Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

“Very good, gentlemen,” Angela says. She nods at the group. “Be careful out there.”

Late morning is fast approaching. The temperature is warming up. Glorious white thunderheads are climbing into the sky, spiking the humidity level. A summer storm may be on its way.

“Stick with me,” Chris mutters to me under his breath, turning towards the Freedom Fighters . He gathers our scouts — a group that includes Jeff, Sophia, Max, Derek and Alexander — and we head towards the main entrance to the camp. The plan is simple. We, along with Dad and his scouts, will meet the convoy on the main access road. If they’re anything like us, they’ll have scouts out, too. We’ll talk to them. Find out what their purpose is. Take the necessary measures to keep them out if they end up being unfriendly.

Yes, here we go again, I think. Meeting new and interesting people…and then killing them. What has happened to my world?

I shake off the thought.

“My dad is still mad at me,” I comment in a low tone.

“He’s not mad,” Chris replies. “Just frustrated. Wartime environments are hard. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m taking sides with you over him.”

“Aren’t you, though?” Chris gives me a thoughtful look. “What you said back at HQ…didn’t you mean that?”

I nod. “Yeah, but—”

“—Don’t be afraid to have your own opinions, Cassie. Go with your gut.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Chris shrugs. “People get mad sometimes.”

True. I should know that by now.

Dad is approaching the main gate with his cadre of scouts. The rest of the militia will remain behind to protect the camp in case something happens while we’re gone. Desmond is waiting with the Rangers, his odd hair, weapons and medical kit all contradictions of each other. Manny is standing between the two groups.

“You’re not a scout,” Dad grumbles, adjusting his hat.

Manny squints at him. “I’m a born scout. Done recon all my life. Who was the one who alerted you to the convoy in the first place? It sure wasn’t any of your Pony Express boys in the Underground.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his duster. Jaw set. “I’m coming with you.”

Dad doesn’t argue the point. Manny is a scout. An air scout.

“Very well. You’re with my unit, squad one.”

Desmond nods to me, pulling what I think is a pine needle out of his unruly beard. I don’t think I want to know. “Feeling okay, Hart?” he asks. “No abnormal pain or discomfort?”

“Nope,” I grin. “I’m sore but I’m fine.”

“Good. Hey, I’ve got some killer herbal tea for you.”

“Uh, thanks…”

“What happened to you?” Manny asks.

“I got shot.”

“Ah.” He looks me up and down. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I’m a born scout, too.”

Manny smirks, his sunburned face crinkling into a thousand lines and wrinkles.

“You know, Doc,” he says to Desmond, “you medic boys have your hands full around here.”

“Yeah,” Desmond shrugs.

Manny jerks his thumb at Desmond’s long, wild hair threaded with beads and feathers. “Looks like a bird made its nest on your head.”

Desmond blinks.

“Respect the hair, man.”

I pull my hair back from my forehead, torn between being annoyed or amused. We retrieve our weapons and leave the compound on foot. Chris forms up the detail.

“Open formation patrol from here on,” he says, “Derek, you’re on point. Everybody buddy-check your gear.” Derek draws himself up to his full height, taking the forward position, his white-blonde hair like a homing beacon to follow. As we quickly check each other’s gear and set-ups, a bubble of anxiety swells in my chest. Whenever I leave on a mission, I realize anything could go wrong. I could die. My friends could die. It’s this knowledge — this fear — that sharpens my senses and gives me an adrenaline boost every time.

Chris says, “Okay, boys. Everybody go weapons hot.”

We lock and load our rifles. The sharp sound of metal against metal, of bullets being loaded into an empty chamber is an ominous sound in a quiet forest. I hang behind Chris with Vera, Manny and Desmond. Dad is out front. Alexander is with Chris, and Jeff is sticking close to Sophia as we work our way down the main road with Derek and Max. No sounds. No unnecessary noise. The realization that we may or may not be meeting Omega on the road puts everyone in a cautious mood.

We move along the trail, checking our sectors of fire, keeping our weapons ready. We reach the blockaded road. A platoon of rough militiamen is guarding the area. They know we’re coming. “Any activity?” Chris asks the head of the platoon — the same guard we met on the way in, Uriah.

“No, sir,” he replies. “Not yet.”

“Good. Carry on.”

We stake out in the thick foliage. I settle in next to Chris while the rest of our detail disperses. “What if they don’t come down the main road?” I ask.

“They will.”

“But what if they don’t? What if they just go around the road and hit the camp?”

“They won’t.” Chris gives my arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “From what Manny described, this is a military convoy. They will send out scouts ahead of them.”

“What if they’re Omega scouts?”

He doesn’t answer. Because we both know the answer to that question.

They can’t be allowed to return.

“They’re not Omega,” Chris says.

“The convoy?” I ask.

“Right.” He leans against a tree. “According to the latest scouting reports, this is a United States military convoy.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Manny raises an eyebrow.

“Conspiracy theorist,” Desmond mutters.

“Oh, right. I’m spinning conspiracies,” Manny grumbles. “It’s not like we’re not living in one already.” He straightens his jacket, digging around in his pocket for something. He pulls out a metal flask, pops it open, and takes a drink. Alcohol? Great. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, shoving the thing back in his pocket.

“Gotta keep the spirits up, somehow,” he shrugs, noticing my glare of disapproval. “Want some?”

“I’m young, but I’m not stupid,” I comment. “You shouldn’t drink that.”

“I’m not a drunk.”

“But you’re drinking.”

“Darling, there’s a difference between drinking and being drunk . This is medicinal.”

“Medicinal, my foot.”

“It does help with foot pain. Also the liver.”

“Quit making things up.”

“Relax, guys,” Desmond interjects. “Arguing is never the answer.”

“Hippie,” Manny states.

“Drunk.”

“Tree-hugger.”

“Blind as a bat.”

“Oh, shut up ,” I say, rolling my eyes.

So. The United States military. If this is true, then why are they sending a convoy up to the mountains? What are they looking for?

They’re looking for us.

Hmm.

After an hour the sound of truck engines can be heard in the distance. I tense, swallowing a lump in my throat. This is the moment of truth. The militiamen take their positions at the blockade. Snipers are posted. Hunter-killer teams are ghosting through the trees. Dad is on the other side of the road with his Rangers . The convoy rumbles up the road. Only three vehicles, all bristling with heavy weaponry that anyone in the militia would love to get their hands on.

The Humvees are tan. They look bulletproof and dangerous. A lot different than the makeshift retrofitted military jeeps and farming pickup trucks we’ve been using. They roll to a halt, the lead vehicle coming to a stop about one hundred feet away from the blockade. The door of the lead vehicle opens, and out steps a tall, burly man in uniform. He’s got an American flag in one hand, a white flag in the other. A cigar is jammed between his teeth. He looks unmoved — irritated, even — at the array of weapons pointed his way.