Today is my birthday.

The last time I celebrated a birthday I was sitting at a table in a McDonald’s, staring at a wet glob of ice cream in a plastic cup. I was living in Culver City, California. My dad was at work. My mother and I weren’t speaking. And friends? No. I didn’t have any friends.

So my birthday was spent in a corner of Culver City, eating cheap vanilla soft serve while the world passed me by and I wondered:

When will my life begin?

I regret asking that question. My life did start not too long after that birthday, but in a way I never wanted or dreamed about. Good things have happened. Bad things have happened. No matter how you slice it, the world is a different place than it was last year. Everything has changed. Nothing is the same.

I am no longer the same.

My name is Cassidy Hart.

Today is my birthday.

One Month Earlier

Pine needles are painful. Just saying.

At the moment, hundreds of them are poking into my legs, digging against my skin. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead. Blood is crusted under my fingernails. It stains my dark green shirt. The tight, gauzy bandage wrapped around my waist is cutting off my circulation.

In other words, it sucks.

But that’s what happens when you get shot.

I was wounded several days ago during an ambush on Omega soldiers. Luckily for me, it was only a flesh wound. In and out. No major organs punctured. Besides the discomfort and soreness of recovering from a wound like that, I’ve managed to survive. I can walk, I can talk, and I can still hold my rifle.

That’s good news.

The silence of the forest is broken by a strong breeze. It sweeps through the trees, rustling leaves and pinecones. On any other day, I would stop to listen and enjoy the natural orchestra. Not today. Because right now is not the time.

Now it’s time to survive.

I’m sitting on my knees, camouflaged within a grove of fern. Beneath the pine needles is a layer of damp earth, and behind us, a gentle creek trickling down the mountainside.

My hands grip Chris Young’s arm as he crouches beside me, his handsome face smudged with grease and traces of ash and blood. Leaves and twigs are tangled in his hair, pulled into a tight ponytail against his neck. My fingers press against his bicep, more from habit than from anything else.

We’ve been here a long time.

An hour. Maybe two.

Early morning sunlight streams through the trees. The perfect picture for a postcard. Too bad this isn’t what you’d call a touristy situation.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers.

“Like I got run over by a truck.”

“Cassie.”

“I’m fine.”

He takes a deep breath, sharing a glance with Derek. Tall, lean, blonde Derek. He’s huddled against a tree, ready.

“What do you think?” Chris asks.

Derek peers downhill, studying the forest. He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Behind him, Max — our resident undercover ex-narcotics officer — is running a hand through his slick brown hair. He shakes his head, fiddling with his backpack. On my right, my good friend Sophia is leaning her cheek against my shoulder, exhausted. With her mocha skin tone and dark clothing, she’s almost completely invisible within the underbrush.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Max hisses.

“We can’t risk moving in broad daylight when they’re sweeping the area,” Derek replies. “They’ll shoot us on sight.”

Besides the five of us, about twenty-five militiamen are hiding here, too. The other half of our forces — a makeshift army we call the Freedom Fighters — are with Chris’s second in command, an ex-Marine named Alexander Ramos. Last time I saw him, Chris was helping him limp across a smoky battlefield.

Alexander has recovered enough to take control of his platoon. They’re hiding uphill from our position, about two hundred meters up. Derek keeps watching them through his binoculars, looking for any dangerous activity. Our militia is too big to keep together, so we’ve separated into groups to avoid detection.

A few days ago, we barely escaped with our lives from an Omega ambush. I lost consciousness towards the end of the attack — compliments of being shot and suffering from too much blood loss. Apparently Alexander took his platoon back to our basecamp and rescued the survivors there. If it hadn’t been for him, the women and children waiting there during the ambush could have been killed by Omega patrols.

And there’s that other little thing that happened.

I finally found my father.

In the middle of a battlefield.

Let me rewind.

Last year, an electromagnetic pulse disabled the technological infrastructure of the United States of America. Major bummer. The pulse, also known as an EMP, wiped out every piece of computer-based technology in the country. Cell phones, airplanes, automobiles, microwaves. Even remote control cars and Easy-Bake-Ovens.

I was living in Culver City, California when it all went down. Just a few miles down the road from Hollywood. The second the EMP hit, everything died. Airplanes fell from the skies. The populace panicked. And I got the heck out of the city as fast I could in a vintage 78 Mustang — a vehicle that was conveniently computer-technology-free, making it immune to the effects of the pulse.

I got separated from my father — Frank Hart, a former L.A. cop — and planned to rendezvous with him at a remote cabin we owned in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Unfortunately, things went sour.

An invading army with the code name Omega arrived, killed people, and threw them in concentration camps. They took over everything. And they did it fast. The United States was thrown back into the Stone Age. People went crazy, hoarding supplies, vandalizing homes, murdering innocent civilians.

Instant anarchy.

I lost my Mustang to desperate rioters, but in the process of trying to reach my father, teamed up with a former Navy SEAL named Chris Young. Six foot four, twenty-eight years old, and a serious force to contend with. His military expertise and experience kept me alive.

I fell in love with him.

But I never found my father. Omega’s hold on the states got tighter, and we backtracked to the foothills to try and survive. Not a good idea. I got captured by Omega troopers and forced into a slave labor camp run by an officer named Vika Kamaneva. I was almost worked to death. I would be dead now if Chris hadn’t taken control of a local militia and rescued me.

Ever since then, that small militia has grown to become a fighting force to be reckoned with. We’ve staged devastating attacks on Omega forces, and Chris has become the militia commander. He’s established training and recruiting for our new soldiers. It’s amazing how many ordinary, everyday people have been willing to take a stand and fight for their homeland.

Fight for their lives. For their families.

But last night we were betrayed by one of our own — a young man named Harry Lydell. Our forces were ambushed. A lot of our people were killed. We barely got out of there alive. I should be dead… but for some reason I’m too stubborn to go down that road just yet.

The only reason we survived is because a friendly fellow militia force — the Mountain Rangers — swooped in and gave us valuable backup support. And, right before I passed out due to an unfriendly gunshot in my gut, my dad showed up.

My dad.

The commander of the Mountain Rangers.

He so has some serious explaining to do.