The Internet. A scary place in more ways than one.
“I don’t know what book face is all about,” Manny comments,” but I never had one. And I’m glad I didn’t. Omega won’t be able to find anything on me.”
“They’ll be able to find something,” Andrew answers, “if they really want to.” He pauses. “And it’s Facebook, not book face.”
“Facebook, book face,” Manny rolls his eyes. “Same thing.”
“Citizens that are enrolled in the census,” Andrew continues, turning to me, “have to report weekly to General Headquarters. They only get a certain amount of buying power in the stores, and they’re given mandatory Omega jobs. Otherwise known as slave labor.”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“I listen to the Underground radio.”
“It sounds like Omega’s turned L.A. into a dystopian society.”
“Dystopian? No. It’s blatantly obvious that things are controlled by Omega,” he says. “They’re not trying to hide it. There’s no illusion. The question is, who’s really in charge?”
“So nobody can buy or sell without Omega approval?” Vera asks.
“You’ve got to have a registered Omega identification card to buy or sell anything,” he explains. “And even then you can only buy a certain amount. I don’t know what people are using for currency. The dollar is worthless.”
“They’re probably selling their souls, for all we know,” Vera says.
During the fourth hour of our journey through the city, we change our route. The signs of Omega’s presence are very strong here, and as we progress, I hear something in the distance. Voices? Machines?
We move through an alley. I stop, eyeing a fire escape at the back of an apartment complex. “I’m going to take a quick look,” I say. “Stay here and keep an eye out.”
“I’ll come with you,” Uriah volunteers.
Of course.
I curl my fingers around the rusty rungs of the ladder and climb. The building is only four stories. I reach the top and roll onto the roof. I can see clearly in all directions from here. Miles of buildings wind across the landscape in every direction. I can almost see the ocean from here.
Almost.
Less than three miles away, the signature circular skyscraper of Los Angeles towers above the ground. The windows over the top half of the building have been painted red. The white Omega O is visible in the center.
“I think we found General Headquarters,” I say, sick.
“That’s the beehive,” Uriah replies. “Wow. They didn’t waste any time making L.A. their home, did they?”
I shake my head.
Uriah remains silent for a few moments. Then, “Listen, Cassidy…about the kiss. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” I maintain my crouched position on the roof. In the distance, there is movement. Lots of movement. People? Probably.
Uriah swallows, resting his fists against his knees.
“I just…I care about you, Cassidy,” he continues. I glance at his face, hesitating. His expression is one of hope.
“I know,” I reply.
And that’s all I say. What else am I supposed to do?
I don’t want to lead him on. I won’t.
I jump over the ledge and climb back down the fire escape.
“Well?” Manny asks.
“There’s people,” I say. “A lot of them.”
“All survivors,” Andrew tells us. “But we can bypass them to get to the Holding Center. I think.”
“You think?” Vera snaps. “You’d better be sure. We can’t risk running into any more gangs.”
“Hey, I’m just going by Underground intelligence,” Andrew fires back. “It’s not my fault if we walk into a firefight.”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” I interrupt, silencing them with a look. “We’re going to stick to the plan and keep to this route until we get to the Holding Center.”
It takes every ounce of self-control in my body to maintain a leader-like glare. To avoid dropping my gaze. I hold eye contact with Vera until she turns away.
We move around the back of the apartment building, walking down another alley. Garbage and human feces are piled in the gutters. The smell is horrific. We tie scarves around our faces to avoid being overwhelmed with the stench. I stop dead in my tracks, staring at two small human shapes crouched near the gutter. A little girl and what looks like her younger brother is pawing through the debris in the streets. Their clothes are nothing more than torn rags, skin smudged with dirt and grime.
They freeze, watching us with wide eyes.
“Oh, my God,” Vera whispers.
“We should help them,” Uriah says.
“No,” I reply. “We can’t.”
“But Commander—”
“—No.”
He makes a move to walk toward the children, then thinks better of it. He remains where he is, and we start moving again. The children are still motionless as we pass — almost as if they believe that if they stay still, they won’t be seen. It breaks my heart. Children are starving in the streets, digging through garbage and human waste to survive.
This is what Omega has done to us.
It’s just as devastatingly sad as it is infuriating.
“This is third world status,” Uriah grumbles. “Why did this have to happen?”
“Because we’re all human,” I sigh. “And human nature sometimes screws everybody over.”
“They were just children, Cassidy.”
“I know.” I pat his shoulder. “I didn’t say it was right. It just is.”
And what I don’t say out loud is that we — as militiamen — are fighting to restore not just humane living conditions, but freedom. We’re already doing our part — and more besides.
As we continue through the city, the image of the starving children haunts my mind. I try to push it away, focusing on my objective:
Chris. We’re here to rescue Chris.
But the further we push, the more afraid I become. Streets and buildings that I was familiar with as a child have been destroyed. A clothing boutique where I bought my first pair of skinny jeans as a fourteen-year-old has been looted, covered with bright, vulgar graffiti. A bakery where I used to meet with my math tutor has been burned out. The faded sign advertising discount scones and cups of coffee is riddled with bullet holes.
“Anarchy is hell,” Andrew remarks. “Omega didn’t do all this. Citizens did this.”
“My dad said it was insane,” I reply. “It took him three days to get out of here after the EMP hit.”
“Was he on foot?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent for a second. Then, “I was in Fresno. When the EMP hit.”
“What were you doing?” I ask.
“Watching a movie.” He laughs softly. “Me and my friends. We were at the theater, and all of the sudden the power just goes out. Nobody’s phones are working, nobody’s flashlights are working. The ushers are falling over themselves to get us out of there, and by the time we get home…my family’s not even there. They’re just gone.” He closes his eyes. “I have no idea what happened to them. They just disappeared. The cars were still in the driveway.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, quivering. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know.” A pained expression crosses his face. “That’s the worst part, I guess. Not knowing.” He stops. “But maybe it’s a good thing, too.”
Yes. Maybe.
Sometimes it’s better to be blissfully ignorant of the fate of the people we love, than to know what horrific fate they had to suffer. Or you end up like me, with memories of friends like Jeff Young getting shot on the battlefield.