Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

“I guess. As long as you don’t mind me bouncing off the bottom mattress when it’s time to get up in the morning.”

We both laugh. After we settle in we check out the bathrooms, which are no more than a huge hall of showers separated by thin plastic curtains. There’s a dressing room, a row of sinks and a long line of mirrors. I leave, not wanting to glimpse my reflection. I’ve had enough stress today without having to look at my face, too.

“This is a little more crowded than the barracks at Camp Freedom,” Sophia says. “I’m used to sleeping in a room with just our militia.”

“If we could sleep in Kamaneva’s labor camp, we can sleep anywhere,” I reply. “We could sleep on the concrete floor with the rats.”

“And then there were the ones that didn’t sleep at all.”

And the ones that didn’t wake up in the morning.

We both pause, chilled by the memory of our imprisonment. I physically shake myself and lean against the bunk. “So,” I say. “Let’s go find out what the next step is. I’m not going to sit around and wait for Rivera to give me an order.”

“Okay,” Sophia shrugs. “But Rivera’s not in charge of what we do, is he? We get to use their weapons and equipment, but we answer to our militia leaders.”

“But which militia leaders? There are a lot of different groups here.” I look around the room. The ages, sizes and ethnicity of the women here are very diverse. I wish I knew what everyone’s story was. How did they get here? What happened to them after the EMP? Why are they fighting in the militia?

Their story is a lot like yours, a little voice says. That’s what unites all of you.

“The commanders have called a meeting.” Vera brushes past us. “Your presence is requested .”

I fight the urge to make a smart comeback.

Sophia and I head out of the barracks, down a long concrete corridor that descends further beneath the ground. It smells musty, but the temperature is nice and cool. Two gigantic steel doors are at the end of the hall, guarded by soldiers. Sophia and I follow Vera through the doors, entering a vast concrete chamber. There’s a long table, sturdy chairs and maps on the walls. It looks like a top secret briefing room from a spy movie. It’s unimaginably large. Vera, Sophia and I can only stare at everything, awed.

Colonel Rivera is sitting at the head of the table. Chris and Angela are there as well. Derek, Max and Alexander have showered and dressed in new National Guard uniforms. Chris is wearing combat pants and a brand new jacket, his beard freshly trimmed. He looks clean . He looks great .

Me? Not so much. I need new clothes and a shower, too.

“Have a seat, ladies,” Colonel Rivera says.

If he notices that I’ve brought Sophia with me to a bigwig meeting, he doesn’t show it. Chris doesn’t question her presence, either. We’re all on the same side here.

“Here’s the situation, folks,” Colonel Rivera begins. An unlit cigar is clenched between his teeth as he talks. “You Freedom Fighters need to establish a solid chain of command, with one command officer to interface directly with me. How you structure that chain of command is up to you, but I recommend that you establish Officers and NCO ranks that parallel ours.”

“NCO?” Sophia mouths.

“Non-commissioned officers,” I whisper.

“I’ve got my own platoons outfitted and mission ready,” Rivera continues. “You need to move ahead and get yours squared away.” He grinds his cigar between his teeth, glowering at us. “Well? Which one of you fine guerilla warfighters is going to be the Militia Field Commander?”

The room remains silent. Then all heads turn towards Chris.

So we are picking a single commander today. Somebody needs to state the obvious. “Chris,” I say.

Angela fixes me with a cold stare, turning back to Rivera. “I agree,” she replies, a thin smile on her lips. “Chris has the practical experience and background for this task. He will be a fine field commander.”

Well, duh.

“How about it, Alpha One?” Colonel Rivera growls, impatient.

“I’ll do it,” Chris says, locking gazes with me. “I’ll need help.”

“Angela, you will of course retain staff authority as militia leader,” Chris says, nodding at her. “I will handle combat operations. As to the officer corps, Alexander, Max.” He nods at each of them, leaning forward, looking directly at me. “And…Cassidy.”

I stare at him. Me? An officer ?

He smiles. Vera stiffens, but says nothing to protest the appointment. I don’t speak, only nod slightly to indicate that I accept the appointment. What am I going to do? Say no?

Not happening.

“I’ll need new weapons and equipment for my troops,” Chris says, turning to Colonel Rivera. “Give us what we need, and we’ll be ready to go.”

“Excellent.” Colonel Rivera folds his arms. “Now that we’ve got that squared away, let’s get one thing straight: this base operates solely on its own electricity. It was built years ago as a failsafe in the event of a catastrophe for the elites, if you will. A place for federal and state leaders to bunk out in the event that something huge went down. It was a way to preserve the chain of command, from the Executive Branch down. Well, folks, the catastrophe is already here, and the feds and everyone else in between never made it to the shelters. So the National Guard utilized them.” He stops and surveys the room. “The Federal Government has been protecting itself from a possible EMP attack for years. True, Washington D.C. and the Eastern Seaboard have been nuked, but remnants of the government still survive. State governments. State militias. State law enforcement. Our leaders are gone, but what we’ve got in this base — and in bases across the country — is access to electricity, food, water, weapons and information .”

“Define information,” Chris says.

“Sit back and enjoy the show.” Colonel Rivera grabs a black device off the table. A remote control. He dims the lights with one flick of a button, and a white screen rolls down from the ceiling.

“What the hell is this?” Alexander asks. “A power point presentation?”

Chris holds up a hand, a wordless warning to be silent.

I look up, my eyes falling on a projector mounted to the ceiling. A burst of color blossoms on the screen. Speakers in the wall crackle with an electric hiss. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

It’s been so long…this is so alien.

An image appears. It looks like security footage. A grainy picture of a large parking lot. There’s a Wal-Mart and a collection of fast food restaurants and clothing stores in the background. It’s night. Everything is glowing with color. Cars are driving through the parking lot.

“What is this? Derek mutters.

There’s a clock at the bottom of the film feed. As soon as it hits 1832 hours — 6:32 p.m. — the lighting in the shopping center shuts off. The Wal-Mart sign, the restaurants, the car headlights. Everything. Several vehicles careen off the road and smash into parked cars.

“This is footage from the night the EMP hit,” I say. “How did you get this?”

“Satellite,” Colonel Anderson replies. “There are devices that the military — and the government — put into use that were resistant to a technological attack. We’ve used images and footage from those devices to learn more about what happened that night.”

It switches to another image. This one is of an outdoor patio along a fancy walkway near the beach. The lights are glowing brightly. People are dining at tables with white napkins and wine glasses. The power goes out. Everything turns black.