State of Chaos

I’ve been shot.

I kneel on the ground, too scared for the pain to sink in…yet. Harry stands there and observes me. Like a specimen in a cage. He takes a few steps forward and grabs my rifle before I can even think to react, effectively disarming me. I tilt my head up, clutching my stomach, focusing in on a pair of knee-high leather boots. I follow the boots up to a pair of dark pants, a jacket and a familiar face.

“Kamaneva,” I state, trembling.

She doesn’t say anything. She only raises an eyebrow, casually holding the gun in her hand that just landed a whopper to my side. There’s too much going on around me for the realization of all that’s happened to really hit home. I’m frozen. You could wrap me up in a blanket and throw me in a freezer and I’d be oblivious to it. I can’t move.

“Well done, Harry,” Kamaneva says, her voice emotionless. “As for you, Cassidy: Nice try.”

If I could feel my stomach, I’m sure it would be churning with anxiety right about now. But the bottom half of my body is going numb, and with it, so is my brain. Everything’s getting fuzzy. Not even my adrenaline rush is going to keep me awake for long.

Or alive.

Desperation sets in. Kamaneva is trying to kill me…again. I slowly move my bloody, sweaty hand towards my belt, leaning forward enough to hide the movement. “They’re all as good as dead,” Harry says, looking at Kamaneva. “They’re completely boxed in.”

“You of all people should know that our militia can get out of this,” I reply, gritting my teeth. The pain train is pulling into the station. “You’ve seen us fight before.”

“Actually, I haven’t. I was always left behind at camp. Nobody trusted me.” He flashes a wicked smile. “Rightfully so.”

“Traitor.”

Yeah. That’s the worst insult I can dream up right now. Because Kamaneva’s going to blow my brains out in about five seconds and I have to move fast. I close my fingers around the hilt of Jeff’s knife hidden in my boot, pull it out of its sheath, and snap it forward, flinging it at Kamaneva’s chest. She deftly steps aside and it grazes her arm. It gives me the split second I need to make my move. I jump up and make a mad dash back towards the battlefield. Back towards Chris. I run in a zig-zag pattern, throwing off Kamaneva’s shots. I can barely hold myself upright, because when I do, the world starts spi

This is not my best day. Or night.

“Chris!” I shout.

Our militiamen are actually pushing back against the Omega troops, forcing them towards the center of the field, cutting a hole in their lines. It’s turned into an all out bloodbath. Soldiers are fighting hand to hand, tackling each other, jamming knives into each other’s throats. I turn away from the gut-wrenching scene and find Chris in the thick of the battlefield. There’s no way he can see me.

I make a desperate attempt to find cover, lunging behind an overturned vehicle. There’s not much left of it besides a charred frame and some twisted metal, but it’ll do. Kamaneva is still behind me, and I’m not in the mood to come face to face with one of her guns again. The third time is so not the charm.

I crawl on my hands and knees, bullets hitting the metal on some of the cars, zipping just over my head. I scramble to the other side of the car and claw my way into the tall grass, blinking back tears of pain. My body feels like it’s on fire, which can’t be a good sign. I stumble upon a dead Omega soldier. His handgun is lying next to him. I pick it up and manage to climb to my feet, staggering far enough into the field to take cover behind a tree, pressing my back against the trunk. I spot Kamaneva. She’s no more than thirty feet away, trying to figure out a way to get to me without putting herself in the direct line of the fire from the battleground.

She glares at me and starts firing in my direction. I shift my position and make sure the tree shields my entire body. I’m safe for now, but not forever. I look at the gun in my hand, wondering if there’s any ammo left in it. The battle is raging around me. An Omega trooper appears out of the grass and spots me. I react without thinking, snapping a round to his chest.

Yeah. There’s ammo in it.

That’s the second guy I’ve shot at close range today. I swallow the nausea and turn my attention to Kamaneva. What I really need to do is kill her, just like every other Omega soldier. I lift the gun, sighting her. It’s not hard. She’s exposing herself in order to reach me, and that will be the death of her.

But my hands are shaking and I’m having a hard time keeping the sights in the middle of her chest. I adjust the weapon, getting mad at myself. I’m clutching my side with one hand, blood pouring between my fingers. The gun wavers in my other.

Just do it, I think. This woman is evil. She doesn’t deserve mercy.

Right?

A split second of hesitation is just about the worst thing you can do in the middle of a fight. Kamaneva ducks out of sight, disappearing into the tall grass. I lose her and keep a tight grip on my handgun, unable to stand by myself. All I’ve got left is the gun in my hand — and the ammo that’s left inside it. Once I run out, I’m dead.

Kamaneva crawls out of the grass, slathered in mud and grime. She’s filthy, and there’s an expression on her face that can only be described as possessed. “Dead,” she hisses.

I’m not sure whom she’s referring to. Herself, her daughter, or me.

Probably all three.

“You’re about to be,” I mutter.

She jerks backwards and hits the ground, her hand to her chest. I blink, memories resurfacing of Kamaneva getting shot by Max the last time she tried to kill me. And now red blood is blossoming in the center of her chest, getting bigger by the second. She gasps and stares at me in horror, coughing. Blood trickles out of the corner of her mouth.

She begins to say something — maybe it’s something important, maybe not — but before she can get it out my attention is drawn to the right. A tall man walks out of the bushes. A militiaman dressed in dark brown camouflage with a broad rim hat pulled down over his forehead. His face is covered with a standard face scarf. He looks down at Kamaneva, kicking her weapon aside with his foot. He says nothing.

“Thank you,” I say.

He turns to me and nods, and that’s when I notice the white star etched into the sleeve of his jacket. It’s a pretty crude depiction, but the shape is distinct. I force myself to my feet. “You’re a Mountain Ranger,” I realize.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice has a southern twang. “And you’re a Freedom Fighter.”

“That’s debatable, but yeah,” I say. “How are you here?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He drops to one knee.

“We got a tip,” he replies. “And the boss said to come ru

I turn back to look at the hills. The yelling and gunfire has kicked up a notch and my anonymous Mountain Ranger friend disappears into the battle, leaving me alone with a dying Kamaneva. She’s sputtering for air, turning to the side, trying to spit out the blood pooling in her mouth. Harry has vanished.

I kneel next to her, too wired and wounded to find a boatload of sympathy for a woman who murdered hundreds — possibly thousands — of i

Kamaneva is dead.

“Cassie!” Chris bursts out of the grass, grabbing my arm. It takes him about two seconds to assess the situation. He looks at Kamaneva. He looks at me. “You’ve been shot.” His expression tightens and he wraps an arm under my shoulders, dragging me away from the field.