Текст книги "State of Pursuit"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Chapter Eight

“So this is Los Angeles?”

We rein our horses and stop to overlook the sprawling urban landscape below. Uriah is not impressed. Neither am I, to be honest. The last time I looked across the skyline of the grand city of Los Angeles, the EMP had turned the city into pure chaos. Airplanes fell from the sky and flames lit the boulevards. Civilians roamed the streets in mobs, looting and vandalizing.

This is different.

This is dead.

In the early morning sunlight, the skyscrapers are little more than empty husks. Many of them are burned and falling apart. Others are riddled with gaping holes. Giant, pockmarked monuments to a fallen civilization. There is no noise. The sound of aircraft flying overhead is gone. Traffic helicopters are nowhere in sight.

The remains of the 405 freeway twist through the city. From our vantage point, the thousands of abandoned vehicles on the interstate look like a mass of dead insects. Everything is gray. Morbid.

Quiet.

“You’ve never been to L.A. before?” I say.

“I’m from San Francisco,” Uriah replies. “Never traveled much.”

“Well,” I sigh. “Los Angeles wasn’t perfect…but it wasn’t like this, either.”

“This gives me the creeps,” Vera mutters. “Where is everyone? I thought L.A. was an Omega hotspot.”

“It is,” Manny replies, popping his flask open. “This was a city of ten million people – most of them either dead or fled. Now it’s an Omega base. They’re just not making themselves real visible.”

“Intelligence reports say that Omega troops are coming through the Port of Los Angeles, anyway,” Andrew adds. “That’s a few miles away. I don’t think Omega has enough troops to send out more than random patrols.”

“There’s no steel ring around this city,” Uriah remarks.

“We’ve brought you this far,” Father Kareem says. “You can find your way from here.”

I start, because I’d almost forgotten that the Mad Monks were still with us. In daylight, their clothes are bland. They blend in with the grass and shrubs along the mountains. I glance around, studying the men. The group is diverse, with ethnicities ranging from Indian to Korean. They almost seem like ghosts. Silent and stony. Unmoving. Father Kareem is the only one who has spoken to us since they walked us the three miles to the border of Toluca Lake.

“Thank you for your help,” I say. “This shortcut saved us hours.”

“Yes, it did.” He raises an eyebrow. “Commander?”

“Yes?”

He pauses. Then, “Bring Commander Young back alive.”

I stare at him. I’m not going to ask how he knows that we are here to rescue Chris. I’m not going to confirm or deny the information. I simply nod slowly, salute him, and watch as he silently returns to the hills. I watch all of them until they vanish from sight, reminding myself that yes – they were real. It wasn’t some kind of weird dream.

“Where are we meeting our Underground contact?” Vera asks.

“About a mile,” I say, pointing to portion of trees and burned houses in the distance.

“How far are we from Hollywood?” Andrew comments.

“Around seven miles, I think.” I shrug. “I never used to spend time in Hollywood, except on weekends. Sometimes I’d visit the Boulevard with friends and see a movie.”

Oh, those were the days.

And to think I used to complain about them.

“Lead the way, Manny,” I say.

He nods, slipping the flask back into his duster, keeping it folded inside of his flight cap. I ease Katana down the trail and we dip behind the mountain again, out of sight. We could shave a few hours off of our journey if we cut right down the mountain, but that would leave us exposed to anyone watching the hills.

And after all of the trouble we’ve had, the last thing I want is attention.

We push forward. The closer we get to meeting our contact, the more nervous I become. The hills become smaller, and we enter into a residential area. Toluca Lake, according to our maps. The houses are gorgeous. Mansions. Much of the shrubbery here is either overgrown or dead. Most of the houses have been vandalized. Streaks of graffiti line rooftops and fence posts.

“Do we ride on the road or what?” Andrew asks.

“I guess we don’t have a choice,” I shrug.

We take the horses down the street; hooves clip clopping against the asphalt. It’s a sound that probably hasn’t been heard in Los Angeles for a hundred years. It’s funny how things go full circle. You eliminate something from culture completely and then bam. Here it is again.

“This was super high end living,” Vera comments. “Toluca Lake was a celebrity city.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say. “I used to visit this place with my mom.”

When I was a girl, we’d drive up and down every street, looking at the houses; pretending we were millionaires and that we could own any property we wanted. Come to think of it, it’s one of the only happy memories I have of spending time with my mother.

“What are you smiling about?” Manny asks.

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Just thinking.”

He raises an eyebrow. But he says nothing.

As we continue, I tighten my grip on Katana’s reins. The eerie silence of the neighborhood is creeping me out. The tension is thick in the air. At some point, something bad has to happen. It always does. I would be surprised if something didn’t happen.

I’m not exactly a good karma magnet.

“Woodbridge,” Manny announces. “We’re here.”

A faded, dark brown sign sits on the edge of an abandoned park. Trees and bushes are overgrown. The pond in the middle of the park – once beautiful and well maintained – has only a few inches of stagnant water remaining. Clouds of mosquitos hover over the surface.

“This used to be beautiful, too,” I remark.

Coming here and seeing it like this…well, it’s disturbing. I feel like I’ve fallen into the zombie apocalypse. We’re stuck in a different dimension, but it’s actually the sad reality.

“Stay on your horses,” Manny warns. “If we’ve played this right – and I think we have – our contact should be on the other side. By the playground.”

Vera mutters, “We come to Los Angeles and meet up with an Underground contact in front of playground equipment.”

“If it bothers you so much, you can always go back to Fresno,” Andrew snaps.

Vera looks surprised to hear him talk that way to her. Instead of coming up with a stinging retort, she shuts her mouth and sets her jaw. Silent mode.

Good. Silence is good.

And then I see him. He’s sitting on the edge of a park bench on the right of the playground equipment. He’s wrapped up in a black coat and scarf, watching us. Motionless. Behind him is a row of wrecked housing.

“Is that our man?” Uriah asks.

“I guess so,” I say. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Manny leads the way.

I bring Katana to a halt and dismount. The grass is dead – it snaps under my boots. The man on the bench doesn’t move. He stares at me, unmoving.

As I get closer, Katana hesitates. I catch a whiff of something. It’s probably the stagnant pond – setting water smells disgusting.

“I’m Yankee One,” I say, palms up. “And this is my team.”

The man doesn’t move. In fact, he doesn’t even blink.

I step closer. His skin is pale. I sniff the air.

Oh, God. One eye is red and glassy, and I notice a purple bruise on the side of his face. He’s dead.

“That is disgusting,” Vera complains.

“So much for our contact,” Uriah says. He dismounts his horse and studies the corpse. “He’s been dead for a couple of days – no longer than that.”

“Do you think Omega did this?” Vera wonders.

“No. Gangs, most likely,” Manny replies. “If it were Omega, they would have questioned and tortured him before he died. This fellow looks like he was hit in the head once.” Manny examines the dead man’s head. “Yes. Blunt force trauma.”

“Are you a doctor now, Manny?” Vera asks, blasé.

“As a matter of fact—”

“—We can take a trip down memory lane later,” I interrupt. “Somebody left him here for a reason.”

“So we could find him,” Andrew states. “It’s meant to scare us.”

“Well…” I look around. “Are we scared?”

No one answers. I look around at my team, alert and in defensive formation, awaiting threats. Waiting for my word.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” I surmise.

In truth, I’m quaking on the inside. Our contact is dead, which means we’ll have to find somewhere to take the horses before we head into the city on foot. And anybody who is sadistic enough to leave a dead man sitting upright on a park bench does scare me.

I’m not entirely fearless.

“He was supposed to take us to the Way House,” Vera says, tapping the dead man’s shoe. “Now what do we do? What do we do with the horses?”

“Commander, on your six o’clock,” Uriah says.

I turn quickly, noting the urgency in his voice. A man is standing on the edge of the park. His hands are up, showing that he is unarmed. My militia is already on him, surrounding him as quickly and efficiently as a pack of wolves.

The man is dressed in sandy combat fatigues and a leather jacket. His jet-black hair is shaggy and overgrown. I blink, recognition dawning on me.

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Alexander Ramos.”

–

I don’t even think about what I do next. I cross the distance between Alexander and I. I throw my arms around his neck and give him a tight, relieved hug. He doesn’t return the hug – but he doesn’t shove me away, either. I take that as a fairly positive sign.

“How is this possible?” I whisper.

Alexander Ramos is supposed to be dead. Yet here he is, alive. “Ramos?” Derek grabs his hand. “What happened, man? What are you doing in Toluca Lake?”

“We thought you were dead,” Vera states matter-of-factly.

“Technically, you are,” Manny mutters.

“Long story,” Alexander replies gruffly. He’s purely non-emotional about the reunion. Unsurprising. He was never the touchy-feely type. But I can bet that if Sophia Rodriguez had known that we would find Alexander on this mission, she would have come with us.

“Are you supposed to be our Underground contact?” Andrew asks.

“I am,” Alexander confirms.

“Who’s the dead guy on the bench, then?”

“He was your contact.” Alexander looks right at me. “He didn’t come back to base, so they sent me out.”

I exhale. Yet another man dies this day.

Suck it up, girl.

“We should get moving, then,” I say. “We’ve had enough run-ins with gangs and mercenaries on the way here.”

“Mount up,” Alexander commands. “Cassidy, I’ll ride with you.”

I pull myself onto Katana’s saddle. She snorts softly. He swings into the saddle behind me, keeping an arm around my waist. Six months ago I would have thought this was awkward. Now it’s just standard procedure.

“Go that way,” Alexander points, gesturing to a boulevard that shoots through a once prestigious neighborhood of mansions and apartment complexes. “We’ll go about two miles before we hit the Way House.”

I tap Katana’s flanks with my boots and she trots forward. Considering the long journey she’s been on – that all the horses have been on – she’s holding up well. But she’s tired.

“So are you going to tell us how you’re still alive?” I ask. “Or are you going to keep it a secret?”

“It’s a secret,” he answers. “For now.”

“Oh, come on, Ramos…we’ve had a long trip. At least give us a hint.”

If he’s smiling, I can’t see it.

“Later,” is all he says. But I do notice that he searches the platoon several times. He’s looking for Sophia, I guess. And when he doesn’t find her, he asks, “Where’s Rodriguez?”

I answer, “She didn’t come.”

He doesn’t seem to believe me. “She always comes,” he says.

“Well…she didn’t come this time.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dealing with issues.”

“She’s a basket case,” Vera comments.

I shoot her a look. She shrugs.

“What happened that I don’t know about?” Alexander asks.

I pause for a few moments. Then, “Jeff is dead.”

“What?”

“And so is Max.”

Alexander says nothing. After a few moments of heavy silence he says,

“And Commander Young…do we know for sure that he’s alive?”

“No. But that’s why we’re here.”

“It could be a fool’s errand.”

“It could be.”

“Let me guess: the rescue unit was your idea.”

A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“Yes,” I say. “But they volunteered.”

“And you’re in charge?”

“I was elected.”

He grumbles something that I can’t hear.

“How’s that working out for you?” he asks.

“It is what it is,” I reply.

We ride about two miles up the road, coming to an oversized lot closed in with a stone security wall and thick shrubbery. It’s impossible to see what’s inside. The front gate rolls open as we approach.

Obviously somebody has been watching and waiting for us.

We take the horses inside, coming to a halt on a huge cobblestone driveway. A Spanish-style mansion is surrounded by bushes and trees. Soldiers are milling around the front yard. They approach us and take the reins of the horses. Alexander dismounts and I follow suit, keeping Katana with me.

“This is a Way House, huh?” I say. “Nice.”

“It belonged to Jay Leno at one time, so I’ve been told,” Alexander remarks. “But that’s just a rumor.” He pats Katana’s flank. “Good horse.”

“How many men did you start with, Cassidy?” he asks.

I look at my platoon, weathered and beaten by the stress of the journey.

“Thirty,” I say.

“You’ve got twenty-six, now.” He tilts his head. “Not bad, Hart.”

I don’t agree. Losing just a single person is losing one too many.

“It wasn’t easy getting here,” I state. “Between mercenaries and Mad Monk Territory, we’re lucky.”

“The Mad Monks are leftover remnants of mercenaries that betrayed Omega after the first attack on San Diego,” Alexander says. “Surprisingly, they’ve become good allies of the militias.”

“Wait. The attack on San Diego?” I reply. “Are you talking about the attack by Mexico on Omega?”

He nods. “Yes. A number of their forces…defected.”

“Why?”

“Why do any men defect?”

“Because they’re cowards,” Vera interjects, folding her arms across her chest.

“Or because they know something that the leaders don’t,” I murmur. “Or they’re in it for the money and the power. What do you know about Mexico, Alexander? Are they on our side?”

“There’s a lot that’s unclear right now. All we know is that Omega tried to push into Northern Mexico and Mexican forces pushed them right out. Clear into San Diego.”

“Is San Diego out of Omega’s hands?” I ask.

Alexander shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Our radio hasn’t been working. The last news we received was a week ago, and that was the message telling us that you would be headed this way.”

Darn. It seems like everyone is in the dark about the Mexico question.

“These people will take care of the horses,” Alexander says. “They’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

I slowly pet Katana’s nose. Her big, brown eyes study my face. “I’ll see you again,” I promise. “This isn’t goodbye.”

It feels like goodbye, though.

Someone takes her reins and leads her away from me.

“What now?” I ask.

“You come inside,” he replies, “and we give you what you’ll need to get Chris home.”

A spark of hope ignites in my chest.

Remember why you’re here, I remind myself. Stay focused on the objective.

I look up at the mansion.

Step one, completed. Beginning step two.

Chapter Nine

Harry Lydell.

I stare at a picture of his smug mug. Alexander is sitting on a stool in an empty dining room. A projector powered by backup generators is giving everyone a peek of what we’re getting ourselves into. And for most of the people here, knowing our enemy is step one.

My rescue unit has been fed and cleaned up in the last couple of hours. Uriah was treated by certified medics. Thanks to the medication and equipment on hand here, he’s no longer in pain from the bruising he took at the hands of the Mad Monks’ initial ambush. The horses are being kept in a makeshift stable behind the house. Militiamen and women patrol the perimeter 24/7, and roving scouts constantly circle the area, keeping an eye out for unfriendly forces.

My team is sitting on the floor. I lean against the back wall, glaring daggers at Harry Lydell’s image.

“Lydell is an Omega Prefect,” Alexander says. “This basically makes him a General.”

An award for selling the militia out to Omega.

“He oversees negotiations for Omega,” he continues. “The parley between Lydell and Commander Young was one of many duties that he performs.”

“Harry said he was working for someone named Commander Cho,” I say.

“Cho is dead,” Alexander answers. “He was killed. We learned this shortly before the radios stopped working.”

“What’s wrong with your radios?” Andrew asks.

“It’s not a problem on our end. Omega’s gone radio silent.” Alexander stands up, pointing to Harry’s face. “Lydell is also in charge of the Officer’s Prison. It’s a POW holding center for high-ranking militia officers. They’re interrogated here, and most of them are eventually executed.”

Executed?

“How long do they hold them there before they’re executed?” I say. It’s a question that I have to force myself to ask. “Days, weeks?”

“It depends on the importance of the prisoner.” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “Chris is important.”

That’s all he says.

I take it as an implication that there’s a chance that Chris is still alive.

“Why haven’t you already tried a rescue mission?” I demand.

“We did try,” Alexander states. “And we failed.”

“Why?”

“We weren’t able to penetrate the security system.” Alexander’s chest heaves as he takes a deep breath. “But we know the layout of the base now. It wasn’t for nothing.”

I fold my hands between my knees and take a deep, steadying breath. The projector flips to a new image. It’s a photo of a squat concrete building. Cars and Humvees are parked out front as perimeter barriers. Armed men can be seen stationed on the roof.

“This is the POW Holding Center,” Alexander explains.

“How did you get these photos?” Vera asks.

“We’ve got cameras that escaped the effects of the EMP,” he replies. “The Holding Center is in downtown L.A. I’ll give you the exact coordinates in a moment. What you need to remember—” he looks directly at me, “is that security is going to be tight. This was a county jail before the war, a temporary holding center for prisoners being transported to court appearances. There are few weaknesses in the structure. No big windows to climb through. You’ll have to go in hard and fast. You’ll need the element of surprise.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Manny remarks.

“Sounds like suicide,” Vera says.

“How many guards are we talking about?” I ask.

“Thirty to forty at the site,” Alexander answers. “And you’ll be downtown, which means the city itself will be thick with Omega. The civilian population that remains is submissive to Omega, so don’t expect any help from them.”

“Cowards,” Uriah mutters.

“I think terrorized, enslaved individuals would be a more apt description,” Manny replies.

“You have to get in and get out fast,” Alexander presses, ignoring their negativity. “The Holding Center is near downtown L.A., so they’ve been landing helicopter and small aircraft at a base next door.”

“We’re walking into an Omega military base,” Uriah states. “We’re so dead.”

“We’re not dead yet,” I counter. “This isn’t harder than some of the other stuff we’ve done.”

That’s not necessarily true, but I’m trying to stay positive here. After everything we’ve been through – from surviving the ambush in Sanger to standing up against a million man Omega invasion force – I know that we’re capable of pulling this rescue off. It’s simply a matter of executing a good plan.

Go into a fight with the mindset of zero casualties, Chris would say. That’s not how I was trained, but it’s how we have to treat the militias, because our troops are finite. We can’t send in more troops when we run out. We’ve got to keep our guys alive.

That’s the thing. I’ve already lost four men on this journey. From a purely professional standpoint, my mission to reach Los Angeles would be considered a major success. But from a militia mindset, every single man is important. Losing just one is too many.

“You’ll be going into the city on foot,” Alexander continues. “It’s the fastest, most effective way to infiltrate the urban area. You’ll be able to slip unnoticed past the patrols… probably.”

“What about gangs?” Uriah asks.

“Where’s there’s Omega, there won’t be gangs,” Alexander replies. “Out here you’ll find them, but not inside the city. Omega’s got too much firepower.”

“We know how Omega works,” Uriah says. “I think we can get to the Holding Center and get inside. It’s getting back out that concerns me.”

Same here, I think.

“Any thoughts, Alexander?” I ask.

Sure, I’m the Commander. But I’m not above asking for help.

“I’ve got a few,” he answers. And this time, he almost smiles.

–

Alexander Ramos was Chris’s friend. There was a time when they were begrudging allies; I can remember when they did nothing but argue. But as the weeks and months of grueling militia life passed, they became more than commanding officer and soldier – they became friends.

Alexander went MIA on a scouting mission a couple of weeks ago before we lost Chris. It was difficult on everyone to lose such a respected soldier. It was hardest on Sophia Rodriguez – she loved Alexander.

If only she had come with us.

“I find it hard to believe that Sophia stayed behind,” Alexander comments. We’re standing in the kitchen of the mansion. I’ve got a cup of water in my hand. My fingers are shaking. I don’t know why. Raw nerves and fatigue, I guess.

“So do I,” I reply. “But she did.”

“She’s loyal to you, though.”

“She’s…hurt. She thought you were dead and then Jeff died.” I take a sip. “After Chris went missing, she just got angry. Maybe she got tired of trying.”

“Sophia has…” he trails off. “I may have underestimated you, Cassidy.”

“I wish people would quit being surprised by me,” I say.

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“It could be.” I shake my head. “How did you end up here, Alexander? What happened?”

His face remains serious. He doesn’t show a flicker of emotion.

“I wasn’t wounded,” he answers. “I was separated from my team. We were a few miles out and Omega mercenaries were working their way towards us. A few of my men were killed, others were wounded, and the rest of us scattered to stay alive. I ran out of ammo, then I got captured by Omega scouts.” He folds his arms across his broad chest. “I was in a truck with a few other men. Halfway back to Los Angeles, the truck stopped and the guards pulled us out of the trucks. They interrogated and killed the prisoners in the truck, one by one, while I watched. Harry recognized my face. He wanted to keep me alive for questioning.”

“How did you escape?” I ask.

“I got lucky.” He exhales deeply. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Alexander Ramos look truly sad. “Omega got lax in security because I was the only prisoner in the truck. I had nothing to lose. They tied me up, but I managed to get free. The guard in the truck turned his back on me – his last mistake. When the truck slowed through a curve, I jumped out and ran. I ended up in Toluca Lake, the Underground picked me up, and now I’m here, running recon for them.”

“Is this where you want to stay?” I press. “Or do you want to join the rescue unit? Or…do you want to go to Fresno with the National Guard?”

“I’d rather be with the Mountain Rangers in the hills,” he replies. “But that’s not going to happen.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Such a long time goes by before he answers that I almost think he forgets that we’re having a conversation. At last he says, “I’ll come with you. And then I’ll go back to Fresno with the National Guard.”

A warm smile touches my lips.

I had a feeling that Alexander would find his way back to Sophia.

I was right.

“What are you going to do when the war is over?” I ask.

“Build a house. Leave the war behind me,” Chris answers.

“Me too.” I’m lying on my back, looking up at the sky. It is a warm summer afternoon. The newest recruits for the militia are training in the background. Chris and I have just returned from a successful reconnaissance mission.

“Cassidy?” Chris whispers.

I turn to look at him. His handsome face is troubled. He slowly takes my hand, studies each finger, then finally brings it to his lips in a soft kiss.

“Are we going to make it?” I ask.

Chris is the most positive, uplifting figure in the fight against Omega. But every once in a while, I see the vulnerability seep through. And I’m pretty sure I am the only one who is close enough to him to detect it. It worries me.

“We’ll make it,” he promises. “But it won’t be without sacrifice.”

“Maybe the United States military will step in,” I suggest. “Maybe we won’t have to do all of the fighting ourselves.”

Chris smiles. It’s a weary smile. He pulls me closer.

“We can’t count on anyone but ourselves,” he says.

“Is it really that bad?”

“Being on our own isn’t a bad thing. Look at these people – they’re inspired. They’re fighting for something that they believe in.” Chris hooks his arm around my waist. “It’s made us stronger.”

It always amazes me that Chris can pull something positive out of even the bleakest situation. I press an affectionate kiss against his lips. He grins – the first time he has seemed relaxed in days.

“I would do anything for you,” I hear myself saying.

Does that sound desperate? I don’t care. I mean it.

I still mean it.

–

After spending the night at the Underground base in Toluca Lake, I am well rested and ready to go. The militia stayed upstairs. Huge rooms have been stocked with mattresses, blankets and pillows. I stayed in a bedroom by myself at the end of a hall – the former master bedroom, I’m guessing.

When I wake up I find myself lost in a pile of expensive sheets and blankets. It’s not even close to what I’m used to sleeping on: the dirt.

I roll out of bed. The room is dark. I light a lantern on the dresser in the corner; the room is huge, decorated with modern art. I sit on the floor and lace up my combat boots.

Come on, I think. Wake up, Cassidy. It’s time to go to work.

I stand up. I pull my hair into a ponytail to keep it out of my face. I cinch up my belt, throw on my jacket and look myself over. Do I look like a battle-hardened commander? Or am I just a stupid kid from Culver City trying to play the part of a soldier?

Privately, I feel like a combination of both.

I grab my gear and open the door to the hallway. The militia is getting up, gathering their belongings. It’s probably five-thirty. I find the stairs and enter the living room. Alexander is waiting, a grim expression on his face.

“Get a good night’s sleep, Ramos?” I ask.

He grunts.

Yes. That’s the Alexander I remember.

Uriah is standing silently in the shadow of the front door, tracing his finger down the length of a photo frame. His mood radiates depression. Under normal circumstances I would offer to cheer him up, but today I avoid him.

“All present and accounted for,” Vera reports, descending the staircase. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Getting antsy, Vera?” I ask.

“I don’t like sitting around here, doing nothing.”

I don’t disagree.

Manny suddenly barges in through the back door, tracking mud into the house. He looks wild and windblown – almost like he’s been flying.

“What are you doing out there?” I ask.

“Checking on the horses,” he replies. “They’re settled in fine. Katana’s comfortable.” He jerks his thumb behind his shoulder. “The stable’s just about as fancy as the inside of this mansion. Bloody horses are going to be spoiled rotten by the time we get back.”

“They deserve a little pampering,” I say.

“So do I,” Manny answers.

I chuckle, stationing myself by the front door. The militiamen and women begin trickling downstairs, geared up and ready to go. Derek and Andrew are standing near each other, exchanging words in muffled voices.

“Well,” I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “This is it. We’ve made it this far. We can make it the rest of the way.”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

“You have your orders,” I continue. “We don’t stop moving. If we play our cards right, we’ll reach the prison today, and we can carry out our plan. Does anybody have any questions?”

Silence. There are a thousand questions to be asked, but in the end, only one thing matters: will we survive? I hope so. For Chris’s sake. For the militia’s sake. A lot is riding on this rescue mission.

To say nothing of the fact that if we do survive, we have to return to Fresno and face the wrath of Colonel Rivera.

“Let’s go,” I say quietly.

Solemnly.

Alexander opens the front door and we step outside together, into the pre-dawn. It’s a dark October morning. Zero-dark-thirty, as Chris would say. It’s cold, and it looks like the past week of fair, sunny weather is no more. The sky is cloudy. I smell rain.

“Commander?” Andrew says, falling into step with me.

We stand and wait as the gate rolls open. I stare at the empty street in front of us. Two expensive, abandoned cars are sitting on the side of the road. Leaves are piled in the gutters. The silence is like a physical weight on my chest. I feel overwhelmed with the forlorn atmosphere of this neighborhood – of this entire city.

“Commander,” Andrew says again.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

I raise an eyebrow. Then I lift one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

We move, locking and loading, rolling out in patrol formation, moving from cover to cover in the dull lighting of the early morning hours. Because of the caution we must proceed with, every city block seems to take hours to travel through. In reality, it only takes a few minutes. I’m acutely aware that every building could be hiding an enemy. We all are. Our rescue unit moves through the neighborhood with the silence and prowess of cats. Our presence here should go completely unnoticed – if all goes well.

By the time we reach the urban epicenter of Los Angeles, the classy, abandoned neighborhoods are no more. What remains is the part of Los Angeles that I was more familiar with as a child. The apartment complexes, the liquor stores crammed side by side with beauty parlors and pawnshops. Before the apocalypse, this was a bad area. It’s almost improved with anarchy. There’s not a soul in sight.

There is graffiti on the walls. Shapes and symbols in bright colors. Semper Fi is painted in yellow letters across a billboard for men’s cologne. Weeds are growing through the cracks in the pavement, twisting around rusty cars and dead streetlights.

“Red light,” Uriah mutters, standing at an intersection. The stoplights are bent, hanging at odd angles. A pile of rubble sits in the middle of the street. The back half of a strip of stores has been blown open. By the looks of it, it happened quite a while ago, too.