State of Rebellion

The jets let their weaponry loose on the mercenary forces. Their missiles explode behind us with brilliant accuracy, precision and timing. A rush of pride fills my heart. That’s the United States Air Force coming to our aide. How cool is this?

Well. It would be cool if everything didn’t suck.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the jets to blast the enemy and blow everything to kingdom come. I close my eyes, concentrating on Chris’s hand on my head, on Jeff’s breathing beside me. After what seems like forever, the noise subsides and Chris eases his grip, slowly rising from his position. I roll to my side, dripping in sweat and mud, caked from head to toe in ashes.

Jeff’s face is deathly pale, but he has no exterior wounds. I’m guessing he has a concussion. I’m guessing we all have one.

“Move,” Chris commands, crouching. “Do not break cover.”

I nod, licking the blood off my lips, staying low in the shrubbery, slinking into the trees. The interstate dips here into a small canyon. There’s a large green water tank, along with a single acre of dead grapevines. Who opted to grow grapes right in the middle of a freeway I have no idea, but whatever. People are weird, right?

Chris stays in communication with the rest of the surviving members of the convoy using his radio, but my radio is dead. The top of the device is smashed, crushed when the Humvee flipped over.

I stop and take a breather on the other side of the water tank. Pieces of paint are peeling off the rusty rungs of the ladder that leads to the top.

“We’ve got a few miles back to base,” Uriah pants. His hair falls in dark waves across his face, but the dirt and grime make it impossible to identify any other distinguishing features. “We won’t make it back in one piece.”

“We won’t even have to try,” Chris replies, keeping a firm grip on Jeff’s arm. His brother looks like he’s about to barf. “I’ve got someone coming to pick us up. We just have to get to a safe place to get inside the vehicle.”

“I don’t want to get blown up again,” I mutter.

“The Air Force just eliminated the mercenary forces,” Uriah says. “We’ve got nothing to worry about at the moment.”

“Right, right. There’s only a five thousand man army coming around the corner.” I shrug. “No big deal.”

“Enough,” Chris states, pointing to the end of the small canyon. “Through there, right at the edge of northbound freeway is where our ride will be.”

“It’s not Ma

“No. It’s not Ma

“But—”

“—Now.”

I bite back my arguments and do as I’m told. I am a soldier, after all. Following orders is starting become natural. Sort of. Uriah moves out and I follow, scared to death that a sniper will pop out of the bushes and kill me. It’s easy to do. I do it all the time.

Thirty agonizing seconds pass before we find cover, run underneath the interstate overpass and pause, waiting for Chris and Jeff to catch up.

“I heard you have quite a reputation as a sniper, Yankee,” Uriah says, breathing hard. “Is that true?”

“Maybe,” I reply. “And you can call me Cassidy, by the way.”

“I’m Uriah.”

“Nice to officially meet you.”

“Yeah, same here.”

Chris comes around the corner, steadying Jeff. Poor kid doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to go on much longer. Chris’s radio crackles.

“Alpha One, we are in position, over.” Max’s voice.

“Copy that. On our way,” Chris replies.

“Man, radio makes everything easier,” I comment.

“Let’s go,” Chris says. Reminding us that we’re trying to get from point A to point B. Like, now. So we run through the last strip of open space under the interstate. I can’t help but feel like the giant cement pillars holding the sloping freeway up look like ancient ruins. Remnants from another civilization. Another time.

In some ways I guess there’s truth to that.

As we round the corner, we approach an uphill slope on the side of the interstate. We begin to climb, and by this point every step I take is beyond exhausting. Like dragging cinderblocks on my feet. My calf muscles burn, my lungs ache. Spots dance across my vision, threatening to take over completely.

We reach the top.

I kneel on the cement and take a few desperate gulps of oxygen, aware of the presence of a small convoy about twenty feet away from us. Our men. Has to be.

Chris, Jeff and Uriah crawl up behind me. And even now, overwhelmed as I am with physical stress, I find it fu

Tiny but mighty, I think. And fast.

Max exits the lead vehicle of the convoy, slamming the door shut behind him. He rushes over and helps Chris and Uriah handle Jeff’s weight.

“What happened to him?” he asks, brown eyes dark with concern.

“He got hit in the head,” Chris pants. “Help him inside. Let’s roll.”

Chris takes my arm — out of habit or merely because he’s still protective of me — and we walk together towards Max’s vehicle. We clamber into the backseat, Uriah right behind us. I collapse as the doors slam shut. The vehicle surges forward at full speed. Even if the Air Force did take out the mercenaries, there’s always a chance that some sicko stragglers were missed. We don’t want to get blown up again.

“How much time do we have?” Max asks from the front. “Chris?”

“Not much.”

Uriah and I share an uneasy glance.

I know what they’re talking about.

This is round one. Round two hasn’t even started yet.

Chapter Fourteen

The clock is ticking. Our militia forces have gathered Headquarters again this evening. The tension is thick in the air. Thick enough to cut with a knife. I’m sitting at a table in an old Jack in the Box — our current location for our medical staff. Chris, Uriah, Jeff, and dozens of other soldiers are being checked out by our medics. I stare numbly at the worn carpet as an anonymous doctor works on me.

“You’re lucky, kiddo,” Desmond would say. “You should be dead.”

I know, right? But I’m not. Not yet.

I peel my jacket off and hang it on the back of the chair, exposing the bloody mess that is my body. It’s not as bad as it looks. Tiny pieces of glass and shrapnel have lodged themselves into my skin. When I hold my arm up to the light, it glitters. There’s not a lot that can be done about the miniscule glass shards stuck in my arm, so I don’t worry about it. I just watch them check out Chris as I sit, studying his expression. He’s exhausted — anybody can see that. But his posture is tense and rigid, his face tight.

He’s not giving up.

Neither am I.

“Are you okay, Cassidy?” Sophia is wearing a medical jacket, helping the grossly understaffed medical team treat the wounded. “What happened out there?”

“What didn’t happen?” I shrug. “The Air Force came just in time.”

“Rivera didn’t order that strike. That was an independent decision on the Air Force’s part entirely.” She lowers her voice, sitting on the chair next to me. “I don’t know why Rivera wouldn’t send backup.”

“Because he’s an idiot,” I state. “Duh.”

“It’s not even logical, though. When you’ve got five hundred men out there that could potentially die, you send backup, right?”

“I guess he doesn’t consider the militias quite as valuable as his own platoons,” I reply. “Or he has something against Chris.”

“But what could he possibly gain from…?” she trails off, never finishing the sentence. “Cassidy, I’m sorry I got mad at you. I was upset and I was just unloading. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I lace my fingers through hers.

“I know,” I say. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“You haven’t heard anything from him, have you?”