State of Rebellion (Collapse Series)

by Summer Lane

  “Uh, thanks…”

  “What happened to you?” Manny asks.

  “I got shot.”

  “Ah.” He looks me up and down. “You going to be okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m a born scout, too.”

  Manny smirks, his sunburned face crinkling into a thousand lines and wrinkles.

  “You know, Doc,” he says to Desmond, “you medic boys have your hands full around here.”

  “Yeah,” Desmond shrugs.

  Manny jerks his thumb at Desmond’s long, wild hair threaded with beads and feathers. “Looks like a bird made its nest on your head.”

  Desmond blinks.

  “Respect the hair, man.”

  I pull my hair back from my forehead, torn between being annoyed or amused. We retrieve our weapons and leave the compound on foot. Chris forms up the detail.

  “Open formation patrol from here on,” he says, “Derek, you’re on point. Everybody buddy-check your gear.” Derek draws himself up to his full height, taking the forward position, his white-blonde hair like a homing beacon to follow. As we quickly check each other’s gear and set-ups, a bubble of anxiety swells in my chest. Whenever I leave on a mission, I realize anything could go wrong. I could die. My friends could die. It’s this knowledge – this fear – that sharpens my senses and gives me an adrenaline boost every time.

  Chris says, “Okay, boys. Everybody go weapons hot.”

  We lock and load our rifles. The sharp sound of metal against metal, of bullets being loaded into an empty chamber is an ominous sound in a quiet forest. I hang behind Chris with Vera, Manny and Desmond. Dad is out front. Alexander is with Chris, and Jeff is sticking close to Sophia as we work our way down the main road with Derek and Max. No sounds. No unnecessary noise. The realization that we may or may not be meeting Omega on the road puts everyone in a cautious mood.

  We move along the trail, checking our sectors of fire, keeping our weapons ready. We reach the blockaded road. A platoon of rough militiamen is guarding the area. They know we’re coming. “Any activity?” Chris asks the head of the platoon – the same guard we met on the way in, Uriah.

  “No, sir,” he replies. “Not yet.”

  “Good. Carry on.”

  We stake out in the thick foliage. I settle in next to Chris while the rest of our detail disperses. “What if they don’t come down the main road?” I ask.

  “They will.”

  “But what if they don’t? What if they just go around the road and hit the camp?”

  “They won’t.” Chris gives my arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “From what Manny described, this is a military convoy. They will send out scouts ahead of them.”

  “What if they’re Omega scouts?”

  He doesn’t answer. Because we both know the answer to that question.

  They can’t be allowed to return.

  “They’re not Omega,” Chris says.

  “The convoy?” I ask.

  “Right.” He leans against a tree. “According to the latest scouting reports, this is a United States military convoy.”

  “Do we know that for sure?” Manny raises an eyebrow.

  “Conspiracy theorist,” Desmond mutters.

  “Oh, right. I’m spinning conspiracies,” Manny grumbles. “It’s not like we’re not living in one already.” He straightens his jacket, digging around in his pocket for something. He pulls out a metal flask, pops it open, and takes a drink. Alcohol? Great. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, shoving the thing back in his pocket.

  “Gotta keep the spirits up, somehow,” he shrugs, noticing my glare of disapproval. “Want some?”

  “I’m young, but I’m not stupid,” I comment. “You shouldn’t drink that.”

  “I’m not a drunk.”

  “But you’re drinking.”

  “Darling, there’s a difference between drinking and being drunk. This is medicinal.”

  “Medicinal, my foot.”

  “It does help with foot pain. Also the liver.”

  “Quit making things up.”

  “Relax, guys,” Desmond interjects. “Arguing is never the answer.”

  “Hippie,” Manny states.

  “Drunk.”

  “Tree-hugger.”

  “Blind as a bat.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  So. The United States military. If this is true, then why are they sending a convoy up to the mountains? What are they looking for?

  They’re looking for us.

  Hmm.

  After an hour the sound of truck engines can be heard in the distance. I tense, swallowing a lump in my throat. This is the moment of truth. The militiamen take their positions at the blockade. Snipers are posted. Hunter-killer teams are ghosting through the trees. Dad is on the other side of the road with his Rangers. The convoy rumbles up the road. Only three vehicles, all bristling with heavy weaponry that anyone in the militia would love to get their hands on.

  The Humvees are tan. They look bulletproof and dangerous. A lot different than the makeshift retrofitted military jeeps and farming pickup trucks we’ve been using. They roll to a halt, the lead vehicle coming to a stop about one hundred feet away from the blockade. The door of the lead vehicle opens, and out steps a tall, burly man in uniform. He’s got an American flag in one hand, a white flag in the other. A cigar is jammed between his teeth. He looks unmoved – irritated, even – at the array of weapons pointed his way.

  “California National Guard,” he says. Gravelly voice.

  Chris and Dad move cautiously to the center of the blockade, coming forward to meet the man. I wait near the blockade, my fingers wrapped around my rifle. My crosshairs resting on the man’s chest. Just in case.

  “Colonel Richard Rivera, National Guard,” he states.

  “What brings you up here, Colonel?” Dad asks.

  The Colonel looks Dad and Chris up and down.

  “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” he says.

  Dad and Chris share a glance before Chris says, “I’m Chris. This is Frank.”

  I guess they’re canning the codenames for now.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Colonel Rivera replies. “And we’ve been looking for help. I’m here on a recruiting mission. We need red-blooded, able bodied men and women to join us in the fight to save the United States of America.”

  Oh my gosh. Dramatic much?

  “Where are you based?” Chris asks.

  “Right outside of Fresno.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “It’s no secret that there are militia groups in the high mountains.” He lowers the white flag. “We were bound to find you eventually.”

  “What exactly do you want, Colonel?” Dad says.

  “We’re here to ask you to help us fight.”

  Chris glances back at me. I nod and signal to Uriah to have one of the guards bring one of our jeeps from behind the blockade.

  “We’ll talk,” Chris says, “but not here. You can come with us.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Colonel Rivera rolls up the flags and hands them to his sergeant, following Chris and Dad to the jeep. I get in the backseat as the rest of the militia leaders get in. Colonel Rivera sits in the front between Dad and Chris. Chris slides behind the wheel, gives a couple of orders to Alexander and the others, and then we’re off. We drive onto a hidden, overgrown logging road. After about five minutes of driving over washouts and debris, we stop in the woods, at a cabin. The roof has partially caved. The siding is covered in moss and vines as nature slowly reclaims what belongs to it.

  This is the secret meeting place.

  We get out of the jeep, Angela leading our group inside the cabin. Chris follows, and I in turn follow Chris. Wherever he goes, I go.

  We walk inside the cabin. Broken furniture has been shoved to one side, and it looks like someone used the cabin as a living space. Commander Jones and Commander Buckley stand to one side, Dad stands by the door, and Chris and Ange
la are in front of the Colonel.

  “Let’s hear it, Colonel,” Angela says. “You’re here to recruit soldiers. What’s in it for us?”

  “Plenty,” Colonel Rivera replies. “I’ve got a National Guard base in Fresno equipped with weapons, ammunition and food and supplies. Medicine, a safe place to stay. The situation is like this: we’ve got more guns than we’ve got men, and I need every available man or woman who’s willing to fight to do just that.”

  “What’s happening with Omega?”

  “Something big.”

  “You’re gearing up for the second wave of the invasion,” Dad states.

  “You’ve heard about that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true that New York was nuked?” I ask.

  “What does the east coast look like?” Commander Jones presses.

  “We have radio communication with other friendlies across the country,” Colonel Rivera answers. “Some of the satellites are still working. The east coast was hit hard during the first wave of the invasion. Washington D.C. and New York are little more than a heap of smoking rubble.”

  “So it was nuclear?” I say, my heart sinking to my stomach.

  “Whatever it was, it was big,” he continues. “There is an enemy naval fleet sitting right outside of Long Beach. They’ve been there for a couple of weeks, sending recon teams ahead. We anticipate the main body of the invasion will be arriving shortly. The National Guard is still in the fight, although our forces are depleted. The invasion force is coming from China. Ships have been spotted off the coast of San Francisco and Los Angeles, two cities that have been destroyed with a chemical weapon. From there they’ll swarm the state. We’re all that’s left to protect the Central Valley.”

  “So Washington D.C. is completely gone,” I say, my mouth dry.

  “The government is essentially nonexistent,” Colonel Rivera confirms, tapping his cigar on his knee. Placing it between his teeth again, continuing, “Or if it does exist in some form, it’s ineffective. Each state is doing what it can to protect itself. We’re on our own.”

  “What about the Navy?” Chris asks, arms folded across his broad chest. “And the Air Force? If the National Guard survived, where’s the rest of the military?”

  “They’re fighting,” Colonel Rivera says. “Their forces are concentrated on the east coast. They’re trying to stop the knife in the gut, so to speak, that Omega’s pushing towards the west. The west coast is ours to defend, and we need your help.”

  I lick my lips, my worst fears confirmed.

  The east coast is gone. Omega is coming.

  “You want us to come to Fresno,” I say.

  “Yes. We need you.”

  I look at Chris. What do we do? Haven’t we been waiting – no, praying – for help from the United States military? I didn’t expect them to be asking us for help.

  Silence. No one says a word. Angela appears to be thinking very hard about the Colonel’s words. Dad and Colonel Buckley look at each other. I try to gauge Chris’s expression, but he’s impossible to read. And then there’s me. What do I want to do?

  What do I need to do?

  “I’m in,” Chris says solemnly.

  “So am I,” Angela adds.

  “I’m not,” Commander Buckley interjects. “Our first priority is to keep the mountains secure, not to mention protect the mountain community.”

  “I agree with Buckley,” Commander Jones says. “Frank?”

  Dad stares at the floor for a long minute.

  “I can offer some of my men, but I’ll stay,” he says at last. “My duty is to protect these people, and to protect the mountains. That’s why I started the Rangers.”

  “We will all contribute,” Angela clarifies, turning to Colonel Rivera. “But not all of us. Chris and I will join you. Jones, Buckley and Hart will remain here.”

  I shift from foot to foot. Nobody asked me, did they?

  “I’ll go,” I say.

  Dad looks up sharply.

  I bite my lip. Was that impulsive? No. The National Guard needs our help. The country needs our help. And that’s what I’m going to do.

  I look at Dad. His face is grim. He looks down and away.

  And then it dawns me.

  If I leave, I’ll be separated from my father.

  Again.

  Chapter Seven

  Tonight I sneak out of my cabin, Bear Paw. The air is sharp and cold, so I pull my jacket tighter.

  Leave Camp Freedom? Leave your father behind? Didn’t you just find him?

  My mind is racing. I told Colonel Rivera that I would join the militiamen and women who were going to Fresno to the National Guard base. Did I say that because Chris did? Because I’m terrified of the idea of losing him?

  Because if he left and I stayed behind…

  I push the thought away. I can’t imagine a life without him. We’ve been through too much together. And then there’s my father, who I searched and searched for, finally finding him…why? So I can leave?

  Guilty, I walk across the meadow. The perimeter of Camp Freedom is heavily patrolled. Some civilians are still awake in Staff Housing, a small collection of houses where families with small children are living. Chris’s parents are living there, taking care of orphaned children like Isabel.

  I sit on the edge of the meadow and stare at the sky. The stars are dazzling up here in the high mountains. The longer you gaze at them, the more it seems like you’re being sucked into space.

  Do I go or do I stay? I think.

  After the long meeting with Colonel Rivera, we drove him back to his convoy. Chris told him we’d link up with them in the valley in two days, at a meeting place the two of them determined at the edge of Fresno. Neither Dad nor I spoke during the hike back to camp. Chris didn’t say anything, either. We’d all made our decisions. The military finally came. Our chance to get our hands on quality weapons, ammunition, food, vehicles and shelter was here.

  What more was there to say?

  “So do I go or do I stay?” I mutter. “I don’t know.”

  “I know.”

  I jump, startled. Manny strolls onto the meadow off the road, and for the first time I notice that he has a limp. Not a big limp, but enough to make it appear that he’s dragging his left leg behind him as he walks.

  I snap, “What are you doing out here at night?”

  “What are you doing out here at night?”

  “I’m…thinking.”

  “About leaving, it sounds like.” He adjusts his leather duster. “So what have you decided?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going. Hell, this is what I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Everybody’s been waiting for this.”

  He pops his flask out of his pocket, taking a quick swig.

  “You know,” he says, looking up at the sky, “it all comes down to one thing.”

  “What?”

  “What’s more important to you: staying safe or staying fierce.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s say you stay here,” he shrugs, walking off. Curious, I follow him, the cold breeze whipping my hair into tangles. “It’s pretty safe. Camp Freedom has been secure for months. It’s a nice community. Your chances of living here are pretty good at the moment.”

  “But…?” I press.

  “But where they really need us is down in the valley,” Manny continues. “We can’t hide in the mountains forever. Eventually, Omega will get wise and smoke us out. We have to keep them from getting to that point.” He stops at his battered biplane, lovingly running a hand over the faded blue stripe. “I’m going to help. What are you going to do?”

  He climbs onto the wing of the plane, sitting down in the pilot’s seat.

  “I want to do the right thing,” I say.

  “Then do it.”

  He flips a switch in the cockpit. A green glow lights his weathered face.

  “It’s not that easy,” I say.


  “Actually, it is.” He lazily pulls his flight cap and goggles out of a compartment in the cockpit. “You just do it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” A small smile creeps across my face.

  Just do it.

  “Are you going to fly this thing right now?” I ask. “In the middle of the night?”

  “What? Did you think I’m just taking a midnight stroll for the sake of star gazing?” He jerks his thumb behind him. “Get in.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t do heights.”

  Manny raises his eyebrows at me.

  “You do now.”

  I look behind my shoulder, excitement zinging up my spine.

  “Get in,” he says.

  This could actually be fun.

  I crawl into the single passenger seat, which is in front of the pilot’s seat. It’s silent, and if Manny isn’t supposed to be taking off at this hour of the night, nobody’s going to bother stopping him now. Manny flips another switch and I feel a current course through the small aircraft. The engine fires, cranks a couple of times, then roars to life in a cloud of blue smoke. The sound is deafening. The entire plane vibrates and shakes, literally rattling my teeth.

  What am I doing?

  A pair of goggles is hanging from a knob in front of me. I grab them and put them on, twisting in my seat, grabbing the edge of the cockpit to keep my balance as I look at Manny. He’s got a huge smile on his face, the earflaps from his leather flying cap flailing wildly with each movement of the plane. He’s laughing.

  Manny opens the throttle up and slews the plane around in a bouncy, dusty circle, pointing the nose of the plane down the long stretch of grass ahead. If anyone notices the loud noise of the engine, they don’t care. Manny going on a scouting mission is a common occurrence.

  “Hang on to your hat!” Manny shouts.

  “I’m not wearing…” I sigh. “Okay.”

  I wonder how much Manny’s slow consumption of alcohol throughout the day is going to affect his piloting skills. Hopefully not that much. Because I would prefer to come back from this scouting mission alive.

  The plane lurches forward, bouncing, shaking, gaining speed. The tail rises, dipping us forward. It feels like we’re going to flip over headfirst. I grit my teeth, staring at the wall of trees at the edge of the meadow. It’s getting closer. And those trees are big. I close my eyes, praying for Manny to pull through…or in this case, up. A buoyant feeling rises in the pit of my stomach, the sensation of lifting into the air. The engine races, red sparks spitting out of the exhaust. I open my eyes just in time to see the trees flash by below us, a cold wind whipping my hair in circles. An invisible force presses me back against the seat. The tips of the pine trees flit by.