“We still have nuclear weapons, right?” I ask. “We must have some kind of government left in place. The President and Congress and all of those people…they’re still around, aren’t they? Don’t they have some sort of emergency plan for a scenario like this?”
“I have no idea, Cassie,” Dad replies, frowning. “I haven’t heard anything about our governmental structure still being in place. As for the President and everybody else, they might be dead. If the big cities really were nuked, our population has been significantly reduced, people are starving, and our borders are practically wide open for an invading force. What’s left of our military is on its own.”
“There’s nobody in charge at all?”
“Well…” Dad shifts his position. “You’ll understand once you get to Camp Freedom — that’s what we call our basecamp. It’s not gigantic, but it’s well hidden and we’ve got a good number of volunteers.”
“And you’ve got people there who have authority?” Chris asks.
“Somewhat. We’ve got a governing body. Like I said, you’ll see when you get there.” Dad looks at me. “We need to accept the fact that the United States as we know it is long gone. Right now it’s nothing but an anarchic society, and our enemies are taking advantage of our weakened state. They’re simply taking over.”
“We can’t let that happen,” I grit out, anger ripping through my veins. “This is our home. How can people be so stupid? How could they let something like this happen? Didn’t our military or government or somebody know this was coming? They had to have some kind of clue!”
“They probably did,” Dad says, patting my knee. “But Cassidy, when it comes right down to it, people are going to save themselves first, and then worry about everybody else. You can bet that our government — if they knew this was coming — took that approach. The population was collateral damage. We’re on our own, and if we want the invaders out, we’ll have to take care of it ourselves.”
Great. Just wonderful.
“That’s not fair,” I say, exhausted. All I can think about are the poor men and women that died yesterday. Horrible, agonizing deaths. And they weren’t soldiers. Not really. They were former schoolteachers and parents and plumbers and insurance salesmen. People that should never have to go to war. “I hate it.”
Nobody speaks. The peripheral crowd around the campfire falls silent.
Irritated, — no, terrified — I get to my feet and stalk away from the fire, fear threatening to overpower me. I might break down and start sobbing if I’m not careful.
First the EMP.
Then Omega.
And now China is sending a million man army to the west coast.
We’re dead. It’s over.
I sit on my butt at the base of a sugar pine. The sweet scent is refreshing, but it’s not enough to lift my spirits.
“Cassidy, you can’t get discouraged.”
Sophia sits down next to me, threading her fingers through mine.
“I know. I’m sorry, I just…” I trail off. “It’s been a long two days.”
“It has.” She leans forward, stretching her legs out. “We’ve never talked about what our lives used to be like, have we? It’s always war, war, war. Fight, fight, fight. My mama and I owned an art gallery in New York. Did I ever tell you that?”
I smile, picturing Sophia wearing a beret, puttering around a penthouse apartment with a paintbrush in her hand.
“No,” I say. “You never did.”
“Well, we did.” A longing expression crosses her face. “My mama was an artist, and we sold her paintings out of a little shop near Long Island. My parents were immigrants, you know, and it was always their dream to open up an art gallery for my mother’s paintings.” She sighs. “My father was a shoe salesman at Macy’s.” She starts laughing. “Isn’t that funny? An artist and a shoe salesman. And there I was in the middle, just trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.”
“Well…” I say. “What did you want to do?”
“Art. Just like my mama.” She licks her lips. “My brother was going to school to be a graphic designer, you know? We were so proud. The first person in our family to ever go to college.”
“You must miss them.”
“I do. Every day.” She squeezes my hand. “But that was then and this is now. We have to deal with each day that’s given to us. It could be worse. We could be dead, couldn’t we? At least we’re here. At least we can talk about happier times.”
I bite my lip, fighting tears.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re completely right. What would I do without you?”
“I have no idea.”
We both giggle, embracing each other.
“Now it’s your turn,” she tells me.
“My turn?”
“Tell me something happy. Something that you remember that makes you smile.”
“Don’t you think we’re going to make ourselves sad talking about all of this stuff?” I point out. “I mean, it’s gone, right? We can’t go back.”
“No,” she replies, offering a rueful smile. “We can’t. But if we don’t remember what it was like yesterday, we’ll forget what we’re fighting for.”
“Normalcy,” I say. “We’re fighting for yesterday.”
“Right.” She grins. “Now come on. Tell me something happy.”
My mood lifts. Something happy?
Yeah. I think I can do that.
We leave for Camp Freedom the next morning. I’m feeling better. I mean, sure. The fact that Omega is sending a boatload of troops onto American soil is eating at my nerves big time, but you know what? There’s nothing I can do about it at this point. I can only take one day at a time, and right now that means my first priority is putting one foot in front of the other.
As we walk, a familiar, friendly face pops up beside me.
“Hey, Cassie,” Jeff Young says, winking. “You holding up okay?”
“Yes.” I shove him playfully in the shoulder. He bears a remarkable resemblance to his brother Chris, but where Chris is a man, Jeff is still a boy. And I mean that in a metaphorical sense.
“You look a lot better than you did two days ago,” he remarks. “That was a nasty hit you took.”
“Yeah. I’m trying to forget.” I sigh. “Do you have any idea where we’re going? Did Chris or my dad say anything about the location about the basecamp?”
“No,” he shrugs. “I guess after what happened with Harry Lydell, everybody’s a little uptight about sharing information.”
“It wouldn’t kill Dad to share some information with me,” I grumble.
“He probably doesn’t want to give you info that could get you killed.”
“Thanks for putting it so bluntly.”
“That’s what I do.” He laughs. “Good to see you walking again, Cassidy.”
“Thanks.”
I have to rest a bit more often than the others because I’m still healing, but that’s fine. It’s better than being dead. Dad leads the front of the group with the Rangers — about forty men and women in all. Most of them are substantially older than me.
Old dogs, I think, amused. But they can sure kick some butt.
“Are you holding up okay?” Chris asks, sliding down next to me. He’s been leading the front of the Freedom Fighters all day, periodically dropping back to check on me. “Do you need to rest again?”