by Summer Lane
Chris squeezes my shoulder.
“We will,” he promises.
But I know better. You can’t make promises during war.
You can only give people hope.
Chapter Two
By the time evening settles in, we have finished rescuing the survivors from the Capitol Building. I am standing several blocks away from what’s left, studying the damage from a distance. Chris is right. This was an attack from the outside. We were hit with something from beyond the city.
How could Omega launch a missile without us even detecting it?
“Now, what have we got here?”
The voice is familiar. I meet Manny’s gaze. Tall, tanned, wild-haired Manny. His flight cap is sticking out of the pocket of his leather jacket. His wrinkled face is dusted with ash and dirt, like me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did you find your father?” he asks.
I lower my head.
“No.”
The full impact of those words sears a hole in my heart. If my father is dead…then the last remnants of my family is truly gone. Forever. This realization is jarring, like a punch in the gut. I inhale sharply and look at the sky.
Please. Don’t be dead. Don’t do this to me.
I do not want to deal with the reality of this situation right now. The possibility of me finally snapping – of cracking under pressure – is very real. Manny folds his arms across his chest, following my line of sight. “Lots of men and women aren’t identified yet,” he says. “He’s probably in the medical center right now.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s not my hopes that need to be upped.” He raises an eyebrow. “Cassidy, my girl. What’s on your mind?”
“What makes you think something’s on my mind?”
He gives me a look. I roll my eyes.
“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking…if this was a cruise missile, like Chris said, then that means it was probably launched from the coast. Omega has been shipping troops in from the coastline, right?”
“True, true,” Manny agrees. “And…?”
“So what’s keeping them from destroying the entire city?”
“Retaliation from the Alliance, probably,” Manny shrugs. “And let’s not forget, more often than not, where you find a cruise missile, you find a laser designator.”
“Which means…?”
“Somebody was probably pointing a laser at the dome before it hit. The missile will follow the laser’s path to the T. Of course, there are cruise missiles with internal GPS systems built into the weapon itself. But it’d be interesting to find out if someone was helping the missile along.”
“You’re saying somebody inside the city guided the missile here?”
Manny lifts his palms up.
“We’ve had traitors before. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” He sits down on the curb. I join him, looking down the long, lonely boulevard of Capitol Mall, my gaze drifting to the yellow bridge crossing the Sacramento River. The fortifications have been doubled in the last few hours.
“Manny?” I say.
He waits for me to speak. I place both hands on the cement and take a deep breath. “Angela’s dead,” I say.
“I know.”
“It was hard, seeing her die like that.” I shake my head. “People keep dying. Good people. It’s not fair.”
“Life is not a game that’s ever been played fairly,” Manny replies. “Life’s a brutal match of tug of war. Some of the nicest people get trampled by the team with the biggest players.”
I blink back tears. I don’t want to talk about death anymore.
“Vera told me that Angela Wright knew Chris before the Collapse,” I continue. “She told me that Chris was married.”
Manny doesn’t react. He just waits.
“Chris said it’s true,” I go on, biting my lip. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about it at all,” Manny replies. “Our past lives are exactly that: the past. Dwelling on what was isn’t a wise thing to do, my girl. It’ll distract from what’s important now.”
“But our pasts shape our present,” I argue. “Manny, what if Chris is still legally married to this woman? It would change everything.”
“It would change nothing.”
Manny places his hand on my knee. A firm, steady grip.
“What you need to do, my girl, is talk to Chris about this,” he advises. “But I think you and I could both agree that the attack today, taking care of the wounded and making sure your father are okay are our priorities.” He pauses. “And let’s not forget that you’re our new Senator in the negotiations with the Alliance.” He tips his head, mock-bowing. “An honor to be in your presence, madam.”
I lightly slap his arm.
“Ha,” I say. And then I sigh. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.” He winks. “Mostly.”
“This could change everything I know about him,” I whisper.
Manny shakes his head slowly.
“No,” he says. “It only changes what you think you know. Chris will always be a good man.”
Chris is good. That’s what Angela told me before she died.
“Thanks for listening,” I tell Manny.
Manny nods understandingly. He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick squeeze. “I suggest you get over to the medical center and look for your father,” he says. “You won’t help anybody sitting on this curb.”
I stand up.
“You have such a way of inspiring people.”
“I know. It’s in my blood.” He musses his long gray hair. “Now go on.”
I step off the curb and walk away, putting distance between me and the eccentric pilot sitting on the sidewalk.
“How come you’re allowed to sit on the curb and do nothing?” I tease.
“Because I’m older and wiser than you are,” Manny replies. “But mostly because I’m older and my back hurts.” He waves me off. “Goodnight, my girl.”
I shove my hands in my pockets.
“Goodnight, Manny,” I say.
The Medical Center is about a mile away from the Capitol Building. It is at least seven stories high, with white walls and cement. Old Sutter General Hospital. I hitch a ride with the militia on the way over, parting ways in the parking lot. When I approach the front entrance, there are hundreds of people. Rescue workers, militiamen and women, National Guard patrols and civilian volunteers who are working at the hospital.
I go in the main entrance. The posted guards wave me through. Everything is linoleum flooring and bright, generator-powered lights. Everything in the city is running on backup generators, fueled by diesel and gasoline, precious commodities in a time like this. The acidic stench of blood and burnt flesh are heavy in the air. It is a scent that is all too familiar to me. One that I wish I would never have to smell again.
“Excuse me,” I tell a middle-age woman in black scrubs. “I’m Commander Hart. I’m looking for someone who was inside the Capitol Building. Where should I start?”
“Senator Hart?” the woman says, blinking. “It’s an honor, Ma’am.” She grabs my hand, smiling hopefully. “It’s a thrill to see you here.”
“Yes, well…” I clear my throat. “Thanks, but where can I start looking for survivors?”
“Second level,” she replies. “Take the stairs. The elevators are crammed with workers and wounded.”
“Thank you.”
“Senator?” She lets go of my hand. “Thank you.”
I force a weak smile, then walk away, unsure of how to respond. I find the stairwell and climb to the second story. The hospital hallway is jammed with stretchers and doctors. I haven’t seen this much activity inside a medical facility since before the EMP. I walk into the first room. It looks like it was a former physical therapy ward, but it has been cleared of all equipment. It is filled with dozens of makeshift beds and patients. State of the ar
t medical supplies have been salvaged here, and everything is being used on these survivors. Doctors and nurses are buzzing through the rooms, checking victims, administering shots of morphine, antibiotics and more.
I go from bed to bed, scanning for my father’s face. My hopes become smaller and smaller as I look around. What if he’s not here? What if he was killed instantly in the explosion, like so many others? I wouldn’t even know if his body had been taken out with the dead.
Please, God, I pray. After everything we’ve been through…don’t let him die.
I go through four more rooms, checking the faces of each individual survivor on the beds. I do not recognize my father, and as this reality sinks in, I withdraw to the corner of the fifth room and stand. I cross my arms, blinking back angry, hurt tears.
Not like this, I think. He wasn’t meant to die anonymously.
I went through so much to find my father again after the EMP…it can’t end like this. It simply can’t.
The moans of the wounded in this ward is too much for me to handle right now, so I slip into the hall, walking through the sea of nurses and emergency workers. I feel suffocated, trapped. I push through the door at the end of the hall and enter the cold, concrete stairwell. I climb downstairs, hit the first floor, and leave the hospital. By the time I get outside, I am crying. Tears run down my face. I cannot hide them, nor do I want to.
I round the edge of the hospital and find a secluded bench, away from the commotion. I sit down and bury my face in my hands, sobbing. Desperation and fear sinks in. If my father is not found, then it will be assumed that he is dead, and that will be the end of it. His life – his work, his legacy, and his connection to me – will be severed in an instant.
My hatred for Omega burns brighter.
What will I do if he’s dead? I think. Where will I go?
The answer is simple: I will go where I am needed. That is what I have done in the past, and it’s what I should do now.
I wipe my tears away, blinking at the world with blurred vision.
I steady my breathing, slipping back into battle mode.
Into keep-it-together mode.
I stand up, and I leave the hospital.
I am walking toward the hotel where the militia officers have been quartered. The sun has set. I zip my jacket up, pausing at the corner of the block. The hotel is glimmering against the night sky, buzzing with activity at the bottom level. Where there used to be valet parking, there are armored vehicles. It’s now a fortress, surrounded by concrete T walls and armed guards manning every entry point.
By the time I reach the hotel lobby, I realize how completely exhausted I am. My steps are slow and labored. The front desk and receptionist areas are being manned by National Guardsmen.
I head to the elevator, knowing that if I don’t sleep for at least a couple of hours, I won’t be any good to anyone. The elevator arrives, and I step inside. I reach the fifteenth floor. The doors open, and for the first time in hours, there is silence. I breathe a sigh of relief and walk to my hotel room. I close the door, lock it, and lean against it. I take a deep breath and slide down to the floor, sitting on the carpet, closing my eyes.
The city streets gleam through the windows with the lights of backup generators and patrol vehicles making their rounds. The rumble of engines and buzz of voices is a soft hum through the hotel window. How do we know Omega won’t attack again? Why did they stop with just two cruise missiles? Are they playing a game with us? Cat and mouse? The game of intimidation? If it was meant to scare the crap out of us, it certainly worked.
But I don’t think that’s their game. I believe their aim is to remove our leaders, kill us off one by one, and destroy the strength of the resistance to the Omega invasion.
Am I afraid? Yes. Will I stop fighting? Never.
I collapse on the bed, laying my cheek against the scratchy bedspread. This is luxury living, compared to what I have been doing for the last year. But I don’t care about that. As I fall into an exhausted sleep, my thoughts are on my father.
Omega has taken him away from me again.
Chapter Three
When I open my eyes, I forget where I am. Am I home? Why isn’t my alarm clock going off? Has Dad left for work already? Did I oversleep?
I sit straight up, confused and disoriented.
Wait. I swing my legs around and place my boots on the floor.
I’m not home. Dad is MIA. The Capitol Building was bombed. I am a Commander and a Senator. I have responsibilities.
I stand up and open the closet. I pull out my spare uniform – basically a carbon copy of the torn and dirty combat fatigues and jacket I’m wearing – and head to the bathroom for a quick rinse.
While I am getting ready, I reflect on everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.
My friend Angela Wright is dead. The Capitol Building has been destroyed. Dozens of officers have been wounded. Dad is missing in action. And Chris…well, that’s not important, now.
I get dressed, comb the tangles out of my curly red hair and look at myself in the mirror.
“I can get through this,” I say aloud.
I leave the hotel room and slam the door shut behind me. I’m not just tired. I’m angry. Omega has crossed a line. Killing Angela, potentially killing my father…I have been fighting all this time for my friends and family. For the people that I care about. If they are gone, what am I supposed to do?
Fight harder, a little voice says. Hit them back twice as hard.
I step inside the elevator, exiting at the lobby. Morning sunlight is streaming through the glass windows, casting a heavenly glow on an otherwise gritty scene. Soldiers move around, rotating watches and patrols, acting with purpose and focus. I scan the crowds for familiar faces. There is nobody here that I recognize.
I reach the lobby doors and step outside, coming face to face with a young woman in a National Guard uniform. Her dark, honeyed skin blends with black hair and eyes. I stop dead in my tracks, staring for a minute, and then a smile spreads across my face.
“Sophia!”
I throw my arms around her neck and embrace her. Sophia Rodriguez. The friend who helped me survive an Omega POW slave labor camp. The friend who joined the National Guard and fought against Omega with me…and also the friend who claimed Chris was a traitor and refused to help me rescue him from Omega’s POW Holding Center in Los Angeles.
My shock and surprise at seeing her here overcomes the anger I felt the last time we were in the same room.
I pull away, noting Sophia’s pained expression.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, my smile fading.
She clears her throat.
“You survived,” she replies. There is no smile on her face.
“Yes. Operation Angel Pursuit was a success. We brought Chris back, Sophia. We did it!”
She shakes her head, not meeting my gaze.
“I was talking about the Capitol Building, actually,” she says.
“Oh.” I blink. “Yeah, I was outside when the missile hit.”
“Missile?”
“Yeah. Chris says it was probably a cruise missile.” I shrug. “He’s right. Nobody could have gotten inside the Capitol and planted a bomb that big. There’s way too much security.”
“Well. Chris would know. He always knows everything,” Sophia replies, and there is a note of sarcasm in her voice. “That’s why you rescued him from Los Angeles.”
“Sophia, what is with you?” I demand. “Chris has never done anything to you, and neither have I.”
She doesn’t answer.
So I switch tactics.
“Alexander Ramos is alive,” I say. “He was in Los Angeles. He’s here, now.”
She stares at me, and for a brief moment, I see a flash of the old Sophia. The spunky, optimistic young woman who helped me survive enslavement and countless guerilla warfare shootouts. And then she says,
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? Go to Headquarter
s and see for yourself.”
“But that’s impossible,” she replies, and this time, her tone is unsteady. “Alexander went MIA weeks ago.”
“Well, he’s with us now.”
“I would have known about this.”
“No. You wouldn’t.” I fold my arms. “Because you chose Colonel Rivera and the National Guard over Operation Angel Pursuit.” I shrug. “That was your choice, and now I’m just telling you what you missed.”
“If you’re lying, Cassidy-”
“-I’ve never lied to you before,” I frown. “I’ve never done anything to hurt you, Sophia.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“I need to get to Headquarters,” she mutters.
She pushes past me, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, staring after her. Dumbfounded by her behavior – and the shock of seeing her here – I barely remember how to move my legs and keep walking.
Sophia will heal, I tell myself. She just needs time. The stress of warfare just affects people in different ways.
The Headquarters Building has been moved from the Capitol to the Sacramento Convention Center. It is several blocks away, but walking in the cool morning air does a lot to clear my head.
By the time I reach the Convention Center, I am alert and centered. The long, gray building is lined with glass walls and doors. A security perimeter has been established around the block. I spot several familiar figures near the front entrance, an ornate box office with the words, Sacramento Convention Center above the entryway. An empty water fountain is sitting on the concrete, pathetic and lonely.
“Uriah,” I say.
He is clean, dark hair combed back against olive skin. He assesses me as I approach, sadness in his coal-colored eyes. “Cassidy,” he replies. “You’re okay.” I raise an eyebrow. “Where is everyone?”
Alexander Ramos and tall, blonde Derek are not here. “Alexander is inside,” Uriah explains. “Derek is at the hospital.”
“Is he hurt?” I ask, alarmed.
“Just nicked. A support beam fell on him yesterday. His arm might be broken.” He sighs. “Another one bites the dust.”
“His arm is broken,” I say. “He’s not dead. Thank God.”