State of Rebellion (Collapse Series) (8 page)

“Nothing much,” Angela replies. “Welcome home.”

Chris glances at me, raising an eyebrow.

I shrug.

Don’t look at me.

Manny kicks back on an empty chair, propping his boots up on the table. Vera practically dives for the seat next to Chris, leaving me as the only person in the room without a chair. I glare daggers at the back of her head as I lean against the wall.

“Well,” Manny says, toying with a loose pen, “I hate to tell you this, folks, but we may be in for some trouble.”

“That’s supposed to be
news
?” I mumble.

“What kind of trouble?” Chris asks, shooting me a look.

“Huh.” Manny leans forward, rubbing a hand over his chalky stubble. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Manny, this is Alpha One of the
Freedom Fighters
. Chris Young,” Angela explains. “Frank brought them back with him.”

Dad is sitting across from Chris, and I notice that he’s
not
in a good mood. I guess the previous argument isn’t sitting well between them…Dad’s lips are pressed together, his arms folded across his chest. He looks at me, frowning, and turns his gaze to Manny.

Maybe he’s mad that I sided with Chris during the argument.

Well…I can’t be neutral all the time. I have to make my own choices.

“And you’re who?” Manny asks me, turning. “Cassidy Hart. You’re a
Freedom Fighter
, too? What?”

“Codename
Yankee
,” I say simply.

Manny smiles.

“Ah. I’ve heard of you.”

“Apparently everybody but me has heard of me.”

“Apparently.” Manny flips the pen in neat circle, catching it in the palm of his hand. “We, ladies and gentlemen, are right in the path of a decent-sized mechanized enemy force.”

“A
convoy
?” Angela asks, alarmed. “Explain.”

“Not a lot to tell. From the air, there’s a convoy coming in our direction. I couldn’t get too close, but they’re definitely military, and they’re
well armed.” He shrugs. “But my advice would be to get ready for their arrival at any rate.”

“How many vehicles?” Chris asks. “How far away are they?”

“I’d say one day,” Manny answers. “The lighter trucks are scouting ahead. And a big line of armored transport trucks are in their wake. Older ones. I could be wrong, but they were moving steadily this way, and they were coming
up
.”

“Nobody knows about this camp,” Commander Buckley snorts.

“Nobody but other militias,” Angela corrects. “And you never know when information might leak.”

True. Look at what Harry Lydell did to us.

“It could be Omega,” Chris says. “Or it could be someone worse.”

“Who the hell is worse than Omega?” Commander Jones demands.

“Pirates, gangs, mafias, cartels. Anybody.”

“He’s got a point,” Manny replies. “We should be ready for this.
Very
ready.”

“Every able-bodied man or woman that can pick up a gun should be preparing for a fight,” Angela nods. “Boys? See to it that your people are ready. I want you back here in an hour for mission planning. That will be all.”

Nobody objects. So that’s what happens. We leave and head towards the barracks, gathering our militias together. As we walk back to the meadow, a single thought floats through my mind:

There is no such thing as safe anymore.

We’re running high on anticipation around here. Anticipation, of course, is just a jacked up version of adrenaline. And in my case, it’s tinged with plenty of raw fear.

A convoy? Coming here? Did Omega somehow track us?

No. That can’t be. That just can’t. Nobody was following us.

You don’t know what happened to Harry Lydell
, a little voice says.
Maybe he followed you.

Again, no. He couldn’t have made the trek back down the mountain that fast. It took us four days to get up here. He would have had to make it back in one. And that is impossible. Unless he got a ride somehow, and that’s unlikely. So there must be another explanation.

Quit worrying about the hows or whys,
the voice insists.
Just hope for the best and get ready for the worst, like you always do. Remember?

I remember.

Our forces have gathered on the meadows, each one grouped into sections according to their commander. The
Freedom Fighters
,
Mountain Rangers
and
Legion
are here. Commander Thomas, Buckley and Jones are on the other side of the camp. There isn’t enough room for all of us in one spot.

The militia leaders are giving frag orders, preparation instructions, for the likely impending attack. I stand to the side, seething. Vera is right there in the middle of it, engaging in conversation with Chris and my father. Sophia is standing next to me, silent. And I’m burning with embarrassment. More than anything in the
world, I’d like to walk over there and contribute to the conversation, but something is keeping me rooted to the spot. Usually I have no problem offering my opinion. Maybe I’m just afraid.

“Don’t feel bad,” Sophia says, hugging me from the side.

“What makes you think I feel bad?”

“Um, I don’t know. The fact that you’re staring over there like you’re going to shoot everybody?” She grins. “You’re kind of easy to read.”

“Well…” I sigh. “Don’t you feel a little left out?”

“You can go over there if you want.”

“I’m not going over there unless they ask me to come.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

‘Then I’m staying here.”

A few beats of silence tick by, and I realize how stupid our dialogue is. What is this, high school? What am I afraid of? Rejection? Embarrassment? Am I
jealous
of the attention Chris is giving Vera?

Flushed, I suddenly feel angry for allowing myself to be this petty.

I square my jaw and march over there, standing behind Chris’s shoulder. He acknowledges me with a nod – and a slight smile. I immediately feel better. How hard was that? All I had to do was walk across the meadow.

“…There will be contact on the main access road,” Dad is saying as I walk up. He’s turned, talking to Vera and Angela. “There will probably be scouts far ahead of this convoy. We’ll stop them before anybody gets too close to camp.”

“I’ll go,” Vera volunteers, casting me a quick, sour glance.

“So will I,” I say.

“No, you’re not going,” Dad replies, frowning.

“Yes. I
am
.”

“Frank, how many men will you be taking with you?” Angela asks.

“The road is already well secured,” Dad answers, flicking his gaze to her. “I’ll just bring my scouts.”

“And mine,” Chris adds.

Silence.

Chris says, “Commander Jones and Commander Buckley will also be accompanying us. We expect the military convoy to send out scouts, and there will be a leader among them.
Frank and I are coming in case we need to parlay.”

“Very good, gentlemen,” Angela says. She nods at the group. “Be careful out there.”

Late morning is fast approaching. The temperature is warming up. Glorious white thunderheads are climbing into the sky, spiking the humidity level. A summer storm may be on its way.

“Stick with me,” Chris mutters to me under his breath, turning towards the
Freedom Fighters
. He gathers our scouts – a group that includes Jeff, Sophia, Max, Derek and Alexander – and we head towards the main entrance to the camp. The plan is simple. We, along with Dad and
his
scouts, will meet the convoy on the main access road. If they’re anything like us, they’ll have scouts out, too. We’ll talk to them. Find out
what their purpose is. Take the necessary measures to keep them out if they end up being unfriendly.

Yes, here we go again,
I think.
Meeting new and interesting people…and then killing them. What has happened to my world?

I shake off the thought.

“My dad is still mad at me,” I comment in a low tone.

“He’s not mad,” Chris replies. “Just frustrated. Wartime environments are hard. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m taking sides with you over him.”

“Aren’t you, though?” Chris gives me a thoughtful look. “What you said back at HQ…didn’t you mean that?”

I nod. “Yeah, but-”

“-Don’t be afraid to have your own opinions, Cassie. Go with your gut.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Chris shrugs. “People get mad sometimes.”

True. I should know that by now.

Dad is approaching the main gate with his cadre of scouts. The rest of the militia will remain behind to protect the camp in case something happens while we’re gone. Desmond is waiting with the
Rangers,
his odd hair, weapons and medical kit all contradictions of each other. Manny is standing between the two groups.

“You’re not a scout,” Dad grumbles, adjusting his hat.

Manny squints at him. “I’m a born scout. Done recon all my life. Who was the one who
alerted you to the convoy in the first place? It sure wasn’t any of your Pony Express boys in the Underground.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his duster. Jaw set. “I’m coming with you.”

Dad doesn’t argue the point. Manny
is
a scout. An air scout.

“Very well. You’re with my unit, squad one.”

Desmond nods to me, pulling what I
think
is a pine needle out of his unruly beard. I don’t think I want to know. “Feeling okay, Hart?” he asks. “No abnormal pain or discomfort?”

“Nope,” I grin. “I’m sore but I’m fine.”

“Good. Hey, I’ve got some killer herbal tea for you.”

“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.