State of Rebellion

“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 pla

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 ru

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. Ma

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

Ma

Dad doesn’t argue the point. Ma

“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?” Ma

“I got shot.”

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

“Yeah. I’m a born scout, too.”

Ma

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

“Yeah,” Desmond shrugs.

Ma

Desmond blinks.

“Respect the hair, man.”

I pull my hair back from my forehead, torn between being a

“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.”