Will we survive?
Will I survive?
Everything has changed. There is no electricity, no commonplace technology. No computers, no cellphones. No grocery stores or hospitals. No laws or officers to enforce them. What we once knew no longer exists. It’s a brand new world. A world of day-to-day survival and warfare. A world of kill or be killed. It’s brutal. It’s eons different than the lifestyle that I used to live, huddled in a corner of Culver City, California, surfing the Internet for employment opportunities.
I am a fighter, now. Nothing stands in my way.
I am capable. I am fast. I am smart.
But I am not invincible. All of the skill and knowledge in the world can end with a single bullet — a fact that I can personally attest to. I have seen many people die in the field. It’s what has hardened me. Changed me. Seeing death shifts your focus in a way that nothing else can.
My love for my father, for Chris Young, and for my friends is what keeps me going. Their lives and their love is what I fight for.
This is a final stand. If we lose to Omega, the world will no longer be the same. The United States of America will cease to exist. We will be enslaved or terminated. So many innocents have already died.
I will do everything I can to help win this war.
And if that means that I must sacrifice my life, so be it.
There is nothing else I would rather die for.
It has been two hours. Two grueling, horrifying hours. Most of the smoke and dust have settled, and the ravaged dome of the Capitol Building is fully visible for the world to see. The fire is out, thanks to the rescue crews, and dozens of Category B survivors are being loaded into waiting trucks, Humvees and retrofitted jeeps. It’s makeshift, but the rescue effort is effective. We are more organized than I anticipated.
It gives me hope amidst the massive devastation.
I have been helping the rescue crews take survivors out of the building. I have crawled under concrete blocks and heavy support beams. My left arm is bloody, scraped up. A rescue team member cleaned and wrapped it for me.
“Cassidy,” Uriah says, approaching me. His black hair is covered with white ash. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
Was I really giving a speech in the Senate Chambers just a few hours ago?
“What’s up?” I ask, bending at the waist, resting my hands on my knees.
“Our Cat Bs are all taken care of,” he says. “We’re moving onto the next phase.”
“Okay,” I nod. “I’m ready.”
I stand up, sucking in a deep breath. Uriah briefly squeezes my shoulder.
“We will survive this,” he says softly.
I don’t smile. I can’t. I just squeeze his shoulder in return and make my way toward the medical vehicles. The survivors here have a myriad of injuries. Open wounds, missing appendages, burned eyes, scorched skin and crushed bones. Many of them are unconscious, but some of them are alive, screaming. It chills me to the bone, standing there, looking at the living hell that Omega has created here.
“You okay?”
A strong hand takes my arm. I look at Chris. He is smeared with dirt and soot, but, as always, he is calm and steady. Like a rock.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
“Fine.” He pauses and takes a look at the Capitol Building. “This wasn’t a bomb from the inside of the building,” he tells me. “This was an exterior attack.”
“So somebody bombed us from the air?”
“My guess is that it was a missile.”
“Oh, my god.” I run a hand through my hair. “What do we do, Chris?”
“We keep working on getting these survivors out, and we discuss our theories afterward,” he replies. “You’re doing great, Cassie.” He presses a quick kiss into my hair, and then he’s gone. Again.
I sigh.
I move toward a group of rescue workers hauling in the last of the Category B survivors. Some of them are maimed beyond recognition. The sweetish scent of burnt flesh almost makes me gag, but I have been doing this sort of thing long enough that I know how to hold it in.
They lay two men on a stretcher. One of them is conscious. The other one is unmoving, and I watch as somebody nods sadly, and they pull a tarp over his body. Dead.
I am about to turn away and head back into the Capitol Building when a familiar figure catches my eye. Angela Wright, a militia commander. The mother of Vera Wright, a Lieutenant in my militia.
Angela is lying on her back on the cement. Her jacket is soaked in blood, and so is her face, but I recognize her unmistakable coif of silver white hair. Shocked to see her like this, I walk toward her and kneel down. Tears come to my eyes. While I am barely on civil terms with Vera, Angela is a good woman who has my respect. She has always stood up for me.
“Angela?” I say, touching her hands.
She blinks up at me, coughing. Blood dribbles out the side of her mouth, and I realize that her chest has been ripped open. She must have been crushed when the dome collapsed.
She is dying.
“Angela, I’m so sorry,” I breathe.
She knows who I am. I can see the recognition on her face, even beneath the blood. She barely squeezes my fingers and spits up more blood.
“Cassidy,” she coughs. “I… you have to…”
“Angela, it’s going to be okay,” I lie. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m going to… die,” she heaves.
“Listen… Chris… he’s good… no matter what you’re told. He’s… good.”
“I know, I know,” I say, leaning over her. Confused, slightly, by her words. But I say nothing. People rush around me, and for a brief moments, I shut it out.
“You… hang on… to that,” she sighs. She grips my hand a little tighter, taking a shuddering breath. It must be painful. At least one of her lungs has been punctured. “Don’t… give up.” The whisper of a smile spreads across her lips. “You’ll be… a great senator. And Vera… tell her… I’m sorry.”
“I’ll tell her,” I promise, my voice breaking.
“Keep up the good fight,” Angela says.
Her final words are clear and firm. She gives one last, long breath, and then she is gone. Her expression becomes slack and her eyes glaze over. I stifle a sob and gently close her eyes, folding Angela’s hands on her stomach.
We have lost so much already.
Why do we keep losing more?
I am still wiping the tears from my eyes when a second explosion hits the east side of the Capitol Building. It is just like the first, filling the air with debris, ripping the building to shreds. Black smoke rolls over the park — again — and I am knocked off my feet by the shockwave of the detonation. Chunks of concrete crash to the ground. I kneel by Angela’s still, pale body, covering her and the back of my neck with my hands.
I unroll the scarf tied around my arm and tighten it around my mouth as the dust cloud hits. My heart slams against my ribcage, adrenaline keeping the terror from overcoming my senses.
A second attack, I think. How many more are coming? Where are our defenses?
I take a moment to orient myself. The smoke, the shockwave, the searing pain in my ears from the deafening explosion… I concentrate on a single point, focus my breathing, and crawl forward. Shards of metal, nails and bits of concrete sail through the air, so I keep my head down. The flashing lights of the rescue vehicles are dim. I blindly crawl toward a parked ambulance and huddle behind it, protected from the full blunt force of the tide of debris.
When the worst passes, I stand up.