State of Alliance by Summer Lane

window in the shape of a star.
    “Where are we?” I ask, struck by the melancholy silence.
    “The Carmel Mission,” Devin replies, watching my face. “It’s been here in one way or another since 1771.The official title is the San Carlo Borromeo de Carmelo Mission.”
    “That’s a mouthful.”
    Devin grins. “You like it?”
    I smile.
    “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
    There is nothing but total silence here. I keep my voice low, struck with a feeling of reverence. I walk through the courtyard, past the church building, and follow a path. There is a cemetery here, filled with the headstones of deceased priests, mission Indians and workers.
    “It’s so old,” I whisper. “It’s like time just froze in place here.”
    “Places like this,” Devin replies, “are the places that survived the EMP the best. I mean, what adjustments would you really have to make to live here? The walls are still adobe. The garden is the same. The church will always be the church, no matter if there’s electricity or not.”
    I pause at the end of the walkway. Little wooden crosses fill the dirt patch on the right hand side of the cemetery. Most of the shrubbery has died here, but there are still trees – old trees.
    “Can we go inside the church?” I ask.
    Devin nods.
    I take the path back to the front of the building and stop at the doors. Two guards stand at the entrance. It is amazing to me how the military presence here is so strong – and yet so silent. No one has said a word to us since we arrived.
    This place is sacred.
    I stop and turn to the security detachment behind me.
    “Wait here,” I say.
    I walk through the doors and step into a long, ornate chapel. Old wooden pews stretch from here to an intricately carved backdrop with statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The chapel is lit with dozens of flickering candles.
    I pause at the front. A large basin sits on a pillar, filled with holy water.
    I hesitate, unsure of how to proceed. Is it a sin to walk inside without washing? I don’t know.
    I dip my fingers into the liquid before walking further. Devin remains at the door, watching but never moving. I slowly walk down the center aisle between the rows of pews. The ceiling is lovely, vaulted. Ittowers above my head, reminding me of the vastness of the sky.
    It’s as if this entire place is from another world.
    I stop at the end of the church. There are graves marked into the floor here, below the huge iconic carvings. Jesus’ blood runs down the side of his cross, and I swallow.
    I am a soldier, and I have killed many men, and yet I have the nerve to stand in a church.
    I look at the graves. One of them is marked with the name Junipero Serra . I remember his name from history class, back in elementary school. He was the Father of the missions on the California coastline. I had no idea that he was buried in this place.
    I suddenly feel very unworthy of being here.
    I take a step backward, overwhelmed with the events of the past few weeks. The Battle of the Grapevine, the rescue mission into Los Angeles, the journey to Sacramento, the carnage of the bombing of the Capitol Building, the disappearance of my father, the Negotiations and the assassination attempts.
    I have so much blood on my hands. But I fight for freedom, so am I justified in what I’m doing? Why is standing in a church messing with my head? Hot, saltytears burn in my eyes and I fold my hands together, staring at the Jesus carving.
    I whisper, “God, I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
    I slowly drop down to my knees and bow my head, overcome with emotion and sadness. I’m not really sure how to pray, so I just stay there, unmoving, silent. Just feeling.
    If there’s a God, I pray that he forgives us for this war.
    And I pray he lets us win. Or all hope will be lost.
    When I turn around, Devin is no longer standing at the entrance to the church. Chris has taken his place. I stand up, going rigid. Like I’ve been caught doing something highly