The Green Rising

Chapter Thirty-one

An icicle dropped from the porch as I passed under it, spiking my coat in the shoulder. The sound of water trickling in the distance brought forth a smile. The weather was improving, and just in time for Maggie’s birthday.

I set one of the buckets on the table and lifted the other to fill our reserves. Jessa grabbed the other bucket and poured its contents into a pot on the camping stove.

“We’re going to have spaghetti? For breakfast?” Her tone was actually pleasant.

“For lunch and supper, too, but I thought it would be a treat.” I stabbed the lid on the spaghetti sauce, the pffffft of air releasing its hold on the jar that my hands could not.

Rosabel and Maggie rushed into the room to make sure that I hadn’t made good on my threat to kill their cousin. Just waking up, each of them wiped the sleep from their eyes once they verified that we were okay. “Happy Birthday, Maggie,” I said.

A smile stretched across her face. “It’s my birthday?”

“You’re four today, and we’re going to celebrate. We’re having spaghetti and I’m going to make some peanut butter fudge cookies. It’s not the same as a birthday cake, but I’ll still let you blow out some candles and make a wish.”

After we’d eaten and made the cookies, the three girls took turns licking the spoon as the no-bakes cooled on a plate. I snuck one of the smaller cookies, savoring every bite of the chocolaty goo, and wondered how I hadn’t thought of making these sooner. The sugar withdrawal had been far worse than my lack of caffeine, and here I had all of the ingredients for the cookies except for butter.

The electricity roared to life, nearly making me choke on the last bite.

It had been only two days since the general was shot. The pattern had been about five days between the Order’s announcements. Something was definitely brewing and it didn’t sit well with me. Had Luc been captured?

“Jessa, put the laundry on to wash and keep them down here. Help the girls with their studies. I’ll be back when I figure out what’s going on.”

She nodded and I raced upstairs to the television, cringing as I pressed the power button on the remote.

“Hello, Abi,” the news correspondent said as she came into view. She was wearing an olive green trench coat, complete with hat and mittens. “I am about to enter the Reprogramming Station located a few miles from Atlanta. Citizens of the former USA need to understand that Conversion is not a death sentence, but, rather, an opportunity for a brighter future. We’re hoping that by touring this facility, it will allay some of your fears about Conversion. The Order of the Father Church really is interested in preserving as many lives as possible.”

A yellow-leafed weeping willow served as her backdrop until the reporter motioned to a chain link fence. It was nearly twice her height and topped by three strips of barbed wire that angled towards the camp. Two sentries wielding machine guns were stationed on each platform that couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards from the next. One kept his gaze on the outside, while the other focused on the inside.

A gate opened and several male guards surrounded the nameless reporter, keeping their weapons drawn as a female guard frisked her. At the guard’s okay, the men backed away and the reporter was ushered inside.

“Going through security can be a terrifying experience, but only those who come with evil intents need worry. The guards are here to protect our new recruits from anyone who might intend to harm them. These are dangerous times.” She walked to a gray building that looked as though it had been hastily constructed, issued by FEMA perhaps. “This is just one of our many classrooms where our school-aged recruits receive their educational instruction.”