Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I turn to Isabel and give her a fierce hug. Her eyes are brimming with tears, her pale cheeks flushed with splotches of red. “Listen to me,” I say. “I will come back. I will see you again.”

“But when?” she sniffs.

“When it’s over.”

“What if it never ends?”

I kiss her forehead. “Everything ends, Isabel.”

I hug Mrs. Young, the closest thing to a real mother I’ve had in my young life. Mr. Young gives me a brief, gruff embrace. But coming from him, it means a lot. And then I turn to Dad.

“We need to talk,” I state.

He nods.

“I promise, I’ll see you again. We’ll all see you again,” I say, taking in Isabel’s tear-streaked face one last time. My own eyes are burning with emotion. “So…see you around.”

“See you around,” Isabel cries, burying her face into Mrs. Young’s waist.

I stand there, frozen. It will be a long time before I see these precious people again. If ever. I tuck the memory of this cabin and this conversation away in my brain before turning and walking out the door. Just like that. Otherwise I’ll never go.

The front porch is creaky. It smells like campfire smoke. Dry wood.

“How can you leave ?” Dad demands, following me outside.

His eyes are stormy. His body is coiled tight. I am in huge trouble.

“This is my choice,” I reply, taking a shaky breath. “I have to fight.”

“You can fight here. You don’t have to leave to do that.”

“Dad, they need us out there, and I can help.” I sigh. “I can’t let him go alone. I’d wonder why I didn’t go with him for the rest of my life.”

“So that’s it, then?” he growls. “You’re throwing your life away and leaving the safety of a secure camp for a boy ?”

“Chris is not just some boy !” I counter, flushed. “You know better than that. Why were you over here talking about Chris with the Youngs, anyway?”

“I wanted to get to know the family of the boy my daughter is leaving with!”

“You should trust my judgment.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I say. “For the first time in my life , I know what I want to do and where I want to go. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“But you’re helping already, Cassie,” Dad answers, closing his fingers around the porch railing. “You’ve already done enough. Don’t go out there and get yourself killed. This isn’t the militia anymore. This is the National Guard. The environment will be different, and the fighting will be more brutal than anything you’ve ever seen.”

I close my eyes.

“You’re right,” I shrug. “It’s going to be different. But I have to go anyway.”

“Why would you go when you could stay here with me?”

“Don’t.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t make me choose anybody over you. I’m not choosing one person over anyone else. I’m making a decision based on what I feel is the right thing to do. This is what I’ve decided.”

He gives me a long, sad look.

“Please, Cassie,” he says at last, softly. “Don’t go.”

I blink hard and fight the urge to cry, walking across the porch. I need to be strong. I wrap my arms around my father, giving him a hug. His embrace is tight and final.

“I love you, Dad,” I say. “You know that.”

A pause.

“I know.”

I pull away. His expression is one of utter defeat — something I’ve never seen in him before. It frightens me. I bite my lip and take a few steps backward, turning on my heel and climbing down the front porch steps.

“Cassidy,” Dad says.

I turn.

“I love you, too.” He folds his hands together, leaning against the railing. “Be careful.”

I nod.

And then I’m gone.

There’s no turning back now.

Retrofitted jeeps and pickup trucks don’t make the most efficient convoy lineup in the world, but hey. If it works, it works. At this point, I’m becoming less and less critical of just about everything under the sun. Case in point, I’m heading into the back of an older military transport jeep. A line of transport trucks is waiting near the front entrance of Camp Freedom, ready to leave. It’s midnight.

I’m outfitted in my militia uniform — military pants, jacket and blue armband tied around my bicep. I’ve got my rifle, my bulletproof vest, my backpack full of gear.

I sling my rifle over my shoulder and climb the metal stairs of the last massive truck in the lineup, sitting down on a bench. They face each other, covered in nylon netting. Metal rods parallel the benches above me. The walls and ceiling are made of a heavy tarpaulin-like sheet printed in camouflage colors. It’s hot inside, and getting more crowded by the minute. Men and women. Former teachers and bank clerks. Brothers and sisters. Cashiers and baristas in another life. I set my backpack down and hold my rifle barrel up, drawing my knees closer to my chest. Sophia squeezes in next to me, and right behind her is Vera. She sits down on the bench across from mine.

Great.

She says nothing. I say nothing. Obviously this is going to be awkward.

The truck fills up with more people. We simply can’t fit any more passengers. The back gate in the truck goes up, sealing with a loud metallic boom. My heart accelerates and Sophia jumps, grabbing my arm. I’ve never been big on being trapped in confined spaces. Especially with a ton of people in a truck, moving down a mountain in an active warzone.

There’s a first time for everything.

It’s getting stuffy fast back here, and as the doors continue to slam and militiamen and women keep piling into the trucks, I suddenly wish Chris were here. As our commander, he’s in the lead Humvee with Angela. I chose to stay with the Freedom Fighters in the transport trucks. I didn’t want to leave Sophia alone.

But I’d rather be with Chris.

The convoy roars to life. The trucks roll forward, diesel engines roaring to life, spitting strong fumes, the hard suspension of the vehicles hitting every pothole in the road with a bang. It jars my teeth. With nothing but dark walls and human faces to stare at, the jerking, rocking motion of the truck is enough to make me seriously carsick.

I am aware of the exact second we cross Camp Freedom’s boundary line. The convoy speeds up, reaching the amazing speed of 15 miles per hour. Sophia and I share a sad, meaningful glance.

“Goodbye, Camp Freedom,” I whisper.

She nods, tears glistening in her eyes. But she doesn’t cry.

If Vera overhears me she doesn’t say anything. She just sits silently, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Maybe leaving the camp is just as hard for her as it is for me. I don’t know. At least she didn’t have to leave her mother behind.

Goodbye, Dad…

Goodbye everything.

The central valley is something I haven’t seen in a long time. After being a guerilla war fighter in the high mountains and foothills for months, the open space of farmland is disorienting. Everything is wide, bright and magnified. The trees are spaced far apart. No more pines, cedars or lodge poles. No more scent of mountains, of forest.

This is just hot. Heat and dryness. And stillness, as if the land itself is waiting for something patiently.

Orchards line the side of the road we take to Fresno. Most of the trees are dead. With no water and no farmers to care for them, they’ve been killed in the summer heat. The fruit basket of the world is looking pretty fruitless, even with all of the slave labor Omega is using — or was using — to harvest crops and get food to their invasion forces.