“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.
Chapter Eight
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.
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.