Summer Lane

STATE OF EMERGENCY

For Mom & Dad.

Thanks for believing that writing is a “real” job.

Prologue

I don’t know how it happened.  Nobody does. There are only theories, empty rhetoric and doomsday prophecies. None of them are right, but none of them are completely wrong, either. They all have a grain of truth. All I know is where I was and what I was doing when it happened.

The day had started out like every other day of my life.  I hit the snooze button on my alarm about five times before dragging myself out of bed. I combed back my unruly red hair, threw on some clothes, and went into the kitchen. As usual, my dad hadn’t gone to the grocery store, so breakfast consisted of burnt toast and a teaspoon of olive oil.

Because fatty acids are supposed to be healthy for you.

And because there’s nothing else to eat in my house except a can of string beans from 1999.

Being nineteen, graduated from high school and unemployed, I didn’t have much to do besides surf the internet looking for interesting stories and reading my stack of books from the library. Lately I had applied for a multitude of different jobs, including a flight attendant, car washer and hotel manager. Needless to say, none of those positions panned out for me.

I’m more of the independent type, getting paid by my dad to help him out with his job as a Los Angeles detective. He’s been letting me poke around in his cases since I was a freshman in high school. I’m good at it, too. Criminal justice, that is. I even wanted a degree in it, but since I’m flat busted broke and stuck in a two-bedroom home with an empty refrigerator, my options are kind of slim.

Anyway, after I looked for a few jobs online, I closed my laptop and started cleaning the house systematically. My dad and I lived in a small house in the middle of the outer suburbs of Los Angeles. Culver City, to be exact. It’s about ten minutes away from Hollywood. The land of spray-on tans and yoga classes.

It’s a nice place to live as long as you don’t drive about five miles in the opposite direction. In that case you’ll end up in the middle of a ghetto. A visit to the grocery store might end up becoming a drive-by shooting.

Unsurprisingly, I’m an introvert.

So that day, that regular, average day, turned out to be a day that not only changed my life — but everybody else’s.

It was the day technology turned on us.

It was the beginning of a major pain in the butt.

Chapter One

It’s exactly 6:32 p.m. on December 10th. I know, because I’m texting my dad, telling him that I’m going to bring home Chinese takeout for dinner when the screen goes dead.

I’m talking died.

The battery gets hot in my hand and the digital clock in my car disappears. I am idling on the side of a busy curb in Culver City. I pop the battery out of my phone and put it back in, getting zero results.

And that’s when I notice that the car is silent. Off. Nada.

I turn the key a few times in the ignition but I can’t get anything from the engine. It won’t even try to turn over. Freaked, I look out my window. Unfortunately for me, that doesn’t do anything to ease my conscience. Every streetlight, lamp, apartment window and neon bar sign shuts off simultaneously.

I watch as an entire boulevard of cars die. Headlights disappear, engines cut out and there are vehicles crashing and smashing against everything in sight. Somebody screams. It’s probably me, but I’m not cool with admitting something like that.

I crawl out of my car and stand on the sidewalk. Everybody is reaching for their cellphones, looking to call 9-1-1. But it’s a no-go. Everybody else’s phones are dead, too.

That isn’t the worst of it.

I turn. Los Angeles is clearly visible in the distance, its signature round skyscraper lit up like a Christmas tree. I have a brief feeling of comfort knowing that the electricity is still on over there. Emphasis on brief. The tower goes black, as does the rest of the city, and just like that the entire region is plummeted into complete, utter darkness.

People are relatively calm at first. I mean, power outages do happen. But cars dying? Cell phones melting? Digital watches flickering out?

What kind of a freak thing is that?

I have an idea, but I didn’t want to voice it out loud. I’m smart enough to know that a panicked crowd can turn into a mob pretty quickly so I keep my big mouth shut and remain on the sidewalk. Motionless. Cautious. Wondering how I’m going to get home when a sea of unmoving cars stretches from here to the city limits — if not farther. It’s been a good twenty minutes since everything died and I’m getting worried. Any cop or ambulance should have been here in ten minutes.

Are their cars dead, too?

What about traffic helicopters? Those babies are always hovering over LA, doing regular traffic checkups. Instead it’s like everything is silent. Like a graveyard of cars and the unlit buildings are headstones.

I’ve got to stop reading horror novels, I think.

As confusion rises, people get out of their cars and start walking around. One lady starts crying, unable to get her cellphone to work or her car to start.

Welcome to the club, sister.

I don’t notice anybody injured but…suddenly I hear a distant humming sound. I strain to tell what it is, wondering if it’s the cavalry finally on its way. It’s about time. But it doesn’t get any louder, just closer. Like wind whistling through an empty tunnel. I search the skies for a helicopter or something, coming up short.

Everybody else is doing the same thing, some of them wigging out a little more than necessary. That is, until it hits. I feel the ground shake underneath me as a hulking mass streaks above our heads, barely visible against the night sky.

I am so shocked, so terrified, that I can’t even move. I just watch in horror as a plane descends like a missile a few miles past the city, hitting the ground. The impact is unbelievable. It’s like having a meteor or a bomb hit the guy standing next to you. I am thrown off my feet and yes, my eardrums start to ring.

A mammoth volley of flames erupts in the distance.

It lights up the dark city like a bonfire. I can feel the heat on my face all the way from here. People start screaming. Los Angeles International Airport isn’t too far away. If the airplanes are dying, it could be a long night of falling stars.

I scramble to my feet, my terror palpable, turning my mouth cotton dry. I don’t know what’s happening but I do know this: I have to get off the streets.

I wrap the strap of my body purse around my wrist a few times and stumble forward several steps, my head still ringing from the distant explosion. People are doing the same thing everywhere, shuffling around like a bunch of zombies. It’s kind of creepy, actually. Everything is bathed in a dull orange light. People arestarting to look more than a little terrified at this point. Panicked.

To keep myself from losing it, I count to one hundred over and over as I walk down the streets, moving with purpose. I move as fast as I can, breaking into a sprint as I round the corner. The street here goes underneath the 405, LA’s busiest freeway. There are people standing on the edges of the overpass, pointing and yelling, looking at the airplane in the distance.

By now I’m breathing hard. I keep moving under the freeway, running along the sidewalk. People are climbing out of their cars. Some guy wearing baggy pants and a backwards baseball cap steps onto the road.

“What’s going on, man?” he asks somebody next to him.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand…” the stranger replies, fear in his eyes.

I concentrate on walking, avoiding eye contact, just one thing on my mind: Get home. Get home and find dad.

Home is about three miles from here. I can make it if I move quickly. When emergency vehicles get here the streets will be blocked and locked for hours. I need to squeeze through now.

“Oh, my god!” A woman in a beanie exclaims. “It’s another one!”

I turn around, watching as another airplane descends dangerously low over the city. The same screeching, ripping sound fills the air. Despite my ringing eardrums I can feel it. I break out into a dead run.

A few beats later another airplane strikes the ground. The impact isn’t as intense as the first one because it’s further away. It still shakes the ground and sends a shockwave across the city. I stagger a little bit, feeling like a seasick sailor stumbling around on the deck of a ship.

“Come on…” I mutter, looking at my cell phone again. It’s still dead, and every Google-ready solution to turning on a dead phone isn’t working. I stuff it back in my pocket, delving onto a side street off the main boulevard. People are coming out of their apartments, restaurants and nail salons. The air is crisp and cold, burning my throat with every breath.

And every block it’s the same. Lights are off, cars are frozen on the streets, people are forming into crowds, looking to the skies as another plane passes over the city. Streets are becoming gridlocked, panicked people who don’t know how to escape whatever’s happening.

I just avoid them. Avoid the busier streets, the gridlocks, the people starting to panic. I manage to turn over a three-mile walk in less than an hour despite the crowds.

By the time I reach my neighborhood the entire city is bathed in white noise: The sound of people yelling, calling for help and things blowing up. My street is totally dark. Usually I can see the cheery facades of the old houses lit up from the inside by residents that have been here since the 1950s. Not tonight. Tonight everything is dark.

I start jogging until I reach our house. It’s blue and white with a little garden of flowers in the front yard. I take the keys out of my purse with shaking hands, jam it into the lock and open the front door. I slam it shut behind me.

“Candles, candles,” I say aloud, feeling my way into the kitchen. I open the cupboard under the sink and pull out some emergency candles. I light the wicks with some matches hidden the utensil drawer, illuminating the dull yellow paint on the walls. I flick the light switches, try the TV, mess with the radio. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Okay, what do I do? The power is out. The cellphones are dead. The cars are busted. The airplanes are falling out of the sky. Things aren’t exactly looking rosy.

I stop and sit on the couch, holding my head in my hands in the dark.

“Breathe in, breathe out,” I say. “Don’t panic.”

I think about all the conversations I’ve had with my dad about emergency protocol. As a cop, he’s seen plenty of people in high-stress situations. It always pays to be ready, he told me. Most people are unprepared for an emergency, so they get scared and start raiding grocery stores for food and water when a crisis hits. They’ll start breaking into houses and acting like wild savages.

One minute, civilized. The next? A bunch of psycho rioters.

I get up, common sense hitting me in the head like a hammer. I take a candle to my bedroom and open up the closet. I have a go-bag inside, compliments of my father’s insistence that I have an emergency plan in the event of a nuclear attack. Or in this case, a random power outage and malfunctioning technology.

I grab the backpack and run around the room like hyper dog, grabbing things like a photo album, a stuffed animal from when I was nine, and a warmer coat. I drag the stuff into the living room and throw open the hall closet.

Boom.

A powerful impact shakes the house. I grab the wall to keep from falling over, horrified as a blast of orange light ignites about three miles away from my house. Another airplane. They’re falling faster, now.

I can’t stay here. I can’t wait for dad. I have to get out.

Calm, calm, calm, I repeat internally. Don’t panic. I got this.

I pull a smaller bag from the closet and throw it on the couch, unzipping it as fast as I can. There are two weapons inside. A semi-automatic and my grandpa’s cowboy pistol. I take the semi-auto and strap the holster around my waist, hiding it under my jacket. I know my father is already armed wherever he is, so I put Grandpa’s pistol into my backpack and dump all of the ammo into the side pocket.

Don’t panic, don’t panic.

That’s my mantra.

I zip everything up, toss in some candles and lace up my combat-style boots. I bought them this year because I thought they’d look trendy. Now I’m glad I have them because they’re going to be practical.

The radio!

I suddenly remember our emergency radio. I slide into the kitchen and open one of the shallow drawers. In the back there is a small, metallic box. I pop it open and take the radio out. A satisfied smile crosses my face for a brief moment.  The box is made out of ferrite, a type of metal resistant to technological attacks, or as my dad would say, “e-bombs.”

I wind up the radio for a few minutes and turn it on. At first there is no sound, only static. And then I turn it to another station, and another, and another. Because every single one is all saying the same thing.

“If you can hear this, this is not a drill. Stay inside and seek shelter. If you are not in your homes, find shelter immediately…”

My blood runs ice cold as I shut the stupid thing off and shove it into my coat pocket. The only piece of technology is the house that’s working is the radio: The one thing that was protected in the ferrite case. I grab the backpack, take one last look at the house and head towards the back door.

Once outside, I pause and listen. Usually right now is about the time you would hear sirens or helicopters or bullhorns telling people to shut up and let the emergency workers do their job.

Instead I’m still just hearing the sound of unorganized panic.

Shuddering, I head to towards the alley, where my dad and I built a little garage. I open it up and step inside, using the flashlight to navigate through the piles of tools and machinery.

And I look at my escape vehicle.

It’s a 78 Mustang dad and I worked on together. While I’m not an automobile expert by any stretch, I do know that this baby should run as long as I have gasoline in the tank. My dad and I installed ferrite cores, a protective cage made out of the same metal that was keeping the radio safe in the kitchen drawer. Its main purpose is to guard a piece of technology from an electromagnetic pulse — which is what I think just wiped out every piece of computer-based technology in Los Angeles. Because that’s what an EMP does. It kills computers.My Mustang doesn’t use a computer chip to start up, unlike most of the cars on the road. It should be unaffected.

To think that my dad’s casual hobby of emergency prepping would come in handy. How did that happen?

I throw my backpack in the passenger seat and check the trunk. There are a few sealed canisters of gasoline, a box of tools with replacement parts for the truck and three cases of bottled water.

Always be prepared, my dad used to say.

Why do parents always have to know everything?

I slam the trunk shut and get in the driver’s seat.

“Please start,” I pray. “Please, please, please…”

I turn the key in the ignition. It feels like a million years go by before the engine turns over and it rumbles to life, smelling like gas.

I never thought I’d think gas smelled wonderful, but I do right now.

I open the garage door and back up, coasting into the alley. I keep my headlights off, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I’m probably the only person in the city with a working car. That could be seriously dangerous.

I hit the road and step on the gas, doing sixty on the boulevard. As I get closer to the more populated areas I have to avoid stopped cars on the road. People perk up and start pointing and yelling when my car roars by. It makes me nervous. Way nervous. I’ve seen War of the Worlds before.

“Okay, dad,” I say, holding the steering wheel with a death grip. “I know where to find you. You’d better know where to find me.”

Chapter Two

I had a pretty normal family. My mom was the manager of a chain hotel in Culver City, which meant her work was about five minutes from our house. She would spend all her time there, only coming home to eat, drink and sleep.

Oh, and occasionally speak to me.

I didn’t see her very much. My dad was a Los Angeles cop, so he kept weird hours, too. He worked at night and slept during the day, which meant that the curtains in our house were pretty much closed all the time.

As for myself? My mom wanted to send me to some fancy boarding school in Europe, but of course my parents couldn’t afford that, so her dream of dumping me off in a foreign country was canned. My dad was more old fashioned in his thinking. He wanted me to be at home more often, so he enrolled me in a charter school program. I only had to go to a class three times a week, while all my other homework was done at home.

I loved that setup. I was a shy kid. Terrified of my own shadow, as my dad would always tell me. I hung out at home most of the time, seeing my parents only in glimpses. I didn’t have any friends. It just wasn’t my thing.

When I was eight years old, my parents divorced. It didn’t affect me in the way you would think it would. I never saw my parents together anyway, so it was just like having one of them permanently gone. Big whoop. Fortunately, my boarding-home-crazed mother didn’t win custody of me. I got to stay with my dad.

I only visited my mother three times a year, despite the fact that she worked only five minutes away from our house. I think it was because I was angry with her for trying to get rid of me for so many years. I just didn’t want to see her.

My dad, Frank Hart, had been in the military for a few years before he decided to become a cop. He entered the academy when he was twenty-five. He was on the Los Angeles force for thirty years before he decided to become a private detective. Now he helps sniff out terrorists in buildings and give advice to young guys who don’t know one end of their guns from the other.

I loved my dad. I love him now.

I didn’t get to see him very much, but the difference between his love and my mother’s love for me was worlds apart. Mom wanted to dump my butt in France. Dad wanted me to stay home because he said he’d miss me.

My dad was also one of those people that believed a national emergency could happen at any second. He’d dealt with the Los Angeles riots during the 90s and seen all kinds of crazy crap as a cop. Murders, abuse, suicides. He was the kind of person that hoped for the best but expected the worst. His belief that bad things could happen at any moment turned into a hobby that I was more than happy to humor him about — anything to make him forget to make me do my algebra homework.

Which is why we have go-bags in every room of the house and a pre-planned rendezvous point. It’s all suddenly becoming an outstanding idea, given the fact that my dad’s paranoid prophecy about Los Angeles becoming the immediate site of Armageddon is coming true. I can’t believe it’s even happening.

I am racing down a little-known back road in Los Angeles, curving around the city and away from the freeway.

“If there’s ever a crisis in Los Angeles, like a natural disaster or a terrorist attack,” my dad had told me, “we need to count on the fact that the Internet and cell towers will go down. There won’t be any electricity, so if we get separated we have to know where to rendezvous.”

In retrospect, my dad is a genius. The two of us own a little cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains, not too far away from Kings Canyon National Park. It’s beautiful, secluded and supplied with emergency goodies. Our plan was that if we ever got separated for some reason, we would meet at the cabin. And now, with the entire city swarming like ants escaping a flooded anthill, it was the wisest decision we ever made.

As I drive I keep my headlights on only when I am far enough away from heavily populated areas. This road is windy. Definitely the long way out of the city, but I don’t want to risk getting stuck in a panicked mob.

“Give me something,” I say out loud, turning the crank radio up to full volume. Only bits and pieces of an emergency broadcast will come through. All I can catch are words, like “electromagnetic pulse,” “seek shelter,” and “terrorist attack.” Those words send a chill up my spine, making me wonder who and what is behind such a devastating attack on Los Angeles. And were we the only ones that were hit?

I take a few calming breaths. An anxiety attack behind the wheel of a moving vehicle would probably be detrimental to my health, so I concentrate on navigating the winding, empty road. I keep looking out my windows, paranoid that an airplane is going to drop on my head and turn me into a barbeque appetizer.

I scream.

Somebody is standing in the middle of the two-lane highway. It’s a man. He’s perfectly still, looking directly into my headlights like I’m an oncoming mosquito rather than a moving mass of metal going eighty miles per hour.

I slam on the brakes and my car screeches, smelling like burning rubber. I turn the steering wheel in an attempt to swerve out of the lane, barely missing him by a foot or two. My car starts to skid, then drift, then turn in a full circle. I take my foot off the brake and I’m thrown forward against my airbag-lacking steering wheel. The car screeches to a halt, throwing puffs of smoke into the air.

Panting for breath, trying to get my senses together, I look out the window. The man is moving towards my car. Quickly. I panic throw the car in reverse, hitting the gas. But, because I suck at backwards navigation, I shift back to drive. The man starts waving his hands back and forth.

“Wait!” he says. “I’m a soldier!”

At the word soldier I hesitate for a moment. He’s wearing jeans, but no uniform. Just a green tee shirt. I can’t see his face, but his hair is overgrown, drawn back in a ponytail. There’s no way he’s active duty military.

And then I see the blood.

His shirt is stained with it, crusting over on the sleeve. I suck in my breath, horrified, and open the door without thinking. See, I’m a pansy when it comes to helping people. When I was little I used to run up to stray cats and put them in a box to take to the animal shelter. When I was in high school I used to run up to stray people and give them money or clothes or shoes. Whatever they needed.

It’s my weakness as much as it is my strength.

“What happened?” I ask, stepping out, keeping the engine running. It’s freezing outside, 11:30 p.m. We’re alone on the back roads of some lesser-known Hollywood hills.  “Oh, god…how bad are you hurt?”

Wary, I keep my distance, sliding my hand underneath my coat for the semi-automatic. I have no desire to use it — and don’t ever plan on it — but it gives me some confidence that I have something to defend myself with.

“Easy,” he says, lifting up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Prove it.”

He wiggles his fingers, which are covered in blood, too.

“I just need a ride,” he says. “If you’re headed north.”

“I didn’t stop to give you a ride,” I reply, opening the door to the backseat. “I stopped to see if I could help you with all that blood.”

I rifle through my backpack and pull out a first aid kit. He watches me without moving, still halfway encased in the glare and shadows of the headlights.

“You got a name or what?” I ask.

“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

I smirk. “Clever.” I wave him over, keeping my fingers ready to grab my weapon at any moment.  So I can, like, wave it in his face to seem intimidating. “What happened to you?”

He walks over. His body is tensed up, but from pain or stress I can’t tell. Closer to me I inhale, noting how tall he is. He’s also very ripped. Not that I care, but facts are facts. His face is handsome, lined with a thin beard that would accentuate his long hair nicely if it weren’t smudged with sweat and grease.

“Long story,” he grunts. “I can do this.”

“It’s my stuff. I’ll do it,” I snap. “Where?”

He pulls the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a muscular arm with a painful injury. It’s crusted over with dried blood.

“What is that?” I ask, feeling squeamish.

“Glass.”

“How…?”

“Car accident. Five miles back.” He sighs heavily. “Whenever everything went out. I got slammed into a pickup.”

“You might have a concussion.” I have to stand on my tiptoes to flush the wound out with a bottle of water It’s not bleeding too badly — nothing that will kill him, anyway. A rush of heat bolts up my arm when our hands accidentally touch. I draw back instantly, embarrassed. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Have you seen the city?” I ask.

“Part of it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You?”

“I was there.” I swallow, getting shaky thinking about the crap that went down. “There were airplanes falling out of the sky. Everything died at the same time. People were everywhere…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m a complete nervous wreck. “They’re evacuating everybody.”

“Yeah, but without cars people won’t be going anywhere.”

I bite my lip.

“I know.”

I take tweezers and start pulling little shards of glass out of his skin. It’s seriously the grossest thing I’ve ever done. Plus, the fact that my hands are shaking doesn’t help matters.

The man gently takes my wrist and holds it for a second, shifting his position. He looks right at my face, giving me the once-over from head to toe. I blush, flustered, but don’t move.

“How old are you?” he asks. “Where’s your family?”

“I’m old enough,” I reply, slipping out of his grasp. “Let me wrap that for you.”

I take out my medical tape, dry the wound and wrap it up.

He stands there, silent.

“You’re alone,” he states gravely.

“What’s it to you?” My hand inches back towards my gun.

Noticing my anxiety, he makes an effort to relax his stance.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “I’m a Navy Seal. I’m not a bad guy.”

“Sounds like something a bad guy would say,” I snort.

“I’m going to be straight with you. I need a ride.”

“My dad told me never to talk to strangers, much less give them rides.” I shut the back door. “I shouldn’t have even stopped.”

“But you did.” The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Thank you.”

I pause, sitting down on the driver’s seat. One leg in, one leg out.

“You’re welcome.” I place my hand on the door. “And you’re not an active duty Navy Seal. Your hair is way too long.”

“I’m a former Seal,” he shrugs.

“So you lied,” I mutter.

“No, I didn’t. Listen, I can pay you for a ride, if that’s what you want,” he says.

“I don’t want money.”

“Look,” he says. “I just need to get to Squaw Valley. It’s just outside of Sequoia National Park.”

I close my eyes, ticked.

Of course.

Squaw Valley is in the foothills, about forty miles below our emergency cabin.

“What’s your name?” I ask again.

“Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.”

I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes.

“I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.”

He almost smiles.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I nod. “Get in. I’m wasting gas.”

“Let me get my gear.” He walks over to the side of the road and grabs a backpack and jacket, coming around to the passenger side. It’s a military-issue backpack, his jacket is leather, though.

“What are you, a biker?” I ask.

“Was,” he says.

“The pulse got your bike?”

“Totaled it.”

“You’re lucky you’re alive, you know that?”

He flashes a brilliant smile.

“I know.”

I clear my throat and press down on the accelerator, eager to get the heck out of here. Chris’s presence in my car puts me on edge, reminding me for the millionth time that my dad has warned me repeatedly over the course of my young life never to talk to strangers and never get in a car with one.

Well, guess what? The world has turned into a freaking Armageddon and I’m going to do what I want. Besides, Chris might come in handy. He’s a military guy. Tough, by the looks of it. This could be a positive thing.

“So what’s your name?” he asks, totally relaxed against the seat.

His voice is deep. Just the hint of a southern accent. “Or are you going to tell me?”

“Cassidy,” I say. “You can call me Cassie, though.”

“Alright, Cassie,” he replies, serious. “What’s a kid like you doing with a vintage piece of work like this?”

“You mean my car?”

“No, I mean your boots.”

“Shut up.” I find myself smiling. “It’s my dad’s. I mean, it’s both of ours.”

Silence.

I turn up the radio, discouraged when nothing but static comes through yet again. “Where are you from?” I ask at last.

“San Diego.”

“What were you doing in Los Angeles?”

“Weekend bike ride.” He looks sideways at me. “And you?”

“I live in Culver City,” I shrug.

“Where are your parents?”

“Seriously? Do I really look that young?” I press down on the accelerator a little more, giving into my unconscious habit of flooring it when I’m irritated.

“Yeah,” Chris says. “You do.”

I press my lips together, wondering how much I should tell a complete stranger. “I got separated from my dad. I’m going to meet him somewhere.”

“How far are you driving?”

“Towards Squaw Valley,” I reply, vague.

“You’re going to keep it a secret?” He smiles. “You’re what…sixteen?”

“I’m nineteen,” I snap. “Come on. At least try to guess accurately.”

He chuckles.

“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“You’re doing a lousy job.” I keep my eyes trained on the road, taking the curves slow and the straightaways like a racecar driver on steroids. “I don’t trust you yet, by the way. Keep that in mind.”

“Duly noted.” His voice is heavy with amusement. “I’ll try not to tick you off.”

I snort.

“Good luck with that.”

“Look.” Chris points to a spot of light ahead on the road. “Turn off the headlights.”

I open my mouth to make a smart comment but decide to save it for later. I snap the headlights off and we peer into the darkness as I slow the car down. There seems to be a group of people on the road, almost invisible at night.

“They’re blocking the road,” Chris says. “Turn the car around.”

“I can’t! I’m doing sixty!”

“Then slow down and make a U-turn.”

His words are quick, totally casual.  I take my foot off the gas but we’re moving too quickly towards the group. I lay on the brake and stop just in time, Chris looking out the window as the people start running towards us.

“Keep the doors locked,” he says calmly. “Just drive.”

The people, who are mostly bathed in shadow, are yelling angrily and running up to the car. They bang their fists against the windows. Even though I can’t make out one single discernable statement, it sounds to me like they’re saying, “We’re taking your car and we’re not giving it back.”

Just a guess.

“Alright, punch it!” Chris commands. “Right now.”

“I am!” I yell, coiled tight. I hit the accelerator and flip a U-turn, startled out when one of the people in the mob grabs onto the door handle and holds on as we gain speed. His shoes are scraping against the pavement.

“Don’t stop,” Chris warns. “That’s what he wants you to do.”

I look over my left shoulder and see a flash of a young man wearing a beanie in the window. His eyes are wild, desperate. And then he lets go. I hear something smack against the road. I feel bile rising in the back of my throat and urge to to stop, go back, and help him is overwhelming.

“Don’t do it,” Chris says, moving closer. There is no center console so he is right beside me. “That’s a mob out there. People are going to act like this for a long time until the power comes back on. They’ll take what you have if they can and leave you to die.”

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Tears spring up in my eyes. Stupid, stupid tears. “Why?” I manage to get out.

Chris studies my profile in the dark cab. Thinking.

“Because civilization as we know it is gone,” he says at last.

Chapter Three

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’m a realist. Most people would say that’s the same thing as being a pessimist, but it’s not. Really. I just look at something and don’t expect anything great to come of it. I’m just that way. If you hope for something good, you’re going to be disappointed. I side with reality and most of the time we get along just fine.

So naturally the end of the world as we know it doesn’t come as a complete shock to me, although it does put a serious question mark on whether or not I’ll be able to go bowling next Tuesday.

“So who do you think is behind this?” I ask Chris.

It’s about four in the morning. We have tried five different roads that lead out of Los Angeles. All of them have been blocked with mobs waiting to hijack working cars. Right now we’re trying the sixth route, and pretty soon I’m going to have to refill the gas tank.

“I heard something about the Chinese on the radio before we lost the signal,” I continue, yawning. “I bet they did it.”

“I don’t know.” Chris props his boot up on the dashboard. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why? Is there a secret love fest between China and America I don’t know about?”

“Look, I was in the military for nine years,” he replies. “I’ve seen a lot of different enemies of the United States around the world. I don’t think China is behind this.”

“Then who is?” I say, exasperated. “What if it’s not an attack? What if it’s just an accident?”

“You seriously think an electromagnetic pulse is an accident?” Chris chuckles. “Yeah, it could have been caused by a solar flare, but I doubt it.”

I snort.

“You don’t know any more than I do,” I say. “You’re just spit balling.”

“Who isn’t?” He looks out the window, staring into the distance. “This could be more widespread than we think. What if LA wasn’t the only city hit with this thing?”

I shiver.

“Then there’s no place to escape to.”

“Nah.” Chris turns back towards me. “This is the last route out of here. If it’s blocked…” He lets the sentence hang in the air between us. People are starting to act like maniacal psychopaths on the streets. It’s not safe to go back into the city. If there were any working cars, the freeways would be jammed to full capacity.

“Then what?” I ask, voicing our twin concerns.

“Then we find another way.”

I yawn again, feeling exhausted. This road is a two-lane highway that was probably built during the Babylonian Empire. It’s that outdated. It winds throughout the little hills that define Hollywood, dodging the freeways and dipping close to residential areas. Off in the distance there are sparks of orange light, signifying fires, explosions and the like.

“I haven’t seen any planes for a while,” I mutter.

“Most modern passenger planes have faraday cages,” Chris replies. “You know. They’re protected from EMPs.”

“Then what about the ones that fell out of the sky in Culver City?” I ask. “Those thing were like bombs.”

“They obviously weren’t protected well enough.” Chris stretches. “I can drive. You look like you’re going to fall asleep any second.”

“I probably am.”

“I’ll take over.”

“Sorry. Nobody drives the Mustang but me.”

Chris shakes his head. After another forty-five minutes we reach the other side of the hills, signifying the break out of Hollywood. I roll to a stop at the top of a rise, looking down over the beginning of the small mountain range separating Southern California from the rest of the state: Total darkness.

I just stare at it, my heart starting to race in my chest.

Who knows what’s out there? The freeway is probably jammed with a thousand accidents. Evacuees will be attempting to find transportation.

“Cassie?” Chris says.

I snap out of it.

“Yeah?” I reply, shaky. “I’m fine.”

But I’m so not. The world is coming to an end.

Who could be fine with that?

When late morning hits, I fall asleep at the wheel.  We’ve spent the last three hours navigating some old halfway abandoned roads in the middle of nowhere in order to avoid jammed freeways and populated areas. It was a difficult thing to do, since the maps I have in the car aren’t specific when it comes to the back roads. So by the time the sun is getting warm enough to make me sleepy, I just can’t take it anymore.

My head lolls forward and hits the steering wheel. The next thing I know the whole car is jerking to the left and Chris’s hands are taking the controls as I come to my senses.

I choke on a gaspafter I realize what’s happened. Early morning sunlight is breaking over the road. It’s the kind of lighting that naturally puts you to sleep. I jerk backwards and Chris slams on the brakes, pulling the car to the side of the road.

Chris seems to realize that he’s almost sitting on top of me and draws back, flushing. “Let me drive,” is all he says. No chastisement. No lecture on how falling asleep at the wheel is worse than drinking a Frappuccino before bedtime.

As for me, my heart is beating out of my chest. I think I ruptured my nervous system. I just nod, mumbling something about having to use the restroom, and open the driver door. The air is crisp and cutting. Chris walks around the back of the car and, for the first time, I see my new traveling companion in daylight.

His skin is tanned, a thin scar trails from the inside of his wrist to his elbow. His eyes are green — electric green. I stand and stare at him for a full ten seconds with my mouth open like an idiot before realizing that he’s doing the exact same thing.

And the corner of his mouth is quirking upwards. My hands automatically fly to my face, trying to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks.

Being pale does little to hide emotions.

“It’s all yours,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “But if you crash or scratch her, I’ll shoot you.”

Placing his hand on the door above my head, he replies, “I’ll remember that.”

For one intense moment we lock gazes. I feel like a two-ton weight is dropped on my chest, unable to breathe, unable to move. Trapped between the car door and his body.

But I’m not, so I exhale and step away.

“I have to pee,” I say quickly.

In retrospect I realize that probably wasn’t the most seductive thing to say after a hot staring contest. But hey. The truth is the truth.

Chris smirks.

“Be my guest. I won’t steal the car.”

I blink. That actually hadn’t even occurred to me. Exhausted and traumatized from falling airplanes and malfunctioning cellphones, I shake my head. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, grinning.  I pat my gun for effect, grab the car keys and walk off the asphalt.

When I’m done I walk back to the car, half expecting it to be gone. But Chris is still standing there, waiting patiently. I give him a funny look. Surprised, I guess, that he didn’t hotwire the car and supplies, I throw open the passenger door. “I’m impressed,” I mumble.

Chris slides behind the wheel.

“I knew you would be.”

A few strands of hair have escaped from his ponytail, accentuating the angles of his face. I’m tempted to reach out and brush them into place but I don’t. We’re not that chummy.

“So what’s in Squaw Valley for you?” I ask, closing my eyes.

He doesn’t answer right away. I curl up and lean my head against the window. “Family,” he replies.

“Don’t tell me. They’re doomsday preppers,” I quip.

“Something like that.” Chris raises an eyebrow. “You’re quite a prepper yourself.”

“Thanks to my dad,” I say, fighting the annoying tears that threaten to squeeze out every time I think about dad fighting his way out of Los Angeles. “He always believed we should be prepared for a national emergency.”

“Your father is a very wise man,” Chris nods. “Was he in the military?”

“For six years,” I reply. “Then he was a cop for thirty. Now he’s a private detective.”

“Impressive,” he says.

I close my eyes.

“Maybe.” I sigh. “Wake me up if you see anything alarming.”

“Like…?”

“Like an airplane dropping on our heads or a band of marauders on the side of the road.” I shrug. “Little things like that.”

Chris smirks.

“I’ll do that.”

“Good.”

I go to sleep.  I nod off for about two hours. Fortunately, I’m so exhausted that I don’t have any nightmares — ironic, because I can’t help from waking up to one. One in which Los Angeles is without power and passenger airplanes are the new bombs of the 21st century.

At around 9:15 a.m. Chris suddenly shoves me on the shoulder. I slap his hand away, irritated. “What?” I slur. “Did I miss something?”

“You’ll want to see this,” he says, his voice calm.

I rub the crud out of my eyes and sit up. After a few blinks to clear my vision, I notice how slow Chris is driving. He’s watching something on the road straight ahead. We’re driving on the old highway that was pretty much abandoned after the massive Interstate was built into the Grapevine, the unofficial name for the mountains we find ourselves in. It’s like driving through the countryside, beautiful trees and tall grass swaying all around us.

And an object on the side of the road.

“Oh, my god!” I gasp. “It’s a baby carrier!”

It’s tilted sideways on the lip of the old road. There is also a diaper bag and an open suitcase. A dead car is sitting near all of it, its windows smashed out.

“We have to see if there’s a baby in there,” I say.

“It could be a trap.”

“A trap?” I roll my eyes. “Come on. It’s a baby! We can’t just drive by and not try to help.”

“Cassie…”

I open the door and step outside. Chris yells at me to stay put, swearing like a sailor. Appropriate, I guess, for a Navy Seal. I jog down the side of the road. Chris opens his door and runs after me, telling me in explicit terms to get back in the car.

“Cassidy, get the hell back in the car!” he yells.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

I run up to the baby carrier and kneel down, pulling back the blanket. It’s empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” I say. “See? It’s okay.”

“Get back in the car,” Chris growls. “Now.”

“Sheesh. Whatever.” I stand up, dusting off my jeans. “You’re a little high-strung, you know that?”

Chris scowls.

“Don’t piss me off, kid.”

I glare at him.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Chris steps forward and grabs my arm, half-walking, half-dragging me back to the Mustang. “Let go of me!” I say, angry. “That hurts.”

“It would have hurt worse if you were the people who were in that car.”

I look over at the wrecked car.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think they stopped for, Cassie?” he points at the baby carrier. My eyes travel to the ravaged vehicle. I see the tip of a limp, white hand lolling out of the backseat. Droplets of blood are splattered across the broken glass on the ground. I gasp, hands darting to my mouth to keep from gagging.

“Oh, my god… what happened?”

“It’s called carjacking,” Chris says, walking me back to the car, physically turning me away from the horrible sight. “They use the baby carrier to get people out of their cars and onto the side of the road.”

I find myself choking on an embarrassing sob, more from the horror of the last fifteen hours than anything else. “How can everything change so fast?” I ask, a tear squeezing out. Chris opens the passenger door and catches the tear with his thumb, green eyes sad but serious.

“Nothing’s changed,” he says softly. “This crisis will just bring out the worst in people.”

He gestures for me to sit. I don’t argue, just sit down like a numbed zombie and snap the lock into place. Chris gets back in and pretty soon we’re picking up speed again. “Why didn’t they take the car?” I whisper. “Why did they lure them there if they were just going to kill them?”

Chris sighs.

“Their probably wasn’t enough gas left in the car for it to be useful,” he replies, his voice hard. “So they just killed them.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Why do you act so shocked?” he says. “Wasn’t your dad a cop for thirty years? Stuff like this is common in his world. Especially in LA.”

“This is different,” I answer, making a Herculean effort not to burst into erratic tears. “This is…psycho.”

Chris doesn’t answer. If he agrees with me he doesn’t show it. Everything about his body is tense, like a metal spring just waiting to be released. It makes me wonder how he would react if we end up getting jumped.

And killed.

“Is your brother a Seal, too?” I ask, feeling his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Trying to turn the conversation to something remotely normal

“No.” He presses his lips together. “He’s my little brother. Just graduated from High School.”

“Oh. What about your parents?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

“Yeah, so what? How else am I supposed to get to know you?”

Chris shakes his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We’ll need to refill the gas tank again in a minute,” he says, changing the subject. “How much you have left?”

I sigh.

“Enough to get us to Squaw Valley,” I reply. “But not to our cabin. And that’s only if we can avoid any more detours.”

“That could be a problem.”

“We can stop in a smaller city. Maybe the pulse only hit LA.”

“We can’t be sure.”

“Yeah, but if run out of gas things will really suck.” I shrug. “I’d rather take my chances in the city.”

Chris mulls the idea over in his head.

“Where’s the nearest city?” he asks.

I pull a map out of the passenger door pocket. After studying it for a little while I say, “There’s a place in Santa Clarita.”

“That’s right off the freeway,” Chris says. “We could get stuck in gridlock. It might be safer to just siphon off some gas from some of these abandoned cars.”

“But I want to see if Santa Clarita was affected by the EMP,” I point out. “It’s fairly remote. They have a gas station there. It might be a worth a shot.”

Chris doesn’t continue arguing with me, but I can tell he’s uneasy about the idea. Truthfully, so am I. But the more time elapses since the pulse hit, the more gas will continue to disappear from stations. The more people will panic and start raiding grocery stores for food and water, and the more anarchic society will become.

If this is indeed a widespread thing.

We’ll just have to find out how far the pulse reached, I guess.

Chapter Four

I’ve seen ghost towns that looked friendlier than this.  It’s hard for me to believe that just fifteen hours ago Los Angeles and every freeway running in and out of the city was moving with 80 mile an hour traffic.

Santa Clarita, a little stretch of travel stops on the other side of the Magic Mountain rollercoaster park, is deserted. There are cars all over the interstate, many of them overturned or smashed together in giant piles. It looks a little like a junkyard. But there aren’t any people in sight. Not ambulances, helicopters or police cars.

Just an abandoned McDonald’s and a gas station.

Chris eases the Mustang down the road, keeping the window rolled down a few inches, listening. His face is pensive, his eyebrows drawn together.

“This is not normal,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. We just coast down the street, dodging a car that is crashed into a lamppost. I can see dark, thick skid marks all over the road. Some of them reach the sidewalk.

“At least we know that Santa Clarita was hit with the pulse, too,” I muse aloud. “We’re at least thirty-five miles out of L.A.”

This only makes Chris frown more.

“We’ll try the gas station,” he says. “But don’t count on finding any fuel.”

“I’m not.”

Chris drives up to the pumps and cuts the engine. We both get out. The sky is starting to darken around with rainclouds. Gusts of cold air are blowing through the abandoned rest area. “These are all dead,” I say, disappointed. But really, what had I been expecting? Of course the pumps would be dead if all the cars were.

“They might have some gas canisters inside,” Chris says, tapping the blank pump screen. “Stay here. Keep your eyes open.”

He reaches into the backseat and pulls out his backpack. He removes a semiautomatic that’s a lot newer — and cooler looking — than mine and tucks it into his belt.

“What? You think there’s going to be somebody in there to shoot?” I ask, alarmed. “And I didn’t know you had a gun.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says, completely serious. “Stay here.”

“I’m not moving. Geez. A little trust would be nice.”

Chris snorts and walks towards the building. I pull my jacket tighter and lean against the pump, overlooking the spooky scene before me. It’s like everybody just disappeared all at once. But where did they go? How did they get out so quickly?

Spooked, I grab my crank radio from the front seat. After a few hundred windups I shake my arm out and turn up the volume. I can only hear a crackling static at first before it’s interrupted by a short burst of dialogue.

“Citizens should take care to remain where they are and stay inside,” it says. A man’s voice. Pre-recorded. “For those that are unable to reach shelter, there are emergency camps in California for refugees. The following is a list of camp locations: Santee, San Bernardino, Bakersfield, Stockton, Elk Grove, Dublin, Yreka, San Jose and Fresno. Again, do not leave your homes unless necessary. Seek shelter at a relief camp or indoors. This is not a drill. The President has declared a state of emergency. Help is coming.”

The audio loops and starts over. I turn from station to station. Every broadcasting center is spouting out the same thing. My hand hovers over the off button just as I hear those words again: State of emergency. Apparently the whole state has gone dark. But what about the rest of the country?

God. I hope not.

“Chris!” I yell. “I got the radio to work!”

No answer. I roll my eyes and toss the radio back in the car. Down the street the road dips right underneath the freeway overpass. It’s completely stacked with cars. A virtual parking lot.

I’d hate to be the cleanup crew that has to take care of that.

Bored, I walk around the Mustang a few times and check for dents. There’s a scratch on the rear fender. I bend to inspect it, my reflection peeking out at me in the shiny chrome. This is what I get for letting him drive, I think.

And then I see a flicker of movement in the chrome. At first I think it’s just my hair blowing around my face. Then I think that it’s Chris returning from the building with a gas canister.

That’s before I realize it’s another person.

I stand straight up and turn around. On the other end of the McDonald’s parking lot, a guy dressed in gangster garb is standing there with his hat on backwards. He’s wearing all black, some kind of metal stick in his hand. A crowbar?

Not exactly a positive sign.

He’s staring straight at me. Both of us, motionless in the middle of this deserted rest stop. My heart drops to my stomach, not because I’m afraid of people per se, but because I’m afraid that a guy dressed like a gangster holding a crowbar in the middle of Armageddon doesn’t have sparkling intentions.

As expected, he starts moving toward me. I immediately reach for my gun, keeping my hand on the holster in case he tries anything.

“Chris!” I say, trying to keep my voice from echoing. “Get out here!”

No answer.

As gangster boy gets closer I notice the creepy tattoos covering his arms. Some of them even reach onto his face. It’s both fascinating and gross.

Well, mostly gross, but still...

“What do you want?” I demand.

He takes a step onto the gas station driveway. The metal object he’s carrying is a crowbar, and there seems to be something crusted over on his leg. Blood? I swallow, fear sending a shiver through my body.

“You alone?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I reply. “What are you doing with a ten pound metal stick in the middle of nowhere?”

“This ain’t nowhere,” he says. “This was a rest stop.”

“Was. Now what do you want?”

“I want a ride.”

“No can do. I don’t drive strangers.”

“I didn’t ask you if you were going to give me one,” he says, flashing a dangerous expression. “I said I wanted a ride.”

The reality of his words sinks in.

Ah. I get it.

“Get out of here,” I order, taking out my gun. I’ve never actually shot anything before so I try to make it look like I know what I’m doing. “Or I’ll shoot you…” I pause. “Right between the eyes.”

He raises his hands up.

“Easy,” he says, backing up. “I was just asking. I’m going, I’m going…”

“Good. Go a little faster. Your tattoos are making me dizzy.”

Feeling triumphant, I allow myself a smug smile. It’s only then that I remember my dad telling me in the fourth grade that pride always goes before fall. Seriously. Why is that always so true?

Somebody grabs my arms from behind and twists the gun out of my grip. It happens so fast that I have no time to stop it. One minute I’m standing with an idiotic smile on my face. The next my cheek is shoved up against the pavement and my hands are shoved into the small of my back.

Somebody’s got a knee crammed on top of my spine.

“Get…off…” I grunt weakly.

My adrenaline is spiking at record rates, causing my heart rate to skyrocket and my emotions to freak out. All I can think about is gangster boy’s bloody crowbar.

“Nice and easy, little girl,” he says, leaning down to peek at my face. “You keep quiet and I might be a nice guy and let you live.”

I bite back a stinging retort.

“Keep her there, Ray,” gangster boy says to the guy keeping my down. I can’t see his face but he’s got the same tattoos on his hands that his friend does.

“Yeah, there’s gas in the trunk!” gangster boy hoots. “She’s got food and water, too. Damn. She’s even got a radio.” He kicks my foot. “What’d you do? Raid a grocery store?”

“I like to stay prepared,” I spit, “so I don’t have to steal other people’s stuff.”

Gangster boy laughs.

“Let’s get out of here.”

The weight on my back vanishes. Gangster boy lifts my up by the collar of my jacket. “You’re kind of pretty for a little thing,” he sneers. He reeks of cigarettes.  “Maybe I will take you along.”

“I’d rather chew glass than share a car with you,” I manage to choke out.

Sarcasm has always been my best weapon, for some reason. Unfortunately it doesn’t really swing any physical power. Gangster boy’s friend, Ray, comes into view. A pale guy with similar gangster garb. He looks unmoved by my predicament.

“We’ll see about that,” gangster boy says, twirling his crowbar around with one hand. “What do you think?”

Seeing the crowbar makes me lose it. I bring my combat boots up and kick him as hard as I can in his groin. While he doesn’t let go of my jacket, he does swear in pain and loosen his grip. I claw my fingernails across his face and bite his hand as hard as I can.

He spits out a string of profanities and drops me. I scramble to my feet and sprint away, heading for the front seat. Ray is right behind me. For a pale skinny guy he’s sure fast.

Maybe he’s a vampire.

I dive for the driver’s seat and grab the keys to the Mustang. Ray drags me out by the belt loop of my jeans. I literally shove the keys into my shirt, hoping they stay hidden in my camisole. Gangster boy grabs me by the neck and starts cursing in my face.

Apparently he plans to kill me and he just doesn’t know how to articulate it any other way.

He slams my entire body against the cement pillar that’s holding up the awning over the gas station. I gasp, feeling the air rush out of my lungs. He grabs me again and tosses me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach. I double over in pain, covering the back of my neck with my hands.

But that’s before I remember that you’re only supposed to do that if a bear attacks you. Idiot, I think. How do I get out of this?

I roll to my side, just missing gangster boy’s crowbar as it clangs against the ground where my head just was. Terror shoots up from my feet to my brain. I jump up and take a crowbar to the hip.

“Stop!” I plead, desperate.

Gangster boy slams the crowbar towards me. I cover my face and close my eyes. Bam. It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t my head that got hit. Or my stomach.Or anything else of physical importance. I peek through my hands, shocked to see Chris’s powerful arm blocking the crowbar.

He’s standing protectively in front of me. He whips his hand underneath the bar, twists it out of gangster boy’s hand and slams it into his head. I stifle a shocked gasp into my palm. Gangster boy goes down and Ray tries to advance on Chris.

I take a step backwards, gripping my throbbing hip. Chris twirls the crowbar around in his hand like it’s a baton, using it to thrust it forward into Ray’s stomach. Ray makes a weird gagging noise and bends forward, grabbing his abdomen in pain.

Join the club, I think.

Chris then drops the bar and takes Ray by the neck.

“I should kill you,” he growls, every muscle in his body tense, bulging.

Ray chokes out an unintelligible response.

“Get the hell out of here,” Chris warns, kicking the now-terrified gangster forward. “You come back and I will kill you.”

Ray, still gripping his stomach, nods weakly and takes off across the gas station. I can only stare at gangster boy’s unconscious body strewn across the asphalt. There’s no blood or anything, but it’s still freaky to see.

“Where is it?” Chris asks, breathing hard.

He’s amped up, his cheeks flushed red.

“Chris…where’s what?” I stammer, still shaking with shock.

“Where’d he hit you, Cassie?” he demands. “Did he hit you in the head? Yes or no?”

“What? No.” I grimace. “My side, though. It’s killing me.”

Chris swears and lifts my jacket. He pulls the shirt up underneath and I peer down at the skin right above my hip. It’s turning black and blue right in front of my eyes. “Dammit.” He places his hand on the skin. “I’m sorry, Cassie.”

Our eyes meet. I inhale sharply, realizing I must have dirt and gravel all over my face. Being the self-conscious idiot that I am, I look down and cover my face with my hand, embarrassed. Chris threads his fingers through mine and brings my hand down. “Cassie,” he says, his voice rough.

I look back up. Raw emotion is burning in his eyes.

“We have to get out of here,” I whisper. “There’ll be more like them.”

Chris nods slowly.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and draws me closer. For one awkward yet incredible moment I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead he slips his arm behind my back and starts leading me to the car. I limp and hobble like a grandma on roller-skates thanks to the profound pain radiating through my body. Chris opens the passenger door.

“I didn’t find any gas,” he says, sliding his arms underneath my legs. He lowers me onto the seat, taking his sweet time pulling away from me. My pulse is pounding — but from the traumatic attack or his touch I can’t tell.

“We’ll just have to go as far as we can on what we have, then,” I reply.

He rubs his chin. Closes the door. Walks around the Mustang and gets into the driver’s seat. It’s funny how after just a few hours he’s automatically started driving my car.

“I’m sorry they hurt you, Cassie,” he says. He swallows, every muscle in his body taut, hard. “I won’t let that happen again.”

I smile despite everything.

“Thanks,” I reply in a soft voice. “For saving me.”

He doesn’t answer. He just moves his hand towards the ignition, looking for the keys. “Cassie…?”

I grin.

“Oh, I have them,” I say. “I didn’t want them to drive off and steal the car.”

I reach down into my shirt and take the keys out, tossing them to Chris. He stares at me, then at the keys, then back at me. A self-satisfied smirk touches his lips. “That’s good to know,” he says.

“What’s good to know?”

“Where you hide your important stuff.”

“Shut up.”

He starts the engine. He takes the Mustang back onto the old road.

“I say we stay away from all cities until further notice,” I propose, wincing every time we hit a bump. “When you were inside I got the crank radio to pick up a signal. They were playing an audio loop of the emergency camps set up for refugees. Apparently the whole state is down.”

Chris swears.

“This could be far-reaching,” he mutters. “Worse than I thought.”

“At least they have someplace for people to go,” I say.

“No,” Chris says, his voice sharp. “Those camps will just be full of panicking people who need help. We need to avoid those kinds of places.”

“Sometimes people need help, Chris,” I point out. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Trust me, I don’t think we’re going to want their help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’ll take a closer look at that hit above your hip once we get far enough away from the populated areas.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a bruise.”

“It’s still worth checking out,” he insists. “You could have fractured something.”

His hands grip the steering wheel so hard that I’m afraid he’s going to pop it right off. “The President declared a state of emergency,” I say, trying to change the subject. Calm him down.

“No kidding,” Chris laughs, releasing a bit of the tension.

I look down at my hands, still shaking like leaves.

“It’s a cabin,” I blurt out.

“Excuse me?”

“The place I’m meeting my dad,” I explain. “It’s a little cabin we own. We have it stocked with supplies. You…you’re welcome to come if you want.”

“I gotta find my brother first.”

“After you find your brother, then,” I say. “My dad says strength is in numbers, anyway.”

Chris cocks his eyebrow.

“True.” He looks over at me, ghosting a sexy smile. “Thanks for offering.”

I blush for no logical reason and turn back towards the window.

“Chris?” I ask. “Do you think my dad is still alive?”

I voice the horrible thought that has been nagging at the back of my mind since that first airplane went down in Culver City. Who’s to say that my dad wasn’t caught in one of those freak explosions? The odds are certainly in his favor.

Chris remains silent for a long time before answering.

“What do you believe?” he says at last, glancing over at me.

I hesitate, fear and doubt telling me that my dad is as good as dead. That even if I make it to the cabin in the mountains, I’ll be stuck there alone, because he won’t be there to meet me.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “He didn’t have the Mustang, so I don’t know how he would have got out of the city. I don’t know how long it would take him to figure out where I went.”

When I stop to take a shaky breath, Chris grabs my hand. He squeezes it hard and we lock eyes again. “Hey,” he says. “If your dad is anything like you, he’s definitely alive.”

I bite down on my lip to keep from bursting into tears like an overly emotional child. Unable to keep my voice steady enough to reply, I just smile to convey my thanks. Chris releases my hand and touches my cheek before focusing back on the road.

As we put distance between ourselves and the gas station from hell, I can’t help but think how much my life has changed in less than twenty-four hours.

What a trip.

The back roads only go so far. Many of them were abandoned during the 1970s when the state came in and built a giant eight-lane interstate. Chris periodically gets out and drags portable fences and “Do Not Enter,” obstructions out of the way.

About thirty minutes ago I rubbed some anti-inflammatory cream on my bruise, hoping that something isn’t broken. It’s kind of impossible to tell since I can’t touch it. It’s a little too sensitive at this stage.

Since we left the gas station behind we haven’t been able to get another signal on the crank radio. It could be because we’re getting higher up into the Grapevine. Radio signals always did tend to go out at this altitude.

Still…

The road we’re on right now has virtually eroded away to dirt. Bushes are sometimes overgrown onto the road. As we ascend the air gets colder. I can even see powdery snow dusting the top of some of the higher mountains. Chris voiced his concern earlier about running out of gas earlier than we had estimated — all of this steep climbing and detouring is costing us mileage. It could be bad.

“When we run out,” I say, hating to use the word when, “what then?”

Chris ponders the question, avoiding a fallen branch in the road.

“We can siphon gas from the cars along the road,” he says.

“It might be raining or snowing up in the mountains,” I point out.

“And that’s supposed to be worse than staying in the city and getting mugged to death?” Chris says, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine, I get it,” I sigh. “I just hope the car makes it to Squaw Valley, at least. It’s at least forty miles away from our cabin. And uphill.”

“You could hike it.” Chris flicks the radio on again. Still nothing. “Just follow the road and stay out of sight.”

“Do you think everybody in the state has gone crazy?” I ask. “I mean, have they all gone psycho?”

“Of course not,” Chris replies, halfway laughing. “But the majority don’t know how to survive without technology — without electricity or plumbing — and they’ll panic. They’ll get their hands on anything that works. Upstanding citizens will become criminals in a week or two. Desperation brings human beings down to the same level.” I notice his body begins to tense up as he talks. “Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”

His voice becomes depressing, dark, and he stops talking. I watch his demeanor shift from totally calm to irritated and come to the conclusion that either he’s just prone to mood swings or he’s seen something really bad as a Navy Seal.

Probably a combination of both.

When nighttime comes we have to refill the gas tank again. That leaves us without about two more tanks, but with smaller canisters and an old car, that doesn’t mean we can get all the way to the hills without running out. Thank God Chris knows how to siphon gas from other cars.

Why didn’t my dad ever teach me how to do that?

“Chris,” I say at around nine o’clock. “We should stop and rest. Both of us.”

“We’re making good time.”

“We’re lost.”

And it’s true. We’ve been driving around the back roads all day. Going on an interstate at eighty miles per hour, it only takes about sixty minutes to get through the Grapevine. It’s taken us twelve hours to even get close, because many of the roads we’ve used have been dead ends and we’ve had to backtrack.

“Cassie…”

“It’s insane for us to waste gas driving around in the dark!” I exclaim. “None of my maps have any information about these roads. We need to wait until morning and figure out what’s going on. I can’t even see the North Star, for crying out loud! I have no idea what direction we’re headed.”

Rainclouds have darkened the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. It’s getting colder and windier by the minute. The entire windshield is coated with sleet. The climate control system in the Mustang broke about four months ago, and thanks to my brilliant habit of procrastination, I never got it fixed. Now I have no heater.

Lovely.

“I don’t want the engine to get frozen,” Chris mutters. “A car this old might have trouble starting up again.”

“I’d rather take that chance and not drive off a cliff in our sleep,” I say.

Chris nods.

“Okay,” he replies. “We’ll stop and rest for a couple of hours. If it’s a full blown winter storm we’ll want to keep moving, though.”

He’s right, of course. Mudslides are pretty common up in the Grapevine during storms. So is flooding and icy roads. It’s not like my Mustang is tricked out for that kind of crazy terrain, so it’d be safer not to push it.

Chris finds a type of hidey-hole off the road, wedged between a wall of bushes and trees. He cuts the engine, plunging us into total darkness. I instinctively check all the locks on the car before reaching for my backpack.

“It couldn’t get any colder, could it?” I mumble. “Stupid weather. Stupid EMP. Stupid crowbar.”

I dig through my pack in the dark. I finally find what I’m looking for, a wool camping blanket. I unroll it and spread it over my body. “Cold?” I ask, offering a corner up to Chris.

He shakes his head, instead shrugging on his leather jacket. Even in the dim lighting I could easily imagine him as a sexy greaser from the 50s. His hair might be a little long, but still…

“How’s your arm?” I ask, feeling guilty all of the sudden for not asking about it since I wrapped it up yesterday.

“Fine,” he shrugs.

“I should check it to make sure it’s not infected.”

“It’s not infected, Cassie,” he grins. “Go to sleep. You’re going to need it.”

I don’t argue. I just yawn and curl up, leaning my head against the window. The temperature is continuing to drop. I just hope I don’t wake up with an icicle on my nose. How embarrassing would that be?

The two of us doze off for a while. I glance at the crank radio to check the time, noting that it’s only midnight. We’ve been asleep for three hours. I glance over at Chris, surprised to find him asleep sitting upright against the seat. He looks a lot more relaxed that way. More chill.

I realize that my hands are so cold that they’ve gone numb. It hurts to flex my fingers. Alarmed, I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders and lean across the seat. I brush my fingers lightly against Chris’s cheek. He snaps awake and grabs my wrist, pinning it against the dashboard. For a split second I can see the pure instinct in his reaction right before he seems to remember where he is and what he’s doing.

“What time is it?” he asks, dropping my wrist.

I can’t help but notice that his hands are warm.

“Midnight,” I say, my teeth chattering. “It’s freaking cold up here.”

“It’s only going to get colder,” Chris replies, turning the key in the ignition. It takes the car a few turns to rumble to life. “You okay?”

I can’t seem to stop shivering and my head has started to pound.

“Headache,” I mumble.

Chris frowns and touches my forehead.

“You don’t have a fever,” he says.

“I’m not sick,” I answer. “I’m tense. The world just ended, remember?”

He flashes an amused smile as we back out of the bushes, back onto the road. It becomes concerning to me that all of the windows are covered in a fine layer of snow. The road is ghostly white. It’s so thin that it’s almost like paper, which means the roads will be slippery.

“Great,” I complain. “Snow. Fantastic.”

“What did snow ever do to you?”

“It made me cold.” I tuck my legs underneath myself, feeling like a popsicle. “Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s just a little snow.”

“Let me guess. You’ve probably walked uphill, barefoot for forty miles in the snow as a Navy Seal. You’re now impervious to cold weather.”

Chris releases a rich, pleasant laugh.

“That would have been a cakewalk compared to what I had to do,” he says.

“And what did you do?” I ask.

“You don’t want to know.”

“No, I do.” I cup my hand around my ear. “I’m waiting.”

He smirks.

“I trained in San Diego at the Coronado Naval Air Station when I was eighteen. Two hundred boys go in and forty get to go onto the next level of training.”

“What are they, prejudiced or something?” I quip.

“Only the best get in,” he says, and I can tell by the way he’s smiling that he’s proud of his job.

“Have you been overseas?” I ask.

“Many times.”

“Where?” I lean forward. “I always wanted to travel.”

Chris sighs.

“I didn’t exactly have time to do a lot of sightseeing,” he says. “I’ve been on six tours since my first deployment. Iraq and Afghanistan for the most part.” His face darkens. “That was a couple years ago, though.”

“That explains your hippie hair,” I remark.

“Hey, I like my hair.”

“So do I, I’m just saying.”

Chris smiles again and I realize how much I like seeing him do so. I play a game with myself to keep my mind off the world’s seeming doom by seeing how many times I can make him smile or laugh. I manage to get him about five times in forty-five minutes. Not bad.

“It’s so cold,” I complain for the hundredth time. “Damn.”

Chris laughs — weird, because I wasn’t even trying to get him to do it.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“You haven’t been in snow much, have you?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“No,” I huff. “Now I know why. It sucks.”

“Nah. It’s just different than what you’re used to.” He shrugs. “Then again, you are a city girl.”

I mutter something about him about being egotistical before rubbing my hands together. My head hurts sobad. It’s ridiculous. I grit my teeth and wrap my fingers around the roots of my hair at the crown. I pull on the hair enough to ease the pain in my head — a little trick I learned from those stupid online health forums on the Internet.

The Internet.Now a thing of the past.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

“My head hurts,” I say, admitting it. “I think I have some pain meds in my backpack.” The headache is so painful that it hurts to blink. By the time I rifle through all the survival crap in my bag I am tearing the pain medication package open like someone possessed.

“Aren’t those children’s painkillers?” Chris remarks, seeing the happy face on the label.

“Yes,” I groan, chewing up the grape-flavored drug.

“Why not just buy the adult doses? It’s more effective.”

“I prefer the grape flavor.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Fine,” I admit. “I like the happy face on the label. Geez.”

Chris bursts into laughter, chortling on like I’m some kind of sitcom. Whatever. My head hurts and yeah, I like the happy face. I fling the bottle back into to the bag. I press my forehead against the freezing window, hoping it will act as the equivalent of an ice pack.

“I’m just going to rest for a minute,” I murmur, knowing I sound whiny.

I drop off to sleep after a few minutes. When I dream I have weird nightmares about driving down a road that never ends. Ironic. When I wake up it’s around three in the morning. Still dark. Still cold enough to make Frosty the Snowman wear a parka.

“Where are we?” I ask, yawning.

My head feels better thanks to the painkillers. Chris looks weary from all the driving and I consider offering to take his place. My brain feels kind of thick and foggy from the meds, so I decide to keep my generous offer to myself.

“We’re almost to the valley,” Chris says. “I think.”

“You think?” I blink a few times to focus. “Or are we lost again?”

“We were never lost,” Chris replies firmly. “We just ran into bad roads.”

“We were lost.”

“We weren’t lost.”

I sigh. “Why can’t men ever admit it when they’re lost?” I lean forward, straining to see out the sleet-covered windshield. “Chris, that’s the Interstate.”

The narrow back road we’re on curves up alongside the mountain and drops off underneath the freeway. Thanks to the EMP, there’s not a single pair of headlights in sight.

“The freeway’s all downhill,” I remark. “I mean, that means we are getting closer to the valley.”

“You wanna chance getting on the Interstate?” Chris asks.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “There’s probably a hundred pileups the size of the Wall of Jericho on there.”

“There’s no other road,” he sighs. “We don’t really have a choice. We don’t have the luxury of wasting gas looking for an alternate route. We’re far enough away from the city that we might be able to squeeze by the messy areas because traffic here wasn’t as dense when the pulse hit.”

I shiver, realizing how we’ve started talking about the “pulse” like it’s some thing. Some historic event that occurred a hundred years ago when it was really only twenty-four hours back.

“Okay,” I agree. “But what if there’s people?”

“Then we deal with them.”

“And what if they get violent?”

“We defend ourselves.” He slows the car near the freeway onramp, both of us noting the cars lined up on the road. Frozen in time. “We don’t have a choice, Cassie. We need to get out of here. The weather will only get worse, and even though I might be able to handle the climate, you won’t like it.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right.

“Just keep your gun ready,” I advise, only halfway joking. “I’m ready to shoot anybody who comes within a five-foot radius.”

“I hope that doesn’t include me,” Chris chuckles, easing onto the freeway. We have to go slow, avoiding one car after another that is either turned on its side or smashed into a giant pileup. As we descend, I keep looking for the valley. Usually I would be able to see a few lights twinkling below but tonight there is nothing but darkness.

Everything’s dead. People are dead.

“Holy crap!” I exclaim. We drive by an oilrig on its side. Some of the liquid is leaking onto the road, just waiting to be ignited. I shut my eyes and think of a happy place. Someplace that’s not a graveyard of utter destruction.

It’s slow going, picking our way through the wreckage. At one point I think that cars are blocking the way entirely but Chris manages to squeeze the Mustang between the guardrail and the cars.

He’s a pretty good driver, but I’d never admit that to his face.

“Chris! I see it!” I cry, lifting myself off the seat, grinning. Although there is no sign of electricity in the valley, I can easily identify the flat stretch of land peeking out behind the mountains. It’s just light enough to it.

I clap my hands together as Chris watches me in silence.

“What? Aren’t you happy?” I demand.

“Yeah. But I’m not sure if you are.”

I lightly punch him in the shoulder.

“Shut up.”

Crash. Something slams against my window. I scream. The blunt force makes the entire car shake. Chris hits the gas and the whole car lurches forward. I see dark shapes and recognize human shapes running through the spaces between cars.

“Chris!”

“I see them.”

Every few seconds our headlights flashes across somebody’s face, revealing bloody skin, torn clothing and wild eyes. How long have these people been stuck out here, waiting for emergency assistance that never came? Our car is like a magnet to them.

“Hit the gas!” I yell.

Chris floors it as much as he dares, knowing that there are too many obstacles in the road to go too quickly. People keep slamming against the side of the Mustang in an attempt to grab onto the roof or trunk and hitch some kind of a ride.

Or stop us altogether.

Chris dodges freak stragglers without too much difficulty but the car pileups are getting bigger. “Chris…” I whisper, fear slithering down my spine.

There is a massive car accident in front of us. A semi truck is lying on its side, blocking half the road. Other vehicles are stacked up on the other side of it, completely barricading the freeway.

“Turn around!” I say. “We have to get out of here!”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Chris snaps.

He swings the car into a quick U-turn. The headlights illuminate the road. I stare in terror, seeing a mob of people running towards us. They’re coming from all sides and we have nowhere to go but into the mob if we want to escape.

“Get your pack,” Chris warns. “Get everything you can.”

“But-”

“-Just do it!”

I strap my backpack on and grab Chris’s. Chris doesn’t stop the car but keeps moving forward just as three people throw themselves onto the trunk. They start banging on the windows, shrieking profanities. Freaked out beyond all reasonable belief, I look to Chris, hoping he’ll offer some solution. But what can he do? People are throwing themselves at the car, creating a human barrier around the entire vehicle. Pretty soon the human claw is so heavy Chris can’t move the car forward. The banging and yelling gets more intense. The windows start cracking.

I look around frantically, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. At last somebody breaks through the passenger window. Their knuckles and arm are scratched and bloody as they rip more of the glass away with their bare hands.

“Cassidy!” Chris says.

More hands start ripping away the glass, arms reach through the window, grabbing my hair, head, shoulders, waist. Dragging me outside. I scream and scream, biting and clawing at the psychos who won’t let go. I feel Chris’s hand on my legs as he tries to yank me back inside the car, but really — what good would that do?

Pretty soon I’m caught up in a swirling mob of people, crushed in on all sides, sweaty, bloody bodies yelling and hollering like wild savages hunting hyenas. I can’t breathe, I can barely see and the mob is breaking apart more of the windows on the Mustang.

People are trying to rip my backpack off my shoulders but it’s strapped on at two places: across my chest and across my waist. I hold onto it for dear life, knowing that what I have inside is actually worth more than the car.

“Give us the pack!” a crazy woman spits in my face. She slaps me repeatedly until I finally kick her off, shoving her against the ground where she’s swallowed up by the mob. Under normal circumstances I would feel lousy for kicking somebody, but now is not the time to get on a guilt trip.

“Take it!” somebody hollers. I assume they’re talking about the Mustang. The mob surges forward, getting tighter, wilder. It’s really unbelievable just how insane these people have become. Some of them are wearing business suits or beachwear suited for Santa Monica. And now they’re acting like a bunch of maniacal zombies.

Desperation really does bring people down to the same level.

“Give me the girl!” I hear Chris shout. I spot him climbing onto the roof of the Mustang. He’s got his backpack on one shoulder — a miracle — and his gun in the other hand. The crowd doesn’t pay him any attention.

Until he fires the gun. He points it at the sky, not hurting anybody, but the sound draws everybody’s attention. It’s like an instant freeze falls over the crowd.

“Give me the girl,” Chris commands, his voice echoing over the scene of destruction. “Or will shoot as many people as I can before I’m done here.”

The crowd surrounding me parts just enough for me to work my way back to the Mustang. Chris keeps the gun in plain sight, his free hand up in the air. He jumps down on the asphalt and hooks his arm around my waist. I hang onto him for dear life as he halfway drags me through the mob, people backing off just a few feet as Chris keeps the gun in sight.

When we clear the crowd everybody stares at us before turning back and busting into the car. “Chris, my gun is in the car!” I say, feeling my empty holster. “I took it out…”

Chris grabs my hand and yanks me away.

“Move,” he commands. “Now.”

“But Chris! My car,” I moan.

We break into a jog, putting distance between us and the mob from the mouth of hell. Chris climbs up the side of the overturned semi and reaches down for me. I take his hands and he pulls me up just as another gunshot rings through the air. People in the mob start dispersing and breaking for the hills. The Mustang rolls forward. I can hear somebody gunning the engine, lurching backward and forward as people cram their bodies into the tiny cab, trying to steal it the car for themselves.

It’s painful to watch.

But we have to leave before we get killed. Chris drops to the ground and holds out his arms for me. I jump down, wincing from the still-painful crowbar injury. Chris catches me around the waist, his fingers lightly grazing my hip. I notice a ribbon of blood running down his forehead.

“Are you okay?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question.

We just got attacked by a crazy mob. We’re so not okay.

Chris offers an amused smile, touching my cheek.

“Are you?”

I nod.

“Let’s move, then,” he says.

I pause, another crash breaking the silence of the night.

“But we have no car,” I say, realization setting in like a ten pound weight.

“We’ll be okay,” Chris replies. “We’ve got our packs.”

He starts walking down the freeway. I swallow thickly, surprised to feel a couple of hot tears slide down my face. Chris’s body is tensed up, determined. He’s not going to wait for me. I stumble to catch up with him, crying silently. Not because a bunch of losers just wrecked our only form of transportation, or because our gas supply was stolen, or because our water is gone. But because this is what the world has been reduced to less than forty-eight hours after the pulse hit.

It sucks. Big time.

Chapter Five

My dad always used to tell me, “Life is hard, and then you die.”

Yeah, he wasn’t the touchy feely, optimistic type.

My mom was. She was all into eastern religions. Everyday at around ten o’clock at night I could find her doing her Zen yoga routine in the middle of the living room in pink workout gear. She was very into positive thinking and Nirvana and coming back as a bug or a frog in the next life. Something she called reincarnation. I never believed in any of it, I just nodded and agreed with her whenever she said anything about the spirit world guiding her to a certain carton of milk at the grocery store.

Divine intervention? I don’t think so.

I always went along with what dad believed, which was basically try to survive while you’re here, because it’s short and tough. Maybe if I had known just how tough things were going to be I would have built a bulletproof motorhome and stocked it with artillery and food. That way I wouldn’t be in my present situation.

Which is very, very tough.

Dawn is breaking over the horizon, turning everything to a faded blue. The sky is totally covered by a canopy of angry rainclouds. And by angry, I mean furious. They look like they’re about to explode at any second.

We have followed the freeway downhill and now we’re standing at the huge bridge that slopes down to the beginning of the Grapevine. Beyond that is the valley. Big, flat and pretty much uninspiring in light of our current situation.

Chris is hauling his backpack around like it weighs nothing. It must be nice being six foot four and all muscle. I’m only two inches above five feet and comparing my muscle mass to his is like setting a Grizzly bear and a bunny rabbit side by side.

It’s not happening.

“The rest stop is no more than an hour away,” Chris says, pausing at the top of the slope. “Can you make it?”

I trudge forward to keep pace, panting and freezing to death. There’s a gigantic rest stop at the bottom of the hill. There aren’t any lights, so it’s impossible to tell from here if there’s any human activity.

“Yeah, of course I can make it,” I retort, insulted. “I’m not that weak.”

Chris assesses my drooping posture and heavy breathing.

“Whatever you say,” he shrugs.

As we walk downhill I note the presence of runaway truck ramps. Apparently a lot of trucks used them when the pulse hit, because their engines died and the brakes went to automobile heaven. Semis are piled up here more than anywhere previously on the road.

“I’m glad I wasn’t driving when it hit,” I mutter, thankful for the Chinese takeout text that possibly spared my life.

Chris makes a sound in the back of his throat, reminding me that he was driving when the EMP hit. A motorcycle, no less. “You do a lot of biking?” I ask, trying to make small talk.

He nods.

“I’ve never been on a bike,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been on a bike but not a motorcycle.”

“And why is that?” he asks.

“Bugs. They get in your mouth, right? That’s just gross.”

Chris smirks.

“If you ride around with your mouth hanging open, I assume that could be a possibility.”

“Well, unless you wear a helmet,” I point out.

“I don’t wear helmets.”

“Why? Do they ruin your perfect hair?” I tug on my waist-length locks. “I don’t know if I’d be able to fit all this into a helmet, anyway.”

In a sudden act of uncharacteristic playfulness, Chris steps to the side yanks on the ends of my hair. “Hey, knock it off!” I laugh, slapping him away.

“Damn, you’re like Rapunzel,” he says, threading his fingers through the long locks. “A ginger Rapunzel, actually.”

“A ginger?” I roll my eyes. “Who says Rapunzel couldn’t be a redhead?”

“I don’t know. Who said?”

He swings around and blocks my path. I walk right into his chest, his arms coming up around me to keep me from falling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, totally baffled.

“Nothing,” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. Staring at me with those electric green eyes. “Just messing with you, kid.”

He uses both hands to comb the hair back from my face, making my arms prickle with Goosebumps — and they’re definitely not from the polar temperatures. He rests his thumbs against my cheek and we stand there, staring at each other in awkward silence. He seems to be searching my expression for something, some kind of secret signal, as he leans forward, too close.

The tip of his nose touches mine and right then it becomes painfully obvious exactlywhat’s about to happen. I step backwards and twist out of his arms, pretending to adjust my backpack. My entire face is suddenly incredibly hot, tingling with a rush of warm blood. My heart beats quickly, hyperaware of even the soft touch of fabric against my skin.

“We’d better move faster,” I say, breathless, avoiding looking up. “Maybe we can find shelter before it starts to rain.”

Chris turns around, his face showing only a hint of irritation. He nods, wordless, and we set off together, the most uncomfortable silence in history hanging between the two of us.

I push the whole almost-kiss thing out of my mind and stare at the rest stop in the distance. It will be my goal of the moment. My focus. Apparently Chris feels the same way, because he seems determined to leave me in his dust as he walks along, making a point of staying in front.

Men, I think.

It takes us about forty-five minutes to walk down the massive freeway slope. It makes me appreciate that much more the awesomeness of cars. And trains. And planes. And bicycles.

At the bottom there’s an empty restaurant without a single car in sight.

I blink, a weird feeling coming over me. I saw a scene like this in a movie once. It was about a zombie apocalypse, and some cowboy walked into a western town and found out that everybody had been turned into one of the undead. He spent the rest of the movie hacking off heads with an axe.

While the zombie part is completely ludicrous, looking at everything totally abandoned is giving me the serious creeps. There should be at least some military vehicles like the National Guard coming in to help with a gigantic crisis like this. Not every single vehicle in the military is gone. Are they?

Or is the entire country down?

And if so, who did it?

And what purpose was behind it?

I shudder, picturing a nuclear explosion or an invasion. Then I push the thought away and focus on the abandoned rest stop. There are about four restaurants, three gas stations and a bunch of fast food places. It’s so big that it spreads to both sides of the freeway.

“Do you think it’s safe?” I ask, voicing the obvious question.

Chris doesn’t answer for a long time.

Finally he says, “I doubt it.”

“Then we should bypass it.”

“No. We need to rest and a storm’s coming up. We need shelter.”

I roll my eyes, realizing that I’m the one who said that very thing just a little bit ago. But men will be men so I just keep my mouth shut and let him think it was his idea all along.

We reach the rest stop about thirty minutes later. There are cars everywhere, though the ones here don’t appear nearly as ravaged as the ones up in the Grapevine. Still, no sign of people. We walk down the off ramp that leads to the rest area, my whole body tense because of the lack of background noise. No jets flying somewhere in the sky, no distant car alarm going off, no impatient mother yelling at her kids to get the heck into the car before she takes away all their toys.

“This is unusual,” Chris says.

I stare at him.

“You think?”

We walk across the freeway overpass, where I note something bizarre. There is blood all over the guardrails. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s also splattered all over the sidewalk in a long, uneven line. As if a bunch of people were standing in a line and just started bleeding for no particular reason.

“Chris…” I murmur.

“I’ve seen this before,” he replies, his voice dark.

“You’ve seen this?”

He nods.

A cold feeling shoots down my body.

What does that mean?

Chris sets his jaw and walks forward. This time he takes out his gun and holds it like one of those military guys in the movies. Only he actually seems to know how to hold the gun without shooting himself in the foot. That’s something I could never do.

I swallow and walk in his footsteps, staying behind his shoulder, getting a really bad feeling about all of this. As we come over the end of the overpass, I find myself struggling to breathe. A horrified scream sticks in my throat as I look out over the four lane boulevard leading into the rest area.

It’s covered with bodies.

Bloody. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. They are strewn out in uneven patches, some stacked on top of each other. The stench from the drying blood is so strong that it permeates everything — including me. I run to the guardrail and puke over the side, not able to stop myself. It’s horrific. It’s unimaginable.

It can’t be real.

“What the hell…?” Chris says, doing a full circle. “What the hell is this?”

I look down at my feet and notice something else. The pavement is streaked with the same sticky blood that covered the sidewalk on the overpass.

Chris suddenly turns to me, a look of hard anger on his face.

“This is no accident,” he states.

I stare, knowing that I’m shaking like a leaf.

“Cassidy,” he says, his tone making it sound like a question. “Look at me.”

I can’t. I’m just smelling the blood, seeing the blood, looking at the bodies lined up  - no, piled — on the boulevard. I always thought seeing gross stuff would be easy to handle. But this? No.

Chris walks up to me and places his hands on the sides of my face.

“Look. At. Me.” It’s not a request.

I barely managed to lift my eyes up to meet his — not quite as emotionless as I would have expected. Instead, his expression is soft. “Say something, kid,” he says, stroking my cheek. “Look at me.”

“What happened?” I say, monotone.

“I don’t know.”

He searches my face for a long time before turning me around. He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me forward, purpose in each step.

“What…where are we going?” I stutter, still shocked.

“Whatever happened here,” Chris says, shoving a few loose strands of hair away from his face, “was not an accident. It was a systematic extermination.”

“By who?”

He shrugs. Obviously neither of us can answer that one, but chances are that whoever did this was the same group of sickos that hit our world with an EMP.

“What about shelter?” I say, by this time jogging across the overpass.

“Not here. This blood is fresh. This didn’t happen more than twenty-four hours ago,” Chris points out. “Look at this trail of blood. People were lined up and wiped out.”

I start to hyperventilate.

“Oh. My. God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, more food coming up my throat. “Is this some kind of nightmare? This isn’t real, right?”

Chris rubs his chin, assessing my freak-out moment.

“This is real,” he says at last. Firm. “And we’re going to be okay. Got that?”

I nod, numb.

He takes me hand again and we walk down the onramp. I start to notice how buildings along the freeway have broken windows. Some of the glass is black — like it had been blown up from within. The freeway is also covered with funny black marks. Not tire marks. Something else.

Chris notices this, too, but if he’s thinking that it’s suspicious he keeps it to himself. We walk along in silence, hyperaware of every single sound. Are the killers still lurking nearby? Who in their right mind could possibly be responsible for this? This is the United States of America, for crying out loud.

Things like this?

They just don’t happen.

Chapter Six

Sometime after dark, the storm hits. I’ve stopped keeping track of time since it’s kind of useless when you’re just dragging yourself down mile after mile of bland interstate, knowing that there might be another sea of dead people at the next rest stop.

Not exactly what I would call luxury traveling.

Chris and I take shelter in an abandoned SUV on the side of the road. The entire backseat folds down and creates a spacious tent. We crawl inside, dripping all over the upholstery. I note with sadness that there is a basket of baby toys inside.

I wonder what happened to the passengers in this car.

Pit pat, pit pat. The raindrops seem extra loud without any background noise. I sit with my knees against my chest, cold, wet and hungry. Chris looks unhappy as he shrugs off his leather jacket, totally ruined by the rain. After a few minutes of sitting in silence he finally says, “There’s an explanation.”

I blink.

“What?”

“Those bodies,” he continues. “There’s an explanation for how they got there.”

“Of course there is. I just don’t want to think about it.” I comb back my sopping hair with my fingers. “It obviously wasn’t our side.”

Chris doesn’t answer.

“I mean, it wasn’t our side, right?” I press.

“How should I know?” he shrugs.

“You’re in the military, that’s why!” I exclaim, trying to get my jacket to cinch tighter. It’s a no-go. “You should know these things. My dad would.”

Chris shakes his head.

“I haven’t been active duty for a year,” he says, propping his head against the backpack. “There’s a lot I wouldn’t know. I’m not in the loop anymore.”

“Gee, you’re real helpful, aren’t you?” I make a face.

Chris declines to fling a sarcastic remark right back at me, making me feel slightly childish. I mean, I he could at least try.

At any rate, I unroll the camping blanket from my backpack and spread it over my legs, trying to conserve heat. I doubt there’s any heat left on this side of the planet, though. It got sucked out with people’s sanity forty-eight hours ago.

Forty-eight hours. Is that all it’s been?

I curl up in a tight ball, only a foot of space between Chris and me. In any other situation I would think this was awkward, but I’m so miserable I don’t care.

Chris falls asleep almost instantly. I’m guessing after nine years of being a Navy Seal you can sleep through anything — even the end of the world. It takes me a little bit longer to stop my shivering. When I finally drop off I have weird dreams about all the dead people at the rest stop, so I force myself to wake back up.

I’m surprised to find that it’s already early morning. It’s still raining, unfortunately. I curse the rain gods and make a move to sit up, feeling something heavy around my waist.

Oh, snap.

Chris’s arms are wrapped around my waist, pressing my back against his chest. No wonder I was so warm. Embarrassed, I lower myself down and pretend I’m asleep as he stirs. I don’t want to be awake when he realizes he and I had a cuddle fest all night.

Awkward…

“Cassie?” he whispers, shifting. “What time is it?”

I freeze, keeping my eyes squeezed shut.

“I know you’re awake,” he continues, lifting himself up on one arm. “Don’t deny it.”

I roll my eyes.

“I just woke up, genius. And you can let go.”

“Why? Aren’t you warm?” He smiles against my ear, keeping his grip firm.

“No,” I mutter, extricating myself from his embrace.

“I did it for you,” he smirks, shaking his hair out of his ponytail. “I thought you’d appreciate not turning into a human Popsicle during the night.”

“Whatever,” I retort. “You don’t have to be weird about it.”

“I’m not the one being weird about it. You are.”

I shoot him my most menacing glare before rolling up my blanket, stuffing it into my backpack with force. Not because I’m mad at him for cozying up to me during the night, but because I liked the way it felt.

Great. The end of the world is turning me into a desperate idiot.

I zip my pack up and take a look around the freeway through the tinted windows of the SUV. There’s still not a soul in sight. Just a bunch of stupid rainclouds and screwed up vehicles.

“Exactly how are we supposed to get to Squaw Valley on foot?” I say, giving voice to the thought that has been at the forefront of my mind ever since we lost my beautiful Mustang. “Because that could be a long, long stroll in the Winter. Besides, I don’t even think I have enough food in my pack to last that long.”

“It’s about two hundred miles away, right?” Chris replies.

“I guess.”

“I’d say if we keep walking every day and make good time, it could take…” he pauses and thinks it over. “Maybe two weeks. If we can do about fifteen miles a day.”

“Do I look like a marathon runner to you?” I say, feeling depressed. “I don’t even lift weights.”

Chris flashes a smug grin.

“Thankfully, I’m in great shape, so if you collapse with exhaustion, I’ll be more than happy to carry you all the way there.”

I whack him on the arm.

“Sure you will,” I mumble. “And then what are you going to do? Bug out with your little brother and leave me in the middle of the wilderness?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“What happens, happens,” he says.

I open my mouth to say something sarcastic and brilliant before I close it again. I don’t have to reply. It’s not worth it.

“Ease up, kid,” he advises, pulling his tee-shirt off. “We got a long way to go and you’re going to want to stick with me.”

I press my back against the trunk and stare, his muscular upper body taking center stage in my brain for a moment.

“What?” I say, absent.

“Forget it,” Chris replies.

I notice a tattoo of a vicious cobra around his left bicep. He’s also wearing a gold chain around his neck. “See something of interest?” he asks, the corners of his lips curving upward.

I clear my throat.

“No. Put a shirt on, will you? It’s not polite,” I say, popping the trunk open. The cold air does a lot to cool the rush of blood to my cheeks. Apparently being trapped within three feet of a hot, shirtless guy does things to my blood pressure.

Go figure.

“How’s your arm doing?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice my now-rosy cheeks.

“Fine. Healing up.”

Chris hops out of the car, wearing a tight black tee. He pulls his hair back and throws his backpack over his shoulder, looking ready to punch somebody out. Or maybe that’s his happy face. I don’t know.

“You got any breakfast in that magic pack of yours?” he asks, nodding to my backpack.

“A little.” I unzip the top, pulling out a high-nutrient protein bar. We split it just as the rain subsides enough to allow walking in it. “Tastes kind of like paper.”

I chew it slowly, contemplating how disgusting it tastes in comparison to scrambled eggs and bacon. Chris is thinking the same thing because he says, “That’s probably the crappiest thing I’ve ever tasted. Then again, I’ve eaten bugs before so maybe not.”

I pretend to gag.

“You’ve eaten bugs?”

He nods.

“Intentionally?” I ask.

“For training.”

I shake my head.

“You really are insane.” I spread my hands apart. “Well, fearless leader, shall we begin our long march towards destiny?”

Chris looks a little annoyed.

“Yeah. Let’s do that, kid.”

And so we begin a boring, flat, wet, cold, miserable and bleak walk across an abandoned interstate. It bothers me that with all of the cars everywhere, there aren’t any people. It makes me wonder if there are more dead bodies hidden around someplace.

“Chris?” I ask. “Do you think we’re being invaded?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t make a smart remark or laugh. Instead he thinks it over before answering, “It’s possible. But how could an army invade so quickly, kill a bunch of people, and then disappear? Where are their vehicles? Why aren’t we seeing them out in the open?” He stops and sighs, frustrated. “This whole damn thing doesn’t make any sense.”

I agree. An EMP, a bunch of dead bodies at the rest stop…maybe that’s why all the people who mobbed us in the Mustang were so freaked out. Maybe they’d seen something. Something bad. Something that had to do with the body bags at the bottom of the mountain.

“I don’t know what to think,” I complain. “My dad always believed that a natural disaster or something was what we were supposed to be prepared for. But this is not what I had in mind.”

“It took everyone by surprise,” Chris replies.

The rain starts to fall harder, making my crappy day even crappier. The only thing I have going for me is my waterproof jacket, but I’m still cold enough to freeze upright.

“I’m going to need more water,” I say. “I’m getting dehydrated.”

“Open your mouth,” he advises. “It is raining, you know.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“Yeah, I noticed that.” I stick my tongue out, catching a few raindrops. “Hey, we should try the radio again. Maybe we’ll get a signal down here.”

Chris shrugs.

“Go ahead.”

I stop and pull the radio out of my backpack. It’s waterproof, so the rain won’t ruin it. After a few minutes of cranking — and wondering why Chris doesn’t offer to do it since he has muscles the size of tree trunks — I flip the radio on.

The first three stations are dead — not even static. The fourth one has a flickering voice we can’t make out. The fifth one is a recitation of the same audio loop I heard up at the gas station in Santa Clarita.  Emergency camps in Elk Grove, Bakersfield, San Jose, Fresno, etc.

I turn it off.

“Great. All the radio stations are down,” I say.

“They’re just looping the same audio,” Chris muses. “Which means there’s nobody there anymore. As soon as they lose power wherever the emergency broadcast center is, it’ll go out, too.”

I sigh.

“That’s cheery news.”

I shove the radio back into my pack, disappointed. I’d hoped to hear a radio announcer saying something like, “Check it out, folks! The world is back to normal. You can all come home and watch TV now.”

Fat chance.

We keep walking. I follow behind Chris with my mouth hanging open half the time, trying to get some of the rain on my tongue. I probably look like a lunatic, but I’m thirsty so I don’t really care.

“We’re going to run out of food and water before we reach Squaw Valley,” I say at last, having avoided the subject for about twenty-four hours. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Then we need to stop at one of those emergency camps,” I reply. “There’s one in Bakersfield. That’s only about forty miles from here.”

Chris shakes his head.

“No,” he says, his voice firm. “Going into a camp like that is not a good idea. Besides, there are more than enough grocery stores and restaurants to raid at this point.”

“But why not try the camps? They’ll have supplies. Clean clothes. Real food.” I shiver. “And probably space heaters.”

“Bad idea,” he insists. “The less people know about who we are where we’re going, the better.”

“But they can help us!”

“No, Cassidy. It’s not safe.”

I kick a piece of trash across the freeway, finding it very difficult not to jump on Chris and literally knock some sense into his head. What does he have against getting a little help? Is this just a guy thing?

“Who put you in charge?” I demand. “Last I checked, I’m the one who gave you a ride in my Mustang.”

“Last I checked, I know more about surviving in war zones than you do,” he replies, nonchalant. “Which is pretty much where we find ourselves, little girl.”

Little girl? Oh, no he didn’t!

“You do not tell me what to do,” I say, angry. “I don’t care how many years you were a Navy Seal. I want to go to the Emergency Camp, and I’m going. You want to bypass it? Fine. I’ll go by myself.”

He stops, pushing stray hairs out of his face.

“Have it your way,” he answers, prowling ahead. “I don’t give a damn.”

I glare at him, my mind made up.

If he doesn’t want to cooperate, he doesn’t have to.

I’ll just be an army of one.

Chapter Seven

Long story short, it takes us about two and a half days to get to Bakersfield. By the time I drag my sorry butt to the other side of the city limit line, I’m willing to take anything — even a skateboard — over my aching feet. I’m soaked to the bone, freezing, starving, half mad with dehydration, and the headache I had in the Grapevine is back in full force, slamming against my skull like a sledgehammer.

As for Chris, he and I went for about twenty-four hours without speaking.

Well, I guess I went without speaking while he carried one-way conversations. Anyway, by this point we are both so hungry and cold that Chris has agreed to scope out the Emergency Camp — but only on the condition that we don’t show ourselves unless we’re positive that it’s safe.

Whatever. I’m turning into an ice cube so I don’t care anymore.

Bakersfield is basically a big flat city in the middle of a desert. Today there’s not a soul in sight, but I’ve gotten used to the absence of people over the last four and half days. We take an off ramp into the heart of the city, right where there’s a big blue and yellow sign that says Bakersfield. Everything is flooded with water. Any buildings that I see have the windows punched out. All the restaurants and grocery stores are especially ravaged.

Other than the deserted landscaping and abandoned city, I can look out to the left of the freeway and see big open fields. John Wayne’s oil fields, my dad would always tell me if we drove up north on the freeway. Apparently the big man with the gun made some extra cash drilling for oil out in the middle of nowhere.

Typical cowboy.

“Where is it?” I ask, confused. “Where are all the people?”

“If there’s a camp here,” Chris observes, “it should be near the city center…maybe.”

He doesn’t look too sure. We walk down a curving road that goes right underneath the Bakersfield sign. After a few hundred feet we come to a cluster of hotels and restaurants. I almost scream with surprise.

There are people everywhere!

Big chain link fences are surrounding the entire shopping center, marked with signs that read EMERGENCY RELIEF CAMP. Men, women and children are sitting around the edges of the fence, most of them wearing garbage bags to shield from the rain. There are military trucks parked on the asphalt and officials wearing black uniforms standing around the buildings.

“This is an Emergency Camp?” I say, disbelief flooding through me. “Everybody here’s wearing garbage bags!”

“Those are ponchos, actually,” Chris corrects, a wry grin on his face. “And don’t move. What do you see there?” He points to the outer edge of an old motel. An official is standing next to a soldier in a light blue uniform. Both of them are armed.

“What are they armed for?” I whisper.

We sink back into the shadows of the trees, watching the camp through the leaves. “Good question,” Chris says.

I spot an elderly woman moving around the parking lot, fenced off and guarded by the black uniformed men. There are stockpiles of supplies. Some people are climbing up and down the outdoor stairwell of the old motels. Others are milling around the fast food restaurants.

“This is weird,” I say.

“This is wrong,” he replies. His hands tighten into fists beside me, and I can feel his entire body tense. “Follow me.”

I do, even though I have no idea what he thinks he’s going to do. As far as I can tell, there is no ENTER HERE sign anywhere around the camp, and there’s certainly no Red Cross truck. Something is seriously whacked.

Chris leads me through the park across the street from the shopping mall turned relief camp, pausing behind a parked car on the curb. We kneel beside it and, since it’s almost nighttime, stand up and approach the fence. My heart starts beating faster, even though I couldn’t say why I’m getting anxious. I just am.

Chris turns and follows the curve of the fence, going around the shopping center, ducking behind every other abandoned car on the street. So far nobody has noticed us. They’re all staring at the puddles on the ground or sitting motionless with their eyes closed.

Like a bunch of zombies.

Chris raises his hand and makes a fist, the signal to stop.

I almost run headlong into his back just as he drops to the ground in a crouch. We’re on the other side of the parking lot, looking out over the shopping center. The fence covers a lot more ground than I thought, and the weird thing? There’s no open space. No exit, just a gated entrance with a few guards hovering around it. There’s also a lot of wicked-looking barbed wire looped across the top of the fence.

It’s like…a cage.

“Chris…” I whisper, a chilling thought creeping into my mind.

“I know.” All of the sudden his gaze hardens. He swears. “My god.”

“What?” I demand, struggling to see across the street. “What is it?”

“More.” He presses his forehead against his hand, taking a deep breath.

I search the parking lot in frustration, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. All I can see is a bunch of people gathered on the other side of the compound. On our side of the street there’s a big, black plastic covering a bunch of supplies.

“They’re bodies, Cassie,” Chris hisses, turning my chin towards the sheet. “Underneath. Dead bodies.”

I suck my breath in, staring at it. He’s right. The sheet is covering a bunch of objects stacked on top of each other. Little red spots are seen around the corners. Dried blood? I slap my hands over my mouth in order to avoid screaming.

“No. This isn’t happening,” I moan, kneeling like a sick person.

Chris places his hand on the small of my back, smoothing my hair away from my face. He turns my head upward, one hand on each cheek. “We have to get out of here,” he whispers. “Can do you that?”

I manage to nod, horrified.

He smiles like he’s proud of me and grabs my hand. Both of us back slowly away from the camp, but Chris stops me and makes a motion for me to kneel in the bushes and be quiet.

“Who are these people?” I mutter, shaking. “What kind of army does this?”

Chris wrinkles his brow, bowing his head. Both of us listen to the distant chatter of the conversations between the uniformed men.

“German,” he whispers.

“What?”

“They’re speaking German,” he replies. “And if I’m not mistaken…” he pauses, concentrating on listening. “There’s a little French in there, too.”

“Is this some kind of foreign invasion?” I breathe.

“I don’t know.” Chris points to the men wearing the dark blue uniforms. There is a black patch on their sleeve, over which is a white O. One of the guards turns around, and I can see a larger insignia stitched on the backside of his jacket. It reads: Omega. The O is significantly larger than the rest of the lettering, designed to hold a picture of the continents of the world inside the sphere. “I’ve never seen a uniform like that.” He rests his arm on his knee. “What the hell does Omega stand for?” He nods towards the guys in the black. “They don’t have any ID at all. They could be mercenaries.”

“Omega could be an acronym,” I suggest, my voice quivering. “I don’t know. Chris, please. Let’s get out of here.”

He studies the scene before us for a moment longer before he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me down the street, scanning up and down for movement. We reach the Bakersfield sign again and keep walking until we find another freeway onramp, but that’s when we hear the noise.

It’s music.

Chris and I share a glance, surprised. It seems to be echoing down the street. It sounds like pop music. “What’s going on?” I whisper, bewildered.

Chris doesn’t look like he knows. Without a word, be both silently agree to creep down the street and scope out the source of the music. We pass a few empty businesses — some loan companies and a coffee shop — until we reach the corner. I poke my head around the edge of a brick building and stare.

Generator-powered lights are hooked up to the tops of the buildings, and there are people in this area of the city. They are not fenced in, but most of the buildings are covered with weird graffiti. I can’t make out what it says; Chris doesn’t comment. Some more guards in Omega uniformsare patrolling the sidewalks, identifiable by their blue uniforms. There are posters in the window that say something. I can’t quite make it out…I duck back when a trooper turns his gaze towards the corner.

The back of my head presses against a bookstore window. I look up, noticing that a poster is taped to it. I snatch it away, reading the bold lettering in the dim lighting:

State of Emergency

What follows is a list of rules and regulations for dealing with what the article calls the collapse. Confused, I fold it up and stuff it in my pocket just as Chris meets my gaze.

“What?” I whisper.

He shakes his head, motioning for me to follow him. I do, and we both jog down the street, away from the creepy guards and the strange pop music on the city speakers.

“What was that?” I exclaim. “Because it sure wasn’t a bunch of people waiting in line for a Black Friday sale.”

It’s like something you see in the movies, one of those scary films about Nazi Germany. Keeping our backs to the wall of the building, Chris and I exchange glances. This is wrong on so many levels.

“We should leave,” I whisper.

“No argument there,” he replies. “We’ll make a…”

His eyes narrow, staring at something across the street. I follow his line of sight, my muscles seizing up. A man is standing at the entrance of an alleyway, dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian polo shirt. He’s older, with thinning gray hair, a mustache, and round glasses reflecting the harsh floodlights.

He makes a motion to us.

I look at Chris. “What does he want?” I ask.

“He’s not one of them,” he answers, apparently trying to come to a decision about how to respond. Just ten feet around the corner are a bunch of death troopers…we have to play this right. “He wants us to come over there.”

I lick my lips, realizing just how dry my mouth is from anxiety.

“So?”

The man motions again, mouthing the word, “Help.”

Chris immediately takes my arm and sprints across the street without warning. Terror spikes in my system. What if we’re seen?

We make it across the street, stopping to take cover behind the alley wall. Up close the man has an ashy color his skin tone. His eyes are watery, but his expression is tense. “Thank you,” he says, a voice rough and weary with age.

“What’s going on?” Chris asks.

“What isn’t going on, son?” he shakes his head. “Look, you kids need to get off the streets. It’s too late to be wandering around.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The curfew.” The man looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” Chris says.

“Then why in…” he trails off, sounding tired. “You’d better come with me. If they catch us out here we’ll all get punished.”

A chill slithers down my spine as the man turns and starts walking down the alley. He has an obvious limp, and as we walk, I notice purple bruises on the back of his neck and arms. “Can you tell us what’s happening here?” I ask. “Why are they killing people? What’s –”

The man whips around so fast I stumble backwards and hit Chris in the chest.

“Keep your mouth shut, girl,” he hisses. “You’ll get us all killed with questions like that. Just keep your head down and follow me.”

Chris wraps his fingers around my elbow and presses a finger against his lips, indicating that we should be silent. “Can we trust him?” I mouth.

Chris shrugs.

Why not?

We follow the old man down the alley. He pauses where it connects to another street, checking each direction. There doesn’t seem to be any of those Omega guards patrolling the streets or creepy pop music going on here. Just overturned dumpsters and shattered windows.

The old man makes a quick right and stays close to a brick apartment building. There are trash and food wrappers littered all over the sidewalk. I turn my head to the left and watch a scruffy looking dog run into the street, sniff some garbage, and disappear.

The old man stops at an apartment door. It’s a heavy wooden thing, protected with metal security bars over the outside. He opens both the bars and the door with a key, ushers us inside, and locks everything behind us.

I keep a firm grip on Chris’s arm as we step into a dark, dusty stairwell. The old man says, “Watch your step,” and starts climbing the carpeted steps in front of us. It’s impossible to tell how wide the stairway is, or what color the walls are. Chris and I just follow him until we come to what I guess is the fourth floor.

We walk down a narrow hallway that smells like cigarette smoke. Not a single sound can be heard coming from any room, making the whole thing even stranger.

At last, the old man stops in front of an apartment door, opens it, and motions for us to go inside. Chris walks in first, ready to take whatever surprise is waiting for us first. I follow the old man inside, surprised to see nothing but a small apartment illuminated by the light of multiple candles.

There are books everywhere, and pictures, too. The old man locks the door behind us, takes a deep breath and says, “Now we can talk.” He offers his hand. “The name’s Walter Lewis.”

Chris shakes his hand.

“Chris,” he replies, leaving out his last name. “And this is Cassidy.”

Walter turns to look at me.

“You together?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks turn red while Chris flashes a self-satisfied smile.

“Technically,” he replies. “But I think you owe us an explanation first. Who are you and why did you bring us here?”

Walter wipes his hands on his pants.

“You were out past curfew,” he says. “You could have been shot on sight.”

He walks past me and disappears through a door, popping up on the other side of a short wall. I take a step back and realize he’s standing over the kitchen sink, looking into the living room. The curtains are pulled tight — nailed, actually.

“What’s curfew?” I ask. “What’s happening? Do you know anything about these camps? Where are those soldiers from? They were speaking all these languages…” I trail off.

Walter sighs and I hear him pouring water into something metal. When he comes back into the living room, he’s holding a coffeepot and some mugs. “They — meaning Omega - arrived here the day after the EMP destroyed everything,” he says, setting the mugs on a coffee table crowded with magazines. “Started rounding people up, sending them to the Emergency Relief Camp — that’s what they called it at the beginning.” His eyes become hooded, sad. “Most people went willingly.”

He pours some coffee into the mugs and offers a cup to each of us. I mutter thanks and close my hands around the hot glass. “Why are they killing people? And who’s Omega? I’ve never heard of them.”

Walter looks long and hard at me.

“Truthfully, I’m not really sure,” he says at last. “It’s just what these troops call themselves. Omega.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve never heard of them,” Chris replies, looking dumbfounded. And here I thought he knew everything. “What the hell’s going on?”

I look back at Walter for a deeper analysis.

“Your name was Cassidy, wasn’t it?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

I nod.

He strokes his chin, setting the coffeepot down and rifling through a stack of books near an empty fireplace. He pulls one out. “Here, Cassidy,” he says. “What’s the title of this book?”

I wrinkle my nose, disliked being talked to like I’m a toddler.

“World War Two,” I say, reading the red letters.

“Correct.” He sits down on the coffee table, so I join Chris on the sofa. Walter flips through a few pages and adjusts his glasses. “Ah. Now what’s this, Cassidy?”

I peer at the book, trying to make out the black and white images in the candlelight: candid shots of Japanese Americans staring at the camera behind a wire fence. “Internment camps,” I say, looking up.

“Yes.” Walter gets up and walks to another bookshelf. “During the 1940s, Japanese Americans were imprisoned in internment camps during the war. In Germany, Hitler sent millions of Germans and Jews alike to concentration camps where they were either worked to death or executed in a gas chamber.” He stops to take slow breath. “Around the world, periodically, the populace is overtaken by a superior power and either enslaved, killed or freed. What we have in Omega is a force that is doing the first two as fast as they can.”

I blink, all of this sinking in slowly.

“Why? Where did they come from? What country do they represent?” I say slowly.

“No country,” Walter shrugs. “You look around town and you’ll see posters advertising their presence.” I take the poster I peeled off the wall out of my pocket and smooth it out over my knee. He’s right. “They represent not one country, but all,” he goes on. “They seem to be some sort of emergency response force at first glance, but then again, their soldiers range in nationality from American to Russian. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“So who do they answer to?” I ask. “The US? The U.N.? South America? Who?”

“I couldn’t say,” Walter replies. “It’s possible that they’re some kind of branch of the United Nations...but that would come as a surprise to me. I’ve never seen an insignia like theirs before.” He reaches out and studies the poster that’s sitting in my lap. The O in Omega is four times as big as the rest of the letters, and once again, I’m left to look at all the continents of the earth that are crammed inside the O.

“So we don’t know where they’re from,” I say. “What’s they’re purpose?”

“Who gives a damn?” Chris spits. “They’re killing innocent people. Where’s our military?”

“I heard rumors that some of our men were engaged in combat on the East Coast,” Walter admits. “It’s possible that this is an invasion of some sort. Then again, all I know is what I see.”

“How big is Omega? Do we know?”

“Does it matter?” Walter answers, taking his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. “They are here, and that’s all that’s important. They are killing us. I do not need to why they’re doing it — just that they are.”

“Why aren’t we fighting them? Is anybody even trying?” Chris says, every muscle in his body tense. He looks ready to kill somebody.

“I’m sure someone is trying, boy. But at the moment our country is very weak, isn’t it? We just got hit with an EMP. Everybody’s panicking. Our own government is completely dissolved without a way to communicate with its branches. It has little to no power right now. What can they do to protect us? I’m sure there are military forces on the front lines — wherever that is - right now, but they can’t be everywhere at once. We were taken by surprise.”

Chris leans forward.

“Sounds like these Omega pukes were ready to roll in before this thing even hit,” he states. “They were pretty well prepared for this. We saw more executions about forty miles from here. You think Omega’s responsible for the EMP?”

“We may never know who was behind the EMP,” Walter replies. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t dedicate your time to figuring out why or how. I would worry about staying alive now.”

“But shouldn’t we know why some random army we’ve never heard of before is trying to kill all of us?” I point out.

“No.” Walter narrows his gaze. “Your life has one purpose, now. And that is to stay alive.”

“You were in the military,” Chris says suddenly, leaning forward.

“Yes,” Walter sighs, setting the book down abruptly. “I was a Pilot…a long time ago.”

“During World War Two,” I add, putting the pieces together.

“I was a history teacher for thirty years,” he sighs. “I thought I’d seen it all, too. But this…this is a takeover. They’re killing off anyone they think might get in their way. I saw this once, more than sixty years ago. Never thought I’d see it here. And who knows how far it’s spread?”

I stare at my coffee, suddenly feeling sick.

“You saw this before inGermany,” I say, bringing my eyes up to his.

He says nothing.

“I’m only alive right now because I wasn’t stupid enough to run into the streets when everything went to hell,” he replies, standing up again. “But I’ll run out of food eventually. Not that I’m upset about that. I’m old enough to die, don’t you think?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Self pity much?” I say before I can stop myself.

Walter rubs his hands on his pants again — a nervous habit, I’m guessing.

“Do you live here alone?” Chris asks, his voice low.

“Now I do.” Walter paces to the window, the one nailed over with curtains. “They took my wife. First day. She went downstairs…haven’t seen her since.”

My throat seizes up.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

He waves me off.

“It was her decision, not mine,” he answers, but his voice is shaky.

“Thank you for letting us stay here,” I tell him.

“You’re not staying here,” he corrects, turning around. His eyes are bright with tears from speaking about his wife. My heart breaks just looking at him. “I brought you here so you wouldn’t be shot on the streets. If you try to get out by just walking through the town, you’re dead. They’ve got guards posted on every block that leads out of the city.”

“We got into the city fine,” I point out.

“They’re not trying to stop people from coming in,” Walter says, picking up the coffeepot. Pouring a cup. “They’re keeping people from coming out.”

Chris rests his arm against the back of the sofa.

“What are you saying, old man?”

Walter breaks into a wide smile.

“I know a safe way out of the city,” he grins.

“And?”

“And to be honest, I just wanted to see if somebody could really pull it off.”

Chris stands up, drinking the entire contents of the coffee cup in one gulp.

“Details?” he asks.

“There are tunnels under the city,” Walter explains. “My wife…” he clears his throat, “was an architect. She helped build them. They were abandoned about fifteen years ago. I know how to get in, and all you have to do is follow them until you come to the end, which is well outside the city limits.”

“Are you serious?” I exclaim. “Tunnels under the city?”

“All cities have secrets,” Walter shrugs.

“How do we get to these tunnels?” Chris asks, not nearly as impressed as me.

“I’ll show you,” Walter says, “but we can’t do it until it gets dark. It’s too easy to be caught otherwise.”

“Why haven’t you gotten out of the city through the tunnels?” I demand, looking for a trap. “If they’re such a good escape route, why are you still here?”

“Sweetheart, I’m over eighty-seven years old,” he replies, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “I’m not in any condition to be making a daring escape.”

I blush, embarrassed that he even had to point that out.

“Ah, right,” I cough.

“Are you hungry?” Walter asks.

“Starved,” I reply.

“I’ll get some food for you.”

“We can’t take your food,” Chris says, being uncharacteristically kind to our host.

“Boy, I’m dying either way,” he laughs. “No use worrying about me.”

I sigh. Cheery.

Chapter Eight

So if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the United States of America has generally been a pretty cool place to live. I mean, sure, it’s not perfect by any stretch, but at least I have the freedom to snag a caramel macchiato every once in a while. Or watch a soap opera instead of doing homework.

Yeah, my idea of the land of the free and home of the brave is pretty basic. Until now.Because my caramel macchiato and soap operas seem to be in permanent jeopardy.

Chris and I take turns sleeping on the sofa in Walter’s apartment, neither of us really feeling comfortable enough to be asleep at the same time. Before we know it, the rest of the day has passed, and Walter is walking up and down the length of the living room, excited.

“What’s eating you, old man?” Chris asks, stretching his tall, lean frame over the couch. “You’re not the one who’s going to escape.”

“But you’re more than welcome to come with us,” I add, shooting Chris a look.

Walter shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says. “There’s nothing in it for me. This better work, though.”

He pulls out a thin sheet of white, almost transparent paper. He shoves all the magazines off the coffee table and brings some of the candles closer. “What is it?” I ask, spreading the paper out.

“The tunnels,” he says. “These belonged to my wife. The whole construction meant to be a sort of a drainage system that would dump into a basin outside the city. Never did work right.” His eyes mist over. “So as far as I know, they’re completely empty.”

“Are you sure?” I press.

“I said as far as I know.” He traces his finger along the route that we should take. Chris listens intently, studying the map from every angle. Me? The whole thing just looks like a bunch of squares and circles, and I hardly understand a word they’re saying. How are we supposed to know what direction we’re headed when we’re traveling underground, anyway? What good does a map do when we’ll have no light to read it with?

“What about light?” I ask. “Do you have any flashlights?”

“Sorry, no,” Walter says. “Mine were electric. Dead.”

I sigh.

“So we’re going to go underground in the dark,” I state. “We’re going to die.”

“We’ll be fine,” Chris replies. “You’re not claustrophobic, though, are you?”

I run my fingers through my hair.

“Who isn’t?” I mutter.

Chris pats me on the back, capturing one of my frizzy locks of hair around his finger. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there to keep you company.” He smiles devilishly, sending blood straight into my cheeks.

“Stop teasing,” I say, slapping his hand away. “This is serious.”

“I know.” Chris looks at the map one more time. “It looks easy enough. We just follow the tunnel until it drops off at the basin.”

“That’s all there is to it,” Walter nods. “It’s a piece of cake.”

“Get your stuff, Cassidy,” Chris says. “It’s time.”

I stand up from my cross-legged position on the floor and check my pack. I shrug my jacket on, twist my hair into a messy bun, and pull my boots back on.

“Ready,” I say. “Tah-dah.”

Chris rolls of the couch and grabs his gear, pausing only to flick a non-existent piece of dust off the collar of my coat. I scowl, wishing he’d stop flirting with me. It’s only making things awkward.

Isn’t it?

I shake myself. I can’t think about that right now. It’s escape time.

Walter puts on an old wool jacket and pulls a crochet beanie over his head. I almost burst into tears when I watch him adjust the hat, recognizing the fact that it’s homemade — probably made lovingly by his wife.

Walter turns to us, smiling.

“Let’s go, shall we?”

Chris squeezes my shoulders.

“Stick close,” he whispers.

“Do as I do,” Walter warns, opening the apartment door. I suddenly feel anxious, seeing the dark hallway, realizing that whatever tunnel we plan to drop into will be fifty times darker.

Chris nudges me out the door, lacing his fingers through mine. I exhale, charged with energy from that one simple gesture. I could get used to life-threatening situations.

Walter locks the apartment door behind us, walking down the stairs. He’s incredibly spry for an eighty-seven year-old man. When we reach the bottom level, he takes a long time opening the door and security bars. He exits first. Chris pauses at the door, waiting for the go-ahead.

“It’s safe,” Walter whispers.

Chris and I walk outside. It’s dark on this side of town. No floodlights, no guards as far as I can see. There is light in the distance, though, probably coming from the Relief Camps on the other side of the city.

Walter ducks into an alleyway.

“It’s about a quarter of a mile from here,” he whispers.

“What is?” I ask.

“Weren’t you paying attention to everything we said inside?”

“No. It made no sense.”

Chris releases a deep, soft laugh beside me.

“We’re looking for the entrance to the tunnels,” he explains.

“What does it look like?”

“You’ll see,” Walter snaps, obviously irritated that I didn’t pay attention to his tunnel strategy/lecture upstairs. That’s a teacher for you.

We take several left and right hand turns, Walter avoiding lighted areas. He stops at the corner of an abandoned Starbucks. “There’s a guard at the end of this block,” he says.

Chris nods as I peek around the corner, spotting a blue-uniformed trooper ambling across the street with a flashlight. He does a sweep of the area and takes off to another part of the city.

“What’s he even looking for?” I wonder.

“Escapees,” Walter says, chuckling.

I swallow a huge lump in my throat. Walter starts moving across the street, leaving Starbucks behind. We walk up to the sidewalk, Walter staring at a metal gutter opening.

“A gutter?” I say, deadpan. “How am I supposed to fit in there?”

“It’s a lot bigger than it looks,” he replies. “Trust me.”

Chris kneels down and wraps his fingers around the gutter grill, popping it out without any trouble. Well, either that or he’s just freakishly strong. I’m willing to go with the latter assumption.

Chris bends down.

“It is a lot bigger than it looks,” he confirms. “Down you go.”

“What? No. You go first.”

He smirks. “You’re scared.”

“Um, yeah. A big dark hole in the ground has the potential to scare me quite a bit,” I point out.

Chris stands up, amused.

“Well, you can take it from here,” Walter says.

We immediately turn our attention back to the old man with the crochet beanie on his head.

“Thank you for your help,” Chris says, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“This is my home,” Walter replies. “I intend to keep it that way.”

Walter looks at me.

“You keep your eye on him, alright?” he smiles.

“Whatever you say.” I stand there fiddling with my jacket buttons, overcome with the urge to hug him. So I do. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a warm embrace. “Everything will be okay,” I say. “This isn’t Nazi Germany. Not yet.”

I step back, hoping he didn’t see that as an invasion of personal space or anything. “I believe you,” he replies, taking my hand. “Be careful, both of you. And good luck.”

Chris drops to his knees and slides under the metal plating of the gutter. He rolls over the side of the cement slope and disappears under the sidewalk. I freeze, waiting for him to hit the bottom.

I hear a soft thud, then, “Your turn, Cassie.”

I turn around and kiss Walter on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I say.

I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the sidewalk. The cement slopes downward, covered with wet leaves. I swallow and whisper, “Here I come.”

I roll off the slope, twisting to brace for the impact. I land on my feet, halfway on the ground, halfway on top of Chris. He catches me, making the hit pretty soft. “Good thing you don’t weight much,” he mutters.

It’s absolutely impossible to see down here. A little stream of light is coming from the gutter opening above. It’s almost completely extinguished as Walter puts the gutter grill back on, propping it against the sidewalk.

“I’ve never heard of a gutter this size,” I say. “This is against so many safety regulations.”

“That’s the least of our problems.” Chris reaches for my hand and holds on tight. “Don’t let go. Just trust that I know where I’m going.”

“I don’t,” I reply, “but I still won’t let go.”

I reach out to touch the wall, grossed out when my fingers brush something wet and slimy. My shoes are apparently ankle deep in city sludge, too.

“No talking unless absolutely necessary,” Chris says. “We don’t want anybody to hear us.”

“What if somebody else is down here? Somebody bad?” I ask.

“The chances of that are slim. Come on.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I didn’t want to.” A few beats of infuriating silence go by before he continues. “If there is someone down here, that would make it even more important to be quiet. Yes?”

I nod.

“Cassidy?”

“I nodded! We’re not supposed to talk, remember?”

Chris either chokes or laughs, tightening his grip on my hand. He starts walking forward, and I realize that I have to bend down a little bit to keep from hitting my head on what is now a cement ceiling. We’re in a tunnel, sloughing through sticky grossness that’s been washed right off the city streets.

“I thought these tunnels were supposed to be empty,” I say, disgusted by the feel of dirty water around my ankles.

“They’re abandoned,” Chris whispers, “not empty. Relax. Walking through sewage is better than being arrested.”

Sewage?

I try not to gag. Chris is hunched down more than I am on account of him being six foot four. After a few hours — okay, minutes — of feeling our way down the cold tunnel, I start to feel claustrophobic. Why?

One: There is no light. Two: I feel like I’m trapped in a box. And three: It smells like a bunch of rats came and died down here.

“How much farther?” I ask.

“About a mile.”

“A mile!?”

“Shhh.” Chris slaps his hand over my mouth. “Quiet, remember?”

I move his hand away from my face, noting just how stale and pungent the air is down here. I had expected a cold, freezing tunnel system. Instead it’s almost warm, like no air ever enters the tunnels.

Every once in a while we hear weird dripping or scurrying noises, sending horrible images of Indiana Jonesand the Temple of Doom through my head. I curl my hands into fists and keep my lips pressed together, trying to avoid inhaling any unseen insects.

If Chris is perturbed about being stuck in a hole in the ground, I don’t sense it. His whole body is totally relaxed, his breathing nice and even.

“This is suffocating…” I begin, trailing off as the sound of an engine cuts through the tunnels. It begins as a soft sound, escalating into a full roar. I clap my hands over my ears. The entire tunnel feels like it’s shaking. Above us, a faint square of light is painted across the cement walls of the gutter. The tunnel opens up into a wide space under the sidewalk. Another entrance.

“We must be close to the city center,” Chris says into my ear. “That’s another gutter opening.”

“What’s that noise?”

“Trucks.”

He feels for my hand again. For a few seconds, I can see his face outlined in the shadows cast by the light of the streets above. I breathe in the current of cold air flowing through the opening, freezing in terror at the sound of an AT trooper’s voice:

“Take that one to the camp. I’ll take care of things here.”

A door slams. Another engine starts, shadows flit across the light pouring in from the street. Chris tenses up slightly and tugs on my hands. “Move.”

I get to my feet. We hunker back down and slip into the continuation of the tunnel. The light disappears again, and this time the water is up to my calves. It’s also getting colder, the farther we progress, a weird change from the stale temperatures we ran into before.

I take the opportunity to think about everything Walter told us in the apartment about Omega and wonder why nobody has ever heard of them before. How could we be invaded by an army that has no country, no king, and most importantly — how could nobody even know that these people existed? Why do the troops speak different languages? Are they all paid hit men, and if so, where did Omega find enough people to create an army big enough to invade an entire country? How long have they been planning this?

These are the totally normal thoughts that run through my head as we sneak around in the dark tunnels beneath the city.

Every once in a while we come to another gutter opening, tiptoe past the lights and voices, and slip into the next tunnel. It’s impossible to get lost because there is only one tunnel. We just keep following it until our necks ache from hunching over for so long and I’m pretty sure the smell of rotting leaves is permanently stamped into my brain.

“Smell that?” Chris suddenly says.

“What?”

“Fresh air.”

I sniff, catching a whiff of cold, clean air. It’s blowing through the tunnel pretty quickly, too. “We must be at the basin,” I say.

“Yeah. That was faster than I thought.”

Sure. Only two solid hours of tromping through the sewers.Piece of cake.

We pick up the pace, following the clean scent of open air. Chris stops unexpectedly and we bump into a solid wall. I experience a flash of panic. Is it a dead end? Have we been sealed in here for all eternity? Am I destined to become a Mummy?

The claustrophobia is doing weird things to my mind.

“What…?” Chris murmurs, sliding his palm across the cement. “Ah.”

“What is it?”

“The tunnel’s curving.” He walks forward and sure enough, we both follow the wall into a neat left hand turn.

I clap my hands together, natural light spilling into the tunnel. Even though it’s nighttime, it seems extraordinarily bright compared to the total blackness of being underground. “Freedom!” I exclaim.

I jog forward, getting down and crawling on my hands and knees towards the exit. Chris crawls behind me, the two of us tired of twisting our necks for two hours. Flecks of rain blow on my face from outside. I come to the edge of the tunnel, cautious about sticking my head out into the open without making sure it’s safe. I’ve seen too many television shows to be that naïve.

So I inch forward, peeking outside. The first thing I see is a wide-open expanse of darkness. It must be the empty basin. The second thing I see is the sky. The third thing I see is Chris crouching in the mouth of the tunnel, a frown on his face.

Because then my other senses kick in and I hear it: Water lapping against the side of the basin. I squint at the basin again, my eyes adjusting to the light.

The basin is full of water.

“What?!” I exclaim, shocked. “He said this thing was empty! Where did all this water come from?”

“Not from this tunnel, obviously.” Chris is rubbing his chin. “It’s about twenty feet from here to the top of the basin. It’s a slope. You can climb that.”

“How deep do you think that water is?” I ask, sticking my hand out. I dip my finger into the water. It’s freezing cold, leaving traces of silt on my fingertips.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chris shrugs. “The only thing that matters is that we’re out of the city, and we did it without getting arrested.”

I take a deep breath and brush some stray strands of hair out of my face. I stand up and wrap my hands around the top of the tunnel, leaning over the water and looking up. Chris is right. The top of the basin is only about twenty feet away, and it’s sloped enough that we could climb it.

“Go ahead,” I say, shivering.

“Ladies always go first,” Chris replies, standing up beside me. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I scowl, swinging my feet out of the tunnel and into the hard surface of the basin. The sound of the water lapping against the dirt is seriously freaking me out, because if there’s one thing I hate even more than small, dark spaces, it’s dark, deep water.

I dig my hands into the dirt and lie on my stomach against the ground. The angle’s not too bad. I climb up on my hands and knees, hearing a soft pat as Chris swings onto the ground below me.

“Race you to the top,” I say.

“Get ready to lose, kid.”

I pick up the speed, trying to go fast enough to beat him, but slow enough to avoid skidding downhill. I start laughing, actually enjoying myself for the first time since…well, since the apocalypse.

“Eat my dust,” I tease, turning my head up towards the top of the basin. I inhale sharply, a tall man short hair staring straight at me.

I lose my footing on the dirt and begin sliding backwards. The guy is standing motionless, just watching us, making no move to do anything violent. Chris grabs my legs as I slide down, pushing me back up. “Careful…” he whispers, his eyes trained on the guy. “What do you want?”

The guy cocks his head to the side and brushes his coat behind his hips. Even against the night sky I can see the flash of his teeth from his creepy smile.

“Chris…” I mutter.

“You popped up on the wrong side of town,” he says.

“What’s it to you?” Chris asks, and in my opinion he looks and sounds way more intimidating than this random dude.

“Nothing. Just making a comment, man.”

Chris urges me to keep climbing. I hesitate. Every inch puts me closer to the stranger. “What you got in those packs?” the guy asks. “Any food? Water?”

“Nothing that belongs to you,” I say before I can stop myself.

The guy laughs.

“Maybe it does.”

I climb to the right, coming up on the other side of the guy. He still doesn’t move, even as I climb to my feet and stand at the top of the basin. Chris draws himself up to his full height and steps in front of me. “Move on,” he warns. “Now.”

The guy has wide, bloodshot eyes. Now that I’m standing a few feet away from him, I can see the obvious tears and smatterings of blood throughout his shirt. He’s hurt, and by the looks of it, starving.

“Maybe we should…” I start to say.

Chris cuts me off, indicating that I should start walking away. I look around the basin. There is a chain link fence surrounding the property, but thanks to a stroke of luck, there’s no barbed wire.

“Just give me the packs, man,” the guy says, and this time his voice has a note of warning. “Come on. Help a guy out.”

Chris holds his hands up and takes a few steps backwards, pushing me with him. “Not today. Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be.”

The man moves lightening quick. For somebody who looks like he’s halfway bleeding to death, he sure doesn’t act like it. He strikes out at Chris’s face with nothing but his fist. Chris blocks the blow with hardly any effort, snapping the guy’s arm back and kicking him into the ground.

I just blink a few times, all of it happening it less than three seconds.

The guy isn’t done yet, though. He springs back to his feet and flings off his jacket, revealing toned, muscular arms. “You wanna fight? I can do that,” he growls, wiping his nose. “Come on.”

“Your funeral,” Chris says under his breath.

I roll my eyes, watching the testosterone-fueled gladiator match play out before my eyes. “We could just give him some food,” I suggest.

They both ignore me. Chris ducks his head to the left, avoiding a right hook from the guy. They both circle each other for a few seconds. Chris prowls around him like some kind of cat, twice as tall and definitely more knowledgeable in self- defense than this street fighter.

Maybe the guy realizes that Chris is going to pound him into a pulp, or maybe he really is just as wounded as he looks — because he turns around, looks right at me, and rips the pack right off my back. He grabs my arms and whips around the other side of me, literally flinging me to the ground. I hit the ground on my side, tumbling tail over teakettle down the edge of the basin. I just roll all the way to the bottom, scraping my face up in the process.

I hear some yelling and scuffling in the background, but all that disappears when I plunge sideways into the cold water of the basin. The shock of the freezing water is like sticking your finger in a light socket and getting electrocuted. For a second I can’t even move, completely submerged in black water. I can’t see anything. I can’t even feel the walls of the basin. Then my common sense kicks in and I start kicking upward, breaking the surface, sputtering for air. I’m only about eight feet away from the bank, so I start swimming towards it, hating how I have no idea how deep the water is — or what’s in it.

Above me, the guy is laid out on the ground and starts tumbling down the bank, too.

What is this? Public swimming appreciation day?

Chris slides down after him, upright, keeping his balance perfectly. The guy skids to a halt right before the water, about two feet away from me. He reaches out and dunks my head under the water — just to spite me, I guess. The next thing I know, his hand is gone, I’m breaking the surface again, and the guy is about ten feet away in the water, having been put there by Chris.

Chris grabs me by the belt of my pants and pulls me onto the dirt. He’s got a bloody lip, but other than that, he looks great. As always.

I shiver, hating how gross my wet clothing feels against the soil.

“Now what?” I ask, Chris linking his arms under my shoulders to get me on my feet. “Are you just going to leave him there?”

“Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson,” he says, combing my hair back from my face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I nod. “Just wet.”

Chris helps me climb up the side of the basin again while the guy kicks and flails around in the water, not bothering to chase us up. I guess he finally got tired of getting his butt handed to him by a Navy Seal.

Chris picks up my backpack from the ground and swings it around his shoulder. “I can carry that,” I say, my teeth chattering.

“I got it,” he replies. “Take your coat off and try to get it dry.”

I nod and peel off the fabric, feeling my skin tighten as the cold wind hits me. Chris casts a final glance at the guy, who’s pulling himself out of the water and crawling to the other side of the basin.

“Punk,” he mutters.

“All he wanted was a little help.”

Chris places his hand on the small of my back, motioning for us to move.

“He didn’t ask politely.”

“You’re such a boy,” I mutter.

We come to the chain link fence. Chris climbs it without any trouble. I manage to scramble over without landing on my butt, which means I have something going for me, at least.  The two of us continue walking back towards the highway, which is clearly visible from here. It’s littered with abandoned cars, making it kind of hard to miss.

“Do you think Walter will be okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.” Chris steps over a broken scooter. How the heck did a scooter get out in the middle of a grassy field? “Don’t worry about him, Cassidy. We have our own problems.”

“There’s really no place left that’s safe, is there? They’ve probably taken over every city.” I pause. “And who is they anyway? What do these Omega freaks really want? How is possible that somebody we’ve never heard of has started setting up death camps all over the freaking state?”

“Good question.” Chris thinks it over for a second. “It would make sense that they’re a U.N. based group. Where else would they come from? How else would they be ready for this? But it’s amazing to me why nobody’s doing anything to stop it.”

“Maybe they can’t,” I reply, frowning. “The EMP disabled all our technology, right? Maybe our military is suffering just as much as we are. Hey, you don’t think…?” I trail off.

Chris casts a sideways glance at me.

“What?” he asks.

“You don’t think this whole EMP thing was a plan?” I say. “Maybe whoever is behindOmega planned it and then they were just waiting to roll in and take over. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Chris replies. “The question is, who is orchestrating all this?”

“And why?” I add. “Man, this sucks.”

Understatement of the century.

Chris claps me on the shoulder, making me stumble.

“No, it could be worse,” he assures me. “And we’re going to be fine.”

“Considering it’s the end of the world, I don’t know if fine is the word I would use to describe our situation.”

“We’re better off than most people,” Chris smiles. I mean, really smiles. It’s kind of gorgeous, even though I can barely see in the dark. Because he’s not wearing a jacket, his shirt is pretty much soaking wet from the constant drizzle, sticking to his muscles in all the right places.

Whoa…

“And you’re staring at me,” he states, snapping me out of my reverie.

“I am not,” I laugh nervously. “I’m just…thinking. Without blinking.”

Chris breaks into good-natured laughter.

“Sure you are.”

I roll my eyes, feigning innocence. I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of him knowing that I think he has Thor-like looks or anything. It would go to his head. Immediately.

“What about food and water?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “We’re going to run out.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Chris says.

“How can you be so calm about possible starvation? And dehydration? You know how long it’s been since I’ve peed?” I clear my throat, realizing I probably could have kept that bit of information to myself.

To my surprise, Chris doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me. Instead he looks serious and says, “Drink what water you have left in your canteen. We’ll stop for the night and as long as it rains you can keep drinking. Dehydration is more deadly than going without food for a couple of days, so we’ll address that problem first. We can use the poncho in your backpack to gather more water if you want.”

“Great. I’m going to die.”

“Quit being dramatic,” he sighs.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being realistic.”

Chris shoots me an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. After we get about five miles out of Bakersfield, I’m about ready to plop down on the ground and fall asleep with my head in a puddle. We find an old truck with a camper shell over the back and crawl inside, looking through a bunch of fishing gear.

“There’s no river nearby, is there?” I ask just as Chris shuts the door.

“He was driving Northbound,” he shrugs. “Probably headed to the mountains.” He twirls a camping permit in his fingers. “Kings Canyon.”

I open my pack and turn on the crank radio and electric lamp. Chris decides to be noble and wind the radio up while I get out “dinner,” which is basically just another bland energy bar.

“Got anything?” I ask, peeling the wrapper back.

Chris sets the radio on the floor. There isn’t even any static anymore.

“Looks like the days of the radio are over,” Chris announces, flashing a fake smile. “What’s for dinner?”

“Turkey and potatoes,” I deadpan, tossing him a bar. “And for dessert, pumpkin pie.”

“Someone’s got Thanksgiving dinner on their mind,” Chris says, amused. “What did you do last time?”

“For Thanksgiving?” I yawn. “I made dinner for me and my dad and then we watched How the West Was Won.”

Chris laughs.

“Your mom must appreciate all your cooking.”

I frown, tearing my energy bar into tiny little pieces.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Noticing my mood change — or as my dad always called them: Mood swings from hell — Chris decides for some reason that he needs to find out more information about my dear old mom.

“Where’s your mom, Cassidy?” he asks, looking right at me.

I avoid his eyes, finding a super interesting thread on my jacket sleeve to focus on. “Not sure,” I shrug. “Why?”

“Do you have any family besides your father?”

“Not really, no.” I look up, kind of angry with him for bringing this up. It always makes me cry like an overly emotional child when I think about my lack of family. “And this is important to you because…?”

“I’m just asking,” Chris says, throwing his hands up.

But I can tell there’s more to it than that. So I decide to get snarky.

“Where are your parents?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

And she throws a curveball!

Chris takes a bite of his bar, giving me an I-Totally-Know-What-You’re-Doing look.

“They’re retired,” he replies.

“Both of them?”

He nods.

“What did they do?”

“They were farmers,” he says.

“What about your brother?”

“I think I said before that he’s a senior in High School.”

I smile evilly.

“Is he cute?” I ask. “Or single?”

Chris stops chewing and leans forward.

“And this matters to you because…?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Just asking,” I grin. “But seriously. Is your brother cute?”

“Not as cute as me.” He winks. He actually winks, and somehow it actually comes across as sexy rather than stupid or creepy. I feel my cheeks turning red, and I am extremely grateful that it’s so dark inside the camper shell.

“Well, you’re not cute,” I say, finishing off my bar.

“I’m not cute?” Chris repeats, looking shocked. “Is that why you stare at me all the time?”

“I’m not staring at you!” I retort. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to kill me or something. Or steal my backpack.”

“Right. I’m just dying to steal a backpack with two energy bars and a plastic poncho.” He smirks. “That’s been my plan all along.”

“Hey, desperation drives people to do crazy things,” I say, taking my jacket off.

“You still don’t think I’m cute?” His smile is playful. Pleasant, even.

I spread my coat out like a blanket over my body, thankful for my thermal black shirt. Warmth is super important these days. “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. Chris isn’t cute. He’s way too mature and fit and older to be cute. He’s hot. But he doesn’t need to know that’s what I think.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I can see you smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” I answer. “I’m laughing at you. Vanity is so yesterday.”

“Ah.” He suddenly reaches across the truck and places his arms right over my head. I freeze, surprised — and stunned. What is he doing?

“My brother,” he says, his face way too close, “is very similar to me. But he’s eleven years younger than I am.”

I hold my breath, my eyes flicking down to the fine goatee he has all the way around his mouth, up the sides of his cheeks. He’s got nice skin, a strong jaw, long, thick hair right above the shoulders that’s dark brown with blonde highlights.

“Chris,” I say, afraid to release a breath.

He moves closer. Way too close. I can actually feel him breathing against my skin, and he smells a little bit like the leftover coffee from Walter’s apartment. His eyes search my face for some kind of emotion, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I lean forward just an inch, I could kiss him.

“What…time is it?” I ask, glancing down at the crank radio, dropping my eyes. I can see the time from here: 8:33 p.m. He knows I can see it, too. But instead of pointing that out, he slowly moves his arms from the camper shell and pulls away, making a point of taking his time finger the strands of hair falling over my shoulder. He looks either extremely smug or disappointed with my reaction. Maybe both.

Definitely both.

I finally exhale and scratch the side of my head, wondering what I should say. Something like, “Why didn’t you kiss me?” or “Why did I ask for the time?”

Chris says nothing, retreating into frustrating silence. I curl up into my usual ball and try to say warm as Chris flicks off the light. I crack one of the windows open so I can let my canteen fill up with water during the night. Eventually I fall asleep, but it takes me a long time, because I’m hyperaware of Chris’s body only a few feet away, and I know that he’s watching my silhouette in the darkness. It’s the weirdest, most puzzling thing I’ve ever experienced.

Well. Besides the end of the world.

At dawn, I sit up quickly because my feet feel cold.  Rainwater is dripping through the window, pooling all over my boots. I groan and wonder how long my feet have been marinating in rainwater as Chris wakes up. His arm is thrown across the truck bed like he owns it, the other arm behind his head. I study his face, finding myself smiling in the process. He looks relaxed, almost boyish in sleep.

I grab my canteen, happy to see that it’s pretty much completely filled with water. The sky is still dark but it doesn’t seem like it’s raining anymore. Awesome. No more water-based adventures.

Chris stretches and sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not raining,” is the first thing he says.

“Thank God.” I hold my hands up. “Literally.”

Chris smiles. “I agree. Breakfast?”

I dig into my pack. There are three packages of energy bars left, which means we’ve got about fifteen bars left. I hand him one, shutting the window. After we’re done with our gourmet breakfast, we get out of the truck. It’s colder than yesterday, a definite temperature change.

I button up my jacket, feeling bad for Chris because he’s only got his leather biking jacket — not exactly ideal for wet weather.

“So,” I say, staring down the road. “I guess we have a lot of walking to do.”

Chris puts his arm around my shoulders, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Fear not, little maiden,” he replies, “the road may be long, but the journey will be worth it.”

I stare at him.

“Seriously? Is that a line from Star Trek or something?”

Chris gives me an exasperated look.

“You’re impossible to impress,” he mutters, shifting his backpack.

As we begin walking I ask, “So what kind of stuff do you have in your pack? Any food? Maybe some candy?”

“No food,” Chris replies. “I was biking for the day in Santa Monica when the EMP hit. I was planning to go back to San Diego and eat dinner.”

“So do you live on the military base?” I grin. “Do you get to drive in a convoy everywhere?”

Chris looks highly amused.

“No,” he says. “I live in an apartment in Santee.”

“Santee? Why?”

“I’m not active duty anymore, Cassidy. I can’t live on a base.” He looks sad for a second, but quickly hides the emotion on his face. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“It’s dry,” I remark.

“It’s a desert by the sea.” Chris opens his arms out wide. “And I don’t think Culver City is any more lush with plant life than Santee.”

“Culver City happens to be within ten minutes of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica,” I point out. “I can visit the Walk of Fame on the weekends.”

“Santee is ten minutes away from the Pacific Ocean and the birthplace of California,” Chris argues. “Not to mention some of the best surfing spots on the coast.”

“You surf?” I ask, astonished.

“I’m a Navy Seal. I adapt to water.” He glances at me. “What about you?”

“Oh, sure. I adapt to water about as much as a rock does.”

He laughs.

“Not the aquatic type?” he teases. “I guess you don’t exactly have a swimmer’s build.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, crossing my arms.

“Swimmers are generally tall, with long arms and legs.”

“What? Nobody’s ever heard of a petite swimmer before?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he admits.

I mock punch him in the arm.

“Don’t make fun of my height,” I warn. “I’m tiny but mighty.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Chris reaches over and pinches my waist. “Sometime I’ll show you how to surf.”

“Awesome. Just you, me and the circling sharks.” I give him a thumbs up. “Fun.”

“It will be,” he shrugs. “You’ll make a perfect decoy.”

“Meaning…?”

“You can distract the sharks while I surf.”

This time I really sock him in the arm.

“Brilliant military strategy, my friend,” I deadpan. “All those years of training finally paid off.”

We both burst into laughter at the same time, struck by the complete weirdness of the conversation. But somehow it’s nice to be able to talk to someone and just be totally ridiculous in the middle of a freeway littered with abandoned cars.

It makes it easier.

The day passes without any incidents. We have a few conversations about conspiracy theories concerning the EMP and the murder of innocent civilians. Where did the EMP come from? Was it from Omega? Was it from somebody else? Maybe it’s just some kind of freak hoax that will end up being uncovered later.

But then I remember all those dead bodies and I find that hard to believe. In the process of discussing all our delightful theories of doom, I learn a lot more about Chris. Where’s he from. Who he is.

“I joined the military because I didn’t have any money to go to college,” he told me earlier, both of us bored to death after seeing a green Honda for the hundredth time. “Becoming a Seal wasn’t something I planned on. I just wanted the training. I always liked beating people up, you know,” he jokes, “so the combat aspect of it appealed to me.”

“Unsurprising,” I remarked. “And you’ve traveled a lot, right?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, like it was hard for him to admit. “My first tour was in Iraq. That lasted for three years. Then I came back to base for a couple months and I got shipped out again. I went to Iraq three times, then Afghanistan twice. Hell, I’ve been everywhere.”

“What did you do there?” I asked, impressed with his travel repertoire.

“Fight the bad guys,” he stated simply.

“So you were a Seal for about nine years,” I said. “Man, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And where’d you get that tattoo on your arm?” I asked, referring to the not-so-attractive cobra winding around his bicep. “Because dude, that does not seem like something your mother would approve of.”

Chris rubbed his jaw then, apparently trying to think of a good excuse.

“My mother…would understand.”

“Oh, so she doesn’t know?” I laughed. “Ha. Afraid to face the music?”

“You haven’t met my mother.”

“I’d like to shake her hand. Give her a medal.” I smirked. “You know, for putting up with you?” I paused. “On second thought, maybe I’d better save that medal for me.”

“You’re very funny, Cassidy,” Chris said. “Ha. Ha.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why’d you’re family move from Virginia to California?”

“My mother was from here,” he explained. “She always wanted to move back. When I joined the military, they left. Got a nice piece of a land up in the foothills, set way back from the road. My brother’s doing a charter school.”

“Hey, that’s what I did!” I exclaimed. “It sucked.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because I had to go to class three times a week.”

Chris smiled. It was a beautiful sight. I stopped myself from sighing like a typical girl and asked him to repeat his question. I was too busy staring to hear.

“I said, lucky you,” he repeated, amused. “And you’re staring at me again.”

“I am not.”

“My smile must be dazzling.”

“Please.” I waved him off. “You’re so full of it.”

“No. I just notice things.”

He reached out then and touched my cheek — barely a feathery brush against my skin, but it sent a rush of heat from my face all the way to the tips of my toes. Ever since then the two of us have been trading not-so-secret glances at each other, which are starting to get kind of annoying. Every time I turn to look at him, he looks away, and when he looks at me and I turn to meet his gaze, I look away.

It’s getting weird beyond words.

We stop to rest a few times, propping up along the center freeway divider, discussing favorite television shows or pop artists. Chris is way more conservative than I am in that respect. I like my soap operas juicy. He doesn’t like them at all. So I educate him on the wonders of dramatic television while he tries to talk me into watching military reality shows.

Yeah. Probably not going to happen.

By the time it starts to get dark again, the rain clouds are breaking up just enough to let some blue sky through. It’s nice to know that the world won’t stay gray forever, even if World War III is upon us.

We make camp in another car again, sleeping lighter because there’s no rainfall and we’re used to the noise. Well, at least I am. Chris goes out like a light so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Mr. Sandman to pay me a visit.

At around nine o’clock, I plug the earphones into the crank radio and tune into all the stations available. There’s not a single signal from any of them, and since I know what I know aboutOmega now, I’m wondering if the stations are really dead. Maybe they’ve just been commandeered. In that case, maybe somebody will rebroadcast one of Hitler’s speeches to make us feel at home under the new order. It would only be fitting.

I hate you, I think bitterly, thinking about whatever sick mind is behind all this crap. I hope somebody finds you and takes you down.

I try to relax after that. I don’t want to think about my dad because then I might start believing that he never made it out of LA and won’t be meeting me at the cabin. I don’t want to think about my mom working at the hotel in Culver City. I’d heard that she was on vacation out of state this week, so maybe she’s okay if she was out of the big cities. I didn’t have any friends back home, so besides my estranged mom and maybe-alive father, I don’t have many people to worry about.

Story of my life.

At ten, I drop off to sleep. I don’t dream about anything, but at midnight I wake up gasping for breath, freaked out. My heart is racing like I just ran a marathon and I feel my headache again, back in full force. I’m also covered in a cold sweat. Disturbed, I try to prop myself up along the inside of the car and get comfortable, but that just makes me dizzy.

I realize that I’ve probably caught some kind of cold after traveling for five days in the pouring rain with hardly any food, so I search around in my backpack for emergency protein supplements.

And that’s when I hear the voices. Real human voices that sound like they’re not too far away. I freeze like a deer in headlights, forgetting about my headache for a minute.

Male voices…I think. Several. A yellow beam of light flashes through the air and I drop to my stomach, terrified. Somebody is walking down the Interstate. Granted, they could be survivors, just like Chris and me, but they could also be thugs. Like crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita.

“Chris,” I whisper, tugging on his sleeve. “People. Hello. There are possible enemies outside with big flashlights!”

He snaps awake. I grab his arm to keep him from sitting up in front of the windows. “There are people outside,” I hiss.

Chris knits his brow, making a move to grab his gun and whatever other weapon he’s been keeping hidden in his pant leg pocket. I realize that my fingernails are digging into his skin because I’m gripping his arm so hard. “Sorry,” I whisper.

He pats my cheek. Under normal circumstances I would have blushed, but another flashlight beam slides across the road. Then two more. I peek my head over the bottom of the window, spotting three figures in the darkness. They’re tall, definitely masculine and they’ve got rifles slung across their backs.

“Big. Strong. Armed,” I breathe, sufficiently spooked. “If they find us, we’re toast.”

“We don’t know they’re our enemies yet,” Chris whispers, but he still makes sure his gun is loaded. He hands me a heavy Bowie knife. It’s sharp enough to split a hair. “Use this if you have to.”

I nod.

“But you can feel free to go ahead and shoot them first,” I advise. “I kind of suck with knives. I almost cut off my thumb once when I was slicing a tomato.”

Chris blinks.

“Really, Cassie?” He says, a tremor of laughter in his voice. “Focus here.”

I flush.

“Sorry.”

Just then all the strangers’ flashlights go out. I will myself to remain motionless, to stop breathing.

Be a statue, I tell myself.

It’s totally dark, and their voices vanish altogether. Chris tenses beside me, his hand on my shoulder. Neither of us is willing to speak and give ourselves away.

Drip drop.

Rain?

I scream, taken completely by surprise as the trunk of the SUV pops open and three powerful flashlights are shined right in our faces. Chris throws his arm out in front of me, pushing me backwards, and holds his gun up defensively.

At first the light is so glaring that I can’t begin to see the faces of the people who are holding them. But I can hear their voices.

“Well,” someone says. Young male voice. “What have we got here?”

His face comes into view. He’s tall, short black hair cut to the scalp. Pinched face. The guy next to him is around the same age, same haircut. The last guy is younger than the rest, but stocky. Probably powerful.

The second two are also pointing their rifles at us.

Chris doesn’t lower his weapon, and for a few really long seconds everybody just kind of stares at everybody else like we’re all on the pause mode of a DVD player. “Put down the weapon, man,” the main guy says. The one with the black hair. “We’ll blow your head off if you try to shoot us.”

Chris, realizing that we’re literally backed into a hole (aka as an SUV), slowly lowers his gun and sets it on the floor. Guy Number Two grabs the gun and stuffs it into his belt, grinning.

“Pretty girl,” he says, looking right at me. “Real pretty. Remember me?”

If there were such a thing as a literal death stare, Chris would have killed all three of them with the intense glare he’s shooting their way. But I only stare, horrified. Because the guy I’m looking at is the same jerk that pushed me into the basin in Bakersfield. I can even see the bruises on his face where Chris beat the crap out of him.

Has he been tracking us?

“What do you want?” Chris asks, his voice a lot calmer than his body language.

“Just sniffing out rats, man,” the main dude replies. “We found a couple. Climb on outta there. You too, baby.” He holds his hand out to me. I ignore the gesture and step onto the pavement, Chris right beside me. “That’s right. Nice and easy.”

Main Dude looks me over, a creepy grin crawling across his face.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” He motions to the backpack. “Got anything this time?”

“No,” I lie.

Guy Number Two shoves the cold barrel of his rifle into my back.

“Don’t lie to us,” he warns.

“I’m not. There’s nothing in there but…feminine products.” I bite my lip, fighting the urge to smirk. “Seriously. You can have them if you want, but I can’t see why a couple of macho guys like you would be interested. I mean, that’s just wrong.”

Main Dude’s mouth twitches. He flicks his finger underneath my chin, inspecting my face like I’m some kind of exhibit. “She always like this?” he asks, looking at Chris.

He shrugs.

“You have no idea.”

Main Dude smiles. It’s probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, because he leans just a little closer and says, “I think we can use you.” He turns to Chris. “You, on the other hand, I can’t think of a reason to keep alive.”

“Whoa!” I say, almost shouting. “Excuse me. Exactly what is your purpose for holding us at gunpoint in the middle of the remains of a freeway? I’d give you some change, but I seriously doubt if coins are worth anything anymore.”

“Just staying off the radar,” Main Dude says. “And enjoying it while we do.”

“Staying off the radar?” I repeat. “MeaningOmega’s radar, right?”

He nods.

“They’re everywhere, man.” He shakes his head. “Like roaches.”

“So let us go,” I say. “We’re just trying to do the same thing.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pretty girl, and I know a lot of guys back at camp that wouldn’t mind your company,” he replies like it’s no big deal. “Come on.”

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me forward. Scared, I don’t think about what I do. But I do it. I whack him across the face with my fist as hard as I can. He stumbles backwards, bewildered, just as Chris literally rips the rifle out of Guy Number Two’s hands and smashes the butt against his head.

Guy Number Two hits the ground, out cold — maybe dead — when I spin around, face to face with Guy Number Three. He grabs me by the hair and jams the heavy side of his gun into my stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.

Gee, thanks for that.

I almost puke as I stumble backwards and hit the car, landing on my butt against the pavement. Three moves toward me, only to be put in a headlock by Chris, who slams his head against the car. He passes out, too. Which leaves Mr. Main Dude. But instead of standing like a man and fighting, he takes off into the night, running, screaming, “Over here! Come on!”

Chris bends down and hoists me up with one sweep of his arm.

“You all right?” he asks, only slightly winded. Like beating up a couple of guys is just a walk in the park. “Cassidy?”

I shake myself, my headache pounding more than ever thanks to my butt slam onto the ground. “Fine,” I murmur. “He’s going for help, you know.”

“I know.” Chris doesn’t let go of my hand as he rounds the car, grabbing our backpacks. He hands me mine and helps me put it on. Then he bends down and grabs his gun from Guy Number Two’s belt, also shouldering the shotguns from both unconscious cronies. “You take one,” he says.

“Are you kidding? I can’t shoot that thing.”

Chris slings both of them across his back.

“Fine. Let’s hustle before he comes back with more rocket scientists.”

“Scary rocket scientists,” I shudder.

Chris pulls me along, tossing me one of their flashlights. I catch it. It almost slips through my fingers because my hands are so sweaty.  Chris and I jog for a long time before we slow to speed walking. It’s freezing, which makes my headache even worse.

“Wait,” I say. “Slow down.”

“We have to keep going,” Chris replies, “otherwise that idiot might bring back a whole gang on us.”

“I just want to get some pain meds,” I plead, trying to find the medicine box in the dark. “My head hurts.”

“Still?” Chris voice sounds concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“People get headaches, Chris. It’s not like I got shot.”

I wince with the pain of the migraine, not able to tell if I’m sweating from a fever or from running for a half an hour. I flick the flashlight on as I dig around, finally closing in on the pain meds. I chew several up, much to Chris’s disapproval.

“That’s too many,” he says, looking frustrated. “Don’t overdose.”

“It’s children’s medication,” I snort. “Please.”

I zip the pack up and get to my feet. Shaky, sweaty, migraine-ridden. All in all, considering that it’s the end of the world, I’m in pretty good shape.

Right?

Chapter Nine

Twenty-four hours later, it’s one o’clock in the morning and foggy. The fog is so thick that I can’t see more than five feet in front of me. I keep close to Chris as we follow the road, listening to suspicious sounds or lights. My headache is still around, but it’s not pounding like it was thanks to the pain meds.

Glad I threw them in my backpack a couple of months ago.

We haven’t seen any sign of Main Dude or a comeback posse. Good thing, too. Chris would probably just shoot them all if they showed up. It’s a relief. I’d like to survive this trip without my traveling partner turning into a ninja warrior.

We eventually stop and kick back on the side of the road, deciding that nobody will be able to sneak up on us because nobody can see us through the fog. I have my hood thrown over my head because the fog is heavy — almost like a literal blanket pressing down on my skin.

When my headache starts to come back again — and the fever — I take some more pain medication to keep it away. I don’t feel great, but at least I’m not dying or anything. Chris doses off for a little while and I do the same, slumping next to him with my head on his shoulder.

We start moving at three thirty, having covered at least another fifteen miles since last night. “I should have been a cross country marathon runner,” I grumble, wishing we could just stop and hang out at a McDonald’s with a bunch of junk food.

Oh, man. Junk food.

I miss you…

“You’re doing very well,” Chris assures me. “Taking it like a soldier.”

“Thanks,” I say, uninspired.

We stop again at six o’clock, just as the sun is coming up. Only we can’t really see the sun through all the fog, so everything just turns from black to gray. At seven we pick up the pace and I spot a McDonald’s off the freeway.

“I can’t take it anymore!” I announce, feeling my stomach rumble. “I need more food than an energy bar to stay alive. I’m going to see if there’s anything left in there.”

“Cassidy, that’s highly unlikely,” Chris replies. “Besides, we need to stay on the road and out of the cities.”

“This isn’t a city,” I point out. “It’s a fast food shack in the middle of nowhere. Nobody lives here but a couple of coyotes and a sewer rat.”

Chris sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Which means he’s getting sick of eating energy bars, too. It’s been six days since we’ve had anything else, and they’re not exactly as yummy as a box of French fries.

I climb over the center divider, cutting across the freeway exit ramp towards the McDonald’s. There are no cars in the parking lot — or at the gas station that’s across the street. A more positive sign is that the windows haven’t been smashed out of the McDonald’s yet.

Hooray.

I jog towards it, envisioning a bunch of greasy hamburgers and calorie-bomb milkshakes. Nothing could be better. Or sound better, anyway. I walk up to the front door and push. It doesn’t budge, which means it’s locked. Of course.

Chris tugs on the handle a few times and walks around the building, checking all the entries and exit points. Finally he says, “We’ll have to break in.”

“Awesome,” I say. “I’ll kick in the door.”

“Thank you, but I think I’d better handle this part,” Chris replies, flashing a wry smile. “Excuse me.”

He pulls his Bowie knife out of my belt and slips it between the glass double doors. It takes him a couple of minutes to pop the lock, but because there’s no electricity, there’s no alarm. Sweet.

“After you,” Chris says, holding the door open.

I walk inside, impressed with his thief-like skills.

“You should have been a professional bank robber,” I tell him.

“Yeah, my mother would have really loved that.”

I laugh and take a look around. The whole place is pretty much untouched. The trash hasn’t been taken out so it stinks. It’s dark inside, but no place is darker than the kitchen behind the front counter. Chris twirls the Bowie knife around a few times and jumps over the counter first.

I crawl after him, not wanting him to reach the freezer before me. If there are hash browns in there, I claim them all. I flick on the flashlight we took from the thugs last night and shine it around the kitchen. There’s some gross food scraped along the floor, like people were running around and got it stuck all over their shoes. Probably when the EMP hit.

“There’s the freezer over there,” I say, pointing to a big steel box in the wall. “Let’s raid it!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Chris warns. “It’s been a week since the electricity went out. If there’s anything in there it’s probably rotten.”

“Party pooper,” I snap.

Chris rolls his eyes. I keep the flashlight trained on the freezer as I tap the door. It’s halfway open. I frown. “Go ahead already,” Chris says.

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I open the door and look inside, seeing a bunch of empty steel shelves and melted icepacks. There are some disgusting packages of hamburger meat rotting in the back of the freezer. “Gross,” I mutter, shutting the door. “Great. It’s back to energy bars again.”

“Tried to tell you,” Chris shrugs.

“Forgive me for holding out some hope that there was still junk food left in the world.”

“You have the weirdest hopes.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

Ding.

Both of us freeze at the same time. Something metal hits the tile of the kitchen flooring and makes a noise like a bell. I whip my flashlight around, spotting a metal spoon spinning on the floor.

“What the…?” I mutter.

At that moment a shadow moves across the back of the kitchen, headed for the rear door. I can hear light footsteps. Chris immediately vaults over the counter and tackles the shadow. I scurry after him, buzzing with adrenaline.

Man. How many times are we going to have people sneak up on us?

I shine the flashlight and wrinkle my nose, shocked. Chris is holding a skinny kid by the shoulders. A girl. She’s got scraggly blonde hair with a bunch of clips in it, knee-high combat boots and rainbow fingerless gloves. “Wow, dude,” she says, looking angry. “You just tackled me? You weigh like three hundred pounds. Let go, will you?”

She kicks Chris in the leg. It doesn’t hurt him, but he let’s go anyway.

“Geez,” I say. “You’re just a kid.”

“You and me both, sister,” she shrugs, turning to face me. Her skin is extremely pale, almost cherubic. She looks about eleven or twelve. “What’s the big idea tackling me?”

“Sorry,” I say. “We thought you were dangerous.”

“I am,” she sniffs. “Anyway, this is my McDonald’s. Leave already.”

“Where are your parents?” Chris asks, frowning.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She only comes up to my shoulder. She’s got on long black leggings underneath a pink skirt. “Hellooo. Leave. Now.”

“Answer the question,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Where are your parents?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you alone?” I press. “Who’s taking care of you?”

“I can handle myself,” she answers, looking proud. “Bye.”

She turns to leave, but Chris catches her around the waist and holds her there. “You’re alone,” he states. “How long have you been hiding out here?”

The girl tries to wrestle herself out of Chris’s grip, but not even a sumo wrestler could break those iron arms. “I don’t know. A week, maybe? Everybody left when the electricity went out. I came here to find food.”

“Why didn’t your parents take you with them?” I ask, horrified.

“I don’t have parents, genius,” she replies. “I’m a foster child, okay?”

I sigh.

“I get it.” I look around the kitchen. “So. Is there any food left?”

She laughs.

“Like I would share it with you.”

Chris gives her his death stare and she swallows.

“Fine. This way.”

She shoves past me and tromps into the other half of the kitchen. She opens up a sliding door underneath the counter and pulls out a few boxes of cookies and sealed apple slices. “Happy now?” she demands.

“What’s your name?” I ask, dumping a bunch of apple packages into my pack. “How old are you?”

“Twelve. Almost thirteen,” she replies, picking at a cookie.

“And your name?” I say, putting my hands on my hips.

“Isabel,” she replies.

“I’m Cassidy,” I smile, shaking her hand whether she wants me to or not. “And this is Chris.”

“He your boyfriend?” Isabel asks.

I flush, glad I can’t see Chris’s face.

“He’s my friend,” I reply. “Do you have any family or friends around here who can help you?”

“No. The whole area’s empty,” she shrugs. “I just got left behind.”

“How?”

“My foster family left without me.” She bites down on a cookie, propping her legs up against the wall. “There are like, two people in the whole county around here so it’s not like it took long for everybody to disappear.”

“Have you been living off cookies and apples for a week?” I ask.

“There were French fries and hamburgers and stuff at first,” she answers. “Then everything started getting yucky.”

I nod.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what’s happening everywhere.” I turn to Chris, who’s putting a few cookies in his backpack. “Don’t overdo it there, pal. Chocolate melts.”

He stuffs one more in his bag before shooting me a you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do look. I turn back to Isabel. “Look, we can’t leave you here alone,” I say. “We’re headed north. You can come with us.”

Behind me, Chris heaves a sigh.

“She’s a kid,” he mumbles.

“She’s coming with us,” I say, making it clear that I won’t take no for an answer. I’m not going to look back on my life a hundred years from now and have to remember that I left twelve year-old girl in the middle of an empty McDonald’s when the world ended.

“Seriously?” she says, looking surprised. “I can come with you?”

“Sure,” I smile. “You’ll be safe with us.”

“That’s debatable,” Chris remarks.

“Shut up, Chris,” I say.

Isabel suddenly jumps forward and hugs me around the waist. It takes me by surprise, since just a minute ago she was kicking Chris in the shins. Then again, I would be a little defensive, too, if I’d been hiding out in a dark kitchen for a week.

“Okay,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “We should move. You up for this?”

“Totally!” she beams. “Where are you going?”

“The mountains,” I answer, not wanting to dump too much important information off on her. “It’s safe there.”

“That’s also debatable,” Chris says.

“Go away,” I say, shaking my head.

“Hey, I found these, too,” Isabel says, pulling open another drawer. There are some small water bottles inside. “Want some?”

I clap my hands together. “Water!” I exclaim. “Awesome. Good job, Isabel.”

We fit as many as we can into our packs. Isabel stuffs a few into a backpack she pulls from underneath the counter. It’s a pink with sparkly rhinestones all over the top. “Nice,” I comment.

“Thanks,” she replies. “It’s for school. I’m in sixth grade.”

“Wow.” We hop over the front counter, walking out of the McDonald’s. The fog isn’t as dense as it was during the early morning, but it’s still pretty cold. And wet. And depressing.

“I haven’t been outside since it happened,” Isabel remarks, skipping along beside me. “There were a lot of weird people hanging around for a few days.”

“What kind of weird people?” Chris asks.

“Like gangsters or something,” she replies, making a face. “They came inside the McDonald’s and stole all the money from the cash register. Then they left. I didn’t want to go outside because I thought they might still be there.”

“That was a good idea,” I say, sharing a concerned glance with Chris.

“Yeah, I know!” she kicks a rock down the road. “So where are we going again?”

“The mountains,” I repeat. “There won’t be any weirdos up there.”

“Cool. Do you have, like, a secret fortress or something?”

“Or something.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“When you need to know, I’ll explain it to you, okay?”

“Okay,” she sighs. “So are you like, in High School?”

“No. College.” I tilt my head. “Chris was a Navy Seal.”

“A Navy Seal?” she laughs. “What’s that?”

I raise my eyebrows at Chris. He shifts the rifles and the backpack before launching into a convincing explanation about the awesomeness of his former Seal team. Even I get into it, asking him if he’s ever pulled a James Bond and worn a tuxedo under his diving gear.

Unfortunately, he’s never tried that.

“You know,” Isabel says, “I had a foster mom once who was in the army.”

“Did you like her?” I ask.

“No. She yelled all the time.” Isabel sighs. “Do you have any parents?”

“Kind of.”

We walk to the freeway, going back to car counting and complaining about the weather. Only now we have a twelve year-old cutting into the conversation, talking almost non-stop about school and math and her less than attractive history teacher from Greece.

Mid-morning rolls around, leaving us all sleepy. Except for Isabel, who seems to have endless energy and a need to bring up talking points concerning why jellyfish are the most persecuted animals in the ocean. Apparently she’s a science geek.

“Hey,” I say, around ten o’clock. “What’s that?”

We slow down, spotting dark shapes in the distance.

“Probably just some more cars,” Isabel yawns.

“Maybe.”

Chris drops behind her and tosses me one of the rifles.

“I can’t shoot one of these!” I say.

“Just hold it to keep up appearances,” he replies. “Just in case.”

I don’t argue. Frankly, I’m too tired. Tromping along for miles and having to keep up a conversation with a tween is burning me out. As we get closer to the dark shapes all three of us just stop talking. Miracle of miracles, even Isabel stops yacking about the stupid endangered jellyfish.

There’s just something about the silence here that makes us all shut up. I keep a grip on the rifle, even though I have pretty much no idea how to use it. Chris does, though, so I let him walk out front. I’ll just be the moving target if something goes wrong.

Noble of me, I know.

“Guys,” Isabel hisses.

Startled by her voice, I jerk backwards a little bit, turning back to scowl at her. “Be quiet,” I say.

“Look!” she points.

I follow her finger, trying to see what she’s looking at in the fog. Only after a few seconds do I finally make out the shape of an upright vehicle. Then three, then four then five. All pointed South on a freeway where all the vehicles were headed North.

“Oh, my god,” I say. “It’s a roadblock.”

Half-visible figures get out of the vehicles. Car doors slam. Somebody yells something. I yell, “RUN!” to Isabel, and she doesn’t hesitate. She takes off into the fog and disappears before I can even remind her to stay close to me. Chris backs up a few steps and puts his hand on my arm.

“Catch up to her,” he breathes. “Go.”

We both break into a dead sprint as a bunch of footsteps become audible behind us. “STOP!” a man yells.

Yeah, sure. Like I’m going to do that.

Then, completely out of nowhere, somebody tackles Chris. He tumbles to the ground and rolls right back up to his feet, yelling at me not to stop. Just keep going! I hesitate and head back towards him, spotting the guy who tackled him. He’s wearing an Omega uniform. I stare at him and we lock eyes. I feel like a kitten that just got cornered by a Great Dane.

Somebody tackles me this time. I hit the road, hoping I don’t break something, and scramble to my feet. A guard with beady eyes and thick muscles hauls me backwards and locks his arms around my upper body. I kick against him, jamming my elbows into his stomach as hard as I can. He loosens just enough for me to wriggle away and kick him right into his mouth.

He falls backwards just as somebody else grabs me from behind. Mr. Beady Eyes climbs back up and wrestles me to the ground. Now I have two guys on top of me. I can’t even see or hear Chris because I’m so deep in my own troubles. I kick and scratch and bite and punch but it doesn’t do much good because I’m pinned. Totally, completely pinned.

“What’s this?” Beady Eyes says, ripping my backpack off. Probably dislocating my shoulder in the process. Thanks a lot. “Supplies? Where are you going?”

“Get off me,” I say, wishing I could spit in his eye. That always looks so cool in the movies. “Let me up!”

“Not so fast, little girl,” he replies, looking smug. “You know why we have this roadblock? To keep people from getting out of town so easily. So many people follow the freeways to get out. You can’t just leave, you know. It’s not legal.”

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” I shout. “This is a free country.”

Mr. Beady Eyes breaks into a creepy smile.

“You only think it is.”

And then everything goes black.

Major bummer.

When I was six years old, I got mad at my mom and threw a glass of water on her head. Granted, that was kind of stupid, but I was six years old and I had a bad temper. My dad came home the next morning and made me sit in the corner of the living room for two hours without moving. I just remember being really frustrated because no matter what I said, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere until the two hours were up. It was embarrassing. I never threw water on anybody’s head again.

When I wake up, I’m facing a corner again. My cheek is pressed against scratchy carpet and my head is ringing, pounding. Yup. My old friend the Headache is back. Again.

I sit upright and look around, seeing nothing but a bright florescent light coming from the back of the room.

Wait. Room?

I refocus. I’m in a hotel room. But there is no furniture. No bed, no chairs, no TV or TV stand, no nothing. It’s totally empty. The bright light is coming from over the hotel room sink, right outside the bathroom.

I hobble to my feet, feeling unsteady, calling, “Chris? Isabel?”

Apparently I’m by myself. Creepy. Then it all comes back to me: the roadblock, Mr. Beady Eyes…crap. What did they do to me? I feel a line of dried mud along the top of my forehead. When I rub it between my fingers I realize that it’s not mud — it’s blood. I walk over to the mirror and stare at the tiny, redheaded girl staring back with blood crusted over her forehead.

I’m a regular fashion model.

I splash some cold water on my face and scrub the blood away, wondering where my backpack is. And my pain meds. I don’t think I can take much more of this stupid headache. What’s wrong with me?

I walk over to the door and try pulling it open. No dice. It’s locked. The windows are covered with a black tarp nailed to the wall. I try to tear through it but fingers aren’t going to cut it.

I bang on the door a few times. Then I kick it. Then I sit down in the middle of the empty room and pick at the gross carpet that’s probably been rolled on by a thousand dogs. This doesn’t exactly strike me as an upscale hotel.

Screech…

I look up as the door opens. A beam of light falls across the floor. AnAT trooper walks in. It’s my old enemy: Beady Eyes. He’s wearing the same blue uniform with a white O stitched on the sleeve. He’s also alone. I get a glimpse of an outdoor hallway and railing before he shuts the door.

“Sleep well?” he asks, flashing a calculating smile. He’s got a German accent.

“Yeah, I did,” I reply, folding my arms across my chest. “Where am I? Where are my friends?”

He just keeps smiling, squatting down so he’s at eye level at me. Not something I find appealing at all. “Why don’t I ask the questions, hmm? What is your name?”

“Anne of Green Gables,” I say.

“Where are you from?” he demands.

“Canada. Where the moose live.”

“Give me real answers,” he hisses, totally not smiling anymore.

“Those were real.”

“I mean the truth.”

“Oh, that,” I click my tongue against my teeth, hoping he won’t be able to tell how scared I am. “Why don’t you start? Like, why is Omega killing innocent civilians? And what do you know about the Electromagnetic Pulse?”

He slowly stands up, his eyes going from beady to steely.

“You are a stupid American,” he spits. “Like most of the people in this country. Nobody ever saw it coming. You didn’t. Or did you?” He raises a finger. “You have supplies. You were headed North on foot. You were avoiding the relief camps. Why?”

“Maybe because the relief camps are more like kill zones,” I deadpan. “My idea of relief isn’t being shot in the chest, shockingly.”

“Your traveling companion, the soldier,” he continues, ignoring my answer, “is well trained. The two of you together were planning something, weren’t you?”

“Planning what? An evil scheme to steal all the Big Macs left in the McDonald’s along I-99?” I roll my eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

Quicker than I can see, his hand lashes out and he hits me right across the face. I grab my head and grind my teeth together. Now my head really hurts. I swear and look up. “Dude, what is your problem?”

“I want to know where you and your companion were going,” he demands.

And that’s when I realize he used the word companion. Not plural, but single. Which means Isabel must have escaped. “We were trying to find food and water,” I say. “That’s it.”

“What about the supplies in your backpacks? And the weapons?”

“Never hurts to be prepared to run into a bunch of morons.”

He looks like he’s going to hit me again, but restrains himself.

Well, whoopee for you.

“We are functioning under a state of emergency,” he drawls. “Martial Law prevails, and if you are somehow involved in a conspiracy against the relief effort, I promise you, I will get it out of you sooner or later.”

“Conspiracy against the relief effort?” I echo. “You mean your executions?”

“You and I see things in different lights.”

“Yeah. You’re psychotic and I’m not. Big difference.”

“We will see how sarcastic you are after a week without food or water,” he says, giving me the evil eye. “That’s if you even live long enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off, but inside I’m shaking like a leaf. “Death, doom and destruction. Whatever.”

He walks away and opens the door, slamming it shut behind him. Sliding the lock into place. I lie on my back and wrap my hands around the roots of my hair, trying to take the pain away. I can feel part of my face swelling up from Beady Eyes’ little love tap, too.

Seriously.

First the world ends, then I’m taken captive by a bunch of maniacal relief workers turned murderers in the middle of an empty hotel room.

Nobody would believe this. Not even my dad.

It feels like three weeks go by before the door opens again. I’m pretty much starving and, because the water in the room doesn’t work, dying for water. Propped up against the wall, I open my eyes, watching a pair of black boots walk across the carpet towards me. I look up into the face of Mr. Beady Eyes. He looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

“Come with me,” he says simply.

I don’t move. One, because I don’t want to. And two, because I feel like if I move I’d just faint and faceplant into the carpet. Mr. Beady Eyes grabs me by the arm and yanks me to my feet. As I thought, the room swirls around me and my head throbs. I catch a glimpse of a nametag on Mr. Beady Eyes’ uniform: Keller.

He marches with me in tow out the door, into an outdoor hallway. There’s not much to see. It’s just a grimy little motel with an outside stairwell and a bunch of rooms. There are some military vehicles in the parking lot. Everything looks creepy because there’s no light except for a big bonfire in the middle of all the cars.

“Living the high life?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Keller doesn’t answer. He just grunts and drags me along. At any other time in my life, I would have kicked his butt, but I feel like a bowl of gelatin right now and kicking would probably result in embarrassment.

We climb down the stairwell, walk across the parking lot, and come to a glass door marked Main Office. I spot a few other Soldiers standing around the bonfire before we walk inside. It’s totally cold in here. It also smells like stale sardines, which is more than a little gross. Kind of like a Motel 6 my dad and I once stayed at on the way to Yosemite National Park.

Good times.

The main office has a shelf of travel brochures and a clock that’s ticking way too loudly. Keller shoves me ahead of him to make some kind of point about being in charge right before the door shuts again.

I have to try really hard to keep my face expressionless because the first person I see is Chris. He’s sitting in one of the office chairs. There are four AT troop guards standing around him, two of them have guns pointed right at his head. He’s a bruised, bloody mess. By the looks of it, his time here has been way worse than mine.

“What’s going on?” I ask, Chris and I locking eyes.

His jaw tightens as he takes in my appearance. I must look crappier than usual. He remains silent, but his eyes are telling me that he’s unhappy. Very unhappy.

“Your companion would not tell us anything about himself,” Keller says, leaning close enough to breathe on me. I make a mental not to stop inhaling. “His ID told us very little, only that he was in the military. Perhaps you can tell us more about the two of you and your plans?”

I glance at Chris. He nods slightly, only enough for me to catch.

“First of all,” I say, putting my hand on the counter for support, “you can stop talking like a formal European. Second of all, I don’t have a freaking idea what you’re talking about. The world ended, okay? Everything died. We had to get out of the city because the radio stations were broadcasting that people should evacuate. That’s what we did. We left.”

“This man is a highly trained ex-military operative,” Keller yells, almost knocking me over with his voice alone. “The driver’s license in your purse indicates that you’re the daughter of Frank Hart, also a highly trained private detective with the Department of Homeland Security.”

“How do you know any of this?” I demand, angry. “You can’t look it up on the computer!”

Keller smirks.

“Can’t we?”

“You have computers?” I say, openmouthed. “How?”

“You tell me. You seemed to have anticipated the EMP. You’re avoiding the relief camps while everybody else is flocking to them. You had a vehicle that was protected from EMPs. You were even armed.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out how he knows all of this. It’s impossible. Only my dad and I ever knew about the Mustang.

“You’re afraid we’re trying to sabotage your plans for world domination or something,” I say, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible. “Tell me, Keller, how long have you and the Feds been planning this takeover? Because if you’re worried that two people with backpacks full of cookies from McDonald’s are going to throw a wrench in your plans, maybe your strategy isn’t as brilliant as you thought.”

Keller reacts immediately, backhanding me across the face. I press my hand against my cheek, trying hard not let any tears escape. For a few seconds I can’t breathe, but then my lungs stop seizing up and I’m okay. I look up. Chris is almost red with fury.

“Let her go,” he says. “Keep me if you want to, but she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“We’ll keep who we want,” Keller snaps, backhanding Chris across the face.

I can only think that if Chris weren’t surrounded by a bunch of guards and guns, he could take Keller down in two seconds flat. I’d love to see that.

“I have no love for entrepreneurs,” Keller continues, stepping back to eye both of us. “I’m talking about the two of you, of course. And you have a choice. You can either comply with my wishes and tell me where you’re going and what you knew about the EMP, or you can die. Two more deaths mean nothing to me. It’s your choice. You can have a few moments to discuss.”

He looks pleased with himself as he flicks a finger, motioning the other Omega pukes out of the room. “Don’t try to escape,” he warns. “You’ll just get shot.”

They walk outside, leaving us totally visible to them because of the glass door. As soon as the door shuts and Keller’s smug mug makes an exit, I throw my arms around Chris’s neck and embrace him, holding back tears.

“You look terrible,” I say, sniffling. “Does it hurt?”

Chris sinks down to the ground and gathers me up in his arms, pressing me against his chest. “I’m fine,” he replies. “And thanks for the compliment.”

I look up into his face, pressing my fingers against his cheek.

“How long has it been since they took us?” I ask.

“Four days,” he replies. “Where are they keeping you?”

“Upstairs. The last door on the right. You?”

“In the back of one of their trucks.” He offers a weak grin. “I guess they figured if they put me in a room I’d just break the windows out.”

“You’re good at that,” I agree, resting my head against his shoulder. He smells sweaty and bloody, but honestly, I don’t care. I don’t think I’ve ever missed another human being so much as I have in the last few days. Solitary confinement does things to you.

“They’re going to kill us no matter what we tell them,” Chris says at last, tilting my chin up. “You know that, right?”

I nod, swallowing a thick lump in my throat.

“I figured,” I answer, shaking. “So we might as well keep our mouths shut.”

“No. We escape.”

“Excuse me?” I sit up straight, his arms still around my waist. “How?”

“Just trust me.”

“But Chris –”

“-No buts, Cassidy,” he says, placing one hand on each side of my face. “Just trust.”

He runs his finger along my bruised eye and frowns, leaning forward.

“I should kill him,” he mutters, something sparking in his eyes.

“You? I’d like to kill him,” I correct. “He’s got a serious ego problem.”

Chris chuckles, resting his forehead against mine. We just sit there for a minute, holding on to each other in the middle of a gross hotel office, closing our eyes. The uber-loud ticking clock eventually tells us that we’ve got sixty seconds left before Keller comes back in and demands information. Chris brushes my hair back right before he presses his lips against my forehead. It’s a short, lingering kiss that takes me by surprise, but I’m not complaining.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, thumbing my cheek one more time. “Okay?”

I nod, loving the way his hands are warm against my face.

Ding.

The little bell on top of the office door jingles as Keller walks in on us. He’s got his AT trooper hacks with him, and they look like they just walked into a candy store. Which means they’re probably planning to kill us.

Some people get a kick out of the weirdest things.

“How sweet,” Keller says in mock sugariness.

Chris stands up, pulling me to my feet. I’m still suffering from malnutrition and a possible concussion, so I lean against him for support.

“Aw, thank you,” I purr. “Almost as adorable as you and your cronies?”

His face turns ashen gray, like I’ve just made the ultimate insult.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that,” he replies, irritated, “before the night is over.”

“I don’t think so,” I muse. “Seeing the expression on your face just now was pretty priceless. Like a Kodak moment. Does somebody have a camera I could borrow?”

Chris smirks, hiding his grin in my hair as he tightens his grip around my waist. “If you touch a hair on her head,” he says, calm, “I will make your death long and painful.”

Keller rolls his eyes.

“You’re both so theatric,” he complains. “I take that as a sign that you’re not going to tell me what I want to know?”

“Nope,” I reply. “All of our secret information is going to go with us to the grave.”

“It’s your coffin, not mine,” Keller spits. “Fine.”

“Cassidy,” Chris says, looking at me. “Duck.”

“Hmm?”

What happens next happens so fast that I don’t have time to do anything other than what he says. Chris pulls me to the ground and all of the sudden the two of us are lying on our stomachs with our hands over our heads. Something — it sounds like it’s only two feet away — explodes big time. I can feel heat on my skin as orange flames blast the office. Keller and his hacks are thrown forward, totally losing their footing and crashing into each other. I raise my head and look around, everything moving in slow motion.

I can see a giant fire outside — way bigger than the bonfire that the soldierswere hanging around earlier. It looks like some of the vehicles have been turned upside down from whatever detonated.

“Come on!” Chris yells, wrapping his hand around mine. “We have to move!”

Well, obviously.

I get up, forgetting about my health issues thanks to a rush of good old-fashioned adrenaline. Chris throws open the door and I’m hit in the face with a wave of heat. Man, it’s hot. I cover my face from the flames that are shooting up from the bonfire, which is now big enough to cook a jumbo jet.

“What happened?” I shout, following Chris’s lead through the wreckage. Two Humvees are completely flipped over, and as far as I can see, some officials seem to be stuck underneath, pounding on the windows from the inside. I feel guilty for not stopping to do something, then I remember that these people are trying to kill us, so that pretty much destroys my instinct to help them. AT trooper guards that are still upright are hobbling around like they’re drunk, still shocked from the explosion.

You and me both, pals.

Chris and I run to the other side of the motel. There aren’t any bad guys over here, because there’s no light or cars. Except for one. It’s a Humvee with anOmega insignia on the side: The O that doubles as a white globe.

And leaning against the Humvee with a pair of keys in her hands is Isabel.

“Took you long enough,” she complains, looking cocky.

“What did you do?” I demand, crossing my arms. Shocked. “How are you here?”

“I just put a little gasoline on the fire,” she shrugs. “Right, Chris?”

Chris nods.

“You did a good job, kid,” he says, slapping her on the back. Then he takes the keys and opens the door. “Get inside. Now.”

“I’m totally in the dark here,” I say, climbing across the console in the front seat. Isabel jumps into the back, which is nothing but a storage area of guns, ammo and emergency supplies. “Holy crap! We hit the jackpot!”

“It’s Keller’s car,” Isabel grins.

“No way?” I laugh hysterically. “That idiot.”

Chris turns the key in the ignition. For one scary second I think it’s not going to start, but the engine turns over and we’re home free. “Yes!” Isabel whoops. “It works!”

Chris looks pretty stoked. I can tell because he stomps on the gas and we charge out of the motel parking lot at illegal speeds.

“How did you know to come into camp?” I ask Isabel, turning in my seat.

“I saw where they took you,” she replies. “I found Chris, and the truck had a window. I snuck over and talked to him and he told me that they were going to question both of you in the main office.” She smiles devilishly. Pretty frightening, considering the fact that she’s only twelve. “He told me to throw one of the gas canisters in the fire and run. It worked. That was the best explosion ever!”

“Unbelievable,” I say, reaching around to hug her. “I am so glad we found you! I knew you’d come in handy. I told you, Chris.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I believe the gas canister was my idea.”

“Yeah, but she pulled it off.”

“Thanks to me.”

“People, the road!” Isabel screams.

Chris swerves to miss a car that’s sitting long ways across an intersection. We’re racing full speed through the dark streets of whatever county this is, one orchard after another flashing by. It’s dark, but not as foggy as it was the other night. I’m glad. Foggy enough to hide us, but not too foggy that we can’t drive.

“They’re going to hunt for us,” Chris says. “They have our stuff. They’ll try to figure out where we were going.”

“Why?” I say, kicking the door. “We never did anything to them!”

“We’re anomalies,” Chris shrugs. “They think we’re trying to fight against the new regime.”

“Maybe we are,” I say bitterly, the adrenaline starting to wear off. The uncertainties — and the headache — are all coming back to me now. “How did Keller know we had the Mustang? How did he know who my dad was?”

“Apparently there’s still some Internet access that the government’s got going for their boys,” Chris replies, knitting his brow. “Which means we were right, Cassie. Our side did plan the EMP. They planned out everything.”

I lay my head against the seat, exhausted all of the sudden. Anytime you find out that your own government is trying to kill you, you’re bound to feel a little depressed. I’ll probably need therapy when all this is over.

“So what do we do?” I say. “We have their car. Will they be able to track us somehow?”

“I don’t think so,” Chris muses. “Wherever their computer is, it’s in a truck somewhere and it’s probably got limited connection to a satellite.”

“So we’re safe?” Isabel asks, leaning between our two seats.

“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to scare the poor kid, even though she’s probably got more courage than me. “We’re okay right now.”

She sighs and leans her head against my shoulder.

“Awesomesauce.”

Chapter Ten

Around dawn, I see it. The foothills. I whoop for joy and Isabel joins in. Chris just smiles and laughs. “We seriously should get some kind of blue ribbon for getting this far,” I say. “Who’s with me?”

“Totally with you,” Isabel agrees, giving me a high-five.

“Chris?” I ask, grinning.

“Fine. A blue ribbon for everyone.” He shifts in the driver’s seat. He’s probably stiff from the hours of driving he had to do. It took a long time to get here, to find our way out of the five million twists and turns of the country roads. We even had to avoid a cow pasture with a missing fence. Dude, cows are not just stinky. They also have an attitude.

But now we’re coasting down the road that leads straight into the foothills, right into Squaw Valley. Epic win. We have enough gas in the tank to get us to Chris’s parent’s home, which he says isn’t too far away. That’s assuming we make it through the foothills without running into a stupid roadblock again.

I’ll never walk in the fog without a flashlight again, I think.

After that, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Continue to the cabin by myself, I guess. Dad will be expecting me. I have to be there…

I dump the thought out the window, trying to focus on the positive — a new thing for me, since I’ve always been a self-avowed “realist.” I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.

“So what are you parents like?” I ask, turning to Chris.

He shrugs.

“They’re farmers,” he replies.

“That’s it? Give me more to work with, here. I’ve got time to listen.”

“They’ll like you,” he says, smiling. “My dad’s a little rough around the edges… My brother will love you.” He visible cringes when he says the last sentence, which, of course, piques my radar-like curiosity.

“Oh, so he is single,” I answer, wiggling my eyebrows. “Did you hear that, Isabel? Chris’s brother is single.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” she drawls, closing her eyes.

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Jeff,” Chris replies, annoyed. “And he’s seventeen. He’s too young for you.”

“I’m nineteen,” I snort. “That’s like, a two year age difference. Who cares?”

“Yeah, well…he’s not your type.”

“Not my type?” I start laughing, holding my head in my hands. “You have no idea what my type is.”

“Neither do you,” he mutters.

I just keep on laughing softly, realizing that I can’t seem to stop. At the same time, my headache comes roaring back with all the force of a steam engine. The chills, nausea and all around gross feeling I’ve been fighting off for days hits me in the face like a brick wall. I inhale sharply.

And then I start crying.

Just like that. I literally burst into irrational tears. My hands are shaking and I’m acting like an emotional train wreck. All of this happens in about ten minutes, enough time for the pressure to build and for me to make a fool out of myself.

I think I’m losing my sanity.

“Cassidy, what’s wrong?” Chris asks, looking slightly worried.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Isabel echoes, poking her head up front.

“I don’t know,” I gasp, unable to stop sniffling.

I comb my hair back from my face while Isabel and Chris try to calm me down. “Relax, Cassie,” Chris keeps saying. “Relax. It’s okay. Take a deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. Ah, okay, it is, but we’re alive, right?”

“Chris,” I say.

He casts an anxious glance at me.

“I’m going to puke,” I state matter-of-factly, feeling nauseas. “Like, right now!”

I slap my hand over my mouth. Chris slams on the breaks like a racing pro and eases to the side of the road. I throw the door open and jump outside, the cold air stinging my cheeks. I kneel down and vomit all over the gravel, heaving up a bunch of food that I don’t have in my stomach.

How is that even possible?

Chris runs around the front of the car and kneels beside me, holding my hair away from my face. He rubs my back as I upchuck some more just for fun, keeping my eyes closed. I just can’t handle gore, even when I’m the one responsible for it.

“Cassidy, look at me,” Chris says, turning my face towards him. “You’re sick. Okay? That’s all. You’re going to be fine.”

The lines of his face are tight. I dry heave and look down at the gravel I just plastered with my insides, horrified. It’s bloody. I’m vomiting blood.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask, shaking.

He adjusts his stance and tightens his grip on my arms.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But my mom will.”

“Your…mom?” I murmur, getting drowsy all of the sudden.

“Yeah. She used to be a nurse. Did I mention that?”

“Mmm…no.”

“Huh.” Chris scoops me up into his arms like I don’t weight anything. A totally swoonworthy moment that I ruin by coughing up blood all over my shirt. “Hang in there, kid.”

Isabel opens the back door and Chris lays me flat against the floor in the backseat. The world is spinning around me anyway, so I don’t care. Everything is quickly getting loud and blurry. Painful to listen to. I squeeze my eyes shut, not even noticing when we get back on the road. When I open my eyes again I can see streams sunlight coming through the windshield as Isabel peers at my face like a curious cat.

“Are you still alive?” she asks.

I blink, shaking my head.

“She says she’s not alive,” Isabel says, looking over the front seat.

I fade out before I can hear Chris’s reply. If it’s possible to feel any weirder than I do now, the pit of my stomach cramps up in pain. I slide my hand under my shirt and pull it up, glimpsing my bruise from crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita. It’s totally black and blue, veins of red running through it. It’s also painful to the touch.

“Guys…” I mutter, but don’t finish my sentence. I feel way too exhausted to open my mouth. The only thing I can remember before I pass out is how loud my heart sounds in my ears, like it’s trying to escape my chest. Totally not how my heart is supposed to sound.

Then again, this hasn’t exactly been the best week of good luck.

All I can think about is my dad stuck in an Omega concentration camp, lined up against a railing before he gets shot a bunch of blue-uniformed guards. Who would have believed that just a couple of weeks ago, my biggest problem was getting an employment rejection from an airline company. Now everything’s gone. Stuff like that doesn’t matter anymore. Money doesn’t matter. College degrees don’t matter. Whether or not you saw the latest Oscar winning film doesn’t matter.

All that matters is one thing: are you still alive?

These are the totally morbid thoughts that run through my mind before I wake up. I feel numb all over my body, like a bunch of needles are pricking my skin. I’ve only felt that once, when I broke my arm and I had to go to the hospital to set it. But there are no more hospitals. So where am I?

I force my eyes open. The first thing I see is a dark wood ceiling and a couple of closed curtains with sunlight poking through the openings. I’m lying like a mummy with my hands to my sides underneath a heavy quilt.

How did I get into a bed? It’s way more comfy than the back of a camper shell. I chalk that up to score one for me.

I push myself up, surprised to notice that my headache is gone. Finally. I feel a little spacey, like I’m floating above everything in the room, but besides that…I feel good. “Hello?” I say, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I clear my throat. “Hello?”

No answer.

I peel the sheets back, noting what I’m wearing. A pair of flannel pajama pants and a white tank top. Creepy. Who dressed me? I hope it was Isabel.

It better have been Isabel.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, touching cold hardwood flooring. The whole room is like a little cabin, with pictures and books and an old lamp covered with dust. I touch an old dresser and spot a picture frame. Fueled by my insane curious nature, I grab it and look it over. It’s a picture of a rugged, handsome young man in a suit and tie. He bears a striking resemblance to Chris.

Hmm.

I turn it over. Someone has written Chris, Senior Year, on the back in permanent ink. I stare it then turn the picture over, smitten with the young man in the picture. Chris. Ten years ago. And now he’s got a goatee, long hair and a tattoo of a cobra on his left bicep.

Nice.

I put the picture back and creep to the door. I know where I am now. We must have made it to Chris’s family home. I open it and peek into a long dark hallway. Everything looks like it was built in the 1940s. The architecture is on the smaller side. I’m guessing there was no obesity epidemic back then, because my great aunt could never squeeze through the doorframe…

I follow the hall. Every door is closed except for mine, which means I can’t snoop. Bummer. I come to a stairway, where a bunch of black and white photos are tacked onto the wall. Family heirlooms, I guess.

I go downstairs. There’s a big door and a bunch of windows covered with curtains. On the left is a living room — a huge one with beat up couches and an old television set — and on the right is a dining room with a big table. I can’t hear any noises from anywhere in the house, so I turn and go back upstairs. Frankly, I may be feeling better, but I still feel tired. I yawn, walk back into the bedroom I was in, and crawl onto the bed. I hug a pillow, dub him my best friend, and pull the quilt over me. Obviously Chris and Isabel are here somewhere, I just have to wait for them to come back here.

“Knock, knock.”

I squeeze my BFF Mr. Pillow and look up. A tall, lean young man with blonde hair is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, taking off a pair of dirty gloves.

“Jeff?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. It’s cute.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replies “I know who you are. My brother told me about you.”

“Interesting,” I say, stifling another yawn. “Where is he? Chris, I mean. And Isabel.”

“They’re outside, helping the folks,” he answers. “I’ll tell them you’re awake.”

“Hey, wait!” I say, stumbling out of bed. “Listen, how long have I been here? What happened?”

“You’ve been out for about two days,” Jeff replies, and I can’t help but notice how his eyes keep checking me out from head to toe. I must look really bad. “My mom’s a nurse, so she helped you. She’s got medicine and stuff she keeps for emergencies.” He sticks his gloves in his back pocket, crossing his arms. Totally ripped arms, I might add. Not as strong looking as his older brother’s, but still. “You were really sick.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, tugging on the ends of my hair. “What was wrong with me?”

“I think you were bleeding internally,” he shrugs. “I mean, that’s what my mom said. It must have been fixable, though.” He grins. “Obviously.”

I smile, flushing.

“Thanks for taking me in,” I say, feeling the need to let me him know how much appreciate sleeping indoors for the first time in over a week. “I just…thank you.”

“No problem,” he answers. “Chris has never brought home any friends before, let alone any girls. Or pretty ones.”

I totally blush, so I try to hide the color in my cheeks by walking to the window and throwing back the curtains. “I’d like to meet your parents,” I say. “I need to thank your mom.”

“Sure,” he agrees, smiling brightly. “Why don’t you come down to the kitchen? You gotta be hungry. Chris and Isabel ate, like, two tons when they got here.”

“Sounds like them,” I remark.

“Come on,” he waves for me to follow him. “So you’re like nineteen, right?”

“Yeah.” We walk down the hall, to the stairs. “And you’re seventeen. A senior.”

“Like that matters anymore,” he sighs. “I think the school year kind of froze when the pulse hit.”

“Tell me about it.” We reach the bottom of the stairs and walk into the kitchen. It’s a cute room with big counters and lots of cupboards. “Where were you when it happened?”

“Home. The power went out,” he answers. “Besides that, we didn’t know anything was wrong. Until they started evacuating Squaw Valley. They tried to get us to leave, but we just kept stalling. They left us behind. Good thing, too. Chris told us about theOmega relief camp thing.”

Jeff rummages around in the cupboards and pulls out a bowl of apples and a bag of potato chips. “Might as well eat them before they go bad,” he shrugs.

“Thanks!”

I pop open the bag and start eating. It tastes so good. Like a turkey dinner, even though I’m sure the Department of Health would be all over me for thinking that.

“Chris told us that you’re meeting your dad at a cabin higher up,” Jeff says, watching me eat.

“Yeah, that’s the general plan,” I nod, meeting his gaze. His eyes aren’t quite as green as his brother’s, but there’s a certain amount of intensity that’s the same. “But honestly, I don’t know if he’ll even be there.”

“Never break an emergency plan,” Jeff advises, leaning against the counter. “You should go.”

I find myself smiling.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree. “I guess I’m just worried that he never made it out of LA.”

That maybe he’s stuck in some concentration camp somewhere.

I shudder and stuff another potato chip in my mouth, which I’m sure Jeff finds charming. “You have no idea how good this greasy crap tastes,” I say, laughing. “I’ve been living on energy bars for a week.”

Jeff chuckles.

“I understand that.”

“So do I.”

Both of us turn at the same time. Chris walks into the room. He’s wearing dark wash jeans, boots and a tight black tee under an open tan shirt. His hair is hanging loose, and he looks like he’s been sweating it out doing something physical. It’s a really good look for him.

“Hey,” I say. “We’re still alive.”

“You’re still alive,” he corrects, wrapping his arms around me. He pulls me into a warm, fantastic hug. I lay my head against his chest — or, because I’m way shorter than him, his stomach — and sigh. He rests his chin on top of my head, swaying back and forth. I don’t even remember that Jeff is in the room until he says, “Where’s mom and dad?”

“In the barn,” Chris replies, gently easing away from me. He doesn’t remove his arm from around my waist, though. Score. “My mother’s going to want to check up on you, Cassie.”

“Good, I want to meet her.”

He studies my face for a long minute, probably making sure that my sanity is intact after the tears/puking incident on the way up here. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Did you run into any trouble while I was out in the car?”

“No, we were lucky,” he says. “They cleared out the whole town and didn’t leave anybody behind. I guess there’s not enough of a population here to warrant their time.”

He slides his hand on top of mine and brings it back down to my side.

“I need to talk to you.” He glances at Jeff. “Privately.”

“You and your private chats,” Jeff huffs. “Why do I have to go?”

“Just get out of here,” Chris replies, cocking an eyebrow.

Jeff ignores his brother and squeezes my shoulder.

“Glad to see you up, Cassidy,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Thanks.”

He walks out of the room, mouthing something to Chris that I don’t catch. Chris looks annoyed, but the hard lines of his face relax once his little brother leaves the room.

“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the scoop?”

“Have you been outside?” he asks.

“No. I just got up.”

He folds his arms.

“We’re almost thirty miles out of town,” he says. “Everybody’s gone. I think we’re safe here for a long time.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point? My point is that I think you should reconsider heading up to your cabin in the middle of nowhere. Stay here, you’ll be taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself.”

That’s always been my first instinct. Denial. I always deny things. Especially embarrassing accusations that are true.

“You need help,” Chris replies, looking unmoved. “Obviously. You were hemorrhaging internally, did Jeff tell you that? You’ve been bleeding every day since you got hit with that crowbar in Santa Clarita.”

“That would explain the headaches,” I shrug.

“If you hadn’t had pain meds, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did,” he says. “My mom was able to help you, but you’ll be weak for a few days. Maybe even a couple of weeks. You need to rest and by the time you’re even ready to head up the hill it’ll be snowing.”

“So? I’ll take a sled and a couple of huskies,” I quip.

“You know what I mean.” Chris narrows his eyes. “You’re not hiking forty miles to a cabin by yourself, Cassidy.”

“I’m not?” I smirk. “I don’t have a choice. My dad’s waiting for me.”

“You don’t know that. And there’s no reason you should die trying to get there. Wait it out. Go up in the spring.” He grabs my arm right when I make a move to walk away. “Your dad would want you to be safe.”

“You don’t know my dad,” I reply, shaking him off. “This is the master plan, Chris! This was what we were supposed to do if an emergency happened and we got separated! The only reason I left LA was because we agreed on it. Otherwise I would have stayed.”

“If you would have stayed you would have died, just like a million other people,” Chris states.

I run a hand through my hair, realizing that it’s been more than a week since I’ve washed it. Totally gross. “Can we discuss this later? I’m tired.”

“Discussing it later won’t change anything.”

“You’re right. I’m not going to change my mind on this.”

“Cassidy, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I laugh beside myself.

“I survived this far,” I say. “I can make it to the cabin. That was always the plan, and I’m going to carry it out. And by the way, I’m not going to die doing it.”

Chris cringes when I use the word die.

Man, he has no faith in me at all. Even after all this time. I turn away and stomp up the stairs, upset that he thinks he can boss me around like his little sister or something. Chris doesn’t bother trying to follow me. He knows I’m in a bad mood.

But it doesn’t last long.

Chapter Eleven

It’s weird how it’s taken the collapse of society as we know it for me to make friends. Growing up I always had an acquaintance or two, but nobody I could call my “best friend forever.” My mom was too busy to take me on play dates and my dad slept during the day. I was shy, so I didn’t make friends like normal people. I was my own best friend, and if I needed somebody to talk to, I had a stuffed rabbit named Charlie who was a really great listener.

Unfortunately, Charlie wasn’t a great conversationalist.

So, yeah, it’s interesting that all of the sudden I’ve got Isabel, Jeff, Chris and their parents as my buddies. The Young property is nestled on the backside of a big foothill, hidden behind lots of trees and fields of grass. There’s a creek that runs through a miniature canyon at the bottom of the property, where the whole place is fenced in with tall barbed wire. There’s not a ton of history floating around about the Squaw Valley area, but from what Jeff has told me, the name “Squaw” obviously came from a bunch of Indians who used to live in the area. Funny. How they were living back then isn’t much different than how we’re living right now: day-to-day.

The Young house is two-story. It gives off an old-fashioned farmer vibe. There’s a barn with a couple of cows and horses, a bunch of chickens, some pigs and Mrs. Young has a big garden behind the house big enough to feed a small army.

In other words, we’re living in a survival junkie’s paradise.

Mrs. Young is a short, slender woman with gray hair. She wears high top jeans and plaid button-ups along with rubber boots because she’s in the dirt all the time. She’s a sweet woman, if not a little tough. I guess living with three macho men would make you that way.

Mr. Young looks a lot like his sons. He’s got overgrown blondish hair, he’s strong and he doesn’t waste time making small talk. He just gets right to the point. For example, when I first met him I had some hay stuck in my hair from checking out the barn and he just said, “Kid, you got straw in your hair.”

And that was it. We were introduced.

It’s been one day since I’ve woken up and Jeff has been showing me around the property. I’m wearing my jeans and boots with one of Mrs. Young’s button-ups. I feel a little shaky, but overall a lot better.

“Hey…” I say, grinning. “That is one macho rooster.”

Jeff laughs. I watch a colorful rooster strut across the dirt in front of the barn.

“He reminds me of someone,” I say. “Oh, yeah. My ex.”

“Was he really that bad?” Jeff asks, surprised.

“I was just saying that for comic value.” I stroll along, plucking a leaf off an oak tree that’s hanging low.

“What? You don’t date much or something?” Jeff trails behind me like a puppy. He’s been doing that ever since Chris and I had our argument about me going to the cabin. I’m guessing Jeff doesn’t get much interaction with people living in the middle of the sticks. I must be a novelty, especially since I come from the “big city.”

“You’re a legal adult, though,” Jeff says. “You could date, right?”

“I could,” I agree, kind of weirded out by his question.  “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Jeff replies, a little too quickly. “I was just curious. You know. My mom never let Chris date when he was growing up, and he had girls all over…” he trails off, noticing my glare. The last thing I want to hear about right now is Chris’s history of womanizing. Or whatever.

“Anyway, they don’t let me date either,” he says. “They’re all about working hard until I turn eighteen, then I get to do what I want. Chris joined the military when he turned eighteen.” He sighs. “Doesn’t look like that’s what I’ll be doing anymore.”

“Hey,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “Cheer up. You know what you got?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re alive,” I exclaim. “You know how many people are dead or starving right now? We’ve got it made. We’re living in the lap of luxury compared to some of them. Cheer up, will you?”

Jeff starts laughing again. It’s not hard to get him to do it, unlike his brother, who seems like he’s made of stone half the time. “You have a point,” he admits. “I can see why my brother likes you.”

I shift uncomfortably.

“Yeah? You think he likes me?”

“I know he does.” Jeff looks a little depressed. “I mean, he wouldn’t have stuck with you for a week if he didn’t. Believe me. I know.”

“Huh.”

There is a dirt road that curves up the side of the foothill, right up to the house. It’s extremely well hidden from the main highway. Mr. Young told me that when he saw the Omegatroops rolling through, he knocked down his mailbox and camouflaged the entrance to the turnoff with bushes and trees. It’s like this place was made for a situation like this.

“Chris told me you were doing a charter school,” I say as we walk into the barn. It’s a big wooden building with straw and a couple of animals that stink worse than a litter box.

“Yeah,” Jeff answers. “It was okay. At least I got to get off the property for a few hours every week.”

I don’t respond. If I lived here, with parents like his and a property like this, I don’t think I’d care if I “got” to go to school. Then again, the grass is always greener on the other side. All I wanted growing up was a happy family. I only got half of one. Anyway, I’m sure Jeff has his own reasons for what he wants.

“Cassidy?”

I turn around, watching Chris walk into the barn with a box of tools in his right hand. He’s hauling a couple of pieces of wood over his shoulder. “I’m fixing the leak in the roof,” he announces. “Want to help?”

I think that’s code for “Want to talk?”

I nod.

“Sure.”

Jeff sighs, seeing that he’s been dismissed from the conversation yet again. I smile apologetically but he waves it off. “See you later.”

Chris is already halfway up the ladder.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

“What?” He climbs onto the loft and sets the tools down.

“Climb without using your hands. It’s awesome.”

“Years of practice.” I reach the top and step onto the creaky boards. There’s a bunch of straw up here, and I can see the gaping hole in the corner that Chris is going to fix.

“What happened?” I say. “Did a meteor hit?”

“Nah. Just a couple of weak boards.”

He starts working on patching it up, removing his over-shirt in favor of the black tee. I lean back on the wall and watch him move, not realizing that I’ve been staring until he turns to me. “You’re staring again, Cassie,” he says, a wry grin spreading across this face.

“No, I’m watching you patch a hole,” I reply, embarrassed. “There’s not much else to do around here.”

“Then don’t watch,” he says. “Do.”

“Excuse me?”

He holds out a hammer.

“You hammer in the nail while I hold this last piece of up. Can you handle that?”

“Duh,” I reply, making a face. “If I can survive a week with you, I can do anything.”

“Ha. Ha.” He holds the last piece of wood up to the wall. “Go ahead.”

I take the heavy hammer and pound it against the big nail in the wall. Even with all my muscle power, it’s still hard to drive it through the hard wood.

“Too much for you, Thumbelina?” Chris laughs.

“Shut up,” I say, slapping his chest. “I can do it.”

I pound a few more times, getting the nail in halfway. Enough to hold the board up. Epic win. “Ha,” I say, smug. “See?”

“You’re hitting it at an angle,” Chris replies, rolling his eyes. “That’s why it won’t go in all the way. Here.”

He wraps his arms around me from behind and puts his hands over my hands. My whole body tenses up with his closeness. An alarm bell goes off somewhere in my head.

“Swing back,” Chris says, pulling my arms back, “and hit it head on.”

He slams the hammerhead against the nail and it goes in all the way. In one sweep. What a showoff.

“Lucky shot,” I shrug.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

He draws one hand up my arm, fingering my long hair before tucking it behind my ear. “You know what I think?”

I shake my head, frozen.

“I think you’re stubborn.”

“How enlightening.”

His breath is hot against my cheek. He drops the hammer on the ground, making me jump.“You also won’t admit it when you can’t do something,” he says, and I can feel him smiling against my ear.

“So I have some pride,” I whisper, curling my hands over the top of his, which are now resting on my stomach. “So what?”

“Nothing. I was just making an observation.” He slowly kisses my neck, lingering just long enough to shift his position and brush his lips across the side of my cheek. He stops talking and, miracle of miracles, so do I. I seriously can’t think of any sarcastic, spur of the moment quip.

I must be in love.

He kisses my other cheek, inching his hands up the side of my hips, careful to avoid my bruise. Then, without missing a beat, he tips my head to the right and leans in to press his lips against forehead before dipping his head down. I close my eyes, forgetting about the stupid nail and hammer and end of the world for two seconds, and slide my hand around the back of his neck, bringing his lips down to mine.

I’ve never kissed a guy before, so I’m surprised at how easy it is to fall into. He tastes like coffee and smells even better, filling up every sense in my body. Sensory overload.

Chris turns me around and presses me against his chest, his strong arms caging me in. There’s no escape, and that knowledge sends a thrill through me. He’s holding me so tight that I can’t breathe. Apparently love isn’t only blind, it’s also bad for your health.

Frustrated that I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach him, I jump up and wrap my legs around his waist. Chris holds me upright without flinching, slipping his hands under my legs, sinking down into the itchy straw. I break off the long kiss and rest my forehead against his. Chris is breathing hard — no harder than me, at least.

Both of us just study each other without saying a word. Chris’s face is very relaxed, and he’s smiling softly at me with a look of adoration.

Yes. Adoration. I make a mental note to remember this moment.

I cup the side of his cheek with my hand, feeling the rough stubble under my fingers. I gently kiss him on the lips. He snakes his hand into my hair and returns the gesture before lying on his back, tracing his fingers over every angle of my face. He brushes his mouth across the hollow my throat and I roll to his side, tucked underneath his arm and against his chest.

I toy with the fabric of his shirt for a few moments before he finally breaks the silence with his deep, strong voice. “I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he says, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb.

“Was it worth the wait?” I reply, grinning.

“Absolutely. We should have done this sooner.” He kisses me again, sending tendrils of electricity through my body. “Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know.” I prop myself up on one arm, still buzzing with the rush of such intimate contact. “Hey, you know what?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an older man.”

“Meaning?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m nineteen. You’re twenty-eight. This is practically illegal.”

Chris sits up, laughing. It’s a deep, slightly seductive sound.

“Last I checked, nineteen was over the threshold of legal adulthood,” he replies, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I think mutual consent is part of the equation.”

“What if I don’t consent?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll convince you,” Chris says in a low voice.

“Do tell.”

Chris chuckles and pulls me against him. I have to admit, if there’s one positive thing about the EMP and the Omega takeover — it’s definitely this.

For the next couple of days, I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine. My health is almost completely back to normal. I spend my time helping Mrs. Young around the property, gathering chicken eggs — which are really breakable, by the way — cleaning the house and gathering and preserving food. At night we sit around the dining room table and eat together. We keep the curtains pulled tight so no light will escape. Of course, our lights are just lamps and candles, but still. We don’t want to give ourselves away.

Chris and Jeff have taken up a “watch.” Jeff goes for five hours during the night, then Chris, and then I finish out the early morning, watching for any signs of Omega or nomadic thugs. Chris usually stays with me for my so-called shift, which is a great excuse to “accidentally” trip during the rounds so he has to catch me. He totally knows I’m pretending, but it’s worth it just to feel those arms around me every once in a while.

I’m such a girl, sometimes.

Living here is a simple, day-to-day existence that’s all about routine. What’s awesome is that everything is self-sustaining. Chickens, cows, horses, plants. All of this is what most people in the world — including myself if I hadn’t run into Chris — are living without. No more fast food. No more sixty-second soup packages. No more ice cream bars. No more obesity.

Instead we’ll just have starvation and destruction. That’s one way to get the population to lose weight.

About a week into my stay I’m sound asleep in my bed. It’s about six in the morning, and I’m oversleeping. There’s no alarm clock to scream at me, which means I don’t have to waste energy tossing one across the room. I must have broken about fifteen in High School.

The door to my room creaks open. I’ve always been hyperaware of potentially scary noises when I’m in bed, so I wake up right away to see Chris standing in the doorway with his mother. Chris is wearing a tee-shirt that says “LIVE FREE OR DIE,” and his mom is wearing a red velvet dress.

I sit up, rubbing grit out of my eyes.

“Um…good morning?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Young laughs.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaims. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

My jaw hits the floor. Dude, it can’t be Christmas already…can it? I shake my head, amazed that I missed that. I have never, ever in the history of my life forgot about Christmas.

Apparently post-apocalyptic environments make me forgetful.

“No way!” I say. “I don’t believe it!”

Chris walks over to the bed, looking fantastic with his beautiful hair pulled back in a ponytail. His beard is still intact, but it’s not very thick anymore. It’s just right. He slips his hand behind my head and presses a quick, gentle kiss against my lips.

“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” he says, eyeing me.

I blush for two reasons. First, because he kissed me. And second, because he kissed me in front of his fifty-five year-old mother.

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing the side of my face like an embarrassed five-year-old.

“Come downstairs,” Chris says. “You’re going to love this.”

I glance at Mrs. Young. She smiles at me — it’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever seen. Whenever my mom smiled at me, it was because she was A) trying to talk me into making her a seven-layer salad or B) she was about to give me a new pamphlet for a possible boarding school located in South Africa, where there would conveniently be no cell phone connection.

Mrs. Young’s smile is totally different. It’s real.

I jump out of bed and pull on an old sweatshirt — compliments of Mrs. Young - and lace my fingers through Chris’s. The three of us walk down the stairs, into the living room. The windows have been flung open. It’s flipping cold in here but Mr. Young has the floor furnace set up. There’s a fresh-cut Christmas tree in front of the window, and underneath it are some presents wrapped up in cloth, tied together with twine.

Makeshift Christmas all the way, man.

“Merry Christmas, Cassidy,” Jeff says, beaming. He pulls me into a warm hug. When he doesn’t let go, Chris shoves him in the shoulder and gives him the “death stare.” Needles to say, Jeff sits back down, but his goofy grin is still totally intact.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, talking to Mr. Young.

He’s wearing his beat up jeans and work shirt, but his hair is combed back for today. He cracks a tiny smile — which means he’s happy. He’s not the most emotional person, so I take what I can get with him.

“I don’t have anything for you guys,” I say, embarrassed. “I totally forgot it was Christmas. I didn’t even know the date.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Young assures me, sitting next to her husband. “We’re just so glad to have you with us. You’ve been such a huge help around the farm.”

I feel a little bit of pride trickling into my chest.

“Thank you,” I reply, happy. “For everything.”

She nods.

Jeff jumps down on the floor like a five year-old and tosses a present to Chris just as Isabel skips into the room, wearing a wool sweater and a beret.

“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “I made you this.”

She holds out a little bouquet of flowers. It’s wrapped in a sparkly ribbon.

“Thank you,” I say, giving her a hug. “I love it.”

Jeff interrupts us by clearing his throat. We turn our attention back to the present he gave Chris. It’s a long, thin box. “I got this for you months ago, bro,” Jeff explains. “Been saving it.”

Chris looks amused as he unfolds the cloth.

“Nice!” he says, impressed.

It’s some kind of fancy hunting rifle. Big whoop. But Chris is excited about it. Jeff tosses a couple of boxes of ammo onto his lap. “I got you, like, a couple thousand rounds. It’s all in the attic.”

“Thanks man,” Chris says, giving his brother a hug.

I almost tear up because it’s so cute. Two boys bonding over ammo. Classic.

“So what loot did you get me?” Jeff grins.

Chris pulls something from his pocket and flips it into Jeff’s hands. I catch a glimpse of something shiny. Jeff holds it up. It’s a ring.

“Man, this is your senior class ring,” he says, looking completely shocked. “You can’t give me this.”

“Keep it,” Chris replies. “Just because the world went to hell in a hand basket doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be allowed to graduate from High School.”

Jeff’s expression becomes more serious. He looks up at his brother, and I can see how much he idolizes him in just that one glance. “Thank you,” he says, giving Chris a long hug.

I look at their parents. Mr. Young nods his head in approval, looking like an Army drill sergeant who just heard that cake is on the menu for dessert at the chow hall. Pleased, but not touched. Mrs. Young, on the other hand, is dabbing at tears with a tissue.

You and me both, lady.

“And for you,” Jeff says, tossing me a long, slender box. “This is epic.”

I laugh.

“Seriously? You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs.

I unwrap the cloth and pop open the box. There’s a gorgeous, sharp knife with an ivory handle. I turn it sideways, looking at the carved inscription:

Cassidy Hart

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. Because I’m about to cry.

“Jeff, this is amazing,” I say, knowing my voice is wobbly. “Thank you so much.”

“You got it,” he smiles. “I carved the handle myself. The knife came from this old shop they used to have downtown. I thought you could use it, sinceOmega took all your gear on the way up here.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him.

“You’re awesome,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to tell him.

“I know.” He presses the knife against the palm of my hand. “I totally am.”

I laugh. Chris rolls his eyes, and Mrs. Young stands up.

“I have Christmas breakfast, lunch and dinner,” she announces. “Just because times are tough doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate the holidays.” She puts an arm around each of her sons. “As long as we’re all together, we have all we need. I love you boys. You know that, I hope.”

Chris pulls his mom into a strong embrace. He kisses her cheek.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Yeah. I should have brought a pack of tissue and a pillow to cry on. This is just too sweet.

We eat a great breakfast of eggs, bacon, and homemade biscuits with some of Mrs. Young’s raspberry preserves. Nobody works all day. We just kick back and enjoy Christmas. I spend most of my time listening to Chris and Jeff fool around with the new gun, but nobody’s allowed to fire any shots in case dangerous individuals are roaming the area.

Later on we eat an even more delicious dinner of roast chicken, fruit, rolls and salads. Not only is it yummy, but it’s also amazing. Every single piece of food on the table is from the Young farm. None of it came from a store. None of it was purchased.

At the end of the day, when I’m leaning back in the window seat of my bedroom, watching the darkness set in, I have to admit: these are the kind of people that are going to survive this catastrophe.

“Cassidy?”

I turn. Chris walks into the room carrying a dinner roll in his hand.

“What? Seven rolls weren’t enough for you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I like even numbers. Eight appealed to me.”

“Don’t appeal yourself right into obesity.”

He tosses the roll up and down like a baseball and takes a seat next to me.

“What are you doing up here in the dark?” he asks, curious.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About…?”

“How amazing your family is.” I sigh. “Really. Your family is…unbelievable. It’s not that they’re just nice people, it’s this place. They’re alive because they can do things for themselves. It’s how life is supposed to be lived.”

Chris doesn’t answer for a long time. He stretches his legs across the window seat, leaning against the wall. “Society moved so far away from farming and self-sufficiency,” he answers at last, “that a catastrophe like this will wipe out most of the country. Concentrated population spots are in the cities. The biggest death tolls will be in places like New York or Los Angeles.”

I shut my eyes, thinking of my dad. And my mom.

“Hey,” Chris says, nudging me with his boot. “You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

I shrug.

“Yeah, but what about my dad?”

Chris remains silent. I can tell that he’s trying to avoid talking about that, since last time we discussed it things didn’t go over so well. It was more like a verbal boxing match than a conversation.

Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold chain.

“Here.” He holds his hand out. I reach forward and open the palm of my hand. He drops it into my hand. There is a small object attached to the chain: A shield with a year on it, and on the back, Chris’s name.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s the gold chain that goes with the ring I gave Jeff.” He picks it up and slips it over my head. “I want you to have it.”

“Chris, I can’t take this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not family. I can’t. It’s not right.”

“Cassidy,” he says, fingering the necklace. “You are family now.”

He leans back against the wall, looking straight into my eyes.

“Are you glad I almost ran over you with my Mustang in Culver City?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes. “I’m glad.”

I study his face in the shadowy candlelight of the room. God, he really is a beautiful man. A little rough around the edges, but I’ve always liked ruggedness. Without thinking, I lean over the length of the windowsill and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He immediately slips his arms around my waist and presses me against his chest. I pull away and smile into the crook of his shoulder. “So…” I say, touching his arm. “What exactly does this cobra tattoo represent?”

I pull up his sleeve just enough to glimpse the ugly, vicious-looking head of the snake. “It obviously doesn’t represent peace, love and good karma,” I observe.

He kisses my forehead, sighing deeply.

“It’s a Gadsden,” he replies, stroking my hair.

“Pardon me? A what?”

“A Gadsden,” he chuckles. “It’s a snake. Common military tattoo.”

“Bet your mom’s gonna love that,” I mutter, curling up against his chest.

“Yeah.” He rests his head on top of mine, and we just stay there for a little while, until practically all the wax from my bedside candle is pooling onto its glass plate.

It’s such a perfect way to end Christmas day. But as I’m laying there in his arms, totally content and love struck, I know deep down that this won’t last. Because sooner or later, I’m going to have to leave all this behind. I’m going to have to hike up to the cabin and find my dad.

That was the whole point of leaving LA, after all.

Chapter Twelve

Something I’ve learned over the years — and particularly in the last few months — is that it never hurts to be prepared for the worst. Hope for the best, get ready for the crappy. Why not? It saved my life when the EMP hit the world.

So now I’m wrapped in three layers of clothing plus a heavy wool jacket. My hair is tied up underneath a scarf and wide brimmedhat; my fingers are covered with leather gloves. I’m wearing socks that weigh enough to sink a dead body in a river, so it’s kind of a challenge to take a step because my feet weigh more than I do.

I’ve got a backpack full of camping gear and first aid stuff. And I’m standing on the edge of the Young’s doorway, tears burning my eyes. Or maybe it’s the cold weather. Whatever. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to do this. But I have to — I have to get to the cabin to meet my dad.

I’m not afraid of the wilderness.  Heck, I’m not even afraid of the dark like I used to be in Los Angeles. Pine trees and random squirrels just aren’t as scary as a guy walking down the street with his pants falling off.

What I’m afraid of — and I mean really terrified of — is not doing the right thing here. I can’t abandon my dad just because it’s comfortable kicking back and roasting weenies at the Young farm. Dad is counting on me, just like I would be counting on him entirely if I had never met Chris or his family.

No, failing my father is somehow more scary than sleeping in the forest during the winter. Although I will freely admit that the thought of facing down a bear does make me want to walk a little faster.

I have to do this alone. Chris is safe, here, with his family. He’s protecting them by being here, just like he protected me when we were escaping Los Angeles. He doesn’t deserve the pain of a long hike on the cusp of winter. No. I’m doing this alone because I care about him. Because I want him to be happy.

I take a final glance at the Young property, a stillness washing over me. It’s peaceful and silent at this early hour. Nobody has even gotten up to feed the chickens, yet. And somewhere in the house or in the barn, Chris is sound asleep, oblivious to the fact that I’m leaving.

A tear slips down my cheek, the first of many that are building up, threatening to spill over onto my face. I’m suddenly afraid.

I kick the ground in frustration. If I cry, I’ll lose my nerve.

I’ll be back, I remind myself. I’ll tell dad about the Youngs and we’ll come back here together to help them with the farm. Then we can all be together.

Even as I’m thinking it, I feel selfish. Here I am on a mission to make sure my dad is still alive and all I can focus on is getting back to the Young house — and Chris — again as fast as I can.

I’m a regular Mother Theresa.

“Snap out of it,” I tell myself, swallowing my hesitation. I physically tear my gaze away from the house and squeeze through the bushes, hacking a path back down to the highway.

I’ll be back…I’ll be back…

That’s what I keep repeating. Because the cold air is sharp against my skin, and the road seems a lot bigger than usual. I guess I’m just not used to walking alone. I pick up the pace. When mental reasoning doesn’t calm me down, I like to keep moving.

As I walk, the more distance I put between me and the house makes my anxiety click up a notch. I mean, come on. I’m not a tactical ninja like Chris is. I can’t find food just by looking under a rock. I can’t wrestle wild animals with my bare hands.

I’m just a kid from LA.

Caw!

My head snaps up and I spot a massive crow landing on top of a tree. He makes a few loud noises, hops onto a lower branch, and then swoops down onto the road. “Good to know somebody’s comfortable being out here,” I mutter.

He gives me the eye, which gives me the creeps, because I remember learning in high school that crows have intelligence that’s equivalent to that of a 2 year-old child. Scary.

I walk past him (or her, whatever), feeling a little more relaxed once the first thirty minutes pass. This isn’t so bad. There’s nobody around. There’s nothing going on except some birds flying over my head. If this is all it’s going to take to get up to the cabin, it’ll be like a walk in the park.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

I look over my left shoulder, a habit I picked up when Chris and I were trekking down the empty interstate out of Los Angeles like a couple of Amazonian explorers. My chest squeezes because there’s nothing beside me but air.

I’ll be back, I say for the fiftieth time. He’ll understand.

After a couple of hours, the sun has risen over the trees. The higher I get, the thicker the forest becomes, and as soon as I pass the snowline, everything starts smelling like wet dirt and sugar pine sap. Even though it’s obvious that there are no cars on the highway, I keep to the side of the road, ready to duck and roll into the pine needles if an Omega truck comes along.

At the four-hour mark, I stop and rest against a log that’s fallen over the road. I’m guessing that nobody’s going to bother to clear it, since it’s not exactly like our taxpayer dollars are being used for useful things anymore. I’ve brought some of Mrs. Young’s food with me, like dried jerky and crackers. I’ve also got a few small canteens of water. I eat a small meal, pack it back up, and set off again.

It’s kind of boring walking through the woods without anybody to talk to, so I play games with myself to keep things interesting. Unfortunately, you can’t really play ‘I Spy With My Little Eye’ by yourself, and “Find That License Plate,” is kind of a no-go since nobody’s driving anymore.

Mid-afternoon hits, and my feet are killing me. I’m well into the so-called “mountains,” now, and I feel comfortable enough with the darker environment to take a breather out in the open. I lay down for about an hour, hydrate, and move on. When nighttime hits, I’m too chicken to navigate in the dark. I don’t want to end up walking off a cliff.

I make camp in a big grove of fern at the base of a tree. I lay awake for a couple of hours, aware of every sound. Being in the middle of the woods is like sitting in a room that’s so dark that you can’t see your hand in front of your face, only it’s extremely cold, the ground is hard, and you could be eaten by a wild animal at any moment.

Chris would love to laugh at me now.

I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to think about him. If I do, I’ll just turn back. So I force myself to relax. After a while I doze off. I sleep until sunrise, waking up to find everything covered with a thin sheet of frost. I sit up, trying to get my fingers warm by playing an imaginary piano.

I eat a quick meal of dried meat and crackers (yum), and get moving. I try to stay out of the foliage as much as possible, knowing that animals are at their most active stage during the early hours of morning. Of course, I always assumed that most creatures went into hibernation during the winter, but why risk walking into a snoozing bear if I don’t have to?

Another reason I miss Chris. He makes a great decoy.

At around ten o’clock, I arrive at the entrance to Sequoia National Park. The road widens into five lanes, all separated with yellow lines. There are two streamlined check-in stations in the middle of the road, marked with the National Forestry insignia. But that’s not what draws my attention: on the right-hand side of the road, there is a Redwood tree as big as a building. The trunk is bigger than ten SUVs, towering above the highway with gigantic branches.

It’s stunning.

I smile beside myself, remembering driving through here with my dad last year on summer vacation. We would always come to the cabin and hang out for a week or two, but everything was different, then. Obviously. There were cars and people everywhere at the entrance to the park. It was exciting.

Now it’s lonely. And it makes me think. Maybe the forest, the trees, everything out here, is happy that there aren’t any cars plowing through the roads, spitting out diesel fumes. I mean, without people around, there won’t be any idiots to leave empty beer bottles behind at campgrounds or throw their dirty napkins out the window for some poor squirrel to ingest.

I sigh. I guess if there’s a bright side to this situation, this would be it.

About an hour later, I pause at the corner of curve number five thousand, sniffing the air. I smell…smoke. It’s a light, woodsy scent that reminds me of burning pine needles. I tighten my hands around the straps of my backpack, nervous. Where’s there’s smoke, there’s usually people. Fire doesn’t just happen by itself unless some lightening and a tall tree is involved.

I walk just off the road, putting a few feet between me and the open space of the highway. As I get farther, the smell becomes stronger.

And then I hear laughter.

Every muscle in my body freezes. Why? A) If there are people here, there’s a good chance that they’re not friendly because B) they’re probably Omega soldierslooking for somebody to bully.

I drop to my stomach, crawling forward on my hands and knees through the brush. The laughter gets louder, and there’s definitely a girl’s voice mixed in with it. I get a nose full of bear clover as I keep my body perfectly still, glued to the scene in front of me.

Across the road, just past a big clump of fern, is a little campfire. Tendrils of smoke rise up and drift towards me. Three people are gathered around it: a girl with a blonde ponytail, and two guys, one with dark hair and the other that looks like he could be the girl’s sister.

They don’t look like Omega hacks to me. Friend or foe?

I rest my chin in my hands, thinking back to the abandoned baby carrier on the side of the road when Chris and I first escaped LA.

There are a lot of crazies in the world, I think. I’d better play it safe.

But I’m afraid that if I move backwards, they’ll see me. It’s probably a miracle that they didn’t hear my footsteps on the pavement. So I just stay there, trying to think of a way to get around these people without being seen and without getting lost.

What would Chris do? He’d avoid them altogether.

One of the boys at the campfire, the one with the blonde hair, stands up and stretches. He says something to his friends and disappears into the bushes. I assume he’s going to collect firewood.

Seriously? What now?

I slowly lift myself up enough to wiggle backwards, trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. I’ll just go back the way I came and make a wide detour past their campfire, hope we don’t run into each other again, and be on my merry way.

Problem solved.

As I retreat, the soft voices of the strangers fade. My heartbeat slows. If I can’t hear them, they probably can’t hear me. I sit up with my legs tucked under me. Crisis averted.

“Gotcha!”

A strangled scream dies in my throat as somebody grabs the collar of my coat and yanks me upright. I see a flash of blonde hair and green eyes, and for a split second I think it’s Chris. Relief floods through me, but it doesn’t last, as usual. It’s not Chris. It’s the blonde boy from the campfire.

He’s got a boyish face — maybe fifteen years old — but he’s almost three times as big as me. “I got her!” he yells across the road. His voice is way too loud. Is he stupid? “She was spying on us.”

He’s got one hand on around my neck, and the other is literally wound around the belt of my pants. I’m facing away from him, so I can’t turn around and claw his eyes out with my fingers.

“Let go!” I say, choking. “For crying out loud!”

“What do you want?”

The blonde walks towards me, trailed by the kid with dark hair. They’re all high school age, no older then the guy currently using me as a stress ball. “Um…choking…can’t…talk,” I sputter, feeling my cheeks turn red.

“Drop her,” Blondie says.

The guy I affectionately dub “Choker,” in my head lets go. I stagger forward, gasping for air. “Geez. Thanks a lot,” I spit, hoping my windpipe is still intact. “Are you insane?”

The dark haired one looks down at me.

“Why were you watching us?”

“Why were you watching me?”

“I asked first.”

“Your buddy almost choked me to death.” I shoot Choker a glare. “Thanks, pal.”

The three exchange puzzled glances. Maybe they were expecting me to pick them off one by one with a sniper rifle while I hid in the bear clover. A side effect of watching too many teen television shows.

“Come on. Back to the fire,” Blondie commands, her arms crossed. “Bring her.”

Choker and the dark haired one each take an arm, hauling me across the road. It occurs to me that I should just try to make a run for it, but hey. Maybe they’ve got some food or coffee they’re just dying to share with me.

“Sit.”

Blondie plops down on a log, her legs crossed. The boys stay on each side of me, and then Choker leans behind Blondie’s log and grabs a hunting rifle. He keeps it trained at my head, with his finger on the trigger.

I suddenly feel very uncool about all this.

“What’s up with you guys?” I snap. “I’m just hiking, that’s all.”

“Right,” Blondie laughs, and it annoys me because she sounds a little like Tinkerbell right before she tried to kill Wendy. “You were just hiking. Nobody’s just “hiking” up here anymore. We’re not that stupid.”

“That’s a debatable point.” I say.

Blondie gives me a death stare.

“Were you planning on stealing our food?” she asks, her lip curling. “Maybe killing us in our sleep and taking all our supplies?”

“Um…” I roll my eyes. “Yeah. That was definitely my plan. You got me.”

The dark haired boy opens his mouth to speak for the first time.

“Maybe she’s okay,” he says softly. “Maybe she’s telling the truth.”

“Please.” Blondie’s hands tighten into fists. “I’m keeping my eye on her. We all are.”

I sigh dramatically.

“So now what? You’re going to tie me up and cook me for dinner?” I ask. “Because I don’t really have a lot of meat on my bones.”

Blondie kicks me in the shins.

It doesn’t hurt, it just makes me mad.

“Try to reign in your random violent urges, will you?” I say, kicking back. She cries out, completely falsifying the amount of pain she feels.

“See?” she gasps. “She’s dangerous. Take her stuff. Tie her up. There’s no way we can trust her.”

“Ditto, darling,” I mumble, relaxing into my predicament.

Even though Choker is aiming the rifle at my head, and even though his finger is on the trigger (didn’t anybody teach him firearms safety techniques?), his hands are shaking. He doesn’t look like he wants to kill me. He looks likes he’s afraid of me.

Good.

The dark haired boy moves quickly beside me, pulling out a pair of plastic ties from his daypack. He cinches up my wrists too tight, drawing blood. He doesn’t apologize. He only stares straight ahead, his eyes empty, his face emotionless.

“You move, redhead, and he’ll kill you,” Blondie warns, crouching over the fire. “Got that?”

“Right,” I reply, wondering if any of them are actually capable of killing someone. “Is there a reason you’re making a campfire in the middle of the day, by the way?”

“None of your business,” Choker growls, sitting down. He keeps the rifle in his lap, watching me out of the corner of his eye. Blondie nods, apparently proud that he’s being rude to me.

“Look,” I say, “here’s the thing: I need to find my dad. We got separated and I’m going to be seriously late if I have to hang around with you guys while you do your afternoon marshmallow roast.”

“She’s lying,” Blondie replies, spitting out the words. “Why would she be spying on us if she was really trying to find her dad?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because the world has gone insane and I don’t know who I can trust?” I look around at them. “Exhibit A.”

Blondie stalks across the small camp area and smacks me across the face. I blink back tears, a stinging sensation crawling across my cheek.

Talk about anger issues.

“That was ladylike,” I remark. “Thanks for that.”

She turns around and starts rifling through my backpack.

“Thanks for respecting my privacy,” I say.

“Shut up.” She pulls out some of my food, the knife Jeff gave me. “Junk.”

She shoves it back inside and walks over to me again. She zips open my coat, patting me down like I’m some kind of criminal. “This is insanely awkward,” I say, shoving away from her. “Knock it off.”

“Hold still, ginger,” she sneers.

She searches my pockets, discarding my waterproof matches, Kleenex, and a random piece of quartz shaped like a heart. Her fingers pause at my neck, where the gold chain that Chris gave me catches the sunlight.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.

She smiles — seriously reminding me of an evil pixie — and snaps the gold chain right off my neck. She holds it in front of her face, the tiny shield with Chris’s name in silver glimmering against the gold.

“Pretty,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Give that back,” I say, and this time, I’m not playing Mr. Nice Guy, er, Girl. My cheeks get hot as the blood rushes to my face — I’m angry. No, furious. Chris gave that to me. “Don’t make me remove that from your neck.”

Blondie holds up the snapped chain and drops it in her pocket.

“We can use this later.”

Choker looks a little disturbed but the dark haired boy — I’m calling him Spot, now — doesn’t look like he cares.

“Give. It. Back,” I say, trying to reign in my temper. I don’t want to explode.

“Come. And. Get. It,” Blondie replies, grinning.

I shift my position, but as soon as I move, Choker aims the rifle at my head again. “Don’t move,” he warns. Spot also places his hand on my forearm.

Great. Blondie’s guard dogs are acting up.

“This is going to be a long day,” I complain.

“Totally.” Blondie pats her pocket and proceeds to pull all of her supplies out of their own packs. They’ve got a quite a bit of food — how they got it, I don’t know — and first aid stuff. Sleeping bags, even. Maybe they were camping out here when the pulse hit.

I also notice a NYC keychain on one of the backpacks.

“You’re from New York,” I say.

Blondie looks up at me, startled.

“How did you know that?” she demands.

“I read a lot of Sherlock Holmes books when I was a kid,” I reply.

“What does that mean?”

“Forget it,” I sigh. “Look. Give me my chain and my stuff and I’ll get out of here.”

“No.” Blondie sets to work making some kind of stew. “I don’t trust you.”

“If this is how you treat all the people you meet, you’re never going to be very popular,” I comment.

She makes a charming remark about my intelligence before returning to their lunch. I scoot down on the ground and lean against the log, tired. Blondie and her cohorts treat themselves to a meal when she’s done preparing it, but they never invite me to join in.  After an hour or so, my lips are chapped and I’m dying for water, but when I bring it up, Blondie just tells me to, “suck it up and deal with it.”

I am so going to stick her head in a hole.

It doesn’t take me long to realize after hanging around these guys that they’re not big on being stealthy. They camp out in the middle of the day, light a fire, and make all kinds of noise. Choker decides to get in some target practice with his rifle, making two idiotic mistakes. One, he’s wasting precious ammunition. Two, he’s making an enormous amount of noise and practically setting up a giant neon arrow over our heads that says, “OMEGA: COME FIND US.”

The afternoon passes without any incident. Nighttime comes and Blondie keeps the fire going at a pretty good size blaze. The size of the fire and the amount of smoke makes me uneasy. We’re too close to the road to be lighting up the night sky with flames.

“Where are you guys headed?” I ask. The three of them are bent over their dinner — a dinner nobody shared with me yet again. My stomach can’t take much more of this.

“We’re not headed anywhere,” Choker replies. “We’re just wandering.”

“Shut up,” Blondie snaps, slapping his knee. “Don’t tell her anything.”

“That’s too bad,” I shrug. “Because I’m familiar with these mountains, and you’re not…and we could probably help each other if you’d just get off your ego trip and admit that I’m not here to assassinate you.”

Blondie doesn’t respond, but I can see the wheels turning in her head from here. Choker almost smiles. Spot…well, he just gazes into the fire, like he’s been doing all day.

I wonder what these messed up kids have been through.

“Look, you’re making some big mistakes here,” I say. “First of all, you shouldn’t have a fire this big, this close to the road, or in the same place for so long. Omega troopscould see it and find you. Who knows how widespread their forces are? You need to quit wasting ammo and firing shots when you don’t need to. Save the bullets for the bad guys.”

Choker looks at me like I’m the most amazing thing since spilt milk.

“You know a lot about survival?” he asks.

“Enough.”

“How much?’ Spot says suddenly, his brown eyes searching my face.

“Come on, guys,” Blondie whines. “Are you seriously going to believe this chick?”

“Don’t get jealous, city girl,” I reply, my tone sharp. “I don’t think growing up in New York taught you very much about survival.”

She frowns, looking away.

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

“Bree, maybe we should listen to her,” Spot says, using Blondie’s real name for the first time. “Look at her. She looks like she knows what she’s doing.”

“No freaking way,” Blondie snarls, and when she turns back to us, I can see tears shining in her eyes. “I know what I’m doing. We don’t need anybody’s help. Especially some random girl’s.”

“You lost your parents, didn’t you?” I say, realization dawning. “I’m sorry.”

Choker looks down. Blondie glares at me, her lower lip trembling.

“None of your business,” she replies, standing up. “I’m getting some more firewood.”

As she crashes through the undergrowth, Spot looks at me from his spot beside me. “Yes,” he whispers. “We lost them.”

“When did this happen?” I ask, the sadness in his expression so deep I can’t even imagine it.

“The day everything died,” he said. “They were driving the car in front of us. Went off a cliff.”

A lead weight settles in the bottom of my stomach. Horrified, I say the only thing I can say. “I’m sorry.”

And I am. I really am.

The next day is exactly the same. Blondie — aka Bree — is an absolute witch to me while Choker guards me like a faithful St. Bernard. Spot hangs out around the fire, doing nothing. Apparently his depression runs a lot deeper than his siblings.

The three of them make me sit near the eternal campfire all day, never offering to cut the tight plastic cord around my wrists. Choker gives me a little food and water when Blondie’s not around, but that’s about it. I can’t really run off without my stuff, so I have to wait for an opportunity to get my gear and Chris’s graduation chain.

“Aren’t you guys ever going to move?” I say.

While my sympathy for their loss is real, I can’t believe that anybody would be so stupid as to camp out next to the road with a campfire for days at a time. Sheer dumb luck is the only reason they haven’t been found by unsavory characters.

“We’re fine right here,” Blondie replies.

“It’s winter. You can’t go very long without running into a huge storm.”

“Mind your own business.”

“I will when you tell me what you plan on doing with me,” I say. “Because I can’t just sit here forever, and since you won’t take my advice, I’m thinking that I want to get out of here beforeOmega swoops in and kills us all.”

Blondie rolls her eyes.

“Seriously?” she laughs. “Omega? What the hell isOmega? You’re insane.”

I blink a few times before the truth hits me: Of course. Who would know about the whole OMEGA thing except for Chris and me? I mean, we had a teacher sit down and explain it to us…and even he could have been wrong. So I try to explain the basics of it to her. Blondie, however, just thinks I’m making it all up as an excuse to escape and disregards everything I say.

Genius.

I really do need to get out of here. But I have to patient. My best bet is during the night. At least two of them are asleep at once, while one of the boys stays up to keep guard. I’ll just have to come up with something.

Until then, it’s boredom central. I take advantage of the opportunity to nap and rest. I anxiously scan the skies when I’m awake, noting the approach of heavy, dark clouds over the higher mountains. A storm is coming. And these dingbats are probably foolish enough to stay in the open and ignore a search for shelter.

When I make mention of the storm, Blondie just shrugs and pretends I never said anything. I eventually figure out that all three of them are in a state of denial over their situation, and they don’t intend to break a sweat over staying alive.

Screw that approach. I want to live.

When it gets dark at last, Blondie and Spot go to sleep around the fire while Choker stays up to watch me. I lean against the backpack, puzzling out how I’m going to escape. I could ask to go to the bathroom and sneak off into the night…but I don’t want to leave without Chris’s chain and my backpack.

So what’s my game plan?

The distant roll of thunder over Kings Canyon startles me. Great. There’s probably a flood washing down the hill at this moment. But will they care? No. I sit upright, listening to the thunder roll again. And again.

And…

I stop moving, a chill crawling up my spine. The thunder is steady, getting louder. Getting…closer. Oh, my god. I stand up, more noise joining the first chorus of what I thought was thunder.

Because it’s not.

It’s the engine of a truck.

Choker stands up across the campfire, watching my movements.

“Don’t try to make a run for,” he says, yawning.

“Wake up, Bree!” I ignore Choker and kick her foot.

“What the –“ she begins, anger flashing across her face when she sees me. “What are you doing, Ginger?”

“Trucks. Coming this way,” I warn. “Quick. Put out the fire. Get your gun loaded. We need to move now.”

“Are you kidding?” Blondie rolls out of her sleeping bag, excitement written across her features. “Trucks mean people and people mean help. We can go home!”

“You’re insane!” I hiss. “They’ll kill us. No civilian’s cars are working right now.Omega vehicles are are, but that’s it. Listen to me. You stay here and you’re dead.”

“Shut her up,” Blondie commands, looking absolutely livid. “We’re going home, boys.”

“You’re going home alright!” I yell. “Don’t be stupid! You’re going to get everyone killed!”

Blondie pulls her hood across her face.

“Like I care what you say.”

And just like that, she trots off into the darkness, following the sound of the trucks. Dear Lord, she’s lost her ever-loving mind.

“Stop her!” I tell the boys.

They just look at me with blank expressions.

“We do need help,” Choker shrugs.

I narrow my eyes.

“Yeah. And it’s not going be to from me.”

I slam my boot right between his legs, putting all my force into it. Choker cries out, dropping the rifle to the ground. Spot jumps out of his sleeping bag, looking momentarily terrified before he rushes toward me, trying to bring me down.

No. I’m not in the mood.

My wrists are still tied together, so I slam both my fists across his face in what’s possibly the most unorthodox punch in the history of self-defense. Spot stumbles backwards as I deliver a beautiful roundhouse kick to make my point. He crashes down, clutching his head and moaning.

I guess I did learn something from those self-teaching DVDs about martial arts from the library.

I reach down, grab the rifle, and aim it at Choker.

“Open my backpack and get my knife out,” I say. “And do it quickly.”

Choker slowly crawls across the dirt, dragging my backpack out from behind the log. He fumbles around for a little while before pulling out the knife.

“Give it to Spot,” I command.

Choker looks at me, confused, and I realize that I just called him by my nickname for him out loud. Whatever.

Choker tosses the knife to Spot, who stares at is as it lies on the ground. In the not-so-far-off distance, the sounds of multiple trucks seems extra loud against the night sky. Do I hear voices, too?

“Pick up the knife,” I say, “and cut these plastic ties off my wrist.”

I walk over to Spot, kneel, and keep my rifle trained on Choker’s head for the maximum effect. Spot, dizzy and terrified from the two smacks I gave him, obeys without thinking. He picks up Jeff’s knife and cuts through the binds.

I exhale, loving the freedom of movement I have, now.

“Stay where you are, big guy,” I tell Choker.

I grab my backpack, strap the knife to my belt, and keep the rifle within easy reach. “I would suggest that you run,” I advise, “because trust me when I say that what’s coming isn’t…” I trail off as Blondie’s piercing scream rips through the air.

Without a second glance at Choker and Spot, and sprint forward into the darkness, wishing to god those boys would kill the light from the fire. On second thought, I hope they just run.

Blondie screams again. There are voices. It sounds like some of the trucks’ engines have been cut, which means whoever’s coming is getting out of their vehicles. “Bree!” I shout, desperate.

Why do I care what happens to her?

“Bree, answer me!”

A gunshot breaks the monotone of the truck engines. Dread hits me like a brick in the chest as run in the direction where the gun fired. I can’t see, but I can hear. “Bree? Bree!”

I stop and listen, leaning against a tree.

And then,

“Ginger?”

It’s faint, but it’s her voice. I scramble towards it, dropping to my hands and knees. I rake through the mud and leaves until I touch warm flesh, Blondie’s hand.

“Bree,” I say, leaning over her. I can’t see. “Are you…?”

I run my hands up her stomach, trying to find her face, but I stop. There’s hot, sticky blood on her abdomen. “Oh, my god, Bree…” I breathe, choking on a gag. “I’m so sorry…”

Her breathing is heavy as her hand gropes for my face. When she finally finds it, she pulls my head forward and whispers, “I’m sorry, Ginger.”

She drops something into my lap. Her hand falls away from my face, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I push my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming, checking her wrist, her chest, and her neck for any sign of a pulse.

But there’s nothing.

She’s dead.

Trembling from head to toe, I reach into my lap. My fingers brush cool metal.

Chris’s gold chain.

I bite my lip, stuffing it into my pocket. I need to run. I need to move. Now. But I can’t leave her here like this. What kind of a person would I be?

“Hey, stop!”

It’s a man’s voice, and it doesn’t seem like it’s directed at me. There are flashlights about fifty feet away from me, combing through the woods. From here I can see dark shadows moving around the orange light of the campfire.

“Run, boys,” I murmur, leaning forward.

I compulsively press a kiss to Blondie’s — Bree’s — forehead and climb to my feet, feeling like I’m moving through a slow dream. I just held a girl’s hand as she died. Am I really doing this?

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper again.

Another gunshot. A scream.

Choker? Spot?

I have to go. I turn and break into a run, streaking through the dark forest, occasionally stumbling over roots and stones. Another scream. I slow to a halt. What am I doing? I can’t just leave those dumb kids to fend for themselves.

Against my better judgment, I take the rifle in my hand and feel for the safety switch. It’s off. I make sure the thing’s loaded and start running again…in the opposite direction. As I near the campfire, I hear the pleading, pathetic voices of Spot and Choker. I creep closer, staying out of the way of flashlight beams.

I inhale.

There are only two Omega soldiers. One’s got a gun, while the other holds a flashlight. Spot and Choker are on their knees with their hands behind their heads. I can hear more voices in the distance, which means this party’s about to be crashed by more animals.

I drop to my stomach, holding the gun close to my cheek, the butt steady against my shoulder. I look through the sight, taking a deep breath. I used to play Airsoft with my cousin when I was younger, and it wasn’t much different than this.

AT trooper Number One has his gun cocked and aimed at Choker’s head. Anger tears through my body, making me hot. I’ve still got Bree’s blood on my left hand, reminding me just how capable these guys are of taking a human life.

I aim my rifle, check the sight one more time, and pray.

Then I squeeze the trigger.

The AT guard with the gun screams, and both of the guys drop to the ground for cover. I fire a few rounds into the dirt, scaring the crap out of both of them. They start dragging themselves away from the fire, and in the process, Choker and Spot hunker down with their hands behind their necks.

As the troopers run, I realize something:

I have the perfect opportunity to kill both of them.

And why shouldn’t I? Stupid, pathetic bullies who enjoy killing innocent men, women and children don’t deserve any mercy from me.

But I’m not like them, am I? I don’t kill people. It’s not my job to decide who lives or dies. I guess that’s what sets me apart from the enemy in this game of survival. This state of emergency.

So I just fire another shot, the two Omega soldiers checking out and making a mad dash through the darkness, calling for backup. I stand up and run through the bushes, completely wired with adrenaline in its most dangerous form.

“Get up!”

I break into camp. Choker and Spot are staring at me with wide eyes, both covered with tears. “Listen to me,” I say, grabbing Spot by the collar. “Run. Run as fast as you can, as far as you can. Get your gear and go. Do you understand me?”

He nods weakly, moaning something about Bree.

I don’t want to tell him that his sister’s dead, so I don’t. He’s probably figured it out already, judging by the blood I just smeared all over his shirt with my hands. “Just run,” I say again.

I toss the rifle into his arms.

He holds it awkwardly, frozen. I turn away from the fire and make my way back into the woods, stopping only when Spot says, “Thank you.” I cast him a final glance. He looks confused. “And my name’s Jack. This is Peter.”

I almost smile, but I’m too shell shocked.

“Cassidy,” I whisper.

And then I run.

At dawn, I literally skid to a halt and land on my butt under a tall redwood. I kind of lost all sense of direction running through the darkness, because my only priority all night was to run away from the trucks and the shots.

Where am I now? I could be at the North Pole for all I know.

I lay my head against the tree, pulling a water canteen out of my backpack with shaky hands. I’m not cold, I’m just exhausted. Probably slightly traumatized, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to check into group therapy when this all over, so I just swallow my anxiety and close my eyes.

When I open them again, it’s late morning. I must have slept for about three or four hours. Chilled, I force myself to eat some jerky and crackers. I have absolutely no appetite, but starvation isn’t going to earn me bonus points in the “staying alive” category, so I choke it down anyway.

When I get too cold, I get up and start walking. North? South? Which way am I going? I look at the sun, but that doesn’t help much. I can barely see the sky through the trees. On top of that, an icy wind starts cutting down the side of the mountain, just about freezing me to death.

And all I can think about is Peter and Jack. Are they still alive? How many people are like them? How many kids have been orphaned and hunted down for committing the simple crime of existing?  And what about Bree? I look down at my left hand. Under the glove, I wasn’t able to get all the blood off my hand. It makes me sick to look at it.

So I don’t.

Instead I just continue to wander the forest, going nowhere. Completely lost. No matter which way I go, I can’t seem to find the main highway again. Every stick and patch of weeds looks exactly the same. I actually get dizzy from walking in so many circles.

Okay, so what is somebody supposed to do if they get lost?

1.      Hug a tree.

2.      Blow a whistle, if you have it.

3.      Stay in the same place until somebody finds you.

4.      Try to avoid angry bears and wasp nests.

The only problem is, nobody is going to be looking for me except for some rabid Omega soldiers, and I don’t want them to find me.

I’m so screwed.

When my dad and I drove up to the cabin every summer, we followed the main highway, veering off onto a lesser known mountain road until we blew it off altogether, hitting a dirt trail that climbed up the side of the mountain. It was virtually invisible to the outside world, but I knew the route by heart.

Now? Not so much. If only I had a compass with me. I’ve always been good with hiking and basic survival techniques, thanks to my dad, but I never really took the time to figure out which direction our cabin was.

Calm down, I tell myself. Just find the road and you’ll be okay.

Pumping fake confidence into my nervous system does me some good. At least it keeps me moving, anyway. I walk in a straight line for two hours, heading uphill. The side of the mountain is so steep that I have to dig my feet into the mountain at a parallel angle, literally climbing up on hands and knees. By the time I reach the top my muscles feel like they’re on fire.

Making matters even more fantastic, I’m left to look at yet another huge hill, more woods, more rocks, more fern. But no highway. I take a breather and skirt the bottom of the next incline, following a battered animal trail probably used by deer. I end up looking at a small boulder that looks suspiciously like one I just passed a couple of hours ago.

I bend to inspect the dirt, looking at the indents in the soft mud around the rock. There are footprints. Boot prints if we’re going to be technical about it. I study them closely, wondering for a split second if those are my footprints. Because if they are, I’m even more lost than I thought.

I compare the bottom of my shoe to the print in the mud, but it’s so faint that I can’t really tell. I hold my boot right over the print to compare sizes, hovering in place like a scared butterfly.

The shoe is a lot bigger than mine.

I pull my leg backward, spooked. The footprint is considerably fresh. It hasn’t even dried around the edges yet.

I look around the woods, every shadow seeming bigger and darker than it did five second ago. Am I being followed? Did some Omega creep track me through the night? Impossible. I would have heard them.

Wouldn’t I?

I cinch up my backpack and decide to solve this navigational issue once and for all. If someone is following me, I don’t want to find out who it is. I don’t have any weapons besides the knife Jeff gave me to defend myself.

What I know:

I’m lost. But I also know that the highway was running south to north when I was forced to make an unexpected pit stop by Bree and her brothers. If I travel that same direction again, I’ll eventually run into the highway, right? I can’t be more than ten miles away from the place I left Jack and Peter. The road has to be nearby.

I walk in a quick circle, looking over the trees. I find a cedar tree with some low-hanging branches and pull myself up. I keep climbing, scraping my palms against the sharp bark. I eventually drop my backpack to the ground because it’s a little too hard to maneuver the tree with a pack hanging off my shoulders.

I climb higher and higher, until my vertigo kicks in and glues my arms to the tree trunk. I’m up reallyhigh. So high that I can actually feel the tree moving with every gust of wind.

I hang onto the tree like a scared chipmunk, moving my gaze across the horizon. I can see over the bulk of the canopy of trees. The sky is darkened with clouds around the edges, and I’m pretty sure the high winds will move them over here faster than I want.

I can’t see the highway, of course, but I can see the sun. It’s about noon, which makes it easy for me to really tell which way East is. Once I figure that out, I’m able to find West, South and North. Awesome.

I start shimmying down, slipping a few times and catching myself on another branch. When I get to the bottom, I jump from the low branch and land on the ground in a crouch to keep from spraining my ankle.

“Now we’re in business,” I say out loud, grabbing my pack.

Crunch.

I roll my eyes, seriously tired of being ambushed. Suspicious sounds are starting to get annoying. I look around, seeing nobody, and start walking north. All I have to do is keep this course and I’ll eventually run into the highway — some highway — again. From there I can find the cabin.

Snap.

Okay. That was definitely something with a little weight behind it. More than a squirrel, anyway. I whirl around, taking a step backwards like I just got smacked in the chest. Someone’s out there.

Down the hill, a dark figure is creeping up the trail behind me. I stand there, motionless, just staring at the person. Whoever it is, he’s wearing black.

He could be anybody…mercenary orAT soldier.

I don’t stop to wave hello or throw a rock at his head. I just run — only this time I make sure I run North. Which, of course, means, I’ve got to climb the next hill I’ve been avoiding. It cuts up at an insane angle, making it almost a sheer cliff.

I get to work, digging my feet into the dirt and using trees, roots, rocks and the occasional sprout to pull myself up. And then I do something I regret: I look behind me. The black shirted maybe-AT-trooper is gaining. He’s not keeping his presence a secret, and it makes me wonder if he’s alone. Are there more of them back there? Did they figure out that it was me who fired those rounds at the guys trying to kill Peter and Jack?

Don’t think, climb!

I climb so fast that every muscle in my body simply refuses to move anymore. I guess running all night in sheer terror exhausts your physical strength, because this would usually be no problem.

I slip on a bed of pine needles and slide on my hip down the hill about twenty feet. I push myself back up, panic starting to claw its way into my head.

“Cassidy!”

I turn around, shocked to hear somebody speak my name.

Peter?

Jack?

I slip again and slide back down like an idiot, catching my breath. The guy has a black bandana tied around his hooded head, decked out in black combat pants and boots. He’s got a heavy coat on, a rifle slung over his back.

“Chris?” I stutter.

He pulls his hood off, revealing a face I recognize — but it’s smeared with black paint and dirt. It is Chris, right?

“Who the hell else would it be?” He climbs the last few feet separating us and yanks me to my feet, throwing me against his chest. I grab his shoulders to keep from taking a sled ride to the bottom of the hill just as he presses a fierce kiss to my lips. I wrap my arms around his neck, threading my fingers through his hair. He pulls away suddenly and glares, hands gripping my hips so hard I think he’s leaving bruises.

“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?” he demands.

I touch my mouth, feeling some of his black camo paint rub off on my skin. I stare up at him, his beautiful green eyes flashing with totally not subtle anger.

“I had to go, Chris,” I say. “You know that.”

“I thought you were dead,” he says, holding me around the waist with one arm, his other hand cupping my cheek. His hands are wrapped up with strips of cloth. He looks like he’s been fighting some kind of war.

“Why would even think that?” I ask. “I can take care of myself.”

But while I’m talking, all I can think is:

Chris is here. With me.

Complete, utter relief floods me like a drug.

“I found a dead body a few miles back,” Chris says. “Omega was out in full force in the lower part of the mountains. They’re searching for campers in the hills. I thought maybe you were caught in the crossfire.”

I pale, realizing he must have found Bree.

“Did you find anybody else?” I whisper.

“No. Why?”

I shake my head.

“I was there,” I say.

Chris squeezes me tighter.

“I’ve been tracking you since you left,” he tells me, his thumb trailing down the side of my neck. “Why would you do that to me?”

“Do what?”

“Leave without saying goodbye.”

I sigh.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I didn’t want to make you choose between me and your family.” There. I said it. Finally.

He looks shocked and then kisses me slowly, sending a shiver down my spine. Everything around us dissolves — the cold weather, the trees, the dirt. It’s just the two of us, and the only thing that matters is that he’s holding me, and I feel safe.

Completely safe.

“I think we already had this discussion,” he says, his voice soft. “You are apart of the family, now. So you should start acting like it.”

I lower my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I answer. “I just had to go before I lost my nerve.”

My lower lip wobbles a little, tears threatening to spill onto my cheeks. “Chris, the body you found,” I say. “I was with that girl when she died.”

His gaze narrows and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“And you’re lost,” he states. “Tell me what happened.”

I nod, sinking down to the ground. Chris keeps his arms around me as we lean against the base of a tree. I snuggle into his warmth, so glad that I’m not alone anymore. Because believe me, when you’re completely alone in the woods, companionship is the most wonderful thing you can have.

I give him the whole story, leaving out no detail, and by the time I end my sad tale, I’m crying into his shirt over Bree’s death all over again.

“I didn’t even know her,” I choke. “But nobody deserves to die like that.”

“No, they don’t,” Chris agrees, weaving his fingers through my hair. Soothing me. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I tried to tell them,” I say, guilty. “But they wouldn’t listen.”

“Hey, look at me,” Chris says, tilting my chin up. “You went back and saved those kids’ lives when you could have kept running. You didn’t do anything wrong. Forget about this, okay?”

I nod slightly, Chris kissing the tip of my nose.

“You feel like moving?” he asks.

“Where are we going?”

“To your cabin. Or has there been a change of plans?”

I blink a few times. It honestly hadn’t crossed my mind that Chris was going to help me find my dad. I thought he would come here to try to drag me back to the Young farm.

“You’re coming with me?” I exclaim, a smile creeping across my face.

“Cassidy,” he whispers, taking my hands in his, “where else would I be?”

Chapter Thirteen

There’s something about tromping through the wilderness that really makes you feel good. It’s the kind of feeling you just can’t get if you’re walking down a sidewalk in LA or New York. It’s a feeling of absolute freedom. Plus, the lack of pollution might make it easier to breathe so you just naturally feel better.

Who knows?

Chris was able to find the highway in record time, making my navigational skills look worse than ever before. I asked him why he didn’t take the Hummer we stole from Omega in the Valley to find me, and he said he wouldn’t have been able to track me in a car.

I didn’t even bother to ask how he tracked me, anyway.

As we get higher, it gets colder. The air gets drier and I swear the elevation change makes me hungrier. Note: Hungrier than usual. Chris has got more supplies from his mother’s food cabinet in his backpack, which means my chances of starving to death are a little smaller than they were when I was on my own.

There are still no cars or signs of humans. There isn’t even any sign of evacuation. I guess there just aren’t very many people up here. Besides, how many people who live way back in the hills are even going to know about the EMP or the takeover? They could still be living so isolated from the outside world that they have no idea about the kind of crap that went down.

We cover about four miles. I just can’t go any farther. I’m exhausted. We reach some pine trees so there’s a place for us to camp off the road.

I curl up in a tight ball next to Chris. In this way I can siphon off his extra body heat and keep from turning into Frosty the Snowman during the night. Not to mention it makes me feel a lot safer holding onto him while we’re lying in the middle of a dark forest.

“You ever been camping before?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Chris shifts his arm underneath me, pulling me just a little tighter against his chest. No complaint here. “You?”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“But you and your dad have a cabin up here,” he says. “Haven’t you ever been up here before? To a campground?”

“Believe me, our cabin is pretty much the same thing as camping,” I reply, smiling. “The only difference is the roof and the mattresses. Other than that, it’s like sleeping outside.”

Chris nods, kind of a pointless gesture since it’s too dark to see anything.

“What are you going to do if he’s not there, Cassidy?” he asks after a long silence. I finger the zipper on his jacket, listening to the calm beat of his heart against my ear.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“You need to. We’re lucky that it’s a dry season,” he says. “But all it takes is one big storm to trap you somewhere. You need to decide if you’re going to stay there and wait for him, of if you would come back to the house with me.”

“Can’t I just decide when we get there?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, which is his way of saying, “You can, but you shouldn’t.”

So that’s what I decide to do. I’ll just wing it. I’ve never been one for laying out plans or plotting courses. I just ride the wave, so to speak, and go from there. My dad is exactly the same way, which makes me wonder what he’s been doing if I show up at the cabin and find out that he’s been there for a few weeks, waiting for me.

Depressing.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Chris says, changing his tune. He probably felt my heart rate speed up just thinking about making the decision. “It’ll work out.”

“Yeah,” I reply, unconvinced. “Sure it will.”

We actually sleep pretty well in the dirt until twilight, when everything is covered in a dusty gray light. Prime bear-roaming time. I wake up with a neck ache from being so tense sleeping in the cold. Chris seems unaffected.

That’s a Navy Seal for you. Oblivious to cold temperatures.

We eat a breakfast of biscuits and cured homemade jerky from Chris’s backpack. After that we saddle up (theoretically) and hit the road again.

The highway starts becoming windier the higher we climb. Chris says it smells like a winter storm, and the sky is now covered with thick, dark clouds.

Great. And I didn’t bring an umbrella.

Every once in a while the road will peek out of the trees and give us a great view of the landscaping below. Chris likes to walk right over to the side of the road and put his boot up on the guardrail. I, on the other hand, am way happier just staying as far away as possible from the thousand-foot cliff. Observing from a distance.

It’s better for me and my fear of heights this way.

My second day with Chris finds us about twelve miles closer to my cabin, and a lot deeper into the forest. There are still no signs of cars or humans, which is just fine with me. That means there won’t be any Omega creeps sniffing around.

We sleep off the road again, but instead of a bed of dirt we settle down on a bunch of bouncy — spikey — pine needles. It could be worse. I mean, I do get to sleep with my head on Chris’s chest all night long.

Yeah. Things could be a lot worse.

At the beginning of the third day, I start to get worried about the cloud cover.

“Look at those clouds,” I say, tilting my head up. The sky is totally covered with dark, fat clouds. “Do you think it’s rain?”

“I think it’s snow,” Chris replies. “How far is your cabin from here?”

“I’d say about two days. We’re in deep.”

He grunts. I fall into step beside him, pulling my hat a little tighter over my ears. “Do you think we’re heading into a snowstorm?” I ask. “You can tell me. I’m not afraid of the truth.”

“It’s likely,” he replies.

I bite my lip.

“Great. We don’t even have a sled,” I quip.

“We’ll be okay,” he replies, “as long as keep moving and try to get out of the storm as soon as we can.”

I nod. It’s not that I’m scared of a snowstorm, per se, it’s more like I’ve never seen snow, so I don’t know what it’s going to be like. I mean, I grew up in Los Angeles, and the worst weather we got there were thunderstorms. I’ve only seen snow on TV or in the movies. And of course it always looks so fluffy and cute when Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing around in it.

“Are you sure we’ll be okay?” I ask.

“Yes, Cassidy,” Chris replies, a shadow of a smile on lips. “It’s just snow, not a nuclear explosion.”

He slips his arm around my waist and kisses my cheek. I blush, which just makes him grin wider, and cross my arms. Trying to conserve heat. It’s just so dang cold. I can literally feel the cold air scraping down my throat every time I take a breath.

We don’t cover much ground because I don’t feel up to it, drawing out our journey. By the time we stop for the night the temperature has dropped so much that my fingers are getting numb. “Don’t talk yourself into freezing to death,” Chris says, annoyed. Chris has a tiny portable stove the size of a small book stuffed into his backpack. I pull it out, pour some water into a pop-out canister, and heat it up on the stove.

“Your mom has the coolest gadgets,” I say, shivering.

“Stop shivering,” he replies, ignoring my comment. “You’re going to make yourself colder if you give into it. Think warm thoughts.”

“I am!” I almost shout. “All I can think about are space heaters.”

Chris watches my face for a long time, making me nervous. Once the water is warm enough I get out a package of tea and drop it in.

“What are you staring at?” I finally say, waiting for the tea to steep.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he replies.

“Sure,” I deny. But he’s right. I can feel my lips numbing every second, like they’re being stuck with a million tiny needles. “Ouch.”

Chris rolls his eyes and moves over to me, sitting behind me. He spreads his legs apart and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. Then he boxes me in with all his limbs and starts rubbing my arms up and down.

“Talk about a personal space heater,” I murmur. “I think my tea is ready.”

I take a sip of the hot liquid. Yup. It’s ready. I hand some to Chris. He takes a drink before giving it back to me. The tea doesn’t really have any nutritional value, but it helps get me warm before sleeping. Which is hard, considering the temperature.

“I hope I don’t freeze to death in my sleep,” I comment.

“You won’t.”

“It could happen. People die in the mountains all the time.”

“People who don’t know what they’re doing.”

I purse my blue lips.

“Yeah…?”

Chris chuckles low in his chest, placing his lips close to my ear.

“I won’t let you freeze to death, little girl,” he says. “Relax.”

I try. We both roll to our sides, pressed together to stay warm.

It takes me a long time to go sleep. I’m too tense from the cold. I eventually drop off for a few hours and wake up in the middle of the night. I doze off for a while longer before dawn. At that point Chris shakes me awake.

“Cassidy, wake up,” he says, shaking my shoulders. “It’s snowing.”

I struggle to pull myself upright, unable to feel my hands because they’re so cold. My face is totally frozen. I can barely move my mouth. When I open my eyes all I can see is a fine layer of white covering everything: the ground, the trees, our backpacks. Me. It’s Winter Wonderland central.

“Um…” I can’t think of anything else to say, mainly because I can’t arrange my mouth to say it. “I’m frozen.”

“I can see that.” Chris hooks his arms underneath my shoulders and pulls me upright. I’m stiff.

“Oh, my god,” I say. “I did freeze during the night.”

“You’re just a little chilled,” Chris replies. “As soon as we get moving you’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right. Tell that to the two things on the end of my legs formerly known as feet.

“I’m dying,” I complain.

“You’re cold. Get over it.”

Chris doesn’t have much sympathy for me. He can be lovey-dovey one second and all suck-it-up-cupcake the next.  Such a typical man. At any rate, I forget about making tea or eating breakfast. I just throw on my backpack and trudge up a slippery bank of pine needles to the highway. Chris grabs my hands and hauls me up the last few feet.

“Careful! Geez, I’m too stiff to move quickly,” I say.

“You’ll warm up.”

Maybe.

We walk all day through the snow, freezing our butts off until nightfall, where we make camp again. We don’t sleep long because it’s too freezing — even Chris doesn’t like to stop moving.

We make another six or seven miles by midafternoon before coming to a campground. Snow is covering all the roads, about six inches deep. Every time I exhale, my breath makes little white puffs in the air.

You know it’s cold when you can see your own breath.

The campground is nestled in the big trees off to the left. Down the road to the right there’s a gift shop and a bunch of restrooms. There’s even a restaurant. I see dull orange lights flickering in the windows of the restaurant, which is painted a rusty brown.

“Do you see what I see?” I ask, wanting to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“Yeah,” Chris replies. “It looks like they’re open for business.”

“No way. It’s got to be a trick.”

“I don’t know.”

I gape at him.

“What happened to Mr. “Everything’s a Trap?” Did we leave him in Los Angeles?” I say.

Chris shakes his head. We make our way through the snow, leaving big footprints behind us. By the time we get close enough to the restaurant, I actually see a sign that says, Survivors Welcome.

I glance at Chris.

“Score,” I say.

He grins. We both pick up the pace and make it across the empty parking lot. There are a bunch of quads and old motorcycles chained up out front. We walk up some creaky steps, open a squeaky glass door and step inside.

The first thing that hits me is the fantastic, mouth-watering scent. It’s got to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever smelled. If smells were beautiful, that is.

It’s basically a big cabin with hardwood floors, tables and chairs, and a whole bunch of lamps hanging from the ceiling, lighting the place up. There are also quite a few people hanging around. Most of them look like they’ve either been starved to death or recently escaped from prison.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or ready to fend people off with a chair.

“Come in, come in.” A sweet, motherly voice pops out of the silence behind us. We turn, seeing an older woman with a green and tan uniform on. “You look freezing to death! Come on over here by the fire.”

I stare at her in confusion, wondering why she’s being so friendly, and follow her across the room towards a fireplace. It’s a huge one, giving off enough heat to slow cook a few pizzas. I sit on the edge of the mantle and hold out my hands, loving the pure warmth it gives off.

“Where did you come from?” the woman asks, tossing a wet towel over her shoulder. Just like a waitress. “What’s your story?”

I swallow, exchanging a look with Chris. His face is expressionless as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a long sleeve wool shirt. I stare for second, because man, does he make even the ugliest clothes look hot.

“We’re from the city,” Chris replies, his lips curving into a smile.

He doesn’t offer any more information. Wise.

“What is this place?” I ask, turning the interrogation on Waitress Woman.

“It was my business,” she replies, sighing. “But ever since everything happened…well, I’ve just been using it as long as I can to help out people traveling through here. There’s nothing else in these hills, and I can’t get down the mountain very well during the dead of winter. Besides, with the stories I’ve been hearing, it’s safer up here anyway.”

I nod.

“That’s for sure.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“If you’re from the city, what are you doing up here?” she asks.

“We’re looking for my brother,” Chris says, lying like a pro. “He was camping up here when the pulse hit.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, softening. “But the chances of finding him are slim, honey.”

“I know.” Chris suddenly turns his attention away from her and starts unbuttoning my jacket. He helps me out of it, pulling my gloves off. My fingers are red, maybe frostbitten.

“Let me get you some food and drinks,” the woman says. “And by the way, my name’s Tasha.”

I smile.

“Thank you, Tasha.”

Neither Chris nor I offer up our names. Now that we’re on Omega radar, it’d probably be better to keep that little nugget of information to ourselves.

“Can you feel your fingers?” Chris asks, firelight casting shadows across his face.

“They haven’t fallen off and defrosted yet, if that’s what you mean,” I smirk. “They’re a little numb, yeah.”

He frowns, clasping my hands together. Then he starts rubbing them. The friction starts getting them warm. It also starts to bring back my sense of touch. Good thing, too. I could never play another round of cellphone ping-pong with frozen fingers.

“I don’t trust her,” Chris says after a long silence. His voice is so quiet that I can barely hear him. “She’s fishing for information.”

“We just walked into her restaurant,” I reply. “She’s naturally going to be curious.”

“No. Something’s off,” he insists. “Don’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know. Agreed?”

I give him a mock Boy Scout salute.

“You have my word, captain,” I grin.

By the time Tasha comes back with food and drinks we’re both pretty well thawed out. She gives us a plate of steaming meat and soup, along with some hot tea. When I ask Chris what kind of meat it is, he tells me that I don’t want to know, so I shouldn’t ask. Whatever. I don’t really care. It’s kind of tough, with a strange flavor that I’ve never tasted in meat before. That’s when I realize that this is probably wild deer meat…or even bear meat. Gross.

Thankfully, I don’t have this revelation until after I’ve eaten.

Chris and I scoot back against the wall, close enough to the fire to enjoy its heat. The people that are scattered around the restaurant are just as silent and suspicious as we are, so they don’t bother us.

“You make yourselves at home,” Tasha says, cleaning up the trays.

“Thank you so much,” I reply. “This is so nice of you.”

She smiles.

“I’m glad to be appreciated.”

She disappears to who-knows-where. I press my head against Chris’s shoulder and he wraps his arm around me. “Warm at last?” he asks, smiling against my hair.

“Totally,” I reply. “But we’ll have to get cold again tomorrow.”

“Remember what I told you about thinking warm thoughts?”

“Yeah. Space heaters and stuff.”

“You’re not thinking warm thoughts.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, sorry. Fuzzy socks, bathrobes, electric blankets, soft boots. All that jazz. There. I feel warm.”

“You only feel warm because I’m touching you,” he says, flashing one of his devilish grins. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No. I’d say that it’s because we’re sitting next to a fireplace with the potential to heat a five hundred pound teakettle.” I press my nose against his chest, not wanting to admit that yes, I tend to forget about temperature issues when he’s got his arms around me.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “Think you can handle the heat all night?”

I slap his arm.

“Yeah. I think I can,” I grumble, to his total amusement. His cheerful laughter is the last thing I hear before I doze off.

Chapter Fourteen

It sucks to be shaken out of a deep sleep.

That’s what happens to me at about four in the morning. The fire is still burning strong. I’m slumped across Chris at a weird angle. I rub my stiff neck before I look around the room, trying to figure out what woke me up. I heard a sound, hadn’t I? Why else would I wake up? Maybe Chris was snoring.

No. He never snored. That I knew of, anyway.

“…Yes, I’m sure. Positive.”

Ah, voices. It was voices I heard. I close my eyes and concentrate on listening, mildly interested in the conversation. It sounds like Tasha talking to a couple of men. How a lone female in the middle of the wilderness has the guts to run a restaurant with a bunch of wild men in it I’ll never know.

“They were here a few days ago, looking for them,” Tasha says, her voice rough. “The reward was pretty big, the way they told it.”

I lick my lips, fists clenching around Chris’s shirt.

“Chris,” I whisper, nudging his chin with my head. “Wake up.”

He stirs, squeezing me tighter. Such a dude.

“Chris!” I snap. “I think we were just compromised.”

He opens his eyes, blinking off the fuzziness of sleep.

“What?”

“Shh. Listen.”

He peers at the ceiling, straining to hear what I’m hearing.

“…A man and a woman. They didn’t give me their names, but they fit the descriptions. And the picture that was on his military ID is definitely that man with her.”

Chris’s whole body tenses up, but you wouldn’t know he was ticked off by the expression on his face: calm, cool, confident. Totally unconcerned. While I just stare at him like a scared bunny rabbit. “What do we do?” I hiss.

“We get out of here.”

As quietly as I can, I crawl forward and pull my jacket off the mantle. It’s warm and dry. I shrug it on and button it up, putting on my gloves. Chris does the same, only he looks way stealthier than me when he does. Like a cat. I’m more like a clumsy puppy.

“They’re in the kitchen,” he whispers. “We can get out the front door.”

I nod, afraid to speak. Tasha’s voice is joined by a couple more male voices, sending chills down my spine. They’re talking about us. There’s no doubt about that. What are the chances I would wake up and hear them discussing our doom?

Dirty rat Tasha. Her deer meat was probably poisoned, for all I know.

I give myself a brief heart attack considering this, then realize that if it had been poisoned we probably would have been dead a long time ago.

Chris and I walk across the floor, silent. Everybody else here is still sound asleep. I wrap my fingers around the doorknob, locking eyes with Chris. He nods, which means I can go ahead and open it.

I do. We get the door open, blistering cold air slamming into my face like a brick wall of ice. It seems like some kind of storm has hit outside.

Perfect timing, I think. Thanks a lot, Jack Frost.

But that’s before I remember that the door is squeaky. It makes a loud, screeching noise as we swing it open. I freeze, holding my breath. Like pretending I didn’t hear anything will make everybody else ignore the sound, too.

No dice.

Right on cue, Tasha rushes out of the kitchen. Her happy face is gone, replaced by an angry one. A few men come out of the kitchen behind her, and as soon as their eyes fall on us, we all stop and stare at each other.

“Hey, guys,” I say weakly. “Just checking the weather.” I hold my hand over the threshold, immediately getting plastered with snow. “Yup. It’s definitely cold outside.”

I force a smile.

“Kill them,” Tasha says, deadpan. Like it’s totally normal to tell your crazed male friends to murder people. “It’s dead or alive.”

“Screw you,” Chris replies, mock bowing.

He grabs my arm and we run outside, Tasha’s little cronies hot on our heels. As soon as we hit the outdoors I’m almost blinded by flurries of snow and ice swirling through the air. The wind is whipping, the snow is deeper than ever, and it’s all I can do to hang onto Chris’s hand for dear life.

It’s so dark that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Chris seems to have some sense of direction, though. As Tasha’s buddies run after us, I count four male bodies in hot pursuit.

“Omega’s put out a reward for us?” I gasp, noticing that we’re running uphill. Through trees. We’re plunging into the forest, in the middle of the night, in a blizzard. Probably not a smart idea, but it’s either this or get killed by a bunch of maniacs. “How can we be that important to them?”

“I think we just made them mad,” Chris replies, halfway dragging me up the hill. “That official — the one that hit you — Keller, doesn’t strike me as the type of person to forgive and forget.”

“Moron,” I pant.

But pretty soon I have no energy to pant at all, because Tasha’s Crappy Crew is gaining us. I can’t see them, but I can hear their heavy footsteps — and their explicit swearing every time one of them stumbles.

Chris’s hand on my arm keeps me from running headfirst into a Redwood tree. I wonder vaguely if he has some kind of super night vision that I don’t know about when I trip on some kind of rock. On the other hand, it could be a stick, but who cares? The end product is going to be the same either way.

I pitch forward and land on my hands and knees. Cold snow soaks through my gloves. “Cassidy, get up,” Chris breathes, turning around to help me.

“Look out!” I warn.

One of the guys slams into his side, sending them both down the hill in a tumble of arms and legs. I struggle to my feet, only able to listen to the struggle. Between the darkness and the storm I’m pretty much blind.

“Gotcha!”

Another dude steps out from behind a tree, nothing but a black shadow. I take a step back, terrified, and wish I’d have had the common sense to grab some kind of a weapon before we bolted out of the restaurant.

Wait.

I stick my hand under my jacket, feeling for my belt. Yes! The knife that Jeff gave me is snug against my skin, sheathed in a leather case. I’d completely forgotten about it. I pull it out, holding it in front of my like a spear.

“I’ll kill you,” I warn, even though I know it’s not true. “Back off.”

The shadow man releases a deep, creepy laugh.

“You might as well give up,” he says. “I’m going to kill you either way. You’re worth a lot of money.”

He lunges. Instead of standing my ground and fighting, I take a few steps backwards and dance away from him. He swipes at me again, and I twist my body to stay out of his reach. In broad daylight that wouldn’t be possible, but in the dark storm it’s not hard for him to miscalculate distance.

My luck can’t hold out forever, though. I end up diving to the ground when he gets to close, scrambling away on my hands and knees. He grabs my leg and drags me backwards — classic horror movie style. I gasp and kick upwards, hoping my foot connects with something. It doesn’t.

Fighting in real life is nothing like the movies, I think absently.

But that’s right before he pins me to the ground, hovering over me. He’s just close enough for me to see his dirty face streaked with grime. “You’re annoying,” he mutters.

I kick and bite and squirm under his weight but it’s no good. He weighs a lot more than I do and he’s not going anywhere. I’m so going to die. My brain flips into overdrive at the thought. I start fighting even harder.

At that moment I feel him shift his arm, which means he’s no longer pinning down mine. He’s gripping something. A knife? I freak out. Jeff’s knife is still in my hand, but it’s turned away from my body, stuck underneath my enemy’s weight. I thrust forward with my knees enough to relieve the pressure for just a second. Long enough for me to move the knife up and jam it as hard as I can into his bicep.

He screams. I do, too. I kick him off me, never taking my hand of Jeff’s knife, and start running away. Something wet and warm slicks over my hand, making me gag. It’s blood. What else would it be? Coffee?

“Chris?!” I yell, the wind whipping my hair around my face. “Chris!”

I can’t see anything, hear anything, or feel anything except the cold. I bump into a tree and wrap my arms around it, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “hug a tree if you get lost.”

“Chris,” I whimper, becoming a bunny rabbit once again.

Well, a bunny rabbit with stabbing capabilities, but still…

I sink to the ground and huddle up against the tree, shielding myself from the snow cutting into my exposed skin. Who would have thought that that white fluffy stuff I’d seen on TV all my life could be so brutal?

Lucky for me, I have the common sense to quit screaming out Chris’s name so nobody else can find me and try to shove a knife in my throat. I just keep low to the ground, stay still and listen. There’s definitely some kind of background noise going on — voices, lots of yelling. I know Chris is close, but I just can’t see him. It’s frustrating beyond all belief.

Crunch, crunch.

I tense up as footsteps crash close by. Closer. Closer. There’s a bush a few feet away from me. It starts shaking. Apparently somebody is walking through it. Crack. There goes a branch. More footsteps. Then I see the shadow of the same guy that tackled me a minute ago with the knife. I can tell from his heavy breathing.

Wrapped in a dark coat and hat, I remain motionless on the ground, holding my breath. He can’t see me. It’s like being stuck in one of those scary movies where the monster is a few inches away from you and you know that the second you let yourself breathe, you’re screwed.

So I try not to breathe. The seconds tick by, seeming like eternity. I’m turning red like a balloon so I try to eek in a little bit of oxygen. In the process I end up sounding like somebody choking to death.

It only takes a second for my crazed attacker to pinpoint the direction of my breathing. He takes a few steps towards me, moving with all the grace of an elephant. I slide backwards, crawling inside some kind of scratchy shrub. I put my hands behind my neck and curl up, concentrating on being still.

Be one with the shrub, I think, remembering a yoga course I once took.

A few minutes tick by. Pretty soon my leg muscles are screaming at me for being in such a tight, tense position without moving. I ignore them and keep covered by the bush for long time. I have no idea how much time passes before I hear footsteps again, more cautious than the previous pair.

I pray to God that whoever it is won’t walk into my bush and trip over my head. That could be detrimental to my “avoid being killed” strategy. The footsteps come closer, but by this time the storm is whipping the wind so wild that I can’t tell which direction they’re coming from. It also hurts to open my eyes, because when I do, I’m hit with a million tiny snowflakes. It’s like being cut on the eyeball.

Gross and painful. A double whammy.

“Cassidy…?”

His voice is a faint whisper, but I hear it. I scramble to my feet, knocking branches and snow out of my way as I stumble around in the dark. “Chris! Where are you? I can’t see.”

“Here. Shhh. Don’t yell.” Chris’s voice is much closer. I whirl around, smacking into his chest nose-first.

“Ouch!” I hold my nose between my hands. “That was unnecessarily painful.”

“Take my hand,” Chris says, feeling for my arm. “Are you hurt?”

“No. How long have I been hiding under that stupid shrub?”

“You hid under a shrub?” An unusually powerful gust of wind howls through the trees. “Never mind. Just follow me.”

I hang onto his hand, but because we’re both wearing thick gloves, it’s easy to lose a grip. I decide to take no chances. Instead, I basically stick my hand through his belt so it’s almost impossible to let go of him. Of course, if he takes a step off a cliff, then we’re both pretty much doomed.

We hike along, uphill, before I finally yell,

“Where are we going? We’re lost, aren’t we?”

“No!” Chris sounds disturbed.

“Then where are we going? Because we’re going to freeze to death!”

We practically have to scream at each other to be heard.

“Look, I don’t know!” Chris finally shouts. “If you have any ideas, I’m game!”

“We need to find shelter! Like, right now!”

I notice that Chris is bent over like he’s going to faint. I kneel next to him and put my head close to his face so he can hear me. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you alright?”

“Just got nicked,” he replies, his voice breaking off.

Oh, great. He’s hurt. Looks like I’m going to have to save the day. I slide my arm under his shoulders, realizing that he’s not fighting me. He’s actually letting me take the brunt of his weight.

It’s a good thing I’m in shape, because he weighs about ten tons.

“Trust me on this,” I mutter.

My entire body is completely numb with cold. My face is frozen, my mouth is dry from the cold wind, and it hurts to blink. Chris’s breath is warm on my cheek — and that’s the only warmth I’ve got. If we don’t find shelter soon, we’ll both freeze to death. And I seriously don’t want to turn into some kind of preserved wooly mammoth parallel. With my luck I’d end up in a museum a hundred years from now on display as a prehistoric Neanderthal.

Not happening.

I slough through the snow, taking the whole thinking warm thoughts thing Chris is always nagging me about seriously. If I think warm, I will become warm. Right? Tell that to the snow. Eventually I drop to my knees, bringing Chris down with me. His breathing is labored, and I can feel his body tight under my hands.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask.

“Stomach. I think. Got…stabbed.”

He’s been stabbed? God, what am I supposed to do? What’s going to happen to us? We’re going to die, that’s what.

Shut up, Cassidy, I snap. Chris is always the one who takes control of the situation. Now it’s your turn. Man up and save both of your butts before you turn into snow sculptures.

I can’t really explain what happens, but all of the sudden I feel angry about our situation, and that gives me the energy to press on. We keep walking until we literally walk headfirst into some kind of giant boulder. I slam my fist against it and cuss it out before I realize something: It’s blocking the wind.

I drop, trembling from head to toe like a Chihuahua, and zip open my backpack. I find my flashlight and flick it on, shedding some light on the subject. It’s almost impossible to make out anything, but I set the flashlight on the ground and start digging with my hands. I dig and dig and dig until I have a trench about five feet wide and seven feet long. By that point it’s been about thirty minutes and Chris is still breathing hard.

I pull out our portable blankets and a couple of those cheap hand warmer packages you can get from dollar stores. I snap them on and shove a few of them down my shirt and Chris’s. I shine the flashlight over his coat, but I don’t see any wound. I can’t move my fingers enough to unbutton his coat, so I just roll it up. There is a bloody spot on the right of his stomach.

Feeling nauseated, I manage to see enough of it to realize that although it might be painful, the cut isn’t that deep. I look at Chris’s face. He’s pale, and his eyes aren’t focusing.

What he’s really suffering from is a concussion.

“Chris…come on,” I pant, easing him into the trench. He lies down on his back and I curl up beside him. He slips his arm underneath me and holds me close.

“You know more about survival than you let on,” he breathes, his lips curving upward.

I would grin if I could move my facial muscles.

I take the blankets and spread them out over us, snuggling into the miniature snow trench I’ve created. That, combined with the giant boulder or whatever it is, keeps the biting wind from killing us.

We should conserve just enough heat to make it through the night.

I hope.

Freezing to death was never on my list of top ten ways to die. No, my number one way to die was being wrapped in an electric blanket with Food Network on in the background.

This is so not as comforting.

The good news is, it’s morning. I can actually see the trees and the snow. I can still feel my limbs, and Chris seems to be recovering from being smacked in the head by those crazed thugs from Tasha’s. The snow is falling softly now. The wind let off during the night, and now I’m lying on my side, propped up on one arm.

Chris is smiling at me, which means he’s got to be feeling better. And while it may not be anywhere near sunbathing temperature, I don’t feel as cold as I did last night.

“You scared me,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were dying.”

“I probably was.” He grins. “But you knew that.”

“Shut up.”

He lifts himself up, wincing a little bit. Other than that, he looks as sexy as ever. “You perform well under pressure,” he remarks. “The trench was smart. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I felt like I was immobilized.”

“You got your bell rung,” I say dryly, echoing my dad.

One time I’d fallen off a playground slide and slammed my head against the cement. My dad had told me I’d gotten my “bell rung,” and I had no idea where I was or who I was for a couple of hours.

I take a good look around. A few snowflakes fall on my nose, reminding me that the cute little pieces of fluff can turn vicious in just a few minutes.

“I know where we are,” I say, shocked. “My dad and I hiked here from our cabin last year.”

I stand up, stiff, and Chris follows my lead. There’s no logical reason for me to recognize one grove of trees from the other, but I know this place. Because the big rock that saved our lives is the same one I took my picture on last year.

“It’s Lizard Rock,” I say, awed.

“Excuse me. Lizard Rock?” Chris repeats, giving me a weird look.

“During the summertime it’s crawling with little lizards,” I reply. “You know. Miniature Godzillas.”

I climb up the side of the rock, careful not to slip on any of the ice.

“I’m king of the rock,” I exclaim, feeling playful. “And I know how to find the cabin from here. Follow me, please.”

Chris doesn’t look as amused as I am, but he follows me anyway. We walk through the bushes and undergrowth, trying to avoid leaving footprints behind. The new snow will cover the tracks eventually, but if there’s anybody still actively hunting for us, it’s better to play it safe.

We make a long hike uphill. Chris still seems a little off, concentrating more on his steps than me.

“What did you get hit with?” I ask. “Was it more than one guy?”

“It was three guys, and it was their fists,” he replies.

“Yeah, but you kicked their butts, didn’t you?”

He ghosts a smile at me.

“Ha. I knew it. You did kick their butts,” I laugh. “I did, too. Kick butt, that is.”

“How many did you bring down?”

“Well, we can’t all bring down seven in one blow, oh mighty tailor,” I quip. “But I got away from one of them. Jeff’s knife saved my life.”

Chris gives me a strange look.

“You’ve changed.”

“What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer.

“How much longer, Cassidy?” he asks.

“We’ll be there by nighttime,” I reply. “We must have walked miles in the storm. We’re a lot closer to it than we were at Tasha’s death trap.”

“I think that place is a front,” he muses. “Refugees trying to get away from Omega camps and the military executions are going to run to the mountains. She’s using it as a way to turn people in toOmega.”

“That’s sick,” I say, disgusted. “I can’t believe any of this is even happening.”

“But it is.”

Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be risking my life snow camping in the middle of nowhere with a parka and a backpack full of hand warmers.

Needless to say, we both find it hard to accept the crappy new world. After a few hours of hiking, I ask a question that’s been eating at me for the last few days.

“Do you think you would have been forced to join the new regime if you would have been active duty?” I ask, glancing at Chris. “I mean, they’re using our own military against us, right? They would take control of every branch. You’d be forced to kill civilians.”

Chris sighs, sounding tired when he speaks.

“Yes, but there will be a lot of soldiers who will refuse to turn their weapons on their own people,” he refuses. “And they’ll probably die for it.”

“How many people do you think planned this takeover?” I say. “Seriously, it’s got to be more than just California. I’ll bet all of the other states got hit with the EMP, then people panicked, they brought in the military, and everything just fell into place. It’s, like, genius.”

Chris nods.

“It is. It’s also simple, but who would have thought our own government would hit us with an EMP?” He shakes his head. “All we can do now is fight.”

“You mean literally or metaphorically speaking?”

He grins.

“Both.”

When I press him on the subject, he won’t go into detail. I hope he’s not planning to storm anOmega camp and start throwing tomatoes at the officials. Because that’s not exactly what I’d call a fabulous rebellion.

We hike for what seems like an eternity before I stop, staring at the ground.

“Chris.”

He kneels beside me, tracing his finger along the snow.

“A footprint,” he says. “Look.”

He points to a lot more. My chest seizes up, fear spiking through my system.

“Omega?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. These are fresh. Not more than an hour.”

I close my eyes.

Really? Again?

“Keep going,” Chris tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s going to get dark and there’s no reason for us to stop walking.”

I shudder — but it’s definitely not from the cold.

It’s late afternoon, which means it’s getting dark already. The temperature is dropping by the second.

“We’re here,” I breathe, anticipation making me feel like I’m going to vomit.

Dad. He’s right over this hill.

We climb up a little knoll lined with thick Manzanita bushes. It’s also extra dark, surrounded by redwoods, firs, cedars and pines. Nestled inside everything is a little cabin made out of clapboard wood. There’s no road leading up to it — just a trail that disappears every year with each storm.

It’s our cabin.

I whoop with joy, tears coming to my eyes. It seems like it took fifty years to get here. “We made it!!” I say, throwing my arms around Chris’s waist. “Yes!”

Chris shakes me by the shoulders, not looking as excited as me. In fact, he looks like an outright downer, judging by his not-so-happy face.

“Cassidy, think,” he replies. “There are footprints everywhere. We might not be alone.”

It takes me a few seconds to absorb his words because honestly, for just a tiny bit I forgot about doom and destruction and felt victorious.

And now back to the drawing board.

Chris waves me back, warning me to stay behind his shoulder. He whips his macho rifle out and locks and loads. “What are you going to do? Shoot people?” I ask. “That will really be discreet.”

He rolls his eyes.

We both approach the cabin at an angle, staying away from the windows. The area around the cabin is coated in thick snow, and even though I can barely make them out, the remnants of footprints are all over the place.

They’ve got to be my dad’s. There’s no other explanation.

Chris edges up against the cabin edge, looking dangerous. We both listen for sounds inside the cabin. Hearing nothing, we both drop to our stomachs and crawl underneath the front windows.

Still no sounds.

My heart is pretty much beating in my throat, banging like a cymbal inside my chest. Chris draws himself up to his full height, casting a glance at me. He shrugs, as if to say, “what have we got to lose?” and kicks in the door.

The whole door crashes and shudders…because it’s not locked. I spring up, panic tearing through me. No, no, no, no, no. I shove in front of Chris and run inside. It’s got one room with an open loft above the kitchen. There’s a table, a fireplace and a bunch of bedding stacked against the wall.

But it’s empty.

I spin around in a circle, looking at Chris. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s looking at the back of the door, which has just shut behind us. There’s a white piece of paper nailed to it — like some kind of warrant straight out of Robin Hood.

I walk up to and tear it off, hands shaking.

Oh, my god…

Under Penalty of the LAW:

A Warrant of Arrest for

FRANK HART

For storing and hoarding supplies rightfully allotted to emergency services, possessing dangerous weapons, and failing to enroll in Omega’s urgent CENSUS.

This property is hereby confiscated by the

FEDERAL GOVERNMENT

For use in emergency relocation programming and redistricting.

FURTHER

A WARRANT OF ARREST for

CASSIDY ELEANOR HART

And

CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

Co-conspirators wanted for defamation, treason, attempted murder, and hoarding.

“They expected to find us here with him,” I say, panicking. “My god, Chris. They took him. They arrested him. They killed him.”

I’m breathing in and out so fast that I’m actually choking on my own air. And why shouldn’t I? My worst nightmare has just come true. Not that I didn’t know that this was a likely scenario, but standing here, seeing it happen…it’s worse than a nightmare. It’s inescapable.

“You don’t know that,” Chris replies, grabbing me. He literally holds me there and doesn’t let me move. “Look around you. There’s no sign of a struggle. He might not even be here yet.”

I stare at him, turning white with shock.

This is just too much.

But that’s before I see my dad’s backpack on the floor.

“No…” I whisper.

I break free of Chris’s arms and kneel on the ground. It’s a standard-issue survival pack, and I can see that most of the supplies are gone. My dad’s name is stitched on the side of it. I know, because I’m the one who talked him into getting the backpack personalized a few years ago.

Its contents are spilling all over the floor, and when I follow the line of debris from the backpack into the kitchen, I see a broken bowl on the floor.

“He was here,” I state, horrified. “They did take him. He’s as good as dead.”

I cover my mouth with my hands, feeling both traumatized and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t know that he’s dead,” Chris replies, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “Cassie…?”

I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I’m too busy crying my eyes out.

It’s all over.

Chapter Fifteen

When I was eight years, old, I watched a scary movie that my parents had specifically told me not to. I’d seen the DVD lying around the house and I thought I’d turn it on, and once I did, I couldn’t turn it off. Needless to say, I had the most horrible nightmares of my life.

My dad, instead of getting mad at me for watching the movie, brought me a nightlight and plugged it into the electric socket in my room. He even sang me a lullaby — and if you knew my dad, you knew that was special.

I kept that nightlight until the second the EMP hit. And now, all I can remember is how nice it was to have somebody to tell you that your nightmare wasn’t real. It’s okay to go back to sleep.

Sucks to be me. I’ve been crying into Chris’s shoulder for hours. Probably days. Maybe weeks.

Well, maybe just an hour or two, but you get the idea. We’re sitting on the floor of the cabin kitchen, cocooned in total darkness. I’ve got the hiccups from crying so much, and now that the panic and shock have worn off, empty despair has set in.

I feel totally numb, like I could die right now and I wouldn’t care. I’d almost welcome it.

“We’ll find him,” Chris keeps saying, over and over. “I promise. I won’t let them take him away from you.”

Thank God I have Chris. I would have never gotten this far without him, and if he weren’t here right now, I probably would have gone skydiving off the nearest cliff without a parachute the second I found out my dad had been arrested. He’s a good insurance policy.

“What now?” I whisper, hoarse.

“We sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Yes, you can. You’re exhausted. We both are.”

“I just lost everything.” I sniffle. “What’s the point of sleeping or eating or caring? They’re just going to keep taking things away from us until they kill us! First our cars, our cellphones, our houses. Then our lives. They’re not going to stop.”

“You’re wrong, Cassidy,” Chris replies, his voice even. “They haven’t taken everything from you or me. They haven’t taken us. Who we are. They can’t take our souls, and they can try to kill us and subjugate us, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.”

I take a shaky, painful breath.

“Why fight?” I ask. “They’ll kill us. Just like they killed all those people at the rest stop and in Bakersfield. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, out strategized. We’re screwed and you know it.”

“We’re alive,” Chris answers, taking my face between his hands. “We’re together. We’re a team, and they can’t change that.”

I suck in my breath, trying not to burst into tears again.

“We’re a team?” I echo, tired. “Are you sure about that?”

Chris chuckles. It’s an exhausted but sincere sound.

“I’m sure,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, tears running down my face.

“We’re a team,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I trust you.”

It’s true. I do trust him. I can’t think of anybody else who could have gotten me to this point without dying. Only a Navy Seal, I guess. At any rate, maybe I’ll feel differently about things in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel more optimistic. Maybe my dad is alive.

But finding him…how is that supposed to happen?

First rule of the new world: don’t hoard. All of the supplies that my dad and I brought to this cabin have been taken by Omega. Everything. Every drop of water, every flake of dehydrated chicken breast. All we’ve got is what Chris’s mom gave us, and even then it’s a miracle we’ve got anything left.

Apparently, nobody but the big dogs are allowed to have emergency supplies. Makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to subjugate people. What better way than to control the food supply?

Try explaining that to the bottomless pit known as my stomach. I’m hungry.

It’s about eight o’clock at night. We’ve draped heavy blankets over the windows and stuffed rags in all the cracks around the doors. Only then do we light a couple of lanterns. I’m curled up on the loft bed above the kitchen, watching Chris get some food together. He’s making some coffee with our camping stove and heating up some biscuits.

“I’ll cook,” I volunteer, sliding down the ladder.

“Rest, Cassie,” he advises, without turning around. “You’re tired.”

“I don’t want to rest. And I happen to be a biscuit expert.” I sit on the edge of the makeshift counter. “Coffee at night? Really?”

“As soon as the storm settles down we need to get back home,” he replies, placing one hand on each side of me. “Are you up for that?”

No. Just the thought of doing anything right now is sickening.

“Sure,” I lie. “Sounds good.”

He raises his eyebrows, obviously not buying it.

“Coffee’s burning,” I mutter.

He turns around, snatching it off the stove before it scorches.

There are still some dishes left in the cupboard. Stuff from thrift stores that my dad I bought cheaply to bring up here. Fat lot of good it did. Without food or water…or dad…things are kind of pointless.

“Have you cleaned that knife wound?” I ask as he pours the coffee.

He hands me a cup.

“No,” he replies. “I was getting around to it.”

“Better hurry up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection and die,” I say, trying to smile.

Chris brushes my cheek with the back of his hand and nods. “You’re right.”

He walks to the other side of the cabin — which is only about twenty feet in length — and starts digging through his backpack. I take a sip of the coffee, almost spitting it out. “It’s bitter.”

“Coffee generally is,” Chris laughs, rolling the first aid kit out on the counter. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Why? Because it’s like a liquid drug? Trying to turn me into an addict?”

“That’s the plan.” Chris pulls of his jacket, revealing the bloodstain on his wool shirt. It’s not as bad as I thought. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not the addiction type.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.

“I was talking about the blood, Cassie.”

“Oh. Looks okay.”

He rolls up the shirt enough to get a good view of the cut — and his very nice stomach. It’s not very deep, but nicked enough to get infected if left untreated. Chris looks at me.

“Can you stitch it?” he asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat — I’ve never been good with first aid stitching — and nod. “Sure,” I say. “I need the antiseptic wipes.”

He dumps the first aid kit on the counter and opens his arms out wide.

“Be my guest.”

I find the wipes, the needle, the thread. If you even call it thread. I stifle a shudder and flip open the emergency handbook. There are directions for stitching up a wound. I’ve practiced in the past on a dummy — a routine my dad periodically had me do because, “You just never know when you’re going to get gouged open with a knife.”

Thanks for the tip, dad.

I follow the instructions step by step, holding back a gag as I clean the wound and touch the disconnected piece of skin. So. Gross.

“This is disgusting,” I complain.

Chris just grunts.

I “accidentally” prick him with the needle before starting the stitching. I actually get really close to puking weaving in and out of the flesh, which just makes Chris laugh at me. When I’m done, I close the stiches up like the book says and set down the needle.

“There. You’re a regular ragdoll now.”

Chris inspects my handiwork. It’s a little uneven, but hey. At least I did it.

“Not bad,” he comments. “Thanks.”

He lets his shirt drop and I start cleaning the needle with an antiseptic wipe.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, putting everything back in the kit.

“Nah. You?”

“I didn’t get wounded,” I remind him.

“You know what I mean.”

I shut my mouth, not because I’m speechless, but because if I start to talk I’ll burst into tears. Again. And that’s so not happening. Instead I just shrug and slap the kit closed.

“Cassie, we’ll find him,” Chris says, touching my arm. “We got this far, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, and he wasn’t here.” I turn around, glad he can’t see my eyes watering up in the dim lighting. “Who knows where they took him, Chris? It could be anywhere in the whole country.” I run a hand through my hair and toss the first aid kit across the room. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

“There’s always something.”

Chris grabs my hand, pressing it against his chest. He’s warm, and I can feel his heart beating in a steady rhythm under his skin.

“Are we having a Tarzan moment?” I crack, not feeling the joke.

“As long as we’re both alive,” he says, tipping my chin up, “and our hearts are still beating, there’s still a chance. I won’t go down without a fight, and I know you won’t either. That gives us a chance, Cassie.”

I meet his firm gaze, and what I see there is encouraging. Exhaustion? Yes. A little uncertainty? You bet. But there’s also hope, and if Chris is still holding onto it, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly. Chris folds me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Listen to me,” he says. “Do you remember when we saw the dead bodies at the camp in Bakersfield?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“Those were systematic executions. There was no real reason for those. They do that to scare people into submission. Other people — like you and me — they’re going to make an example out of us. Just to scare the crap out of people. War criminals are perfect for that. People like you and me and your dad. Why the hell would they bother with an arrest warrant for the three of us when the military is killing whoever they want? Think about it. Three people out of billions? Why would they care where we go?”

I pull away and look into his face.

Light bulb.

“Because they need to keep the population under control,” I say, swallowing. “And killing off the few survivors or resistors will scare people from getting any ideas about rebelling.”

He leans closer, and I can smell the coffee on his breath.

“Exactly.” He brushes the hair out of my eyes. “And it’s a fact that they don’t usually execute those “examples” right away. They drag it out. They take them somewhere.”

My eyes widen.

“They take them to prison.”

“Someplace where they can publicize the whole thing.”

“But where?”

Chris smiles.

“I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

I groan. “Are you kidding me? We just got here! All I want to do is hibernate for the winter. Is that too much to ask?”

Chris places his hands on each side of my waist.

“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”

I grit my teeth. Even if there was any chance of locating my dad again, it would mean that we’d have to trek across the former heartland of California on foot through hostile territory. Again.

“We’ll wait until the storm dies down,” Chris tells me, almost like he can read my thoughts. “Then we’ll head back towards my house, check in with my parents, and try to figure this thing out. We’ll come up with a plan.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We always do.”

Chapter Sixteen

I hate hiking. I hate climbing, walking, running, crawling, rolling, jumping, bouncing, skipping, and falling. I’ve been walking endlessly for weeks now, and I don’t think it’s ever going to end.

It took us two weeks to get back to Squaw Valley because of the heavy storms, slushy terrain, crappy food supply and possible detection by people trying to sell us out to Omega hacks. Now we’re less than a half a mile away from the Young property, and I can tell by the look on Chris’s face that he’s happier than I am to be home.

And that’s saying something.

It’s not snowing at this elevation, which is fine with me. If I saw one more snowflake I’d end up screaming.

The trees are spindly, what my dad would call “sky roots.”

Poor dad.

Nope, don’t go there, I think. Stay focused.

“I’m going to have some serious fried chicken when we get there,” I say, grinning at Chris. “What about you?”

“My dad’s got a stash of beer in the basement,” he replies. “I could use a case or two.”

“Great. Fried chicken and beer. All we need is a pickup and a parking lot and we could be a couple of football fans,” I say. “You do watch football, right?”

“Baby, I played football in High School,” Chris replies, picking up the pace.

“You went to High School?” I say, puzzled. “I thought you did a charter school like Jeff.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I went all the way through. And I was the star quarterback.”

I roll my eyes.

“Gee, don’t be modest or anything.”

“Our team was called the Lions.”

“How fitting.”

He shoots me an annoyed look, but I’m not enough to ruin his male-ego moment of football reminiscing. “You would have been a cute cheerleader, though,” he comments.

“Are you kidding?”

We both start laughing. He makes a move to grab me around the waist but I run forward, fueled by a surge of excitement to reach home. Well, Chris’s home, anyway. I jog a little bit, rounding the next corner. My footsteps come to an abrupt stop when my gaze lands on a bunch of trees and bushes on the side of the road. It’s not the shrubbery that draws my attention. It’s the lack of it. Charred, black, sooty ashes are smeared all over the ground.

Everything is burned.

Chris’s steady footsteps come up behind me. His face is a hard mask that betrays no emotion. I’ve started calling it his “battle-mode look.” He swings his gun into his hands and releases the safety switch.

“Stay behind me,” he says, his voice dangerous.

“But…”

He gives me a look that says, “Don’t argue.”

I nod.

I stay behind his shoulder as we approach the wall of trees and bushes that once hid the almost invisible dirt trail that led up to the Young property. The grass, flowers, trees, shrubs and weed are destroyed.

“My parents wouldn’t have done this,” Chris murmurs.

A lead weight settles in my stomach.

Both of us wired with dread, we start walking faster up the dirt trail. There are lots of tire tracks winding up and down the mud, almost washed away. It takes us about ten minutes to reach the top of the hill.

Chris swears.

I drop to my knees, not wanting to see what I’m seeing.

Everything’s been burned to the ground.

And the Young family is nowhere in sight.

Epilogue

It’s a funny thing. The world, I mean.

When the EMP hit, I kept thinking that it was the end of the world, but seriously…is it really? Didn’t people live without cars and phones and electricity for thousands of years? The only thing that makes this different from the seventeenth century is the fact that nobody knows how to live without technology. Nobody knows how to accept the fact that there are very real bad guys out there trying to take away the things that are most important to us: Each other.

Then again, maybe it’s already happened in the past and we just didn’t realize it until it happened to us. Because isn’t that usually the case? People don’t understand how something bad could happen until it happens to them.

And so here I am, my boots propped up on an old log with my head in Chris’s lap. He’s fiddling with my hair, but his eyes are focused on something in the distance. The gold chain he gave me is hanging around my neck, the metal cool against my collarbone as we sit silently in the woods. I find comfort in the touch of his fingers on my skin. It reminds me that I still have something, someone, to hold onto.

A burnt home, destroyed crops, slaughtered animals and a missing family?

Check that off the list of sucky things that have happened to us in the last two months. With nowhere to go and nothing to eat, what can we do but go ahead with our plan to find out where they’re imprisoning the war criminals?

Chris needs to find his family. I need to find my dad.

We need each other, and for the record, that’s the only thing right about this messed up new world: Us.

We’ll find a way. Chris is smart. He knows how to survive in a world like this. I’m not as awesome as he is when it comes to survival, but I’m learning quickly. I will find my father. We will find the Young family and Isabel again. And if anybody gets in our way?

I guess I’ll just have to shoot them…

Right between the eyes.

To Be Continued

Acknowledgements

I never thought I’d be writing an acknowledgement page for a book about the end of the world, but here I am, doing exactly that. Writing a book is something that many people set out to do, but actually finishing it, editing it, publishing it and then selling it is a long, arduous process that requires a lot of hot tea, good background music and a support group of people who believe in you. My strongest support group has always been my parents and my brother, who are the best critique partners in the whole world — and without whom I wouldn’t be a writer at all. Thanks for believing in me, and thanks to my best friend/brother for listening to me read all those handwritten science fiction stories when I was 13! I know it was painful.

I also want to thank James P. White, for being a wonderful teacher and an even better friend. You’re such a special person, and I’m so glad I know you. Also, thanks for the support to the wonderful, awesomesauce (Yes, I used that word again!) girls from NA Alley: Victoria Smith, Jaycee DeLorenzo, Juliana Haygert, Bailey Kelsey, L.G., and Carrie Butler. And thank you, wonderful readers, for picking up this novel—you rock my world, and I love hearing from all of you! Thanks to the amazing blogging world for all your support and love, as well. You really make it fun to be a writer.

Lastly, I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for allowing me to make a career out of doing what I love: Telling stories.

A world without books is chaos!

About the Author

Summer Lane is a New Adult and Young Adult author. She is a freelance writer, editor and lover of all things feline. Summer is also the author of Snappy Social Networking: How to Dominate the Blogosphere & Everything in Between. In her spare time, Summer is the creator of the online magazine/blog, Writing Belle, in addition to being a frequent contributor at NA Alley, a website dedicated to all things New Adult.

Summer began writing when she was 13 years old, due to the fact that the long afternoons after school were somewhat boring, and writing stories seemed to make the time pass a little quicker. Since then she has written many books about jungle cats, secret agents, princesses and spaceships. She is also a non-fiction writer, but her debut novel, State of Emergency, is her favorite book yet. When she’s not writing, Summer enjoys watching Bollywood movies, reading rather romantic books and dreaming about visiting India so she can become best friends with a Royal Bengal Tiger.

Connect with Summer Lane:

http://writingbelle.blogspot.com/

&

http://stateofemergencynovel-com1.webs.com/

GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17196969-state-of-emergency

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Writing-Belle/175588832545192?ref=hl

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SummerEllenLane

Copyright

Copyright 2013

All Rights Reserved

No part of this work may be reproduced, except to quote on reviews or blogs, without the express permission of the author. Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Any parallel to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

Content

Summer Lane
STATE OF EMERGENCY

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

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