Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

I realize that this is one of the first signs of weakness I’ve seen from Omega. If they had a firmer grip on the central valley, this farmland would be utilized. With a Chinese army on the way, they’ll need food and water. And I’m not seeing a lot of that today.

Good news for us, bad news for them.

We hit the outskirts of Fresno in about three hours. The roads that the convoy takes are backcountry dirt avenues and boulevards woven between abandoned orchards and farming property. Colonel Rivera gave very specific instructions and coordinates that allow navigation through enemy territory without being spotted by scouts. We hope.

Growing up in Culver City, I didn’t have much of a reason to travel north to a place like Fresno unless I was visiting relatives or going on a school field trip. It looks nothing like I remember. As we roll into town, I look out the back of the truck, studying the scenery as we flash by. Gas stations, strip malls and cracked asphalt. Dead trees. The foul stink of long-burning fires eating through piles of rubble. Fast food restaurants with shattered windows and broken doors. Billboards covered with bright, vulgar graffiti.

Not the most beautiful tourist hotspot in the world.

“It’s not right,” Sophia mutters.

“What’s not right?” I ask.

“This. Being out of the trees. In the open.” She shakes her head. “I don’t like being exposed. It makes me nervous.”

“We’re all nervous,” I reply. “We’ll adjust.” I smile with confidence I don’t have, then change the subject. “You know, my dad and I used to take vacations up to our cabin in the mountains. We’d stay up there during the summer and then go back to Culver City. It took me a few days to adjust to all the cement and pollution in the city after being up in the wilderness for so long. This is like that.”

“It’s a lot different,” Vera says suddenly. “Because this isn’t like coming back from vacation. This is just going from one warzone to the next.”

I meet her cold, blue-eyed gaze.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I answer.

“If you only had a brain,” Sophia adds, and we both stifle laughter. Vera flushes bright red and curses us under her breath. Ticked? Maybe. But she had it coming.

And that’s all we say. I’m in no mood to get into a pointless argument with the ice queen today. Besides, we’re almost there. Even against the pale moonlit sky I can make out street signs still hanging from rusty streetlights. Just a few more minutes.

Our convoy rumbles ahead, never stopping. Never hesitating.

“We’re here,” I say.

“The linkup point?” Sophia asks.

“Yeah.” I stand up, walking to the rear of the truck. I step onto the back gate and stand there, one arm on the truck wall to keep my balance. The outriders on motorcycles and quads buzz past us, checking point and flanks for danger. I know that Manny is somewhere high above us, watching for danger from his vantage point in the sky. “Standby,” I say, turning to Sophia.

The truck is slowing down. Not too much. But enough. “Just stay put.”

A convoy of National Guard vehicles and troops are waiting at the far edge of a former Wal-Mart. The parking lot is a sea of dead vehicles. Weeds are growing through cracks in the pavement and sidewalk. Our outriders on the small vehicles roar back and forth in front of us, giving us the all-clear to move ahead. From here I can see the lead Humvee that holds Chris and Angela blazing the path for the rest of our vehicles. Our convoy heads straight towards the National Guard forces behind the building.

I keep a firm grip on the truck’s handholds, praying under my breath that we’ll make it to the base in one piece. We’ve been safe so far… but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t go wrong from here to there. I hold my standing position, unable to force myself to sit on the bench and stare at the wall until we get there. I need to know where we are.

After a steady ten minutes of following the National Guard forces, we pull away from the city a bit, staging on the outskirts of town. There are empty fields here, clustered with half-built construction sites and scattered debris.

Up ahead, a chain-link fence stands around a burned out building marked Poison Control Center . The back of the edifice has been blown up. Black smudge lines the cement. There’s not a lot of glass left in the structure.

The convoy slows to a crawl while a heavy steel gate swings open. We follow the lead vehicles to the rear of the building. The road slopes, dipping into an underground parking garage. The door rolls up just enough to fit the vehicles under the ceiling. The sound of the engines echoing off the walls is deafening.

And then, without warning, there’s a blast from a siren — three times. The convoy halts. I help the guards unlatch the truck’s tailgate. Militiamen and women leave the transport quickly, eager to stretch their legs.

Vera gets up, wordlessly hands me my backpack, and leaves the truck. I swing it over my shoulder, wondering why she bothered to hand me anything , and wait for Sophia. We stick close to each other, and I’m vaguely reminded of being rounded up out of a semi-truck not so long ago when I was imprisoned in a labor camp with Sophia...I look at her and she gives me a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says.

“We’ve been through this before.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“At least we’re not enslaved this time.”

“Never again.”

We’re here by choice. When I step off the truck, my boots hit blackened cement. The ceiling is high above us. About two stories high, actually. Pipes and support beams wind their way across the ceiling. We’re inside what looks like a giant garage, lit by white lights powered by generators. Our men are leaving the vehicles, looking around the place with dazed expressions on their faces.

What is this place?

It’s been a long time since some of these people have been inside a building. Many of them have been living in the mountains since the day the EMP hit. Confined spaces can be pretty shocking after that kind of lifestyle. It’s an adjustment for me . It smells so… urban . Diesel fumes, gasoline and hot metal.

Large white lettering is painted across the far wall.

I meet Chris’s gaze from across the room, a silent agreement echoing between us: This is going to be a lot different than fighting in the mountains.

You know that feeling you get when walk into a room full of strangers and nobody looks up to say hello to you? That’s how I feel when I walk into the barracks for the first time. Women are everywhere — all ages, but mostly between fifteen and thirty years old. It’s an interesting scene. I feel no fear, no nervousness. I’ve been through too much for that. I simply am . We are all here for one reason, for one purpose. And that unifies us.

Women from other militia groups that were staying at Camp Freedom are among the new arrivals here. Vera is bunking three beds over. She avoids my gaze, and I remember that she handed me my backpack on the truck. A simple gesture. A kind gesture, even. Coming from her, I have no idea what the motivation was behind it. She notices me watching her and looks up. She opens her mouth as if to say something right as Sophia decides to intervene. “I’ll take the top bunk,” she announces. “That way we can be next to each other.”

“Sounds good,” I agree.

Vera clenches her jaw. Whatever she was going to say remains unsaid.

Sophia assembles her gear on her bunk.

“There’s no ladder,” she says. “This is criminal.”

“It’s not so bad.”