State of Rebellion

I level my gaze.

“You’re sick, Vera,” I state. “Keep it to yourself.”

And my temper is in full force today.

She squares her jaw, knowing better than to push me right now. In front of everybody. Especially in front of Chris, who is just out of earshot at the front door of the restaurant. I join him, searching the convoys for familiar faces. All of our heavy artillery is in tow — you can’t rush the heavy stuff. And according to Colonel Rivera, we should have air support out here by tonight. That should be awesome. Helicopters, jets — courtesy of the air force.

The militia begins exiting their vehicles, the transports dumping our troops onto the asphalt. Procedural searches of the area begin. Vera finds her mother and the two converse for a moment. It strikes me then how odd it is that Angela seems like such a levelheaded, decent human being while her daughter is a complete idiot.

Just an observation.

Inside, the restaurant is covered in a fine layer of ashes. The booths and tables and chairs are ghostly white with a grayish tint. It smells like something died in here, too. I wrinkle my nose.

“Can we please wait inside a different building?” I say. “This is dirty.”

“No. This restaurant’s got a good view of the rest of the area,” Chris replies, offering a crooked grin. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the smell.”

“Joy.”

He pats my shoulder and continues through the building. I follow him into the kitchen. It’s empty. Lonely. Forgotten. Never to be used again.

It makes you wonder what happened to the employees and owners when the EMP went down. When Omega rolled in and started their systemic executions. We may never know, because all of the witnesses are dead.

“Puts a chill in the bones, doesn’t it?”

Colonel Rivera marches through the kitchen door, his eternally present cigar wedged between his teeth. He kicks the door on a fridge open. A heinous smell wafts out of it. I barely manage to avoid gagging all over the Colonel’s boots.

“You were here just a couple of days after the EMP hit, weren’t you?” he asks, looking at me. “At least, I know Young was.”

“I was with him,” I nod.

“And?”

“And it was a graveyard, sir. Dead bodies everywhere.”

He rubs his chin, deep in thought about something.

“You ever wonder how they got here so fast?” he asks, shifting his gaze to Chris. “How were they mobilized and ready to kill everybody on the whole damn planet within just forty-eight hours after the EMP hit?”

“They were planted here ahead of time,” I say.

“But how?”

“They were hiding,” Vera states, crossing her arms.

“Right, right.” Colonel Rivera casts a curious glance at Chris, who’s standing near the door with a concerned expression on his face. “But who was letting them hide here? Because you and I both know something this big had to go down with a whole lot of inside help.”

“What are you saying, sir?” I ask.

“I’m just stating a fact.” The front door bangs open and a group of our scouts come inside, here to report to Chris. “Somebody planted Omega troops and vehicles and weapons here years ago. Who was it? And how the hell did they get away with it?”

“We could debate this for hours,” Chris says, “but we can’t right now. We have work to do. Let’s go.”

He turns away from the Colonel, conversing with the scouts. Apparently the rest area is safe.

“It’s worth some thought,” Colonel Rivera says, studying his cigar. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s worth some serious thought.”

I return to the front of the restaurant and walk outside, searching for my friends. Derek is across the street at an old travel convenience shop. Max and Jeff are with him. Alexander is with Sophia at the far end of the convoy, giving orders to the newer recruits.

All of these people. All of these soldiers.

All of them ordinary folks like me.

The colonel is right. Maybe it is worth some serious thought about who helped Omega infiltrate the United States. Maybe there’s a deeper reason for this collapse than a straightforward invasion and electromagnetic pulse. Maybe it’s something worse.

Way worse.

But what?

“Hey.” Angela steps outside, her radio in her hand. “They found something.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s on the south side,” Chris states, holstering his own radio. “Come on.”

We follow him around the backside of the restaurant. Behind it is a dirt lot. There’s a fence around the square patch of land. A sheet of metal has been chained to the support beams in the fence.

The lot has been tamped down, clearly dug up not too long ago and then filled in. It’s a fairly large square of land. Tears burn the back of my eyes, sizzling like acid in my throat. The sheet of metal is streaked with black spray paint. Letters. I can hardly read them through the tears blurring my vision.

Below the words is a crude depiction of an American flag. This has got to be the work of a militia group. Who else would take the time to bury this many dead? And beneath the flag are four words. A promise. A threat.

Game on.

Later, we move the convoy forward. Away from the rest stop at Laval Road. To the Chokepoint itself. It is located at the foot of the Tehachapi Mountains. The pinch in the freeway, right after the two major interstates merge to become the single Interstate 5.

Right to the side of the Chokepoint is a parking lot with another restaurant. This one is similar to the Iron Skillet back at Laval Road, only it was once called Taco House. A Mexican eatery. Dozens of piñatas hang from the ceiling here, covered in dust. Many of them riddled with holes due to termites, mice and moths. We have based our Headquarters in this building — since it is the only building in sight. Our forces are otherwise spread out. We don’t want to group everyone in a single spot. It’s too much of a temptation for the enemy.

It’s midnight when I hear it. The sound of a rumbling engine, a clear contrast against the stark silence of our encampment. Our men have secured the area for us, and we are gearing up for what could quite possibly be our last fight. There are no exterior lights. No noises. We are as silent as the night itself, tucked into the shadows of the mountains.

And then this.

I’m sleeping in a booth inside the restaurant. Chris’s arm is around my shoulders and I’m slumped against his chest. A pile of maps are unrolled on the table in front of us. The moonlight was bright enough to read by, but we fell asleep eventually, exhausted.

Until the engine sound. It’s clear and defined. And familiar. I perk up, straining. The engine gives a slight hiccup. I sit straight up, shaking Chris’s arm. “Hey,” I say. “Wake up. Come on.”

“What?” He stirs, drawing me closer.

“Hear that?”

He opens his eyes, foggy with sleep.

“Oh, great,” he murmurs.

“Don’t be such a killjoy.” I wiggle out of his embrace and run through the restaurant, jogging outside. The sound is louder now. Yes. I head to the stretch of southbound freeway outside the restaurant.

“We’ve got air support coming in,” I say to a patrol at the road.

“Finally,” he replies.

I stand on the sidewalk, gri

“Ma