State of Alliance (2 page)

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.

Come on, keep moving. You can do this, Cassidy
.

This time, the rescue teams are already in place and they are moving forward. “Chris!” I yell into the radio on my belt. “Chris! Alpha One?”

Radio silence.

Wherever Chris is, he cannot answer me.

I forget the radio and assess my surroundings. I realize two things: First, another attack could happen at any moment, in any place. Second, we have been completely taken by surprise.

Thank God our rescue units are good at what they do.

Thank God we have Chris Young on our side.

I find the ECP at the edge of the park, locating Chris. I run to him, yelling above the noise, “What do we do? If they’re sending cruise missiles, how can we defend ourselves?”

Chris’s hair is hanging in greasy strands as he takes my arm.

“The Air Force will take care of it,” he assures me, but there is a level of doubt in his voice. “We need to check the building again for survivors.”

“The building was evacuated by the time the second missile hit.”

“We have to check anyway.”

I look to the sky, terrified that I am going to see a cruise missile heading toward us, detonating right on top of our heads.

What could we really do to stop it? Nothing.

“Let’s go!” Chris tells the rescue units assembling once again at the ECP. “You know the drill. We’ve got a job to do.”

War never ends
, I think.

I say, “I haven’t found my father yet!”

Chris squeezes my shoulder.

“We will,” he promises.

But I know better. You can’t make promises during war.

You can only give people hope.

Chapter Two

By the time evening settles in, we have finished rescuing the survivors from the Capitol Building. I am standing several blocks away from what’s left, studying the damage from a distance. Chris is right. This was an attack from the outside. We were hit with something from beyond the city.

How could Omega launch a missile without us even detecting it?

“Now, what have we got here?”

The voice is familiar. I meet Manny’s gaze. Tall, tanned, wild-haired Manny. His flight cap is sticking out of the pocket of his leather jacket. His wrinkled face is dusted with ash and dirt, like me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Did you find your father?” he asks.

I lower my head.

“No.”

The full impact of those words sears a hole in my heart. If my father is dead…then the last remnants of my family is truly gone. Forever. This realization is jarring, like a punch in the gut. I inhale sharply and look at the sky.

Please. Don’t be dead. Don’t do this to me
.

I do not want to deal with the reality of this situation right now. The possibility of me finally snapping – of cracking under pressure – is very real. Manny folds his arms across his chest, following my line of sight. “Lots of men and women aren’t identified yet,” he says. “He’s probably in the medical center right now.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“It’s not
my
hopes that need to be upped.” He raises an eyebrow. “Cassidy, my girl. What’s on your mind?”

“What makes you think something’s on my mind?”

He gives me a look. I roll my eyes.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking…if this was a cruise missile, like Chris said, then that means it was probably launched from the coast. Omega has been shipping troops in from the coastline, right?”

“True, true,” Manny agrees. “And…?”

“So what’s keeping them from destroying the entire city?”

“Retaliation from the Alliance, probably,” Manny shrugs. “And let’s not forget, more often than not,
where you find a cruise missile, you find a laser designator.”

“Which means…?”

“Somebody was probably pointing a laser at the dome before it hit. The missile will follow the laser’s path to the T. Of course, there are cruise missiles with internal GPS systems built into the weapon itself. But it’d be interesting to find out if someone
was
helping the missile along.”

“You’re saying somebody inside the city guided the missile here?”

Manny lifts his palms up.

“We’ve had traitors before. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” He sits down on the curb. I join him, looking down the long, lonely boulevard of Capitol Mall, my gaze drifting to the yellow bridge crossing the Sacramento River. The fortifications have been doubled in the last few hours.

“Manny?” I say.

He waits for me to speak. I place both hands on the cement and take a deep breath. “Angela’s dead,” I say.

“I know.”

“It was hard, seeing her die like that.” I shake my head. “People keep dying. Good people. It’s not fair.”

“Life is not a game that’s ever been played
fairly
,” Manny replies. “Life’s a brutal match of tug of war. Some of the nicest people get trampled by the team with the biggest players.”

I blink back tears. I don’t want to talk about death anymore.

“Vera told me that Angela Wright knew Chris before the Collapse,” I continue. “She told me that Chris was married.”

Manny doesn’t react. He just waits.

“Chris said it’s true,” I go on, biting my lip. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about it at all,” Manny replies. “Our past lives are exactly that: the
past
. Dwelling on what was isn’t a wise thing to do, my girl. It’ll distract from what’s important
now
.”

“But our pasts shape our present,” I argue. “Manny, what if Chris is still legally married to this woman? It would change everything.”

“It would change nothing.”

Manny places his hand on my knee. A firm, steady grip.

“What you need to do, my girl, is talk to Chris about this,” he advises. “But I think you and I could
both agree that the attack today, taking care of the wounded and making sure your father are okay are our priorities.” He pauses. “And let’s not forget that you’re our new Senator in the negotiations with the Alliance.” He tips his head, mock-bowing. “An honor to be in your presence, madam.”

I lightly slap his arm.

“Ha,” I say. And then I sigh. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m
always
right.” He winks. “Mostly.”

“This could change everything I know about him,” I whisper.

Manny shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he says. “It only changes what you
think
you know. Chris will always be a good man.”

Chris is good. That’s what Angela told me before she died
.

“Thanks for listening,” I tell Manny.

Manny nods understandingly. He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick squeeze. “I suggest you get over to the medical center and look for your father,” he says. “You won’t help anybody sitting on this curb.”

I stand up.

“You have such a way of inspiring people.”

“I know. It’s in my blood.” He musses his long gray hair. “Now go on.”

I step off the curb and walk away, putting distance between me and the eccentric pilot sitting on the sidewalk.

“How come you’re allowed to sit on the curb and do nothing?” I tease.

“Because I’m older and wiser than you are,” Manny replies. “But mostly because I’m older and my back hurts.” He waves me off. “Goodnight, my girl.”

I shove my hands in my pockets.

“Goodnight, Manny,” I say.

The Medical Center is about a mile away from the Capitol Building. It is at least seven stories high, with white walls and cement. Old Sutter General Hospital. I hitch a ride with the militia on the way over, parting ways in the parking lot. When I approach the front entrance, there are hundreds of people. Rescue workers, militiamen and women, National Guard patrols and civilian volunteers who are working at the hospital.

I go in the main entrance. The posted guards wave me through. Everything is linoleum flooring and bright, generator-powered lights. Everything in the city is running on backup generators, fueled by diesel and gasoline, precious commodities in a time like this. The acidic stench of blood and burnt flesh are heavy in the air. It is a scent that is all too familiar to me. One that I wish I would never have to smell again.

“Excuse me,” I tell a middle-age woman in black scrubs. “I’m Commander Hart. I’m looking for someone who was inside the Capitol Building. Where should I start?”

“Senator Hart?” the woman says, blinking. “It’s an honor, Ma’am.” She grabs my hand, smiling hopefully. “It’s a thrill to see you here.”

“Yes, well…” I clear my throat. “Thanks, but where can I start looking for survivors?”

“Second level,” she replies. “Take the stairs. The elevators are crammed with workers and wounded.”

“Thank you.”

“Senator?” She lets go of my hand. “Thank
you
.”

I force a weak smile, then walk away, unsure of how to respond. I find the stairwell and climb to the second story. The hospital hallway is jammed with
stretchers and doctors. I haven’t seen this much activity inside a medical facility since before the EMP. I walk into the first room. It looks like it was a former physical therapy ward, but it has been cleared of all equipment. It is filled with dozens of makeshift beds and patients. State of the art medical supplies have been salvaged here, and everything is being used on these survivors. Doctors and nurses are buzzing through the rooms, checking victims, administering shots of morphine, antibiotics and more.

I go from bed to bed, scanning for my father’s face. My hopes become smaller and smaller as I look around. What if he’s not here? What if he was killed instantly in the explosion, like so many others? I wouldn’t even know if his body had been taken out with the dead.

Please, God
, I pray.
After everything we’ve been through…don’t let him die
.

I go through four more rooms, checking the faces of each individual survivor on the beds. I do not recognize my father, and as this reality sinks in, I withdraw to the corner of the fifth room and stand. I cross my arms, blinking back angry, hurt tears.

Not like this
, I think.
He wasn’t meant to die anonymously
.

I went through so much to find my father again after the EMP…it can’t end like this. It simply
can’t
.

The moans of the wounded in this ward is too much for me to handle right now, so I slip into the hall, walking through the sea of nurses and emergency workers. I feel suffocated, trapped. I push through the door at the end of the hall and enter the cold, concrete stairwell. I climb downstairs, hit the first floor, and leave the hospital. By the time I get outside, I am crying. Tears run down my face. I cannot hide them, nor do I want to.