State of Chaos

“Gee, thanks,” I reply, too tired to get my feelings hurt.

Jeff settles down beside us while Mr. Young sits on a camping chair. Mrs. Young starts rummaging through a cardboard box full of supplies. “You must be starving,” she says. “I’ll get something for you to eat.”

“Don’t forget your hungry son, either,” Chris comments.

“I won’t.” She smiles fondly at him. “I was worried about you today.”

“I’m back in one piece. Don’t worry, mom.”

She presses her lips together.

“How are you guys here?” I ask. “Chris and I saw your house burned down. There was nothing left. I thought Omega took you!”

“Do you remember when you left to go find your father up at your family cabin a few months ago?” Mrs. Young says, pulling out some ca

“I remember,” I reply.

“You were gone for a couple of weeks,” she continues. “I knew you’d be coming back — Chris wouldn’t leave you out there alone. But Omega came.”

“I was out hunting,” Jeff explains. “I saw them coming, man. They were burning houses on their way up the hill. I came home and told the folks, and we took off.”

“Omega burned the farm and killed the animals,” Chris adds.

“Where did you go?” I ask Jeff.

“Here. Well, not here specifically, but to this group.” He leans forward. “The Free Army is basically what’s left of Squaw Valley. Anybody who hasn’t been enslaved, subjugated or killed is right here in this camp.”

“They took us in,” Mrs. Young adds. “We’ve been here ever since.”

“I found them after you were taken, Cassie,” Chris says. “I ran into some of the militia and they took me back to camp. After I found my folks, I started working on finding you.”

“Mission accomplished,” I smile.

“Right.” He kisses my fingers. “My family was here the whole time.”

“Duh,” Isabel mutters. “I can’t believe you didn’t find us sooner.”

“Finding the militia is no simple matter,” Mr. Young says. “They’re well hidden and you can only find them if they want to be found.”

“Well, they’re much better organized now that Chris is in charge,” Mrs. Young sighs, pride lighting her features. “He really changed things around here.”

“So what does that make you?” I ask Chris. “Captain? Commander? Boss?”

“I’m not officially in charge of anything,” Chris replies, stretching his long legs across the floor. “It just happened.”

“People naturally follow Chris,” Mrs. Young says.

I nod. Max said almost that exact thing during the ride up here.

“Who was in charge before you got here?”

“Alexander,” Jeff answers, frowning. “But that’s another long story. Let’s eat, mom.”

Mrs. Young gets out a portable camping stove.

“Where did you get all this gear?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s ours,” Jeff says. “We loaded up that Hummer you two stole from Omega in December and filled it with all of our camping supplies before we left the farm. It was a smart move.”

“No kidding.” I pause. “What do you do about fuel?”

“We steal it.” Isabel sits up, gri

“Steal gas?”

“No. We raid Omega supplies,” Jeff corrects. “We take back food, water, ammunition, weapons and fuel. It hurts them and helps us.”

“Destroying that labor camp today will screw up much of their supply line of food in the Central Valley for a while,” Chris says. “Plus, other militias will hear about it. It’s good for people know that somebody’s fighting back.”

“So when you showed up here… I guess the whole idea of taking down the labor camp wasn’t foreign to these people,” I say.

“Right.” Chris shifts his position, examining his dirt-stained hands.

“Di

I lean against Chris’s shoulder, closing my eyes. For the first time in weeks, I’m not marching to the beat of Omega’s drum. There’s no roll call, no ten-minute di

“You think Kamaneva is still alive?” I ask.

“It’s a possibility,” Chris says. “But it doesn’t matter. The labor camp is totaled.”

“That’s so unfair,” Jeff sighs.

“Don’t start that again,” Mrs. Young sighs.

“Don’t start what?” I ask.

“Jeff wants to fight, too,” Mrs. Young says. “But he’s not ready for combat yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I get to stay in camp and guard all the old ladies.” Jeff rolls his eyes. “Real thrilling.”

I giggle.

“Hey,” Jeff says, perking up. “You still have that knife I gave you?”

My heart sinks.

“No. I haven’t seen my backpack since…” I trail off, watching as Chris pulls a knife out of a sheath strapped to his leg. “Is that mine?”

“Saved it for you,” Chris says.

I take the weapon and turn it over. Yup. My name is engraved on the handle.

“You’re the best,” I reply, kissing his cheek.

“I can’t argue with that,” Chris shrugs, winking.

I look at the knife for a little while, remembering when Jeff gave it to me last Christmas. We were all together, then. But one thing was still the same:

My father wasn’t there.

“Cassie?” Chris touches my face. “What is it?”

I shake my head.

“Nothing. Just…” I exhale. “I guess nobody’s heard any news about my dad?”

Mrs. Young hesitates before answering, dumping a can of beans into a cooking pot. She sets the pot on the stove and gets to work on the rest of the meal. “No,” she says. “I’m so sorry, honey. I really am. But your father’s situation is a lot different than ours. Omega actually arrested him.”

“Do we know that for sure?” I argue. “I mean, yeah, there was a huge sign tacked on the cabin door from the freaking Sheriff of Nottingham, but my name was on there, and so was Chris’s. And neither of us was arrested. What if my dad wasn’t either?”

A heavy silence fills the camp.

“If that’s the case,” Chris says at last, “then your dad would find a way to get to you. He’s that kind of man.”

“What if he’s dead?” I mutter, chilled.

“He’s not dead.” Chris shares a concerned glance with his mother. “Let’s not talk about this now. You need to eat and get cleaned up. All of us do. It’s been a long day.”

Tell me about it. One of the longest days of my life.

And I thought standing in line at the DMV was a bad deal.

We eat a hot, heavy meal of ca

Stuffing her face.

When I’m done eating, I follow Mrs. Young into the back of the tent. She lifts up a little flap and we walk outside. There’s a big metal bin sitting on the edge of the campsite, surrounded by several curtains made out of tarpaulin. It’s a makeshift washroom. “Jeff will get you some water, and you can start scrubbing away all of that dirt,” she says.

I swipe my hand over my arm rub the crud between my thumb and index finger. Yeah. That’s gross on a number of levels. Thanks for that, Kamaneva.

Her name brings a bitter taste to my mouth — and a little bit of guilt. She was seconds away from shooting me point blank in the head when Max took her down. I have every right and reason to hate her… but I don’t. Not really. How perverted is it that I actually feel sorry for her?

I just can’t imagine living life being so hateful.

Not to mention trigger-happy.

“Okay, here you go.” Jeff comes around the corner about a half an hour later. I help him fill up the tub with cool water. I’d prefer taking a bubble bath, but hey. This is better than nothing. He leaves me alone and I get an hour of something I haven’t had in a long time: Privacy.

I peel off my prison-issued clothes and step into the water. It’s cold, but it feels good. I scrub every inch of dirt and filth off my body. Mrs. Young brings me some clean clothes and she takes the old ones away.