We lock and load our rifles. The sharp sound of metal against metal, of bullets being loaded into an empty chamber is an ominous sound in a quiet forest. I hang behind Chris with Vera, Manny and Desmond. Dad is out front. Alexander is with Chris, and Jeff is sticking close to Sophia as we work our way down the main road with Derek and Max. No sounds. No unnecessary noise. The realization that we may or may not be meeting Omega on the road puts everyone in a cautious mood.

We move along the trail, checking our sectors of fire, keeping our weapons ready. We reach the blockaded road. A platoon of rough militiamen is guarding the area. They know we’re coming. “Any activity?” Chris asks the head of the platoon — the same guard we met on the way in, Uriah.

“No, sir,” he replies. “Not yet.”

“Good. Carry on.”

We stake out in the thick foliage. I settle in next to Chris while the rest of our detail disperses. “What if they don’t come down the main road?” I ask.

“They will.”

“But what if they don’t? What if they just go around the road and hit the camp?”

“They won’t.” Chris gives my arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “From what Manny described, this is a military convoy. They will send out scouts ahead of them.”

“What if they’re Omega scouts?”

He doesn’t answer. Because we both know the answer to that question.

They can’t be allowed to return.

“They’re not Omega,” Chris says.

“The convoy?” I ask.

“Right.” He leans against a tree. “According to the latest scouting reports, this is a United States military convoy.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Manny raises an eyebrow.

“Conspiracy theorist,” Desmond mutters.

“Oh, right. I’m spinning conspiracies,” Manny grumbles. “It’s not like we’re not living in one already.” He straightens his jacket, digging around in his pocket for something. He pulls out a metal flask, pops it open, and takes a drink. Alcohol? Great. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, shoving the thing back in his pocket.

“Gotta keep the spirits up, somehow,” he shrugs, noticing my glare of disapproval. “Want some?”

“I’m young, but I’m not stupid,” I comment. “You shouldn’t drink that.”

“I’m not a drunk.”

“But you’re drinking.”

“Darling, there’s a difference between drinking and being drunk. This is medicinal.”

“Medicinal, my foot.”

“It does help with foot pain. Also the liver.”

“Quit making things up.”

“Relax, guys,” Desmond interjects. “Arguing is never the answer.”

“Hippie,” Manny states.

“Drunk.”

“Tree-hugger.”

“Blind as a bat.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes.

So. The United States military. If this is true, then why are they sending a convoy up to the mountains? What are they looking for?

They’re looking for us.

Hmm.

After an hour the sound of truck engines can be heard in the distance. I tense, swallowing a lump in my throat. This is the moment of truth. The militiamen take their positions at the blockade. Snipers are posted. Hunter-killer teams are ghosting through the trees. Dad is on the other side of the road with his Rangers. The convoy rumbles up the road. Only three vehicles, all bristling with heavy weaponry that anyone in the militia would love to get their hands on.

The Humvees are tan. They look bulletproof and dangerous. A lot different than the makeshift retrofitted military jeeps and farming pickup trucks we’ve been using. They roll to a halt, the lead vehicle coming to a stop about one hundred feet away from the blockade. The door of the lead vehicle opens, and out steps a tall, burly man in uniform. He’s got an American flag in one hand, a white flag in the other. A cigar is jammed between his teeth. He looks unmoved — irritated, even — at the array of weapons pointed his way.

“California National Guard,” he says. Gravelly voice.

Chris and Dad move cautiously to the center of the blockade, coming forward to meet the man. I wait near the blockade, my fingers wrapped around my rifle. My crosshairs resting on the man’s chest. Just in case.

“Colonel Richard Rivera, National Guard,” he states.

“What brings you up here, Colonel?” Dad asks.

The Colonel looks Dad and Chris up and down.

“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” he says.

Dad and Chris share a glance before Chris says, “I’m Chris. This is Frank.”

I guess they’re canning the codenames for now.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Colonel Rivera replies. “And we’ve been looking for help. I’m here on a recruiting mission. We need red-blooded, able bodied men and women to join us in the fight to save the United States of America.”

Oh my gosh. Dramatic much?

“Where are you based?” Chris asks.

“Right outside of Fresno.”

“How did you find us?”

“It’s no secret that there are militia groups in the high mountains.” He lowers the white flag. “We were bound to find you eventually.”

“What exactly do you want, Colonel?” Dad says.

“We’re here to ask you to help us fight.”

Chris glances back at me. I nod and signal to Uriah to have one of the guards bring one of our jeeps from behind the blockade.

“We’ll talk,” Chris says, “but not here. You can come with us.”

“Sounds good.”

Colonel Rivera rolls up the flags and hands them to his sergeant, following Chris and Dad to the jeep. I get in the backseat as the rest of the militia leaders get in. Colonel Rivera sits in the front between Dad and Chris. Chris slides behind the wheel, gives a couple of orders to Alexander and the others, and then we’re off. We drive onto a hidden, overgrown logging road. After about five minutes of driving over washouts and debris, we stop in the woods, at a cabin. The roof has partially caved. The siding is covered in moss and vines as nature slowly reclaims what belongs to it.

This is the secret meeting place.

We get out of the jeep, Angela leading our group inside the cabin. Chris follows, and I in turn follow Chris. Wherever he goes, I go.

We walk inside the cabin. Broken furniture has been shoved to one side, and it looks like someone used the cabin as a living space. Commander Jones and Commander Buckley stand to one side, Dad stands by the door, and Chris and Angela are in front of the Colonel.

“Let’s hear it, Colonel,” Angela says. “You’re here to recruit soldiers. What’s in it for us?”

“Plenty,” Colonel Rivera replies. “I’ve got a National Guard base in Fresno equipped with weapons, ammunition and food and supplies. Medicine, a safe place to stay. The situation is like this: we’ve got more guns than we’ve got men, and I need every available man or woman who’s willing to fight to do just that.”

“What’s happening with Omega?”

“Something big.”

“You’re gearing up for the second wave of the invasion,” Dad states.

“You’ve heard about that.”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that New York was nuked?” I ask.

“What does the east coast look like?” Commander Jones presses.

“We have radio communication with other friendlies across the country,” Colonel Rivera answers. “Some of the satellites are still working. The east coast was hit hard during the first wave of the invasion. Washington D.C. and New York are little more than a heap of smoking rubble.”

“So it was nuclear?” I say, my heart sinking to my stomach.

“Whatever it was, it was big,” he continues. “There is an enemy naval fleet sitting right outside of Long Beach. They’ve been there for a couple of weeks, sending recon teams ahead. We anticipate the main body of the invasion will be arriving shortly. The National Guard is still in the fight, although our forces are depleted. The invasion force is coming from China. Ships have been spotted off the coast of San Francisco and Los Angeles, two cities that have been destroyed with a chemical weapon. From there they’ll swarm the state. We’re all that’s left to protect the Central Valley.”