State of Rebellion

“They probably did,” Dad says, patting my knee. “But Cassidy, when it comes right down to it, people are going to save themselves first, and then worry about everybody else. You can bet that our government — if they knew this was coming — took that approach. The population was collateral damage. We’re on our own, and if we want the invaders out, we’ll have to take care of it ourselves.”

Great. Just wonderful.

“That’s not fair,” I say, exhausted. All I can think about are the poor men and women that died yesterday. Horrible, agonizing deaths. And they weren’t soldiers. Not really. They were former schoolteachers and parents and plumbers and insurance salesmen. People that should never have to go to war. “I hate it.”

Nobody speaks. The peripheral crowd around the campfire falls silent.

Irritated, — no, terrified — I get to my feet and stalk away from the fire, fear threatening to overpower me. I might break down and start sobbing if I’m not careful.

First the EMP.

Then Omega.

And now China is sending a million man army to the west coast.

We’re dead. It’s over.

I sit on my butt at the base of a sugar pine. The sweet scent is refreshing, but it’s not enough to lift my spirits.

“Cassidy, you can’t get discouraged.”

Sophia sits down next to me, threading her fingers through mine.

“I know. I’m sorry, I just…” I trail off. “It’s been a long two days.”

“It has.” She leans forward, stretching her legs out. “We’ve never talked about what our lives used to be like, have we? It’s always war, war, war. Fight, fight, fight. My mama and I owned an art gallery in New York. Did I ever tell you that?”

I smile, picturing Sophia wearing a beret, puttering around a penthouse apartment with a paintbrush in her hand.

“No,” I say. “You never did.”

“Well, we did.” A longing expression crosses her face. “My mama was an artist, and we sold her paintings out of a little shop near Long Island. My parents were immigrants, you know, and it was always their dream to open up an art gallery for my mother’s paintings.” She sighs. “My father was a shoe salesman at Macy’s.” She starts laughing. “Isn’t that fu

“Well…” I say. “What did you want to do?”

“Art. Just like my mama.” She licks her lips. “My brother was going to school to be a graphic designer, you know? We were so proud. The first person in our family to ever go to college.”

“You must miss them.”

“I do. Every day.” She squeezes my hand. “But that was then and this is now. We have to deal with each day that’s given to us. It could be worse. We could be dead, couldn’t we? At least we’re here. At least we can talk about happier times.”

I bite my lip, fighting tears.

“You’re right,” I say. “You’re completely right. What would I do without you?”

“I have no idea.”

We both giggle, embracing each other.

“Now it’s your turn,” she tells me.

“My turn?”

“Tell me something happy. Something that you remember that makes you smile.”

“Don’t you think we’re going to make ourselves sad talking about all of this stuff?” I point out. “I mean, it’s gone, right? We can’t go back.”

“No,” she replies, offering a rueful smile. “We can’t. But if we don’t remember what it was like yesterday, we’ll forget what we’re fighting for.”

“Normalcy,” I say. “We’re fighting for yesterday.”

“Right.” She grins. “Now come on. Tell me something happy.”

My mood lifts. Something happy?

Yeah. I think I can do that.

We leave for Camp Freedom the next morning. I’m feeling better. I mean, sure. The fact that Omega is sending a boatload of troops onto American soil is eating at my nerves big time, but you know what? There’s nothing I can do about it at this point. I can only take one day at a time, and right now that means my first priority is putting one foot in front of the other.

As we walk, a familiar, friendly face pops up beside me.

“Hey, Cassie,” Jeff Young says, winking. “You holding up okay?”

“Yes.” I shove him playfully in the shoulder. He bears a remarkable resemblance to his brother Chris, but where Chris is a man, Jeff is still a boy. And I mean that in a metaphorical sense.

“You look a lot better than you did two days ago,” he remarks. “That was a nasty hit you took.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to forget.” I sigh. “Do you have any idea where we’re going? Did Chris or my dad say anything about the location about the basecamp?”

“No,” he shrugs. “I guess after what happened with Harry Lydell, everybody’s a little uptight about sharing information.”

“It wouldn’t kill Dad to share some information with me,” I grumble.

“He probably doesn’t want to give you info that could get you killed.”

“Thanks for putting it so bluntly.”

“That’s what I do.” He laughs. “Good to see you walking again, Cassidy.”

“Thanks.”

I have to rest a bit more often than the others because I’m still healing, but that’s fine. It’s better than being dead. Dad leads the front of the group with the Rangers — about forty men and women in all. Most of them are substantially older than me.

Old dogs, I think, amused. But they can sure kick some butt.

“Are you holding up okay?” Chris asks, sliding down next to me. He’s been leading the front of the Freedom Fighters all day, periodically dropping back to check on me. “Do you need to rest again?”

“No, I’m good.” I squeeze his hand. “So. Have you, um, talked with my dad about…anything interesting?”

He raises an eyebrow, stopping to help me crawl over a fallen log. We’re traveling into the high mountains, now. The foliage is thi

“What kind of interesting things?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Just stuff.” I make a weak attempt at a poker face. “Maybe…something about us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Us.”

His lips twitch, a clear sign that he’s fighting laughter.

“Oh, that.” He threads his fingers through mine, shifting his heavy pack. Adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. “No. It hasn’t come up.”

Call me shallow, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. Stupid as it is, I kind of wanted Chris to walk up to my dad, say, “Hey. I’m in love with your daughter. I promise to take good care of her.” Chivalry, you know?

Instead I get: No. It hasn’t come up.

“You’ll have to tell him sometime,” I point out.

“He’s figured it out, Cassie.” He gestures to our intertwined hands. “He’s not blind.”

“Still. I think you should say something.”

“Why me? You’re his daughter.”

“You’re a grown man!”

“You’re a grown woman.”

I bite my lip. Am I? My birthday is in two weeks. I’ll be twenty.

“I guess so.” I shyly glance at his face, gauging his expression. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to be there when I dump it on him.”

“Dump it, huh?” He breaks out in a wide smile. “That’s a nice description.”

“You know what I mean!” I shake my head. “I just want him to like you.”

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

He’s right. But, strangely enough, it’s somehow comforting to worry about something as normal as whether or not my father will approve of Chris. It’s a lot easier than sitting around, wondering when Omega will jump out of the bushes and put a bullet in my chest.

Just saying.

“You two having a heart to heart chat back there or something?” Jeff calls back. He’s helping his mother scale the side of the mountain. Decomposed gravel and loose shale slide down the slope, making it easy to trip and take a tumble to the bottom. “Come on. Pick up the pace!”