Текст книги "State of Rebellion"
Автор книги: Summer Lane
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Chapter Three
I’d always figured that Omega was waiting for backup. When I was imprisoned in a labor camp with Sophia, we were forced to harvest food for a massive amount of troops…a number so large that there was no way it was for the Omega forces already here. We theorized that backup was coming.
Omega, we figured, was a combination of rogue elements from North Korea, China, and Russia. Who knows who else was involved? At this point we don’t even know if the United States was the sole country affected by the EMP. For all we know, the entire world could be dark.
“China,” I state.
Dad blinks.
“China has to be sending the backup,” I clarify. “Right now Omega’s got mercenaries and international troops crawling all over the states, but there really aren’t that many. Think about it. Not enough to take over every nook and cranny of the nation. So what country do you know of that has a population big enough to supply enough troops to invade the United States on foot?”
“China,” Chris agrees. “Absolutely.”
“Not a bad theory,” Dad shrugs. “And if you’re right, I don’t see how we stand a chance against an invasion like that.”
“We still have nuclear weapons, right?” I ask. “We must have some kind of government left in place. The President and Congress and all of those people…they’re still around, aren’t they? Don’t they have some sort of emergency plan for a scenario like this?”
“I have no idea, Cassie,” Dad replies, frowning. “I haven’t heard anything about our governmental structure still being in place. As for the President and everybody else, they might be dead. If the big cities really were nuked, our population has been significantly reduced, people are starving, and our borders are practically wide open for an invading force. What’s left of our military is on its own.”
“There’s nobody in charge at all?”
“Well…” Dad shifts his position. “You’ll understand once you get to Camp Freedom – that’s what we call our basecamp. It’s not gigantic, but it’s well hidden and we’ve got a good number of volunteers.”
“And you’ve got people there who have authority?” Chris asks.
“Somewhat. We’ve got a governing body. Like I said, you’ll see when you get there.” Dad looks at me. “We need to accept the fact that the United States as we know it is long gone. Right now it’s nothing but an anarchic society, and our enemies are taking advantage of our weakened state. They’re simply taking over.”
“We can’t let that happen,” I grit out, anger ripping through my veins. “This is our home. How can people be so stupid? How could they let something like this happen? Didn’t our military or government or somebody know this was coming? They had to have some kind of clue!”
“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 funny? An artist and a shoe salesman. And there I was in the middle, just trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.”
“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 thinning out as the air gets colder. Lodgepole pine trees dot the landscape, and the sparser cover makes it important for us to pay attention to our position. We don’t want to climb up an open meadow and give our location away.
“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!”
“This isn’t a marathon, you know!” I say.
“Oh, yeah? Says who?”
“Says me.”
“You two,” Mrs. Young murmurs, smiling. Her gray hair is falling in soft wisps to her shoulders. Mr. Young – an aged version of his two sons – climbs up behind her and takes her hand. “Let them be, Jeff,” he says, winking at me.
I sigh. A flash of normalcy on an otherwise totally odd day.
It’s nice.
We stop to have lunch, resting under the green tent of the forest. Our food consists of supplies the militia had time to gather up before they fled the base camp. Dried meat, crackers, canned vegetables. Water. Gone are the days of sandwiches and bottles of soda.
As we hike, I catch up with my dad. We have a conversation that lasts for hours. I give him a recap of everything that’s happened to me since we got separated after the EMP. Everything from escaping through underground tunnels in Bakersfield to getting imprisoned in a slave labor camp under Vika Kamaneva. For some reason, talking about what I’ve been through in the last year makes everything seem that much more real. Like waking up from a dream.
Yes, it actually did happen. Yes, the world really did end.
Yes, it’s a lot to swallow.
At least Dad and I are back together.
“So,” Dad says at last, just as evening starts to set in. “Chris Young. What’s going on between you two?”
“Oh. Um…”
Idiot. You’ve been rehearsing this all day.
“Chris and I… we’ve been through a lot,” I shrug. “We’re kind of together, I guess.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “He’s a lot older than you.”
“I know.”
“A lot older.”
“Older isn’t bad. I mean, you’re older.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
We duck under an overhanging, mossy branch. The temperature has dropped substantially, so I pull my jacket out of my backpack and wrap it around myself.
“He’s a good man,” I say softly, glancing behind us.
Chris is overlooking his militia, alert and ready.
“I believe you,” Dad replies. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him completely overnight.”
“You don’t have to.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “But you will, eventually. You’ll see what I see. He’s special, Dad. There’s nobody like him.”
He shakes his head, kicking a rock down the trail.
Seriously?
“You’ll see,” I press.
“I’m more concerned about the age difference than anything else.”
“It’s not exactly cradle-robbing, Dad. I’m going to be twenty.”
“He’s almost thirty years old.”
“He’s twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. He’s a man. A SEAL. Tough guy.” Dad exhales dramatically. “Don’t get caught up in something you can’t handle. The last thing you need right now is a relationship that consumes you. Our lives right now are walking the razor’s edge already. One wrong move and you can throw everything out of balance. Be careful.”
“Chris is the only reason I’m alive,” I state. “You have no idea what he’s been through to keep me safe. He took control of this militia just to break me out of Kamaneva’s labor camp. Who does that? He’s not your typical guy, Dad.”
Dad falls silent. He opens his mouth to say something just as Isabel sidles up next to me, twirling a piece of moss between her fingers.
“Look,” she says, holding it under her nose. “A mustache.”
“Wow. Impressive.” I grab it, holding it beneath my chin. “But a beard is cooler.”
“Nothing is cooler than a mustache.”
“I don’t know about that…”
I rub her head, mussing her blonde hair. Dad walks faster to keep up with his men. I roll the moss between my fingers, watching the back of his hat bob up and down with each step.
I guess that concludes our father-daughter chat.
It could have gone a lot worse.
Right?
Chapter Four
Our trek into the high mountains lasts exactly four days, just like Dad said it would. The woods are quieter here. The shadows are deeper. And the weather is cooler. I can’t detect a single sign of human life. We occasionally spot deer or squirrels, but that’s it. No people.
I decide that this is a good thing, given our track record of run-ins with unfriendly locals in the mountains.
Dad and Chris have been talking off and on all day in hushed voices. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t want me to know about it. As ticked off as I am that they’re keeping secrets, I don’t let it eat at me for long. Cassidy Hart, the girl who left Los Angeles with a backpack and her grandfather’s pistol, no longer has time to worry about petty things.
Funny how priorities change.
“I’m very ready to be done with this hike,” Sophia comments, walking beside me. The last couple of days have been nothing but a sheer uphill climb through slippery terrain. “How about you?”
“Yeah,” I pant. “I’m ready.”
We walk for a couple more hours before Dad and Chris slow our group to a halt. I peer ahead, spotting a small clearing. Wait. It’s not a clearing, it’s a road. Sophia and I share a bewildered look. We’ve been making a point of avoiding any and all roads. Why? Because roads mean people and people could mean Omega.
I weave my way through the militias, coming up on Chris’s shoulder.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re almost to the camp,” Dad replies. “Let me walk in front. They’ll recognize me.”
I peek at the road. There is no asphalt, only dirt. Pieces of black pavement make it obvious that this was a road at one time, but fell out of use. On the other hand, the road is big enough for a large vehicle, and the overhanging trees make great cover. Nobody can see you from the air.
Then again, I haven’t seen any active aircraft since the EMP hit. I wonder why. Omega has trucks and computers. Why not airplanes and helicopters, too?
Another mystery for another time, I guess.
Up ahead, two large concrete blocks are sitting in the middle of the road.
“What…?” I begin, trailing off as I scan the sides of the path. Nothing but thick green bushes and trees. The perfect place for an ambush.
“This is a checkpoint,” Dad says, seeing the expression on my face. “There are three of them before we reach the camp.”
“Where are the guards?”
“They’re here.”
I nod. Given the heavy foliage, I’m going to assume that our every move is being observed by militiamen hidden in the forest. When we reach the concrete blocks, a man steps out of the bushes wearing camouflage gear. He’s got a rifle, and his face is smudged with black and green paint.
“Eagle One,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
I turn around, noticing from this angle the sentries posted within the trees, dressed in camouflage gear. We’re surrounded at gunpoint, and I can feel Chris tensing up beside me. He doesn’t like this situation.
But Dad doesn’t seem concerned.
“Hey, Uriah,” he greets, an almost smile on his face.
Almost.
“This is the unit we went to back up downstairs,” he continues. “The Freedom Fighters. This is Alpha One, and this is my daughter.”
Uriah’s eyes widen, looking unnaturally white against his painted face.
“You found her,” he exclaims. “Nice going, Boss.”
“Thanks. Alert the other sentries that we’ve got company, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sentries posted around this checkpoint, lower their weapons, but they don’t come down to greet us. They have a job to do, after all. The guy named Uriah waves us forward and I follow Dad and Chris between the blocks of concrete, continuing on our way down the road.
“So do they just live out here?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Who?” Dad says.
“The sentries.”
“No,” he chuckles. “They rotate shifts, just like any other military base.”
“Are they all under your command?”
“No. Some of them come from other militias.”
“How many militias are we talking about?” I press.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
Again with the secrets. How annoying.
Sensing my irritation, Chris squeezes my shoulder. I smile softly, grateful for his presence. He doesn’t have to say a word. I just know that he’s there. Always. And that’s a greater comfort than anything else.
We pass through two more checkpoints. The final one is the hardest. The guard posted up front knows who Dad is, but he’s a stickler for safety and demands the security password. Dad gives it quietly. More guards appear, inspecting our gear. The Freedom Fighters are being questioned. Chris steps forward and answers everything pointblank, unhesitating. By the time we’re done, we’ve gained access to the road again. I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding and wipe the sweat off my forehead.
After a good five more minutes of walking, I see it.
“Oh,” I whisper. “That’s not what I pictured.”
“What did you picture?” Chris asks, curious.
“Something like the Alamo, I guess.”
Hello, Camp Freedom.
Camp Freedom.
An appropriate place for the Freedom Fighters to kick back and regroup. There’s a brown sign erected on a cement block in front of the chain link fence at the entrance. The words, CAMP FREEDOM, have covered over whatever the sign used to say.
“Welcome home,” Dad announces.
The gate is opened for us by several militiamen dressed in garb similar to what the Rangers are wearing, a combination of uniforms and outdoor gear. We walk inside. I tilt my head up, marveling at the thick canopy of trees. And then I look around me.
This isn’t a campground made just for RVs and pop up trailers. Asphalt roads wind throughout the large common area. A gift shop and general store are nestled between two massive cedars. Across the street, a cabin with brown siding sits on a small embankment. A sign on the porch railing says, HQ.
“What was this place?” I say, awed.
“It was a summer and winter youth camp,” Dad explains. “After the EMP and Omega takeover, everyone was stuck here. The camp authorities reverted to their emergency plan and set up roadblocks, hid themselves back in here, and utilized their stored resources to stay alive.”
“This is impressive,” Chris murmurs.
I agree.
The camp is buzzing with activity. Militiamen – and women – are everywhere. Patrolling the fence, standing by the general store, walking out of the HQ – Headquarters-building. Glancing to my left, a large dirt parking lot has been carved out. In it are parked a dozen military troop transport vehicles, the kind that you’d see in World War Two.
I take a deep breath, smelling pine, damp earth… and something else.
Something delicious.
Food.
We come to a fork in the road. Down the left path, a large building with wide glass windows is gleaming in the sunlight. A huge dining patio is built around the outside. A makeshift sign has been pounded into the dirt in front of the building: CHOW HALL.
“That used to be the campers’ dining hall,” Dad says, catching up with me. “To the right is where everybody is staying. This way, I’ll show you.”
While Dad’s group of Rangers disperse amongst the camp, following orders, the Fighters follow Dad down the road that winds away from the chow hall. Even in the safe confines of a campground our platoons stay in position, moving with purpose. Ready for anything.
Side streets dive off through the forest, going uphill, downhill and every other direction known to man. Cabins are everywhere. Most of them look like they’re being lived in.
Further down the street, an archway stretches between two lodge pole pines.
PINE TREE HIGH SCHOOL CAMP
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Dad says, turning to Chris. We walk under the arch. A grassy meadow extends into the open for a good five hundred feet. An empty swimming pool sits to the left, surrounded by a cyclone fence.
As we cross the meadow, we enter a dark forested area. Quaint brown cabins dot the perimeter, sitting snugly within the trees. Each cabin has a name, too.
Deer Foot.
Sugar Pine.
Fern.
Tiger Lily.
“These are camper cabins,” I realize.
“Yes,” Dad nods. “And they make perfect barracks for our men.”
I turn to check on our group. Mr. and Mrs. Young are bringing up the rear. Little Isabel has her fingers laced through her adoptive mother’s, and Jeff is standing to the side, nonplussed.
“What do you think?” I whisper to Sophia.
“I think it’s the safest place we’ve been in a long time,” she replies.
No kidding.
“The west side of camp,” Dad explains, “is where the men stay. Ladies, you’ll be across the meadow in the east side. Each side has a shower and toilet facilities.”
“Oh, whoa.” I blink. “Are you saying there’s running water? Indoor plumbing?”
“Yes.” Dad smiles. “We’ve got our own supply up here. You’ll be briefed on the rules for using water. Dinner is at eighteen-hundred hours every night in the chow hall. Breakfast is at oh-seven-hundred. Everybody pulls their weight around here, so you’ll all be rotating sentry duty and helping with other tasks.”
Sounds fair.
“As for the militia leaders,” Dad continues, turning to Chris. And me. “You’ll need to come with me when you’re ready.”
“Find a bunk and get settled,” Chris commands his men. “Stay alert. I’ll be back.” He nods at Alexander Ramos as he takes his men towards the barracks. An unspoken command to keep a watchful eye out while he’s gone.
The women gather and head across the meadow. Chris and I follow Dad back up the road, towards the entrance of camp.
“How big is this place?” I ask.
“We’ve got a couple hundred acres,” Dad replies. “The roads twist around quite a bit. There are a lot of abandoned leaseholder cabins that we’ve been using to house families with children. We’ve got our own well, our own generators, and every vehicle that was here when the EMP hit has been made operational again. We’ve got such a diverse bunch of people here, finding men with the skills to do that wasn’t hard.”
“Excellent,” Chris comments. “Where to now?”
“To meet the other militia leaders.”
“Then why am I coming?” I remark. “I’m not in charge of anything.”
Neither of them answers.
We reach the entrance to camp, and I notice for the first time that there are people coming in and out of the general store. Somebody’s carrying a cloth sack. They heave it onto a gardening wagon and start pulling.
“Do you actually sell stuff here?” I ask.
“We barter for the most part,” Dad corrects. “People here trade for supplies and services.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any community inhabited – since I’ve seen a community – that I’ve almost forgotten what it was like.
“Here we are,” Dad says.
He pulls off his hat and wipes his forehead with his bandana. We’re standing in front of the Headquarters building.
“Okay, listen,” he goes on, lowering his voice. “All you have to remember is to be respectful when we go in here, and everything will be fine.”
He gives me a pointed look.
Sheesh. No faith in me whatsoever.
We climb the steps. Dad approaches the front door. Neither of us says anything. We just wait. Dad knocks a couple of times.
“Here we go,” Chris mutters.
The door opens. Dad walks inside and we follow. The interior of the cabin is cool and open. The furniture has been removed, and all that remains is a huge table in the middle of the room. The walls are covered with maps and charts. Large windows cast natural light inside, and around the table are a few people dressed in combat fatigues.
“Frank.” A tall, slender woman with snow white hair stares at us. “You’re back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dad replies. “We had a successful mission.”
“Did you succeed in destroying the supply depot in Sanger?”
“Not entirely.”
“Perhaps we should redefine ‘successful mission,’ then. Honestly, Frank.” She stands up. She’s wearing black slacks and a green military jacket. “Who are these people?”
I shift, staring at the floor. The other men in the room have their eyes trained on Chris and I, and it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world. Conversely, I’ve been through worse.
A lot worse.
So I look up and meet their gazes. The lady with the white hair is the only woman in the room besides me.
“This is my daughter,” Dad says, putting an arm around my shoulders.
“Dear God,” the woman replies, touching her lips. “You found her.”
“And this is Chris Young,” he continues. “Alpha One, Commander of the Freedom Fighters.”
“Alpha One,” the woman smiles, nodding. “Yes, we’ve communicated with you through the Underground. Good to know we have friends in the foothills.” She extends her hand to Chris. “I’m Angela Wright, Commander of the militia Legion. We’ve been here for six months.”
Chris shakes her hand.
“And you’re Cassidy,” she says. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“My what?”
“You’re said to be quite the marksman with a rifle.”
I flush.
“Um, I don’t know.” I look at Chris. He winks. “Who told you that?”
“The Underground isn’t just a source of information,” she smiles. “It’s also an excellent source of gossip.” She starts laughing. “Have a seat, please. And welcome to Camp Freedom, by the way. Let me introduce you to these men here…”
There are three. Commander Jones, Commander Thomas and Commander Buckley. That gives us a grand total of six militia leaders.
“Well, boys,” Angela says. “What happened down there?”
Dad proceeds to explain the situation. How the Freedom Fighters were betrayed and ambushed, how the Rangers backed us up and helped us escape, and how we ended up here.
“And what about the traitor?” Commander Buckley asks. He’s a tall man in his sixties with dark skin and stormy eyes. “Was he killed?”
“Harry?” I reply. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice, actually.”
“And why not?”
“Because I was shot.”
“Damn, you should have killed him,” Buckley states. “He’ll tell Omega everything he knows about you. Your identities, your fighting techniques. Everything.”
“It’s too late to worry about that now,” Angela shrugs. “What’s done is done. Harry Lydell doesn’t know where Camp Freedom is located, and that’s all that matters. Chris Young and Cassidy Hart are safe here.”
Yeah, maybe.
“What about Vika Kamaneva?” Commander Jones asks, a short man with a bulbous nose and enormous shoulders. “Is she dead?”
“She is,” I confirm. “One of the Rangers shot her.”
“Omega is sweeping the foothills heavily for our militias at the moment. I’ve assigned small harassing units to lead them away,” Chris adds. “We were lucky to get out of there alive.”
“But you did,” Angela says. “And that’s all that matters. We’re glad to have you two on board. More manpower is always welcome. Camp Freedom has been growing substantially, and thanks to the ingenuity of the layout of the camp, we’ve eluded Omega’s patrols so far. Our location is well hidden and fortified.”
“Where are you getting your food?” I ask.
“There are stores of emergency supplies here in camp,” Angela replies. “And there’s wild game in the area to provide food, as well as our own domestic animals. Cattle, sheep, chickens and the like. We have several of our own water sources. I’m sure Frank has told you about the generators?”
“Yes. So you have electricity, too?”
“Only when needed. Fuel is a limited commodity at the present. We don’t use artificial light at night. That could be lethal. We don’t want anything to draw Omega’s attention to this area.” She pauses, looking at us thoughtfully. “If you need anything, let me know. I live here, in the loft. These men are scattered throughout the camp in different cabins. Frank can show you where they reside if need be. You’ll enjoy it here.”
“Thank you.”
She nods.
“About how many men did you bring with you, Young?” she asks Chris.
“Just under a hundred.”
“What are their capabilities?”
I hide a grin as Chris replies, “They can
fight. That’s all that matters.”
Angela doesn’t look amused – but she doesn’t look angry, either. So I take that as a fairly positive sign.
“We’re done here, gentlemen,” she announces. “Young? I look forward to working with you.”
“Likewise.”
I heave a sigh. So formal. Even in the middle of a fortress in the woods.
Chris shakes hands with all of the commanders as Frank and Angela stand to the side, speaking in quiet voices.
“Nice to meet you, Hart,” Commander Buckley says, shaking my hand. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you.”
After the commanders leave, Angela approaches me.
“Are you comfortable lodging in the barracks?” she asks.
