Free State of Rebellion (Collapse Series) by Summer Lane Page B

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 slidesbehind the wheel, gives a couple of orders to