State of Rebellion

He kisses me softly, sending a jolt of electricity down to my toes.

“Mother of God, what’s going on here?” Ma

“No, as a matter of fact I can’t,” Chris replies, fixing an a

“I was born ready,” he replies. “And old is an incorrect term. I prefer aged, like fine wine.”

“Yeah, good luck, old man.”

“No respect from the youth of today.”

“I’ll see you when this is over, Ma

I’m saying goodbye. Because this might be the last thing I ever say to him. “Stay safe.”

“I’ll be safer in the air than all of you.”

I move forward and impulsively give him a hug. He freezes, unsure of how to respond. For the first time since I’ve known him, I’ve taken him completely by surprise. I step back, give him a two-finger salute and turn away. I slip my arm through Chris’s and walk with him towards Headquarters. When we reach the doorway, I look back over my shoulder.

Ma

Chapter Thirteen

It’s not like I haven’t seen this before. Trucks. Soldiers. Nervous tension heavy in the air. Yeah, I’ve seen this plenty of times. In fact, as I sit in the backseat of one of the officers’ vehicles with Chris, I find myself strangely numb to the entire situation. Like I’m moving through a dream.

Maybe I’m just exhausted. Maybe I’m just so stressed out from everything that I can’t feel nervousness anymore. Or, maybe, I’m just ready for whatever comes my way. I’ve finally accepted the status quo.

As we roll down the interstate, a hollow feeling of dread seizes me.

Not so impassive after all, apparently, I think.

The freeway curves upward in the distance, winding into the Tehachapi mountain range. Below us, the freeway branches into two different interstates, the 1-5 and the I-99. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable.

Last time I was here my Mustang had been stolen just hours beforehand, destroyed by panicked civilians turned thugs who were trapped on the road after the EMP.

Mobs aren’t your problem anymore, I remind myself. Omega is the problem.

Oh, sure. That makes me feel better.

We stop below the slope of the freeway, maneuvering our vehicles behind buildings on the side of the interstate. A massive warehouse on our right, and another small rest stop on our left. Our convoy makes a literal boundary line across the road, all the way from one side to the other. It’s a huge span. They set out a blockade along the roadway and then back up. Where the freeway begins to lift up into the mountains, a huge concrete ditch stretches from one side to the other. It’s the perfect place to hide. A strategic trench.

Our men and women slide into the trenches and barricade themselves in. Our trucks are placed in pockets along the road, like miniature fortresses of steel. In the end, our force of one thousand troops ends up camouflaged and hidden inside ditches, behind buildings and under freeway onramps.

Because how else can one thousand stand against five thousand without a little ingenuity? Chris and I step out of our transport at the end of the ditch. My radio is attached to my hip. My camouflage gear blends in perfectly with the yellow-gold tone of the grass and weeds at the base of the mountain. The air at this hour of the morning is crisp and cool. A layer of fog has settled over the hills.

“That’s unusual,” I mutter.

“What’s unusual?” Chris asks.

“The fog. It doesn’t usually get foggy this early in the year. It’s only October.”

He smiles thinly. Our conversation has been strained today. The anxiety level around this place is through the roof. I climb down the side of the ditch and walk through the empty path at the bottom. It’s like a hive of soldiers, all of them geared up with their helmets and rifles and radios. I stop and look down the row of men on both sides of the ditch.

Looks like a picture from World War Two, I think.

And that makes me think of Walter Lewis, the man who helped us escape from Bakersfield a year ago. He had been a pilot during World War Two. He was the first one to make the comparison of Nazi Germany and Omega’s invasion.

Who knows? Maybe a hundred years from now the battle that’s about to go down will be as famous as the Battle of the Bulge or D-Day. Maybe all of us will go down in history as heroes.

Cassidy Hart, defender of mankind.

I could roll with that.

Angela and Vera are at the other end of the ditch, Max is with Jeff with one of the convoy blockades behind us and Sophia is with them. Derek is back at the encampment at Headquarters, his injuries unable to heal fast enough to get him out to the front lines today. And Alexander…

No, I can’t think about that. Not today.

Instead I focus on Colonel Rivera, climbing down into the ditch with us. The tension between him and Chris is palpable after what happened with Alexander’s scouting party.

“Any new information?” Chris asks stiffly.

“They know we’re waiting for them, just not exactly where,” Colonel Rivera replies. “They’re just a few miles away.”

“What do they look like?”

“According to reports,” Colonel Rivera says, “they’ve got trucks, tanks, RPGs and a lot of soldiers on foot.”

“Are they going to try to do a full on push?” I ask.

“I doubt it. They think we won’t provide much of an obstacle.”

“They’re wrong.”

Colonel Rivera’s lips twitch. An almost smile.

“They may be,” he says.

Brother. Everyone is afraid of being optimistic today.

I brush frizzy wisps of hair out of my face, my radio crackling on my belt. It’s one of the few times it’s made noise all day today. We’ve been trying to keep radio communication on the quiet side, since Omega is sca

I nervously pick at the buttons on my uniform, trying to maintain a poker face. I’m not a commander, but I am an officer, and these men and women can sense when their superiors are feeling less-than-cheery about a situation. I don’t want to give off negative vibes. Negativity spreads like wildfire in an environment like this. It’s a big no-no.

So I quit picking at my buttons and fold my arms across my chest, careful to keep my face expressionless. I glance at Chris, who is the picture of calm in the midst of an impending hurricane. Nothing about his demeanor would suggest that he’s nervous. I don’t know how he does it.

And then the waiting begins.

Omega is too far back into the hills for us to even try ambushing a section of their party. And even if they were here, it’s not like we can simply pop out and pull some guerilla warfare ninja stuff on a five thousand-man army. It’s going to take more than that.

It’s going to require us remaining as hidden as possible. Getting into a head to head push with Omega would be lethal. We’re far too outnumbered. But we’re not necessarily outgu

I hope.

The first mortar round shocks me. It’s not that I haven’t been expecting something to hit us today. It’s more like I was hoping it would never happen. But obviously it did, so yeah. Problem.

The mortar whistles through the air like an oversized boulder, exploding upon impact with the ground. It hits a patch of dirt on the side of the hill, shattering into a million pieces of hot shrapnel. The grass catches fire and the troops in the ditch seem frozen for a second.

But only for a second.

“They’re on us now!” someone yells. “Move it, move it!”