by Lane, Summer
“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 cen
ter, 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?”
