by Summer Lane
“I see you’ve taken a liking to my favorite girl,” she whispers.
I shrug. “Um, actually…”
“Ladies,” Manny interrupts. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to give a lecture here.”
“Please continue,” I say.
The platoon fills the stable. We must look odd. Twenty-five camouflaged militiamen inside a 150-year-old stable. Then again…soldiers and horses were the equivalent to soldiers and Humvees not so long ago.
“Like I was saying before I was interrupted,” Manny goes on, raising an annoyed eyebrow, “the secret of horseback riding is very simple. Get on, hang on and pay attention. You exercise common sense and the horse will, too. You stay calm, and the horse will stay calm. You take care of your horse, and your horse will take care of you. It’s not really any different than a relationship with a human, actually.” He gestures to Katana. “Take this horse, for example. Fine tempered creature, common sense. As long as you treat her right, she’ll treat you right.”
“Sounds like dating advice to me,” Derek remarks.
The militiamen laugh. Manny cracks a smile.
“Very true,” Manny says. “Like I said. They’re not so different from people.”
“How do you know so much about horses, flyboy?” somebody shouts.
“I was raised with horses. Worked with them all my life in a stable before I got into flying. Now who’s ready to ride into Los Angeles?”
“Hi-ho Silver,” Uriah mutters, smiling at me.
“The Lone Ranger,” I say.
“Yeah. Now that’s a great old show.”
I tilt my head. Somehow, Uriah doesn’t strike me as someone who would appreciate the classics, but hey. Who am I to judge?
“These horses can go about fifteen to thirty miles in a day with pack loads, provided we give them the proper amount of rest and care on the way into the city,” Manny continues. “We’ll be traveling on rising and falling terrain, so we’ll need to be careful about pushing them too hard.” He pauses. “So. Any questions?”
“I got one,” Uriah says.
“Go.”
He leans against the wall, jerking his thumb at a horse.
“How do we actually ride these things?”
Manny cracks his knuckles and rolls up his sleeves. He looks a little mischievous.
“Now that, my boy, is the fun part,” he says.
The night is cold, but the clouds have cleared enough to shed white, brilliant moonlight across the mountains. I’m sitting with my boots in the stirrups of Katana’s saddle, holding her reins in the palm of my hand. I’ve got nothing but my rifle on my back, my sidearm on my thigh, my knife on my belt and a jacket buttoned up to the neck.
The horses are snorting blasts of steaming breath in the chill. A couple of them paw the ground.
Manny is seated on a horse beside me, lazily studying his flight cap.
“Are you going to bring that?” I ask.
He looks up. “Of course,” he replies. “It’s my good luck charm.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“You don’t, eh? Then what do you believe in, Commander?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure I know anymore.
I can feel Katana’s lungs expand and shrink with each breath. Her body is warm, and every once in a while she snorts through her nose – loudly. Derek is loading up the last of the horses with gear, while the rest of the platoon finds their own animal.
“You have all of the information you’ll need,” Arlene says. She pats Katana’s nose. “Do you have any questions, Commander?”
“No,” I reply. “Manny?”
“I’m fine and dandy,” he replies. “Not much else to say.”
“Good luck, Manny,” she says softly. “Come back safely.” She looks at me. “You too. I pray that your operation will be successful.”
“Thank you,” I answer. “We’ll be back. Count on it.”
“Your mission codename,” she says. “What is it? What do I tell the Underground?”
I think about it.
“Angel Pursuit,” I say at last.
She nods, approving.
I tap the heels of my boots against Katana’s flanks and she moves forward.
Easy enough, I think. For now.
The motion of the horse is almost like riding on the moving deck of a ship. Every movement of the animal rolls your body slightly forward and backward. I feel exposed sitting on top of such a big creature. I can see clearly in all directions, but as a mountain fighter, I’m used to traveling within the cover of ravines, behind trees and through bushes. Not perched on top of a twelve-hundred pound horse.
Behind the stables, there’s a hidden trail that winds into the woods. Manny moves toward it – but not before he whispers something to Arlene. She smiles.
It’s a sad smile. A wistful one.
I wonder what he said.
“Alrighty, Commander,” Manny tells me. “I’ll lead the way.”
“Roger that.”
He turns on his horse to look over the platoon. They’re saddled up and ready to go. Half of the group looks unsure of what they’re doing on their horses, while the other half seems to be adjusting just fine. Uriah is one of the latter.
He trots up beside me, an expression of wry amusement on his face.
“You look pretty relaxed in the saddle,” he comments.
I pull back on the reins and turn Katana to the right. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and urge her forward. She follows Manny’s lead, and the entire platoon begins moving out of the stable area, into the woods.
I frequently look over my shoulder, watching the militiamen. A few of them nearly fall off their horses at first. It’s comical to watch – if not a little depressing. My platoon Lieutenants – Vera, Derek, Andrew and Uriah – adjust the quickest. Unsurprising.
Vera looks royally ticked off to be riding a horse, however, judging by the sour expression on her face. I guess she’d rather take a Humvee into Los Angeles.
So would I, but hey.
There’s a war going on.
For the first hour of riding, I find myself adjusting to the sensation of horseback riding. At first it feels odd. Like I’m bouncing – floating. And then I settle into the saddle and relax into the rhythm of Katana’s strides. It’s nice not to have to hike on foot. But I can’t let my guard down. These hills are crawling with rogue militia groups and breakaway gangs that fled the city.
At least that’s what I’ve been told.
According to intelligence reports from the National Guard, Los Angeles is a hotbed of Omega activity – and the ring around the outside of the city limits is a dangerous barrier of violent people.
“Generally speaking,” Arlene said earlier, “Los Angeles is the castle, and the territory outside it is the village. The people that have been locked out of the castle are the few survivors, and the some of them have formed gangs. They’re dangerous. Several have created militia groups – only they’re rogue. They’re not fighting just Omega. They’re fighting anyone.”
Survival of the fittest.
The mountain trail gently slopes downward, winding between trees and bushes. But as the hours pass, the trail travels up and down and around the hills. At one point, we break the cover of the trees and hit the open, rolling hillside. Grazing territory for cattle.
“We’ll want to steer clear of the ridgeline,” Manny advises. “Ride the crest just below the top. We don’t want to silhouette against the moonlight.”
I can’t argue with that.
We stick to the trails and stay just enough below the ridgeline to avoid detection, but high enough to get a good view of the surrounding area. A bone-chilling breeze sweeps up the side of the hill, creating a ripple in the grass. I shiver and scan the horizon. It’s so open. So exposed. I don’t like it. I’ve come to love the cover and concealment of the deep forest.
We come to a spot in the ridge where it becomes necessary for us to deviate f
rom traveling higher. The mountain is divided here. We will have to climb down and then back up.
“Let’s get this over with,” I breathe. “The sooner we get back on the ridgeline, the better.”
“No argument there, Commander,” Manny agrees.
So we take our horses downward to the valleys between the mountains. Going downhill on a steep trail is a new experience for me. I almost have to stand in the stirrups, pulling back on the reins. Katana nearly slides to the bottom, sticking her front legs out in front of her, crouching with her hind legs. I nearly topple over her head, but grab the saddle horn to keep myself mounted.
“Have you noticed something?” Uriah asks, hanging onto his mount tightly.
His horse, Mach, is midnight black. It matches Uriah’s personality perfectly.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“I’m talking about you.” He wraps the reins in his right hand. “This platoon. Notice how everyone is following your orders? You’re a great Commander.”
“Uriah,” I sigh. “I’m not. Ordering people around doesn’t define a leader. Doing the right thing at the hardest time does.”
I’m quoting Chris.
“You want to lead people?” he said one day, long before we ever joined the National Guard. Or before I was even enslaved in a labor camp. “The key to being a good leader is to make decisions based on facts, not on anger or fear. Find the genius in everyone you work with. Be humble. Don’t take credit for victory. It belongs to the group. But the hardest thing about being a leader is doing what you know in your gut is right. So many times, the simplest answer is the right answer. In the heat of the moment, complex strategies aren’t usually the answer. Look for that clear, easy solution. ”
How did he know this? What did he do as a Navy SEAL that gave him such an enormous amount of insight and knowledge? That kind of discernment is rare. And it reminds me that no matter how much I love Chris, there is a lot that I don’t know about him.
“Hey, Commander,” Uriah whispers, snapping me out of it. “Lighten up. You’re doing good. Give yourself props.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I don’t think patting myself on the back is a good idea,” I murmur.
Because honestly, good things don’t last.
“Hold up,” Manny says, making a closed fist to halt. “We need to let the horses rest and get them some water.”
I pull back on Katana’s reins and we come to a halt. I dismount and hit the ground.
Dang. My butt is sore.
My thighs ache. I walk stiffly for a few minutes. Now I know why they say cowboys walked bowlegged. The rest of the platoon does the same. More than a few moans and complaints are expressed. We allow the horses to drink water, and while they rest, I study Katana’s face. She’s a gorgeous animal. Her eyes are full of intelligence and understanding.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” I whisper. “Yes, you are…”
“I knew it,” Manny says.
“What?”
“You’re a horse whisperer.”
I laugh for the first time in…well, a while.
“She is a woman of many talents,” Uriah says. His smile is gentle and unguarded. And for some reason that bothers me. He shouldn’t be smiling at me like that.
“We barely covered six miles,” Vera complains.
“It’s better than walking,” I say.
“It’s slow. And we have to rest these things and water them.”
“They’re horses, Vera.” I snap. ‘They’re carrying you and pack loads. Would you rather walk?”
“I’d rather drive or fly.”
“That’s not an option and you know it.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw.
“The horses were your idea,” she hisses in a low voice. “If Chris is dead by the time we reach him, it will be your fault.”
I jerk backward like I’ve been slapped in the face.
“If we die out here-” she says, but I cut her off.
“-If we die,” I retort, “we will have died fighting for something worth dying for. I’d rather die than take the coward’s way out.”
“So you’re calling me a coward.”
“I’m not calling you anything. I’m stating a fact.” I take a step back. “This isn’t about politics or emotions, Vera. This is about doing the right thing and having the guts to follow through with it.” I hold my open palms up. “Either you’ve got it in you or you don’t. Honestly, I really hope that you do.”
I turn away, not bothering to gauge her reaction. She stands there in silence, staring at the back of my head for a long while before walking away, slowly. I press my cheek against Katana’s neck and steady my emotions.
I can do this. I can handle Vera. I can handle anything.
Right?
I take a deep breath, feeling another set of eyes on me. Uriah. His expression is pensive as he approaches. He stands a few feet away, silent. It’s not awkward, but it’s not comfortable, either.
“Cassidy…?” he asks. “What did you do before the collapse?”
I cock my head. What is this? Are people taking numbers to talk to me?
“Why?” I say.
“I’m just curious. You seem…almost prepped for this lifestyle.”
“I was living in Los Angeles,” I reply.
“So you’ll be going home for the first time when we reach the city.”
I swallow. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yes. I’ll be seeing the ravaged remains of my former hometown for the first time. I’m not sure that it’s going to do anything to boost my confidence. From what I’ve heard, Los Angeles is little more than an oversized garbage dump these days.
Not really positive reinforcement.
“What kind of a job did you have?” Uriah presses.
I scratch Katana behind the ears. And then I decide not to answer Uriah. Call me crazy, but I’d rather nobody but Chris Young know the details of my past life. My normal life. I don’t want to burst anyone’s illusion that I’m a hardcore freedom fighter by letting the cat out of the bag: Yes, sorry folks. But Cassidy Hart was an unemployed college dropout before the EMP hit, not a police officer or a soldier. My worst worries were awkward family reunions and failed cell signals. Does that surprise you?
It’s like they say. Leaving an element of mystery is sometimes more effective than spilling your guts everywhere you go. Just saying.
Uriah realizes that I’m not going to answer his question, and instead of pressuring me, he drops the subject. He leans close to my face and whispers,
“Keeping secrets? I can keep them, too.”
He presses a soft, quick kiss to my cheek. It happens in a second, just quick enough for everyone else to miss it. I shove him backwards, shocked. He looks taken aback by my reaction. My knife flashes off my belt and into my hand.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I warn quietly, the blade glinting in the moonlight.
Uriah looks shocked by my reaction – and I’m a little bit surprised, too.
My instinct to fight – to defend when threatened – is stronger than it ever was. It surprises me how easily it becomes visible when I am attacked.
“Uh…I’m…sorry…” Uriah mutters, flushed. He slowly backs away, retreating into the shadows of the night, taking refuge on the other side of Mach.
I think, What does he want from me?
Yet there’s a small part of me that thinks Uriah doesn’t want anything. That perhaps he really does genuinely care about me. And for some reason, that is scarier than thinking that he’s trying to manipulate my emotions.
I love Chris. I will always love Chris. That will never change.
Period.
I can feel the intensity of Uriah’s gaze on the back of my head. It’s practically drilling holes through my skull. I don’t like it. I move to the other side of Katana, casting a glance at Vera. She’s sulking as she checks her saddle, but in hindsight, our confrontation could have been a lot worse. In fac
t, compared to other conversations we’ve had, what happened could be considered almost civil.
After we rest the horses, we mount up again and continue our journey. I send Uriah to the back of the group. My plan is to make him eat dust for a few hours. Maybe it will force him to think about the consequences of his stupid, rash action.
And the more I think about it, the more annoyed I become.
If Chris were here, he would teach Uriah a few things about manners…
A flicker of movement catches the corner of my left eye. “Whoa, hold it,” I say, jerking back on Katana’s reins.
We halt and Manny stops, too. He turns back to face me, alarmed. “What?” he demands.
“I saw something move,” I reply, nodding toward the spot.
I look toward the tall grass on the side of the mountain. The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the field. In the distance is a decrepit barn. But right below it…I saw something move. And because I’m a sniper, the possibility of movement is as problematic as the confirmation of it.
“Where?” Manny asks.
“On your nine o’clock,” I whisper.
“Roger that, Cassidy,” Derek says.
I quickly scan our surroundings. There’s nothing but wide-open grassy fields behind us and in front of us. We won’t hit a covered area until we reach the base of the next hill. We’re completely, totally exposed on our flanks, except for a few rocks and defilades – low spots in the terrain.
It turns my blood to ice water.
This is a kill zone.
“What do we do, boss?” Derek asks me.
What would Chris do? What would he say?
“We keep going,” I say. “Dismount and gun walk to cover.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the sound of rifle fire cracks the silence of the night. Behind me, a horse rears on its hind legs, whinnying loudly. The militiaman on his back – a man named Matt – is thrown to the ground. He flies through the air like a limp ragdoll, landing with a sickening crunch on his neck. I drop out of my saddle and crouch on the protected side of Katana’s shoulder. I spring to the man on the ground. His head is twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide open.