State of Alliance

“How do you hide five hundred troops?” he mutters.

“The same way we hide our militia groups,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. “We hide in dense woodlands and abandoned areas where nobody would think to look. We attack sporadically, guerilla-warfighter style. We are seen, and then we vanish… without a trace.” I place my finger on the windowsill. “I wonder if Omega is starting to use our own tactics against us.”

Captain Adams looks interested, almost perplexed.

I am about to go into a deeper explanation when the front of the boat shudders. The entire vessel is rocked sideways, dipping the left side entirely underwater. I slide down, smacking my shoulder against the glass windows.

Captain Adams curses, regaining his balance faster than me.

“Get us out of here!” he bellows.

I crawl to my feet and stumble down the stairs, the ship still rocking back and forth under my feet. We are bobbing like a cork, and as I step foot on the deck, I see that a huge chunk of the railing is missing. I smell gunpowder, and I know that we are in trouble.

“They’re firing on us from the shore!” I yell.

“Turn this vessel around!” Captain Adams commands.

I run to the starboard side of the cutter, straining to see movement on the beach. I see nothing. And then, from behind a sand dune, a trail of smoke smears across the blue sky.

“ROCKETS!” I scream.

My God, what have we gotten ourselves into?

The cutter is still reeling from the hit, but Captain Adams and his small crew are rushing around the deck, blurs of orange and blue, ru

A machinegun won’t do a damn thing against rockets, I think. Omega is hiding behind the dunes. We can’t reach them. All we can do is get the hell out of here.

The rocket that was in the sky starts plunging down toward us. The cutter makes a U-turn in the water and the rocket hits the sea behind us, sending a wave of water over the deck. I am soaked, head to toe, freezing. I ignore it, knowing that we are not out of danger yet. The rockets are still coming.

The cutter is racing through the water. I hold onto the outside of the cabin to maintain my balance as we move, watching the skies. There are four rockets in the air, and it hits me then how odd it is that Omega would go out of its way to destroy a single Coast Guard patrol boat.

Why would they jeopardize their location?

Why wouldn’t they just let us turn around and go back to Monterey?

I am just about to come to some sort of a realization when I notice the trajectory of the third rocket. It is coming toward us quickly, and at our speed, it will hit us in just a few seconds. I yell at Captain Adams from the deck.

But it is a useless warning. He sees it, too, and it’s not like we can just slam on the brakes and stop instantly. This is a boat. It doesn’t work like that.

I know what it is about to happen. The cutter slows down substantially, but it is not enough. I look down at my orange life jacket, vaguely noting that every strap is in place. I run to the stern of the cutter, into the right corner. The rest of the crew sees the rocket, too. Captain Adams looks down at me through the window of the cabin, shaking his head. There is an expression of pure shock on his face.

The rocket hits the bow of the cutter just as I jump over the railing. My feet hit the water first, and then I am swallowed whole by the sea.

The water is shocking, freezing. My body recoils from the cold temperature, but I have no way to fight it. My head plunges underwater, soaking my hair, numbing my fingers. I have never been so cold. Even being buried in a blizzard in the mountains has nothing on this.

This is awful.

The lifejacket that I am wearing pulls me back to the surface of the water. I sputter for air, coughing and hacking, kicking my legs. My heavy combat boots make it difficult to move. Waves splash over me again and again, blurring my vision. I see the cutter, capsized a short distance from me. I see members of the Coast Guard bobbing in the water, their lifejackets the only thing keeping their dead bodies from sinking to the bottom of the sea.

“Captain Adams!” I gasp.

I don’t know why I say his name. I know that he’s dead. I know that most of the crew is gone. In fact, I don’t see any living soul other than myself. The smoldering remains of the cutter are going under fast, bubbling and sinking into the ocean. I am so cold — so completely frozen — that I barely grasp the concept that I am stranded at sea.

My breathing comes quickly, erratically. I know I am hyperventilating, but it’s difficult to fight. I feel suffocated. The cold is ripping into my chest, making my lungs ache. How long have I been floating here? Two minutes? Two years?

I don’t know.

I move my arms and try to kick toward the shoreline. It is distant but clear. It could take me hours to swim to shore with this life vest on, and I’m already fatigued.

You’re going to freeze to death, my subconscious whispers. There’s nothing you can do.

I think of Chris, a Navy SEAL. He is trained to handle dives into cold water. He is a frogman, a rare kind of soldier. I try to think like him, to reach into my memory. Has he ever told me anything about surviving in cold water?

No. Water hasn’t been something that we’ve had to deal with.

And now it is going to kill me.

I feel my limbs weaken, becoming clumsy. I force myself to swim, kicking toward shore. But I know that even if I reach the beach, I will still probably freeze to death. The water in Monterey Bay is just too cold.

It’s too cold…

The world becomes blurry and hazy. Suddenly I’m not cold, just numb. It is a painful, stinging sensation that penetrates every part of my body. I am drowsy, like I could close my eyes and sleep for a thousand years. I’m so tired. And if I sleep, I won’t be cold anymore. Suddenly the idea sounds very attractive…

I feel something clamp into the back of my lifejacket. My first thought is that I am being attacked by a shark, or eaten by a sea lion.

Do sea lions eat people? Do I even care?

Something yanks me out of the water by the collar of my jacket and the straps of my life vest. As soon as the cold ocean breeze hits my body, I am acutely aware of the cold once more. The mere numbness is gone. I am now in very real pain.

I grit my teeth and strain to focus my eyes.

I land on my back, hitting something hard. I catch an overpowering whiff of rotting fish and wet wood. I try to sit up but my body will not do what I want it to do. I can only lie there, a stiff, unmoving cadaver for all the world knows.

There is a voice and lots of movement. I see a metal railing, a pile of fish. I see what looks like some sort of a crane on the side of a wooden deck. I also catch a glimpse of a man with a wool cap pulled down around his eyes.

And then I’m out.

No more cold for me.

This is not where the story ends, I think. We will be here tomorrow.

We are in the foothills. It has been only a few months since the EMP. I still have not found my father, but I have Chris Young. He is growing on me, and I on him. I think we make a good team. I have learned a lot in just a few months about survival — what gets you killed, and what keeps you alive.

I am not naïve anymore.

I am scared. There is a difference.

My long red hair is braided back. The cold morning air nips at my cheeks. Chris is checking his backpack, counting the bullets we have left for his shotgun. One box. That’s all. We haven’t been able to find much ammunition foraging through abandoned trailers and houses in Squaw Valley. Supplies are ru