“That’s a good question.” He takes a swig of water and pockets his cupcake wrapper. I can’t imagine that filled him up enough to walk for the next however many hours, but hunger is something we’ve been actively trying to ignore—despite the growls and gurgles.
“You could crash with me,” I interject. “Not that my house is still standing, but you know what I mean. We could find a shelter for a while.”
He doesn’t answer, staring intently at the highway.
My invisible insecurity blanket wraps itself around me, reddening my face. “Or not…”
“Sorry, yeah, I just heard something.”
“Like what?”
Again, he doesn’t answer, head cocked to the side.
“What? Is it a bear? You can’t just say that and go silent.”
“It’s a radio.” And with that, he drags me down the incline to the highway.
The closer we get to Portland, the more stationary traffic we happen across. Most vehicles are abandoned along the impassable, buckled pavement, but every once in awhile, we’ve spotted people camping out in their cars. If someone still has battery left, they could be running their radio, but is anyone back up and broadcasting yet?
“Do you hear it?”
I strain for a moment, and sure enough, there’s some kind of announcement being piped from somewhere. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Probably the old Crown Vic with all the antennae.”
“Good call.”
We take quick strides toward the vehicle, my awkward proposition all but forgotten in favor of something as woefully dangerous as it is beautiful—hope.
“Sir,” Vincent calls to the man sitting in the driver’s seat. “Are you all right?”
Oh, he’s smooth. I would have already been halfway through the window, desperate for even the slightest whisper from the outside world.
The man gives us a quick once-over, twitches his lips, and then lifts a hand in greeting. “I’m okay. How’re you folks doing?”
Vincent shifts the weight of his backpack. “We’re managing.”
The man sighs and stares off with a look I recognize all too well. “I suppose that’s all any of us can do. Name’s Hal, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” Vincent thrusts his hand inside. “I’m Joe, and this is my wife Brunhilda.”
“Brunhilda,” Hal repeats with a stiff nod. “Glad to meet you both.”
Before I can interject an irritated correction, the crackling voice in the background catches everyone’s attention.
“—estimating at least three thousand across the major cities.”
Hal’s brows pinch as he turns to snatch up his microphone, revealing a dark blond mullet. “One sec. This is W-7-A-H-H, Hal”
“W-7-A-H-H, go ahead. This is Sue, W-8-S-Y-K.”
He stares out his grimy windshield, where pollen has created a thick film over the past few days. “That’s what? Portland, Seattle… ? Back to you.”
“And Vancouver, the news said. It’s worse along the coast. They can’t even get in there to get a decent estimate. They’re projecting double the cities’ death toll. W-8-S-Y-K.”
My blood runs cold. Could we really have almost ten thousand fatalities from this thing? I mean, I believe it—we’re all stumbling around, trying to find a way out of hell—but a number like that is unfathomable.
Vincent curses under his breath.
“All right,” Hal sighs. “Thanks, Sue. I’m clear. Seventy-three. W-7-A-H-H out.”
He drops the microphone, wipes his palms on his pants, and blows out a deep sigh. “Sorry about that. I’ve been nursing my car battery off and on, trying to listen in on chatter.”
“Well, at least when you run this one down, you have hundreds of other vacant vehicles to work from,” I mumble, looking around.
“Yeah,” he snorts. “Lucky me. You two trying to get to the city?”
“Unfortunately.” Vincent folds his arms behind his head, and the hem of his t-shirt creeps up. “Have you heard anything about the state of things over there?”
“The tunnel’s out, most bridges are out, and all of the city’s road-clearing equipment got crushed under the Fremont ramps. Someone said they’re trying to use tugs as ferries.”
Vincent’s brow twitches, but he doesn’t reveal any other emotion. “What about the Sellwood Bridge?”
“I don’t know specifics. Truth is, I’m not from around here. I was headin’ to the outlet in Stumptown.”
“Well, shit. That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
A couple stumbles by in a stupor, barely acknowledging us as they trudge east. The man, a balding little forty-something with a suit jacket tied around his waist, is dragging his trophy wife along. She’s thin, dressed like she should be attending a fundraiser, and carrying a pair of red-backed pumps.
It’s been that way since we hit the highway—people wandering one direction or another, hoping wherever they end up is better than where they’ve been. I blow out a sigh and watch them go. “So, are you just staying put until help makes it through here?”
“Do you know how much this stuff cost?” Hal gestures first at his setup, and then at the people passing by. “I’m not abandoning it to wander through the forest like these morons. No offense.”
Heh. Right. “Well, maybe The Rock will save you.”
Both men give blank stares.
“In his helicopter?”
Nothing.
“Neither of you saw San Andreas?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Vincent scoffs. “Cascadia is a far worse power to be reckoned with than the San Andreas.”
Did he just get defensive of the fault trying to kill us all?
“First off”—he ticks off the point on his finger—”the megathrust we had a few days ago was at least a magnitude 9.0. San Andreas is only capable of producing a magnitude 8.3—and that’s assuming the full eight hundred miles goes, which is highly unlikely. It’s probably closer to 8.0. Do you know the difference between those two magnitudes?”
I blink, suddenly on the spot. “Uh, which two?”
“A magnitude 9.0 is thirty times more powerful than an 8.0. Just take a second to let that sink in. Thirty times.” His eyes practically spark with intensity. “Then you have the fact that the San Andreas is inland, okay? It’s not going to displace water and generate a tsunami. It’s not going to—”
“Okay, okay. Calm down, geek boy.”
Hal is unfazed. “You think ours could trigger the San Andreas?”
Vincent heaves his shoulders. “It’s been speculated as a possibility, but who knows. We’re talking about two completely different types of faults here.”
Whenever he talks like this, I want to get him some thick-rimmed glasses and stick him behind a library reference desk. He could pull double duty and work security at the same time. Someone acting up in nonfiction? Hah! They’ll never speak above a whisper again.
Anywhere.
Hal nods. “You two want to take a load off? You can hop in the backseat for a bit.”
“That’s a tempting offer, but we’ll be okay.” Vincent slings an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “We were just about to go scavenging, right?”
We were? “Right.
Hal frowns. “You sure? I bet it’d be nice to get out of the sun for a while and sit on a cushioned bench.”
“Oh, man.” I rub my back. “Don’t even talk about cushions. I’ve slept in a hammock for two nights.”
Vincent pulls me against him and grumbles into my hair, “Better than the hard ground.”
“I wasn’t complaining!”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s unlocked,” Hal adds, as I smack Vincent on the chest. “Slide on back there.”
Geez is he going to tell us there’s candy and puppies back there, too? Relax, man.
“Nah.” Vincent takes a few steps down the broken highway. “We’re burnin’ daylight. Thanks, though. Good luck getting home.”
>
“Wait, don’t go!”
Okay, that just sounded desperate.
Hal opens his door, wide-eyed. “I-I have some food. Just a little. You could have some.”
Vincent stiffens. “Get back in the car, Hal.”
“But I—”
“I said get back in the car!” he snaps, veins straining his neck.
I jump at the outburst, craning my neck from where I’m still pressed tight to his side. “What are you—?”
“We’re going to walk away now.”
“No, you’re not,” a woman spits, a second before a loud crack sends Vincent crashing to his knees.
I whirl around to catch the blurred motion of a log pulling back to hit me. It’s all slow motion. A hoarse scream rips from my throat as I duck, nearly toppling us both over as I struggle to keep Vincent upright, and it barely grazes the top of my head.
My hand’s on my gun before I realize it, letting Vincent slide to the uneven ground. “Get back!”
“Whoa, whoa,” the balding man says, one half of the duo who wandered past a few minutes ago. “We were just gonna knock you out and take your stuff! We weren’t gonna hurt you.”
“Weren’t going to hurt us?” I repeat, widening my eyes. “Weren’t going to hurt us? Look at him. ¡Quítate la ropa y abraza el coche!”
“What?” He shoots his partner a questioning stare, but she’s shaking her head fervently back and forth. He drops the log.
They must be too preoccupied with the shit filling their pants to realize my hand is shaking. There are flecks of red staining the barrel. Why didn’t we see that? Flashes of the trafficker assault my mind. Him slumping against the counter, his eyes glazing over…
Oh God. I’m gonna lose it here.
“We’re sorry!” he practically yells. “What did you say?”
“I said take off your clothes and hug the car!” My voice turns shrill as I gesture toward the trunk. “You too, Hal. Front and center.”
The door clicks open, and he carefully steps out with his arms up. “I-I’m sorry. I was just the distraction. We’ve only been taking enough to survive, though, I promise! I didn’t even want to—”
“Now!”
CHAPTER 17
I’ve got to end whatever this is and get us out of here.
The revolver catches my tremble again as they start unbuttoning in a mad hurry. Baldy drops his drawers, giving me full view of his hairy behind, and it doesn’t matter whether or not they’re hiding anything dangerous. Vincent and I are leaving. Now.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and bend down, angling his arm around my neck. “I’m taking my friend, but believe me when I say I will blast you a new asshole if you try anything.”
Trophy Wife grumbles something, but I choose to dismiss her.
“Come on,” I grunt with shaking knees, trying to take on the bulk of his weight. Combined with everything in the backpack, I know there’s no way we’re getting out of here unless he regains some semblance of consciousness. “Wake up…”
His head falls heavily on my shoulder, warm breath dampening my jacket. The sad thing is, he needs this rest. If these nutjobs would’ve just gone off in search of supplies like everyone else, none of us would be in this ridiculous situation.
A quick smack with my gun hand is the best I can manage. “Vincent.”
Nothing.
“Vincent, I love your face.”
“Ugggggh,” he groans in my ear, shifting his weight. “What did you—?”
“Nothing,” I cut him off, my heart wadded in my windpipe like a crumpled note. “Can you stand?”
He grunts something affirmative, rubs the back of his head, and uses me to find his footing. “What happened?”
I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “They snuck up on us and knocked you out. Actually, they would’ve gotten me, too, if you hadn’t dragged me down with you.”
That earns an almost inaudible snort as he takes in the scene. “Great. How’d they end up naked?”
“I got mad.”
“Ah.”
We walk along, stealing glances behind us until the car disappears over the now distant horizon. “You knew something was up back there, didn’t you?”
He hikes one shoulder. “Hal was giving off a vibe, but sometimes I get that way. Paranoid or some shit. It wasn’t until he started freaking out, trying to lock us in the back of that decommissioned cop car, that I realized it was a setup. I just wish I would’ve figured it out before Boris and Natasha got the drop on me.”
“Is it bleeding?” I ask, wincing up at him.
“Doesn’t feel like it. Just a big lump.”
“Well, don’t fall asleep for a while.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Yes, dear.”
At this point, I’m so emotionally numb, I don’t even bother trying to process what just happened. It’s another crack in the pavement, and we still have a long ways to go—so we keep walking.
Around noon, we venture off-road. Vincent kills a woodland creature of unknown origin and cooks it for us, swearing it’s chicken—because, you know, Oregon is full of wild forest chickens. Fortunately, my gratitude outweighs my skepticism, and I try it. The meat is surprisingly tender, despite its lack of flavor, and we have enough leftovers for later.
What’s sad about the whole thing is, it’s that culinary excursion that gives me hope. Maybe I was meant to handle roughing it after all…
❇ ❇ ❇
Two more days pass by in a blur of aftershocks and aching muscles. Eventually, the forests turn to fields, and the fields give way to the outskirts of civilization. It’s not until we’re close enough to see remnants of big buildings, though, that it all sinks in. We made it. We escaped Seaside and walked all the way to freakin’… wherever we are!
“What’re you puffing your chest out about?” Vincent side-eyes me, taking a swig of water.
“Nothing.”
“Uh-huh. See that place up ahead?” He points. “That’s the paper plant. Means we’re in Hillsboro.”
“And Hillsboro is… ?”
“West of Portland.”
“Yes! How far is it now?”
Vincent rolls his lip, scrutinizing the industrial slice of heaven we’ve wandered into. “About six hours ‘til Dom’s place.”
It’s the final stretch of our marathon, and his words have just given me a second wind. We’re so close now! I can’t wait to collapse in a shelter somewhere and sleep for days. We’ll track down Naveen and Gizmo after that. I just need to lie down without worrying about some crazy gutting me over a protein bar.
Speaking of which, we’ve been running on empty since yesterday. My stomach hurts so bad I could throw up, but momentum has me afloat. The second I stop is the second I crash.
“You smell that?”
I pull my collar tight and take a whiff. It’s not laundry fresh, but I didn’t think it was that bad.
“Smoke,” he clarifies, glancing up at the pluming clouds.
“We sleep by a fire every night. How do you know you’re not smelling yourself?”
He shakes his head. “It’s different.”
“What is it, Lassie?” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Is Timmy in a well?”
“Ha, ha.” He makes a face. “Joke all you want, but these aftershocks have probably started fires left and right in town. Broken gas lines, broken power lines…”
A guy on a bicycle breezes past, lifting a hand in greeting. It’s weird seeing so many people again.
“We’re lucky to have had that rain right after the initial thrust and aftershock,” Vincent goes on, undaunted by the interruption, “or we probably would’ve had to have dealt with more getting here.”
“Think we should head another way?”
“Nah, we can’t afford to tack on time for a detour that may be worse off than this route.”
“You have an appointment I’m not aware of?” I don’t want to seem callous, since we are hurrying to get to his brother, but I don
’t see where a few more hours will make a difference.
He rubs his neck and blows out a heavy sigh. “We’re out of food, Elena. Out of water. Out of bandages. You can barely walk, and I can barely stay awake—yet this, this is the time we have to be the most alert. We’re about to pass through some heavily populated areas. Carrying any of the rest of this is going to make us a target.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You want to get rid of what little supplies we do have so no one can take them from us?”
“If I were alone, I wouldn’t even screw with it,” he grits out, tightening his grip on the straps. “But I’m not drawing any more attention to us, to you, than is absolutely necessary. If we have to pack our clothes down with whatever we can carry, then so be it.”
If my mind could still function at full capacity, it’d be racing right now. “But these… these are all your things. What’re you going to do after this?”
“Same thing I did before.”
Men. Why must they confuse me so? I shield my eyes, squeezing my forehead. “Maybe you’ll find something in Seattle.”
He grunts, simultaneously acknowledging and dismissing the sentiment, and then hangs a quick left.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, failing to match his long strides. My legs feel like lead. How does he move like that?
“See that sports center where all the people are?” He gestures off into the distance, past two fences and a crowd of families camped out on artificial grass. “Where those bleachers are caved in on the side?”
“Yeah?”
“Everyone’s trying to stay out in the open, away from that part of the field. That’s where we’ll stash our pack.”
I try to ignore the fact that he said our, even though it’s probably stained my cheeks an irrational shade of pink. “So, what if another aftershock does the rest in?”
“Then it’ll be even more protected for when we unbury it in three months.”
Is this what it sounds like when someone goes mad? “That makes no sense.”
“You make no sense,” he shoots back, like a middle schooler. “Come on.”
We skirt the outer fence of the facility, avoiding the curious stares of folks who’ve gone way too long without anything interesting to watch. By now, their phone and tablet batteries have probably all run out, leaving them in a state of technological withdrawal. That fact alone could spark a riot.
As We Know It Page 15
