State of Pursuit

by Summer Lane

  “The elevators are to your left,” the man says, pointing.

  Chris and I glance at each other.

  “Elevators?” I echo.

  I follow his line of sight and stare at a row of several elevators. Vera pushes the call button and it lights up. We gaze at it like fascinated children. Andrew is the first one to make a smart remark.

  “Look at us,” he says, “staring at the pretty lights. You’d think we’d never seen any before.”

  “Not like this,” I reply.

  “It’s been a while,” Uriah agrees.

  The elevator arrives. By the time our entire team makes it to the fifteenth floor, we are so in awe of the clean, beautiful surroundings that we are moving in total silence. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the mission taking its toll. Or maybe we’re just really suffering from that much culture shock.

  I open the door to my room. It’s at the end of the hall, across from Chris’s. Inside, there is carpet, a bed, and a window that overlooks the street and Capitol Park below. As the rest of the team checks out their new temporary living quarters, I close my eyes and heave a great sigh.

  We are safe.

  For the time being.

  I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and look around. The room is airtight. Clean, white walls, blue carpet and a gray bedspread. It smells fresh. I stare at my feet, comfortable and laced into brand new combat boots. Dressed head to toe in black – pants, shirt, jacket – I am the epitome of what a sniper should look like. Minus the red hair, of course. That is pulled back in a tight military style bun.

  I take a deep breath.

  It’s quiet. No birds, no wind, no gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. I am alone, and I don’t like it. I stand up and walk to the window. Six stories up, I have a perfect vantage point of the street. I could easily kill anyone before they even had a chance to reach the front of the building.

  And it frightens me a little – that I think of things like this. That the first thing I see when I look out a window is a tactical opportunity.

  “Cassie?”

  Someone knocks on the hotel door. I turn my back on the window and look through the peephole, even though I know who it is. Chris. I open the door. He’s standing there, wearing a black outfit, same as me. He has cleaned up well. He looks professional and handsome. Every bit the model commander.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Sure,” I reply. A little bit too fast.

  “Maybe I should ask again.”

  “Don’t. I’m fine.” I take a step backward as he moves into the room, closing the door behind him. “This is no big deal. It’s not like we’re walking into a firefight, right?”

  “No,” Chris says. “This is a different kind of fight.”

  I lean against the wall, exhausted and afraid.

  “What good is this going to do?” I whisper. “Sitting around and talking about everything is just going to make people mad at each other. Remember when we talked about rebuilding the government at Camp Freedom? My dad was about ready to throw punches over the difference in opinion.”

  “At some point, it has to be discussed,” Chris shrugs. “I’d rather do it now than later. If we wait, we may not have the chance.”

  “I guess.” I sigh. “You handle the talking, okay? I’ll mess it up.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Cassie,” Chris replies. “You won’t mess anything up.” He places one hand on each side of me on the wall. “You can do anything. You’re strong.”

  I press my lips together.

  “It’s different,” I insist.

  “No. It’s not.” Chris kisses my forehead. “Just relax.”

  “Right. Because it’s so easy to relax.”

  He smiles a little.

  “No. Because it’s healthy,” he says.

  He presses his lips against mine. I slip my hands behind his neck and melt into him, his strong hands gripping my back. He tastes like coffee. I pull back for a moment.

  “We’re in this together,” I say. “We’re a team.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” He gives me a puzzled look. “And we act like one.”

  I nod. And I kiss him again, heady with his scent and his touch. There is no place in the world I would rather be – regardless of the apocalypse. A few moments later, Chris holds me at arm’s length.

  “I’m proud of you,” he states. “No matter what happens.”

  “Ditto,” I grin.

  I take one last look around the hotel room before we walk out the door. There are no sounds as we take the elevator to the bottom floor. The lobby area is heavily guarded with troops. I ache to hold Chris’s hand as we walk here, but it wouldn’t be professional. Outside, there are vehicles and guardhouses. Armed soldiers. Checkpoints and more checkpoints. It feels good to be on the inside of this steel ring of protection – rather than the other way around.

  I almost feel safe.

  Almost.

  We cross the street. Capitol Park is beautiful. The grass is green again and the hedges have been trimmed. The American rebels have wasted no time in cleaning up the place. The sparkling white exterior of the Capitol building itself is stunning, reminiscent of a Greek temple or an amphitheater – white pillars and marble statues. The bronze Great Seal of the State of California is preserved in concrete in front of the building.

  A long canvas tent is pushed up against the entrance. Chris and I walk inside. There are enough guards to form a small rescue unit inside. We go through the checkpoint and enter the building.

  In wartime, we are allowed to keep our firearms.

  It’s one of those necessary things.

  “Which way?” I whisper.

  We stand at the mouth of a long hallway. White flooring. Glass cases are set up against the wall. Each case displays miniature scenes of different counties in California. Cities, agricultural communities, beachside resorts. How it used to be.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  A guard approaches us. He’s young and handsome.

  “We’re looking for the Senate Chambers,” Chris states. “We’re here for the negotiations.”

  “You’re Commander Young,” the guard states, staring. “And you’re Commander Hart.”

  Chris nods slightly.

  “An honor, sir,” the guard says. “Um, yes, sir. The Senate Chambers are up these stairs here and on the third floor. You’ll see the people.”

  “Thank you, soldier,” Chris replies.

  We climb the stairs and enter a hallway full of echoes. I lean in closer to Chris and whisper, “How do people know who we are?”

  Chris gives me an amused look as we follow the curve of the hallway. I tilt my head up and marvel at the inside of the capitol dome. The sunlight is shining through the windows, illuminating the colorful design. A massive marble statue of Queen Isabella of Spain and Christopher Columbus sits in the center of the rotunda, surrounded by velvet ropes.

  “Fancy,” I comment.

  “The Capitol was a museum, too, before the EMP,” Chris tells me.

  “And you know this because…?”

  “Because I came here before the war. To meet the governor.”

  “Why?”

  We find the staircase. It wraps around both sides of the rotunda, lined with red carpet.

  “Chris?” I press. “Why did you meet the governor?”

  “I was…honored for my service overseas before I was discharged,” he says.

  “You must have been some soldier.” I smile. “I’m not surprised.”

  Chris doesn’t look happy about it.

  We climb to the third level. There are people here. Many of them are dressed in business suits – but most are dressed in whatever clothes they could find. Chris and I are not the only ones here wearing a uniform. There are others. Giant, wooden double doors lead into a seating area that wraps around a room two stories below. The Senate Chambers. The seats are packed. It looks like a Roman courtroom.

  “You’re in the wrong
part of the Capitol, Commander.”

  I turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

  “Angela!” I exclaim.

  I throw my arms around her neck in a hug. A hug of complete, utter relief. She’s wearing a green uniform, her hair pulled back. She straightens her spine, startled by my expression of emotion.

  “Good to see you back, Commander Young,” she breathes, smiling. “Thank God you’re here.”

  Um, hello. I’m here, too.

  “Thank you,” Chris replies, ever the gentleman. “Good to see you, too, Angela.”

  “You two are militia officers,” she says. “You need to be downstairs inside the Senate Chambers, not above it. This area is for civilians.”

  “Where’s Colonel Rivera?” I ask.

  No sense beating around the bush.

  “He’s with the officers, of course,” she replies. “Follow me, please.”

  She turns on her heel and we follow her back down the staircase.

  “It’s been a while since you’ve been back here, hasn’t it?” Angela asks Chris.

  As always, she makes a point of ignoring me. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.

  “A few years,” Chris replies.

  Angela keeps walking. I lower my voice, anxiety curling in the pit of my stomach as we get closer to the Senate Chambers.

  “Vera told me that you knew Angela when you were stationed in Coronado,” I whisper. “Is that true?”

  Chris says nothing. Then,

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It didn’t seem necessary.”

  A couple of the guards allow Angela to pass through some heavy double doors. We follow suit and step into a foyer. Green carpet is everywhere, and so are ornate carved pillars and velvet curtains.

  “She told me something else,” I continue. My hands are trembling. “She told me you were married, Chris.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for days…but I couldn’t…”

  Chris’s face remains unmoved. Expressionless. He is the picture of calm. The only hint of an emotional reaction is the muscle that ticks in his jaw.

  Angela whirls around suddenly and we stop.

  “When you enter this room,” she warns, “be on your guard. Everything that you say will be scrutinized. The rebel leaders gathered here want to hear what you think. We must be united.” She turns her steely gaze on Chris. “Understood?”

  Chris doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to.

  Of course he understands.

  She leads us through another pair of doors. The room is wide. It’s an open floor, dotted with dozens of desks. The desks are empty – no computers, no name holders. Just paper and notepads. Rebel leaders dressed in a variety of different uniforms are sitting down. It’s similar to a courtroom setting. Three seats at the front of the room are on a raised platform. A man with gray hair and a handsome, weathered face is sitting there, dressed in a suit and tie. He watches Chris and I enter. There is a woman that I do not recognize on his left, and on his right…is Colonel Rivera. He’s dressed in uniform. When he sees me, his expression freezes.

  He is not angry.

  He is furious.

  And when he realizes that Chris is with me, I’m pretty sure a vein starts to bulge in his forehead. I swallow a nervous lump in my throat and absently follow Chris’s hushed command to sit. It dawns on me that everyone in the room – above and below – is staring at us.

  Cassidy Hart and Chris Young.

  Maybe we’re more infamous than we think.

  I grasp the handles of the wooden chair and stare at the desk. Chris is beside me.

  “Breathe,” he whispers. “You’ve got this.”

  “Shall we call this meeting to order?” The man speaking is sitting in the middle chair on the raised podium. He looks very distinguished.

  I look around me. Men, women. Uniforms that I recognize, uniforms that I don’t recognize. And most of them are staring at us. I vaguely realize that Vera, Uriah, Manny, Andrew and Alexander are sitting above us in the spectator seats. Uriah nods, never taking his eyes from me.

  The distinguished-looking man bangs a heavy gavel on the table in front of him and announces in a deep, baritone voice, “I hereby declare this California State Convention of Leaders open.” He pauses and scans the room with a fierce gaze. “My name is Robert Lockwood, and I am the presiding Speaker of the House, Pro Tem. We are gathered in this hall – in this building – to negotiate and formulate a plan of action against the invading forces of Omega.”

  His voice is incredibly rich and deep. I watch him carefully as he speaks, looking for any signs of insincerity. It’s hard to tell.

  “I want to extend a welcome to Colonel Rivera of the California National Guard,” he continues, “and thank him for his valiant contribution to improving the security of Sacramento.”

  A short burst of applause echoes throughout the room.

  I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t.

  “And thank you – all of you – for making the journey here today,” Lockwood says. “You are all well respected leaders in the individual militias throughout the state of California, and your efforts to defeat Omega is appreciated more than I could ever personally express. You are the lifeblood in this war. You are the reason that we can meet here today.”

  More applause. I study Chris’s face.

  He is not impressed.

  “Our strongest militia forces in California have been concentrated in the Great Central Valley and in the Sierra Nevada Mountains,” Lockwood says. “And for that, we have two men to thank. Commander Frank Hart of the Mountain Rangers and Commander Chris Young of the Freedom Fighters and the combined militia forces of the Great Central Valley.”

  The applause is thunderous this time around. I twist in my seat, shocked. My father is standing near the back of the room, dressed in militiaman garb. He’s wearing the customary uniform of the Mountain Rangers – the six-pointed star stitched into his sleeve. We lock eyes and I feel the breath leave my lungs.

  “Dad,” I whisper.

  “Cassidy,” he nods, smiling.

  There are tears in his eyes. But we don’t move. We can’t.

  Chris smiles meaningfully at me. I barely manage to turn my attention back to Lockwood as he begins speaking again. My heart is racing in my chest. I feel faint, dizzy. I’ve been worried about my dad ever since I left Camp Freedom two months ago.

  Thank you, God. Thank you.

  Who else is here, I wonder?

  “We might as well tackle the issue at hand,” Lockwood says, placing his hands on the railing in front of him. “The Pacific Northwest Alliance – specifically, Oregon - is moving in from the north and Mexico is pushing from the south. Omega is relentless in their naval and land attacks on the western coastline, but the Alliance has managed to push them out of San Francisco, and most of Oregon.”

  Angela raises her hand.

  “The Senate recognizes Commander Wright,” Lockwood says.

  “What about Mexico?” she asks. “Where are they headed?”

  “They have secured San Diego,” Lockwood replies. “The east coast is engaged in pitched combat. The United States military has amassed what forces they have left and concentrated on Florida, New York and Texas. Omega is sending an army from the east, and they will attempt to send millions more through the central valley.”

  “We stopped their advance from the south,” Colonel Rivera bellows. “We can do it again.”

  “We’ll need more than simple strategy this time around,” Angela says, leveling her gaze at the Colonel. She’s seated at a desk, legs crossed. Cool as a cucumber. “We are surrounded on all sides by millions of soldiers. We need manpower and firepower.”

  “Which brings us to the ultimate question,” Lockwood replies.

  The tension crackles in the room as Colonel Rivera glares daggers at Angela.

  “Canada and Mexico have proposed an alliance with the state of Cali
fornia,” Lockwood announces. “Since the dissolution of the Federal Government, and until such a time as the reformation of the United States of America, each state stands alone. We make our decisions on our own. Oregon and Washington have already allied themselves with what is being called the Pacific Northwest Alliance. If we combine our forces with theirs, our chances of succeeding in stopping Omega’s advance into the United States – or at least the west coast – are significantly higher.”

  Chris and I look at each other.

  So this is what the big news is.

  “An alliance is not something to be taken lightly,” I hear my father volunteer.

  “Allying with another country – or in this case, two countries – changes the dynamics of our war,” Chris adds. His voice is strong and clear. I can’t help it: my heart swells with pride hearing him talk. “But in my opinion we can use all the help we can get. Face it, we’re fighting for our lives. Omega kicked in the front and back door, and right now is the moment of truth. We fight or we die. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And what if Canada and Mexico end up turning their backs on us?” a woman in a Navy uniform asks. “What if we succeed in pushing Omega out and they decide to stay here?”

  “What if Omega succeeds in invading our country and they stay here?” I say, standing up suddenly. My voice wavers for a moment. “Here’s the truth: Omega is going to destroy us. Period. We are doomed if we don’t get help. Grassroots militia groups and the remains of a National Guard force will only do so much. We need more than that.

  “The survival of the only free nation left on the planet is at stake. Our lives are at stake. We have to get united on this. Right now, the only reason that we’re able to meet in Sacramento is because of what Canada and Mexico has done in the north and in the south. Without them, Omega would have held San Francisco and San Diego and we’d be pushed out of here, too.”

  “How do we know we can trust the alliance?” Colonel Rivera growls.

  “You’re a fool if you think that we can win this on our own,” I reply. The room falls silent. “We need help. Desperately.” I step into the aisle, overcome with a powerful urge to say what needs to be said. “Look, I’ve been in this fight since day one. I have seen what Omega has done, just like everyone else in this room. I saw what they did to the city I grew up in. And I’ve seen what they’ve done to my friends and family.” I take a breath and steady my voice. “I’ve held my friends in my arms as they’ve bled to death on the battlefield,” I say, softer. “I’ve seen children digging through garbage in the gutter just to stay alive.” I open my arms up. “And you think there’s some kind of question about whether or not we should accept help? We are dying, my friends. This is it. We won’t get a second chance. So make the right choice. For God. For country. Whatever it is you believe in. Please. An alliance will help us. Choose the destruction of Omega, because that holds the promise of freedom. This is the right thing to do.”