Thank God.

I twist around and pop a grenade off my belt, pausing. Militiamen are heading towards me, weapons out, shooting… at us.

What the hell?

That split second of hesitation almost gets us killed. One of the militiamen fires a round at my head. I drop to the ground and chuck my grenade blindly in his direction, as far as I can. At least thirty feet. I blow up the militiaman and another guy.

“We’ve been infiltrated!” I pant breathlessly.

Jeff and Sophia reach us just as I chuck another grenade in front of us, bounding it down the incline, slowing the attack. Sophia empties a half magazine of repressive fire on the oncoming troops to help me.

Chris hasn’t been shot, but the impact of the bullet knocked the wind out of him. It may have even broken a rib. Jeff puts his arm under his brother’s back, and Sophia and I take the other half of his weight, helping him kneel. He pulls his handgun out, rejoining the fight. “Just run,” Chris says, grimacing. “Just go.”

“We’re not leaving you, bro,” Jeff says. “Don’t start with the selfless crap.”

We help him run and, a few minutes into our escapade, Max is hit in the left leg. He slams into the ground, rolling over and grabbing his wound. Sophia — always prepared for these situations — rips a compression bandage off the medic kit on her belt and applies it to his injury. She cinches it tight.

“You can move now,” she says.

I foolishly look behind me. The wall of flames heading south highlights the silhouettes of dozens of our own men hunting us down like animals.

How could this happen? This has to be a bad dream.

“Uriah!” I shout. “Get Max!”

Uriah drops back and hauls Max to his feet. He can’t walk, he can barely drag himself along. I grope for the radio on my belt, Chris’s pressure on my shoulders easing up as he recovers from the physical shock of the impact.

“Rivera,” I say, unable to hear my own voice over the sound of the gunfire and my heavy breathing. “We’ve been infiltrated! Our own men are firing on us. Send backup! Send backup!”

I get nothing in response.

God help us. Is Rivera just being an idiot again or has his platoon been compromised by traitors, too? Chris removes his arm from around my shoulders and starts moving on his own, but every step is painstaking. He can barely breathe. I’m guessing one or two of his ribs have been broken.

The militiamen who are clearly still on our side are retreating in the same direction as we are, many of them standing and fighting their own friends. It’s the most chilling, heartbreaking thing I’ve seen since this whole mess started. Brother fighting brother. Men and women in matching uniform duking it out on the battlefield.

I try calling for backup again and again, getting nothing but static. Nothing but silence. “Sundog!” I beg. “Please, answer us. We’re dying out here. We’ve been compromised!”

Nothing.

Along the side of the freeway, a small ditch runs underneath the interstate. It’s little more than a drainage pipe. I spot it out of the corner of my eye and direct Sophia’s attention to it. She nods and veers to the left.

“Left!” I yell to Chris.

He and Jeff follow me, and Uriah is right behind them, dragging Max. Sophia crawls into the tunnel first. Chris pauses at the entrance to the tunnel, collecting his strength. He turns to help Max and Uriah, and as he does so, I shout a warning. The mammoth wall of flames blazing across the mountains makes it easy to see what’s coming towards us. Black shadows massing around our position. Four or five men tackle Max and Uriah. Chris raises his handgun and begins picking them off, kneeling down. I do the same with my rifle, trying to keep them away from Uriah and Max long enough for them to reach the tunnel.

Uriah pulls himself out of the pile and shoots someone pointblank in the head with his handgun, tearing his way towards us. Leaving Max behind. I scream at him to stay, to help us hold them off, but he ignores me. He’s only got one thing on his mind: Keeping himself alive.

Chris pops off a few more, but dozens of our own militia turned traitors are seeping out of the grass. “Cassie, get in the tunnel!” Chris yells.

“Not until you come, too!”

“That’s not a request, that’s an order!”

Two bullets narrowly avoid my chest. I take a few more shots and stumble backwards, the sheer number of the enemy overwhelming me. “I won’t go without you!” I shriek, tears streaming down my face.

Chris turns to me. It only lasts for a second, but it seems as if time slows down and the world around us fades. “I’ll be right behind you,” he says. “I promise.”

I look at the enemy, back at him, and nod.

“Be careful,” I beg him.

I throw my rifle over my shoulder and sprint towards the tunnel, sliding into the cement passage, scrambling deep into the concrete tube.

Uriah is gone, but Jeff is waiting with Sophia.

“Where’s Chris?” he bellows.

“He said he’d be right behind me.”

“Where’s Max?” Sophia says.

“Just go!” I command. “Run! Now!”

“But—”

“—That’s an order,” I hiss. “Get going!”

Sophia doesn’t press me any further. She turns on her heel and runs, disappearing into the blackness of the tunnel.

I linger at the mouth of the passage, waiting for Chris.

Come on, come on, come on.

Jeff clenches his fist.

“I’m going back out there,” he says.

As soon as he charges forward, a trooper lands in an animalistic crouch at the mouth of the tunnel. I see it before it happens, yet there’s nothing I can do to stop it. He’s too fast, and I have been taken by surprise.

He fires off a round, barely bypassing me, but he hits Jeff in the neck. Jeff stumbles for a moment and grabs his throat, shock registering across his features. I hit the wall and scream as Jeff falls backwards, his eyes wide open, his face pale and blank, hands grasping at his neck. A stream of satin blood blossoms under his collarbone. It takes a second too long for my shell-shocked senses to start working again. A second too late.

I turn around, locking eyes with the trooper for a split second. And I swear I see right into his soul. There is no regret on his face. Not a hint of emotion or regret for his actions. This is, after all, war. I cry out, furious, and raise my rifle without hesitating. Despite my shaking hands, I steady myself long enough to engage. I snapshot a round into the trooper’s head.

Right between the eyes.

He’s dead before he hits the ground, and I feel no remorse.

I kneel down and shake Jeff by the shoulders, shouting his name, trying to stop the bleeding by applying pressure to the wounds. His blood smears over the palms of my hands. His jaw goes slack. The light leaves his eyes.

“Jeff!” I plead. “Jeff, no! Don’t do this!”

I look behind me, hysterical, shaking.

Another trooper slides into the passage, followed by two more, then three. I barely manage to drive them back, bullets ricocheting off the walls. I have no sympathy for my enemy now. I feel only empty anger, painful loss.

I turn to Jeff.

He’s dead.

I have to go. I need to go.

I pull myself to my feet.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry…”

I grope my way down the inky passage, tears streaming down my face. I’m sobbing as I run, straining for breath, straining for sanity.

The tunnel seems to go on forever, and as I run, the horror of the past few moments sinks in. I finally see a faint light in the distance, the end of the tunnel. I run towards it, leg muscles and lungs burning. I reach it and literally fall out of the tunnel, rolling down a steep embankment. When I drag myself up, the world is spinning and I’m slathered in mud and blood. It’s raining harder, and in the distance, the sky is burning orange and red. The sound of incoming jets once again rips through the air. Air Force.