State of Emergency (Book)

by Lane, Summer

  “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 t
ry 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.