“What are they going to do?” Chris interjects. “Refuse our help? They need all the help they can get.”

“Plus, you are Alpha One,” I wink.

We hit the city of Ripon. It has taken us four hours - far longer than it would take for a regular traveler. But weaving through backstreets and avoiding potential gang areas takes time. The giant water tower near the edge of the freeway is blackened with smoke. The overpass near the rest area is cracked in two pieces, obstructing the southbound lanes. The drive-in restaurant and gas station looks like they got bombed. There’s hardly anything left besides faded signs and piles of rubble.

“Well, isn’t this cheery?” Andrew remarks.

“Check in with the others,” Chris says.

Andrew snaps his radio on and contacts the other vehicles. So far, so good. Everyone’s still here and we haven’t run into any trouble. I mean, except for the fact that everything in the state is a freaking garbage dump…yeah. No trouble.

Ripon is only one hour away from Sacramento — driving at freeway speeds. Unfortunately, our travel time is at least double that. As we get closer to the city, the old Highway 99 becomes more difficult to follow, until we have to abandon it altogether. We use maps to navigate through surface streets, getting lost repeatedly in the little towns of Ceres and Lodi.

The scenery here is quite a change from the myriad of dead orchards and hot urban cityscapes of the central valley. Miles of moist marshlands and grazing territory for cattle spread from here to the mountains. The sky is a deep blue. The temperature is cooler.

“I see it!” I exclaim, pointing.

Sacramento is clearly visible in the distance. The skyscrapers gleam against the late evening sunlight. It seems ethereal. A stark contrast to the ravaged skyline of Los Angeles.

“Now that’s a nice city,” Andrew comments.

“From a distance,” Chris replies, untouched.

I study his hands on the wheel. The scars are still there, angry reminders that just over a week ago, he was in a very bad place with very bad people. If anybody has reason to be skeptical, it’s Chris.

“So do we just drive in on the freeway or what?” I ask.

“There will be checkpoints leading into the city,” Andrew replies. “They’ll want us to identify ourselves and our destination. We should be fine. We’re militia, not Omega. We’re welcome here.”

“Welcome is such a relative term,” I mutter.

Chris pats my knee. We roll off the side road and hit the freeway. There is no wreckage here. Everything is wide open and clean. The houses along the freeway are abandoned. The bushes and weeds are ridiculously tall.

“This is creepy on so many levels,” Andrew says.

We drive beneath a series of overpasses. We are the only vehicles on the road. It is creepy, I have to agree. The closer we get to the city, the more tense I become. A city means people and people means trouble.

“Chris,” I whisper. “Roadblock.”

The freeway is blocked up ahead with two flipped semi-trucks and berms of earth. Military trucks, towers, and personnel as far as the eye can see. A fence around the city limit. Chris and I are in the lead Humvee. Guards in camouflage uniforms monitor our approach. An American flag is flying from the top of the first guard tower.

“Easy, Cassie,” Chris says, tapping my cheek with his finger. “They’re on our side.”

The suburban rolls to a stop. Chris turns off the engine. He opens his door. He keeps his hands up — a sign that he means no harm, I guess. A soldier comes out of the guard tower. I open the passenger door and step outside, mimicking Chris’s movements, walking toward him. The fence line buzzes with activity. I watch the soldiers. They are eyeing us curiously, but they don’t have the expression of men who are alarmed. And I know that look.

Chris exchanges a few words with the head guard. I’m on the other side of the car, and his voice is too soft for me to hear above the sound of engines and the wind whipping my hair into circles. In the distance, I hear the sound of a helicopter.

It makes me a bit queasy, given my recent experience.

“And this is…?” I hear the guard say, pointing to me.

“Commander Cassidy Hart,” Chris replies. “One of my best.”

He flashes a quick, wry grin in my direction. Then he’s all business again.

“Well, it’s good to see you, Alpha One,” the guard finally says. “Tell you the truth, rumor had it that you and your entire militia was dead. If you listen to Rivera tell it, you were dead the day you left.”

“Rivera is here?” I say. I walk around the front of the suburban. The rest of the militia remains in their vehicles, waiting for a signal from Chris. A confirmation that we can move forward.

“Yes, ma’am.” Closer, the guard is young. Maybe high school — maybe younger. He’s barely big enough to carry the rifle in his hands.

Then again, the same goes for me.

“He came through here with his forces, then?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies. “Two weeks ago, ma’am.”

“We’ve heard that there’s a rebel meeting going on downtown,” Chris tells the guard. “What do you know about that?”

“Well, sir,” the boy replies, “they’re having a big meeting down at the Capitol Building pretty soon. Rivera, Wright — all the militia commanders and National Guard leaders. Something big is going down. Ever since Mexico and Canada started pushing against the invasion, things have been getting more organized.”

Canada, eh?

“How do we get to the Capitol?” I press.

“Follow this road,” he says, “and take the third exit.”

He continues to give us the rest of the directions.

“You’ll have to go through several checkpoints, sir,” he tells Chris. “We’ll notify the outposts via radio that they should expect you. I can tell you that there’s going to be a lot of people that will be happy to hear that you’re still alive.” He grins at me. “And you too, ma’am.”

I feel my cheeks warm and turn toward the city. One skyscraper in particular reflects the sunlight beautifully. The entire building is made of glass that acts as a mirror — almost completely disappearing into the sky. The gates around the roadblock are pulled back. The guard salutes me and walks back to the guardhouse.

“Cassidy…” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. He’s standing next to the hood of the car. “Are you ready to do this?”

I meet his strong, steady gaze.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”

And for the first time in a long time, I feel as confident as the words that come out of my mouth.

I feel like I’m staring down a long, lonely walk at high noon. We’re waiting inside the suburban on the other side of a yellow bridge. We have already been through checkpoint after checkpoint. A roiling, muddy river sweeps under the bridge. It has broken the banks at some points, flooding sidewalks and pathways paralleling the river.

Across the bridge, there is a ragged collection of damaged skyscrapers and boulevards, abandoned metropolitan electric rail tracks and empty riverside restaurants. It’s the sad remains of civilization. A sick joke. There is nothing here but a military presence and the desperate hope for the return of a civilized society.

We slowly begin moving across the bridge, having already checked in with security at the guardhouse. American flags seem to be everywhere, fluttering from windows, trees and lampposts. People are trying to keep their morale up. They’re reminding themselves that this is still America.

I mean, I think it is.

Time will tell.

No one has spoken since we began crossing the bridge. The radio — constantly filled with chatter and code words and updates — is now silent. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels the solemnity of what we’re doing. Somewhere deep inside me, I can sense it: