Daughter to a rebellion

My mind races as I stare out at the abandoned paddock Farmer Jeff set aside for us to use. Behind me, the old barn creaks in protest with every gust of wind, threatening to collapse at any second. I’ve always loved that barn. We renovated it a few years back—only the inside. From the outside, it still looks like a relic from a forgotten era, weathered and broken. But inside? Inside it has modern amenities: showers, toilets, even a second roof without holes, cleverly hidden from view. We still rely on heat lamps and bonfires on colder days and do our cooking camp-style, but all things considered, it’s perfect for what we do. This, though… this is my least favorite part of the job: new recruits. They need to be assessed, sorted into job roles, and trained. All while keeping an eye out for spies or weaknesses our enemies might exploit. My father—General Cruise—was once a highly decorated marine, but after the Downfall eight years ago, he took his men and started a “rebellion.” Although, truth be told, it hasn’t felt like much of a rebellion lately. It’s become more of a self-sustaining community than an active resistance. My father has lost his way. He’s become greedy, overindulging while others scrape by. Despite the scarcity of women, he has multiple mistresses he spoils with alcohol and gifts, while my mother remains in the city, close to her law firm. She only visits during holidays. If you asked her, she’d tell you they’re still happily married and in love. Love. I don’t believe in it anymore. I used to idolize my father. I watched him build this rebellion from nothing to fight the corrupt government that rose to power after the Downfall. The bombings. The mass suicides. The collapse of everything we once knew. That was the Downfall—the death of society as we’d known it. When the government began forcing our military to turn on its own people, enforcing brutal curfews and stripping civilians of their homes, medical care, and even their money when the banks closed, we knew life would never return to what it was. Martial law became permanent. The government had always held power, sure, but never this openly, never this absolutely. People were forced into classification centers based on social standing. Homes, jobs, even compensation were reassigned based on “usefulness” to the regime. Anyone who couldn’t be controlled… was eliminated. Entire platoons slaughtered in the night, simply because the government suspected they might rise up. That’s when my father ran. He took his loyal men and disappeared. They took shelter at a farm not far from where I’m standing now. The owner, Farmer Jeff, was the grandson of a paranoid survivalist who’d built an entire underground home, originally just a WWII bomb shelter. Everyone thought the man was crazy—until society collapsed, and his paranoia became prophecy. Jeff had lost his five-year-old son in the bombings and his wife to suicide days later. He offered his family’s underground compound to my father and his men as a safe haven. Eight years later, that shelter has become our home base. We’ve expanded the underground facilities, bought this farm and several others, thanks to my mother’s law firm funneling untraceable money through a shell corporation. Her firm has contracts with the government and private corporations, which gives us access to both funding and intelligence. That’s one branch of our rebellion. The rebellion itself is divided into multiple operations: · Law – my mother’s domain, where legal loopholes and contracts fuel us financially. · BBS (Busy Bees) – our builders, mechanics, engineers, blacksmiths—anyone who can build or repair anything from furniture to farming equipment. · Home Economics – everything domestic: cooking, cleaning, tailoring, childcare, education, and medical care. (Our nurses and doctor hate being grouped there, but technically, they report to the same leadership.) · Foragers – scavengers who spend most of their time outside, bringing back anything we can’t make ourselves: food, medical supplies, scrap metal… sometimes even high-end clothing, other times just oil-stained salvage from destroyed hospitals or scrapyards. · Military – the security and fighting arm of the rebellion. Everyone over seventeen undergoes basic self-defense and firearms training, even if they don’t join the main fighting force. We haven’t launched missions in a year—my father’s orders—but we know another war is coming. We’ll need to be ready. · Farming – the backbone of our self-sufficiency, providing wheat, produce, and livestock. Much of our land now has underground tunnels running beneath it. For now, there’s only one entry to the underground, still on Jeff’s original farm. That’s dangerous if anyone ever finds it. We take precautions, but three months ago, there was a scare. And that brings me here. I’ve been working recruitment since I was seventeen. It’s my job to assess each person we bring in—not just for job placement but also to catch anyone who could be turned against us or is already working for the government. Three months ago, I failed. An eighteen-year-old girl came into camp claiming she just wanted safety, away from the government troops terrorizing her neighborhood. She was sweet, desperate—convincing. I almost assigned her to Home Economics, which would have taken her straight to our underground base. Exactly where she wanted to be. Turns out, she had already struck a deal with the government: safety and a job for her and her father in exchange for exposing our operations. At the last minute, I switched her to Law, which operates off-site. We have security measures: new recruits are blindfolded when transported to base, foragers don’t know the location, and only leaders know all the entrances. But it could have been worse—much worse. When I told her she wouldn’t be going underground, she snapped. She grabbed another recruit’s gun and aimed it at me. I don’t know what her plan was, but pointing a gun at leadership only earned her one thing: a bullet, courtesy of Bear, who was barely five meters away. This is our first recruitment camp since then. We run them every three months, usually taking in anywhere from twenty to a hundred people. Sorting and training them takes up to four weeks. “The bus is five minutes out,” someone says behind me. I nod, still staring at the horizon. I’ve never been nervous about recruitment—annoyed, yes, but not nervous. Until now. My stomach twists at the thought of another mistake. I sigh and push the feeling down. I’d rather be back at my other job anyway. I’m part of the leadership on base. My father’s been training me since the rebellion started when I was fourteen. I’ve had extensive combat training and weapons training far beyond any other woman here. I’ve learned every operation inside and out. He always said I’d take over one day, that this fight wouldn’t be won in his lifetime. It made sense. My parents were already nearing thirty when I was born; my father was forty-four when the Downfall started. He was supposed to retire to a desk job. And he was in great shape—until he stopped training a year ago, along with everything else. The bus appears in the distance, bouncing along the dirt road past several paddocks. I sigh again. Here we go.