we can get.”
Em says nothing. Then, “I guess you have a point.”
We reach the end of the tunnel, roll through the exit checkpoint and find ourselves back on the other side of the mountains. I love the way that the clouds cling to the peaks, shrouding us in a fairytale-like fantasy.
We keep moving, until the road curves around the back of the mountain, coming to a rock face. It sheers vertically, straight up into the air. The trees on the approaches have been logged, making the landscape dry and barren.
“Welcome to the Roamers’ base,” Em says.
She pulls the Humvee to the side of the road and I stare at the edifice hacked into the rock mountain, accessible from only one side: the front. It’s a fortress – a basic compound, with camouflaged concrete walls and rock barriers around the structure of the central building. The roadway is lined with logs sharpened into spikes. There is one imposing entrance gate, and a maze of concrete barriers and sandbags. I see guns covering us as we roll. Guards are standing out front, clothed in long black coats, with rifles ready.
“This is quite the place,” Vera mutters.
“They’re quite the people,” Em replies.
She turns the Humvee to the left and goes into the maze of blockades, slowly approaching the front gate. The guards must recognize her and her vehicle, because they don’t look alarmed as we pull up. Em rolls her window down and the guard walks over. Strange black and white streaks are painted across his face.
“Commander Em Davis,” she says. “I’m here with Commander Cassidy Hart, and Lieutenants Vera Wright and Uriah True of the California militias.”
The guard peers inside the vehicle, assessing us. He looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and then nods at the other guy standing watch. He steps away, says something into a radio clipped onto his belt, and then the gate opens. First, there is a heavy iron fence, and behind that, a solid barrier made of wood. A cross is painted on the wood, painted with bright orange flames.
It’s slightly disturbing, and I try to ignore it.
We roll inside the gates, and I look around. It looks like a compound you might see in the desert – simple, dirty. But this compound is covered with sleet and ice instead of hot desert sand. There are two layers of outdoor hallways. Everywhere, I see men and women alike, wearing long black robes, with heavy rifles or shotguns, many standing along the ramparts, keeping watch.
But every eye is on us as we roll inside.
“Don’t worry,” Em assures us. “We’re allies.”
“I’ve heard that line before,” Vera mutters.
The Humvee comes to a halt and we exit the vehicle. I’m hyper-aware of the attention we’re getting, and I’m glad Em is with us. In the middle of the compound, there is a building dimly glowing from within. A long, stony silence passes.
The front doors – two metal double doors – open, and a woman walks outside. Her hair is white and buzzed short. Behind her, two men follow. They are tall, clad in combat fatigues, heads shaven, and long, draping robes hanging over their clothes. I stare openly, glancing at Uriah. His eyebrows come together, confusion flitting across his face.
Behind them, a large, dark-skinned man emerges from the building. White streaks are painted under his eyes. I take a step back, shocked.
“Father Kareem?” I breathe.
He doesn’t smile.
“Cassidy Hart,” he replies. “You have returned.”
***
“I knew you would find your way to us,” Father Kareem says.
I gape, cheeks flushed, shock radiating through my body. I remember this man, clothed in robes, sitting atop a horse, while the grass crackled around us with flames. I was riding my horse, Katana, then, and Uriah was with me.
This man is the leader of the Mad Monks, a fringe group of religious, anti-Omega warriors.
How is this possible?
My mind races with a million hypothetical theories.
“Father Kareem,” Uriah echoes. “Your people were in California, in the mountains. What happened?”
Father Kareem bows his head.
“Much has changed,” he replies. “It does not surprise me that you have come to us now. The prophecy predicted as much.” He waves a hand. “Please, come inside. We will not harm you.”
I hesitate – but only for a moment.
We came all the way here to get to this place. I can’t back out now.
I walk forward, toward the main building in the dark compound. The woman with the shaved head has striking gray eyes and a slender, upturned nose. “You’re the one the prophecy speaks of?” she asks, quietly.
“Um,” I reply.
“She is,” Father Kareem interjects. “Commander Hart, this is Sister Leslie. She is a friend, and she can be trusted.”
Are you our friend? I think. Can you be trusted?
“Commander,” Leslie says, folding her hands together and giving a slight bow.
“Father Kareem,” Em says, tilting her head respectfully.
“Commander Davis,” he replies. “It is good of you to visit with us today.”
I glance at Vera. Her brow is knit close together, clearly critical of the situation. But we continue into the building, which is nothing more than a large room with a long, wooden table. The walls are plastered with drawings and maps of Alaskan and Californian terrain, visual records of Omega troop movements and – most bizarrely of all – a portion of the wall is painted with roman numerals. Above the numbers, there are words:
hostium occidit
“Enemy kills,” I mutter.
“You speak Latin, Commander Hart?” Father Kareem asks.
“A little,” I reply.
He gestures to the long wooden benches paralleling the table. We each take a seat, Commander Em Davis directly across from me, and Vera and Uriah on my right. Father Kareem doesn’t sit, he just gazes at us with a searing intensity.
“You did not tell me that the militias were arriving,” Father Kareem says to Em at last.
“It was very sudden,” Em replies. “They’re here on a mission.”
“Of course they are,” Father Kareem says.
“Father,” I interject. “Why a
re you here, in Whittier? Last time I saw you, you and your men were in California, in the Tehachapi Mountains.”
And they were riding horses, no less. How on earth they made the journey from California to Alaska is a mystery to me.
“The religious persecution my people and I suffered at the hands of Omega was too egregious to overlook,” Father Kareem replies, calmly. “There were too many deaths, too many executions. We fought ruthlessly against the enemy, but as you know, Commander Hart, there were simply too many. Their numbers were overwhelming, and, slowly, they pushed us backward, taking many of my people prisoner – executing them in public, making examples of them.”
A cold chill runs down my spine. Omega is merciless.
“We sought religious asylum with the California militias,” he goes on. “They were generous in their help, and we were relocated here, to the snowy wilderness. Here, my people and I have lived in peace, yet we are still able to venture forth and strike deadly blows at our oppressors.”
“You’re fighting with the militias, then,” Vera says
“We are.”
I look at Father Kareem, tall and stately; dark and dangerous. The leader of the Mad Monks, and now the leader of the Roamers. How it is that our paths crossed, I don’t know, but there must be a reason.
“Father Kareem,” I say. “I’m here on behalf of the California militias. I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been in California, but things are looking bad. Omega has dropped nuclear weapons on Washington, Oregon, Canada and part of California. They just took over San Francisco, and they’re pushing their way into the Central Valley.” I look him straight in the eye. “I’m not just here to hide out. I’m here on a mission. We need reinforcements and weapons, and we need them bad.”
“It is not possible to overpower Omega with sheer manpower,” Father Kareem replies. “Their foot army is too vast – hundreds of thousands, if not millions, comprise their ranks.”
“We need more fighters,” I say. “More sharp minds. We need all the help we can get, and I don’t care where it comes from.”
“You are here to ask me if I am willing to offer my people as your allies in this final stand against the enemy,” Father Kareem observes. “You are desperate; I can see that in your eyes. It is as I believed it would be.”