State of Rebellion (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

  “Yes.” Sophia grins. “It’s cold, but it’s great.”

  “Who else is staying in our barracks?”

  “You mean in Bear Paw?” she shrugs. “I don’t know. This was the only empty one left. Isabel is staying with the Youngs in a separate cabin.”

  “Good.” I dump my backpack onto an unclaimed bottom mattress. “I guess we should settle in then.”

  “I guess.”

  I sit on the mattress, closing my eyes.

  It’s time to rest.

  Chapter Five

  I end up oversleeping.

  Like, a lot.

  I simply plop back onto the plastic coated mattress and close my eyes, shutting out the world around me. I’m too exhausted to dream. I rest peacefully, waking only when Sophia nudges my shoulder.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” she says. “Get up. Breakfast.”

  I blink rapidly, shooting straight up and hitting my head on the top bunk. The wound in my side protests the sudden movement. I wince.

  “Ouch!” I roll out of bed, rubbing the sore spot on top of my scalp, the stitches on my side. “That hurt.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  I unzip my backpack, rubbing my eyes. “Did anything happen while I was out?”

  “Nope. Nobody’s in this cabin but you and me.” Sophia glances around the room, then wrinkles her nose. “You need to shower,” she says, tossing me a towel.

  “Subtle hint?” I ask.

  “Not that subtle. It’s been a week at least,” she grins.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll shower.”

  “I went out last night and checked out the camp while you were sleeping. I got these.” Sophia gestures to two stacks of neatly folded clothes on one of the empty bunks. “Clothes and shoes. There’s a supply shack up the road from the general store. I traded some ammo for this.”

  “You traded ammo?” I exclaim. “Sophia, we need every bullet. You can’t just go around giving it away.”

  “I didn’t give it away. I traded it. Besides, Cassidy. We need these. You know that.”

  I sigh, grabbing one of the stacks.

  “Yeah, I know.” I head to the bathroom, turning the faucet. Water sprays from the nozzle head, ice cold and clean. I shiver and strip down, piling my gross clothes on the tile floor.

  “Glorious, isn’t it?” Sophia calls from the other side of the door.

  “It’s cold!”

  “It’s water, what do you expect?”

  I scrub every inch of dirt and blood off my body that I can manage before drying. I hold up the clothes that Sophia traded for. Black combat pants, green shirt, and soft, new socks. I pull everything on. I feel…nice. Refreshed.

  My stomach growls.

  And hungry.

  I comb my wet hair back with my fingers, stepping out of the shower room and peeking in the mirror. “Whoa,” I gasp. My face has thinned out. My cheekbones are sharper. My skin is darker. Pale white scars trail along my neck and down the side of my left cheek. Reminders of the brutal atmosphere of war.

  “I look pathetic,” I state, turning away from the mirror. “How come you look so normal?”

  “I don’t look normal,” Sophia snorts. “I just don’t care about how I look, and neither should you. We’re alive. That’s the whole point, right?”

  I open the cabin door.

  “Yeah. That is the point, but…”

  But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

  The air is crisp and cool at this hour. The sun is coming up over the trees, and the campground is alive with activity. Women and men are lounging on the meadow, talking. Sophia and I leave the cabin area and hit the main road, heading for the chow hall.

  I’m starving.

  The building is crowded. Armed guards are standing outside. They nod professionally as we pass. We climb a wide flight of stairs and enter through two large glass doors. The interior is an open dining room, within which are at least two hundred cafeteria-style tables and chairs. A long counter in the back of the room separates the kitchen from the eating area, and people are lining up along the length of it with plates and trays.

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say, sniffing bacon and eggs. Pancakes and syrup. “This is better than Christmas.”

  “This is better than anything,” Sophia laughs. “Come on, let’s get in line.”

  We grab a tray, a plate and some utensils from a stack and get in the back of the line. I scan the crowd for Chris or Dad, but I don’t see them. I don’t see Isabel or the Youngs, either. The loud din of voices echoing off the walls makes my head hurt, but the voices are happy. Content. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be in a calm, peaceful crowd. But as soon as I set my plate on the counter, I forget about the noise. I’m given a small mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and cottage potatoes.

  There is nothing better than this.

  I cling to my plate like a prospector guarding his gold claim, Sophia right behind me. We’re dying with anticipation. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had a fresh meal on real dinnerware.

  My meals over the last year have consisted of canned goods and the occasional – and dreaded – dehydrated food packet. As Sophia and I sit down to eat, I pick up my fork and roll it between my fingers.

  Such an alien feeling after eating with my hands for months.

  I lift the fork to my mouth and freeze, my eyes landing on Chris in the corner of the room. He’s standing with his hands shoved casually in his pockets, completely relaxed. He looks clean and rested. Handsome.

  And he’s talking to a girl.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sophia asks, smirking.

  I ignore her. The girl talking to Chris is tall. Way taller than me. Platinum blonde hair falls to her waist, framing a pair of striking blue eyes. She throws her head back and laughs, placing a hand on Chris’s arm.

  I swallow thickly, a sick feeling stabbing me through the heart.

  “Who is she?” I say, frowning.

  “Her?” Sophia follows my line of sight. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

  I glare at her.

  “I mean, if tall and blonde is your thing,” she corrects, clearing her throat. “Um, I don’t know. Just another refugee, probably.”

  The girl is wearing a holster on her thigh, along with a combat jacket.

  She’s not just another refugee.

  And then Chris turns and waves at me. I wave back half-heartedly, watching as he walks over to us…and the blonde follows. I set the fork down, the eggs and bacon forgotten.

  “Cassie, hey,” Chris says, smiling affectionately. He kisses the top of my head, and a bit of the tension in my stomach dissipates. “How are you feeling?”

  “A lot better,” I reply. “I slept good. How about you?”

  “Fine.” He turns to the blonde. “Cassie, this is Vera, Angela Wright’s daughter. She’s the platoon commander of Red Dog, under the command of the militia Legion under her mother.”

  I meet her unflinching gaze, disappointed that she’s even prettier up close than she was far away. Why do these people always have to show up around me?

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” Sophia adds. “I’m Sophia.”

  “Morning,” Vera replies. Flat. Monotone.

  “I’m going to get some food, then I’ll be right back,” Chris says, patting my shoulder. I take comfort in that tiny bit of physical contact.

  “We’ll be right back,” Vera adds as he walks away, offering a weak smile.

  “We’ll be right back?” I echo as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Who the hell does she think she is? Why are they getting breakfast together?”

  An angry dragon coils in the pit of my stomach, threatening to breathe fire. I fist my hands under my legs, watching her converse with Chris as they wait in line.

  Who is she?

  “Hey, relax,” Sophia says, handing me my fork. “She’s just a girl. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  I start eating, my gaze on the two of them
. I hardly taste the food. In fact, it’s a little dry and pasty, now that I think about it. It sticks to my throat and settles in my stomach like a lead weight.

  Chris returns with Vera and they sit at our table.

  “So Chris tells me you’re from Los Angeles,” Vera says. Her voice is smooth and light. Feminine. “I was in San Diego when the pulse hit. I’d love to hear your story, though.”

  I shrug.

  “If you’ve heard one story, you’ve heard them all,” I say, stabbing a potato.

  Sophia kicks me under the table.

  “My mother and I escaped on foot,” Vera continues, leaning her fist against her cheek, looking sideways at Chris. “Everybody in our apartment building, actually. We call ourselves the Legion now. My mother was stationed in San Diego. She was in the Navy. It was only natural that she take over.”

  She takes a bite of food, watching my face.

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s interesting.”

  Sophia kicks me again.

  “Vera just got back from a scouting mission,” Chris tells me, picking up a steaming mug of coffee. “She says Omega is still on red alert trying to locate our militia groups. Until the heat dies down, we’ll lie low here and work with the militias in camp.”

  “Oh, you’re a scout?” Sophia asks Vera.

  “In my spare time,” she replies, smiling.

  “Your spare time?” I say.

  “Yes. When I’m not scouting I’m helping my mother manage the Legion.”

  “The family business, huh?”

  This time it’s Chris who pinches my leg.

  I shut my mouth, knowing that I’m acting childish and jealous. But I can’t help it. I have zero chance of competing against a girl like this, and if Chris ever realizes how great he could have it with another woman, I’ll be left alone.

  I shudder and push the thought away. I’m an adult. I need to act like one.

  Feelings of teenage insecurity have no place in war.

  After an awkward breakfast with Vera, Chris informs me that we’re supposed to show up at another meeting in the Headquarters building. This time, Vera comes with us. Sophia stays behind, since her presence wasn’t requested. We leave the chow hall, Chris and Vera trading stories about their militias…while I walk beside them in silence. What I really should do is interject with a few stories of my own. I certainly have a lot of them…

  When we reach the Headquarters building, Angela is waiting at the front door. She smiles broadly at the sight of Chris and Vera walking together.

  I cross my arms.

  “Good morning,” she greets. “Thank you for coming. I see you’ve met my daughter.”

  Her words are directed at Chris. Not me.

  I pick up on this immediately.

  We walk inside. The commanders are waiting around the table, and once again, I wonder why I’m here. I’m not a big time leader…then again, neither is Vera. We’re more like assistants to our militia commanders.

  Dad is seated at the table, clean-shaven and dressed in crisp military garb. We lock eyes for a second as I sit next to Chris, Vera on his other side. Angela – who I’ve realized is the spokesperson for the board of commanders – shuts the front door and takes a seat at the head of the table.

  “Well,” she says, casting a glance at me, “shall we begin?”

  “What exactly are we discussing?” I ask.

  “Our next move,” she answers. “Where should we start, gentlemen?”

  “I say we start right in the thick of the thing,” Commander Buckley suggests. “We’ve got a lot of new men here now that the Fighters have showed up. Our numbers are growing. We can send out militias for longer periods of time because we’ll have more people that can stay behind and guard the camp.”

  “So you’re suggesting that we send out a couple of militias at a time,” Dad says, “and leave a couple behind to guard the camp? That’s what we’ve been doing already.”

  “Yeah, but now we have more men, so…”

  “Excuse me,” I interject, taking a deep breath. “Who’s in charge?”

  Nobody answers.

  “I mean,” I correct, “is anybody in charge?

  Or is everybody here equal?”

  “Everybody’s equal,” Angela answers,looking irked.

  “So…there’s no leadership structure in this camp?” I ask.

  “Each militia leader looks after his own men.”

  “But what about the people who aren’t fighting? What about straight up refugees?” I point out. “Who do they take orders from?”

  “They don’t. They’re just here to survive.”

  “And what if they decide to do something stupid?”

  “Like…?”

  “I don’t know. Mutiny or something.”

  “We would stop that from happening,” Commander Jones says.

  “Because you’re in charge?”

  He blinks.

  “All I’m saying is,” I explain, “there’s no clear picture of leadership going on around here. Nobody knows who’s in charge of what, and the bigger this camp is, the more differing opinions you’re going to get, and you need to divide responsibilities up more evenly. People need to know that somebody’s in charge.”

  Chris folds his hands under his chin, gazing at me thoughtfully.

  “She’s right,” he says. “We’re in charge of our own militias, but nobody’s really running the camp. Anarchy could sweep in fast if it has the chance.”

  “The real issue isn’t this,” Dad snaps. “It’s what we’re going to do when this fight is over. Then what? Do we start rebuilding? Where’s the federal government? Do we come up with our own governing body?”

  Good question. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

  Angela looks at Dad. “Personally, I believe that we should build on what’s already in place,” she says. “The laws, the division of powers between the branches of government. We just start where we left off.”

  I tap my fingers against my forearms, considering. I guess the militias everywhere would have a responsibility to start rebuilding the country if we succeeded in wiping Omega out. And then we’d have to decide how. We’d have to make sure that what we built wouldn’t collapse.

  “Why start with a flawed system?” Commander Buckley demands, dropping his fist on the table. “Our government was corrupted beyond all comprehension before the EMP destroyed our infrastructure. This is our chance to wipe the slate clean and start over fresh, just like the original founders did.”

  “And do what?” Dad growls. “Rewrite the constitution ourselves? Come up with a new system of democracy?”

  “Technically, the United States is a republic,” I mutter.

  “You know what I mean,” he says pointedly. “If we manage to push back this invasion, we’ll need a form of authority. We don’t want to become a military state, and we don’t want the population to have total free reign – that’s anarchy.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Commander Buckley replies. “I’m also aware that there are a lot of things we could do better because of what we’ve been through.”

  I look at Chris, gauging his reaction to all of this. I didn’t mean to start an argument about rebuilding the entire freaking government. I was just wondering who was in charge.

  Personally, I think Commander Buckley has a point. A really good point.

  Why build a rebirthed nation on a system that crumbled apart?

  “We know what needs to be done,” I say suddenly, before I can stop myself. “We need a solid form of authority and structure, right? Anarchy will get us wiped off the map. The old system of government will collapse on itself, because it was too corrupted. But the idea of what we had was right on. You can’t argue with that. We were the most powerful, most creative, most free nation on earth. So we take what we know and come up with our own version. Like a purer version of what this is all supposed to be. Maybe this is our chance to fix everything that was ever wrong with our system. We could make
sure something like this never happened again.”

  Chris gives me a proud look.

  I know. I made an intelligent statement. Go figure.

  “No,” Dad says firmly. “We do not need to go around experimenting with different forms of government. That could set us up for total destruction.”

  “Oh? So where are we right now?” I ask. “Last I checked, total destruction was already here. In case you hadn’t noticed, China is sending a million man army to the west coast and every major city from here to New York has been bombed.”

  I immediately regret snapping at my father. But I can’t help it.

  Can’t he see that he’s wrong?

  “The girl has an excellent point,” Commander Jones adds. “Frank, we’re not saying to install a new system. Just an updated one. One that’s written with the knowledge of people who have seen the previous weaknesses and want to correct them…”

  The men drone on and on, arguing back and forth over the issue. Frankly, it all seems a little bit stupid. Shouldn’t our focus be fighting Omega? What good does it do to talk about the aftermath when we’re barely keeping our head above the water right now?

  After an hour, the men are all but choking each other out, shouting and pounding their fists on the wall. Dad is one of the worst, fingers clenched around the edges of the table, a vein throbbing in his neck.

  Finally, Chris speaks up.

  “This is irrelevant,” he states.

  Dad explodes, setting his laser-like glare on him.

  “What do you mean by that?” he says. “This is necessary. What happens when-”

  “-I understand that,” Chris interrupts. “But the fact of the matter is that we haven’t won this war yet. We’re walking the razor’s edge every day. Our focus now should be survival and combat strategy. We need to win this war. That is our priority. When the time comes, we can worry about rebuilding our infrastructure.”

  “No. We need a plan,” Dad insists. His eyes flick to me.

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “I agree with Chris on this one.”

  Why do I feel so guilty saying that?

  And that’s when I hear the sirens.