State of Rebellion

“Goodnight, Cassie.”

“Goodnight.”

I step away from his warmth, marching myself towards Staff Housing. In less than ten hours, I’ll be on my way to Fresno. I’ll be out of the mountains for the first time in months. Out in the open.

Do what you gotta do, I think. You know this is the right thing.

Staff Housing is illuminated with a couple of dim lanterns. The interior lighting in the cabins is hidden with black cloth and, in some cases, boards nailed over the windows. I trail up the cul-de-sac road, stopping at the middle cabin in the neighborhood. It’s surrounded with Manzanita bushes and bear clover. I walk up the front steps and knock on the door.

Isabel answers.

“Cassie!” She throws open the screen door and hugs me fiercely. “I haven’t seen you in two days!”

“I’ve been a little busy,” I shrug apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Duh.”

I walk inside. The front room has a simple couch, outdated shag carpet and a fireplace. It’s a basic cabin. No artwork on the walls. No books on the shelves. Mr. and Mrs. Young are sitting together on the couch, poring over the pages of an issue of Reader’s Digest from 2009. And, to my complete surprise, Dad walks out of the kitchen.

What is he doing here? I didn’t know he was chummy with the Youngs.

“Cassidy, how nice to see you!” Mrs. Young exclaims. “Isabel’s missed you.”

I pull my eyes away from my father.

“I’ve missed you, too.” I square my shoulders. “I came to say goodbye.”

She licks her lips, slowly setting the magazine down on the coffee table.

“I had a feeling,” she says. “Chris and Jeff were here earlier.”

“Now it’s my turn.”

“No!” Isabel storms up to me, crossing her arms. “You can’t go! You’re safe here! We’re all safe here! If you leave, I might never see you again!”

“I know.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Isabel, try to understand. I’m not doing this for myself, I’m doing this because it’s the right thing. I can’t stay here when they need me out there.”

“There are plenty of other people to fight on the front lines,” Dad suddenly says.

I place my hand on my hip.

“No, there’s not,” I reply. “And what are you doing here, anyway? I didn’t know you were in the habit of having late night coffee with the Youngs.”

“He came to talk to us about Chris,” Mr. Young interjects, speaking up. Something he rarely does. “It’s fine, Cassidy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Talk about Chris?”

“Cassidy, try to understand,” Dad sighs. “I was just worried about my daughter.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I turn to Isabel and give her a fierce hug. Her eyes are brimming with tears, her pale cheeks flushed with splotches of red. “Listen to me,” I say. “I will come back. I will see you again.”

“But when?” she sniffs.

“When it’s over.”

“What if it never ends?”

I kiss her forehead. “Everything ends, Isabel.”

I hug Mrs. Young, the closest thing to a real mother I’ve had in my young life. Mr. Young gives me a brief, gruff embrace. But coming from him, it means a lot. And then I turn to Dad.

“We need to talk,” I state.

He nods.

“I promise, I’ll see you again. We’ll all see you again,” I say, taking in Isabel’s tear-streaked face one last time. My own eyes are burning with emotion. “So…see you around.”

“See you around,” Isabel cries, burying her face into Mrs. Young’s waist.

I stand there, frozen. It will be a long time before I see these precious people again. If ever. I tuck the memory of this cabin and this conversation away in my brain before turning and walking out the door. Just like that. Otherwise I’ll never go.

The front porch is creaky. It smells like campfire smoke. Dry wood.

“How can you leave?” Dad demands, following me outside.

His eyes are stormy. His body is coiled tight. I am in huge trouble.

“This is my choice,” I reply, taking a shaky breath. “I have to fight.”

“You can fight here. You don’t have to leave to do that.”

“Dad, they need us out there, and I can help.” I sigh. “I can’t let him go alone. I’d wonder why I didn’t go with him for the rest of my life.”

“So that’s it, then?” he growls. “You’re throwing your life away and leaving the safety of a secure camp for a boy?”

“Chris is not just some boy!” I counter, flushed. “You know better than that. Why were you over here talking about Chris with the Youngs, anyway?”

“I wanted to get to know the family of the boy my daughter is leaving with!”

“You should trust my judgment.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I say. “For the first time in my life, I know what I want to do and where I want to go. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“But you’re helping already, Cassie,” Dad answers, closing his fingers around the porch railing. “You’ve already done enough. Don’t go out there and get yourself killed. This isn’t the militia anymore. This is the National Guard. The environment will be different, and the fighting will be more brutal than anything you’ve ever seen.”

I close my eyes.

“You’re right,” I shrug. “It’s going to be different. But I have to go anyway.”

“Why would you go when you could stay here with me?”

“Don’t.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t make me choose anybody over you. I’m not choosing one person over anyone else. I’m making a decision based on what I feel is the right thing to do. This is what I’ve decided.”

He gives me a long, sad look.

“Please, Cassie,” he says at last, softly. “Don’t go.”

I blink hard and fight the urge to cry, walking across the porch. I need to be strong. I wrap my arms around my father, giving him a hug. His embrace is tight and final.

“I love you, Dad,” I say. “You know that.”

A pause.

“I know.”

I pull away. His expression is one of utter defeat — something I’ve never seen in him before. It frightens me. I bite my lip and take a few steps backward, turning on my heel and climbing down the front porch steps.

“Cassidy,” Dad says.

I turn.

“I love you, too.” He folds his hands together, leaning against the railing. “Be careful.”

I nod.

And then I’m gone.

There’s no turning back now.

Chapter Eight

Retrofitted jeeps and pickup trucks don’t make the most efficient convoy lineup in the world, but hey. If it works, it works. At this point, I’m becoming less and less critical of just about everything under the sun. Case in point, I’m heading into the back of an older military transport jeep. A line of transport trucks is waiting near the front entrance of Camp Freedom, ready to leave. It’s midnight.

I’m outfitted in my militia uniform — military pants, jacket and blue armband tied around my bicep. I’ve got my rifle, my bulletproof vest, my backpack full of gear.

I sling my rifle over my shoulder and climb the metal stairs of the last massive truck in the lineup, sitting down on a bench. They face each other, covered in nylon netting. Metal rods parallel the benches above me. The walls and ceiling are made of a heavy tarpaulin-like sheet printed in camouflage colors. It’s hot inside, and getting more crowded by the minute. Men and women. Former teachers and bank clerks. Brothers and sisters. Cashiers and baristas in another life. I set my backpack down and hold my rifle barrel up, drawing my knees closer to my chest. Sophia squeezes in next to me, and right behind her is Vera. She sits down on the bench across from mine.

Great.

She says nothing. I say nothing. Obviously this is going to be awkward.

The truck fills up with more people. We simply can’t fit any more passengers. The back gate in the truck goes up, sealing with a loud metallic boom. My heart accelerates and Sophia jumps, grabbing my arm. I’ve never been big on being trapped in confined spaces. Especially with a ton of people in a truck, moving down a mountain in an active warzone.