Текст книги "State of Chaos"
Автор книги: Summer Lane
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Summer Lane
STATE OF CHAOS
For Rocklin, my best friend.
Prologue
I remember when I had a life. Sure, it wasn’t perfect by any stretch, but at least it was something. I had a nice house, a car, and a stack of books in my closet that rivaled the leaning tower of Pisa. I didn’t have any friends, but I had a father. I didn’t have any money, but I was working on that.
It was normal.
I don’t know what “normal” is anymore. Before an electromagnetic pulse disabled the country, I thought the worst crisis that could possibly hit my world was my parent’s divorce or accidentally draining the battery in the car overnight.
I was so wrong.
Life is nothing like it used to be. Things used to be easy. Flip a switch? On goes the light. Press a button? You’re calling your parents. Swipe a credit card? You just paid for lunch. Easy, simple, convenient. Nothing is like that anymore. People are dying, starving. They’re being executed on the streets. A shadow army called Omega is rolling its forces across the country, imprisoning and killing everybody or anything that gets in its way. I don’t know where our military is, but there are rumors that they’re fighting Omega on the East Coast.
So what does that mean for the folks in California? Folks like me? It means we’re on our own. I would be dead right now if it weren’t for the help of Chris Young, the most amazing guy I’ve ever met and a Navy Seal to boot. But we’ve lost our families. They’re imprisoned somewhere in the city, arrested as war criminals for committing one simple crime: They survived the EMP.
Chris’s family – his parents and brother, Jeff – were kind to me. My own dad was taken along with them, and what happened to my estranged mother is anybody’s guess. We lost a friend of ours to Omega, too. Isabel, a twelve year-old girl we rescued from an abandoned McDonald’s.
Yeah. Things kind of suck right now.
It’s just me and Chris, toughing it out in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, trying to stay off the Omega radar. Because according to them, we’re wanted fugitives. They tried to take us down a couple of times and they failed, so that makes us America’s Most Wanted, I guess. We’ve nearly been killed more times than I care to count.
So what happens now? Do we give up? Do we live the rest of our lives sleeping in the dirt and eating grubs or plants for dinner? Do we let Omega take our families and rip everything that’s important to us out of our lives?
No. Chris wants to fight Omega – literally and figuratively speaking. I just want to find our families and get the heck out of Omega’s crosshairs. But to do that, we have to find our folks first. And so far there’s only one place we can think of that Omega would bring war criminals:
The city.
We have to go back.
Chapter One
If you’ve ever tried hiking in the mountains, you know that it doesn’t take long for your leg muscles to start burning and your hand to start reaching for your water bottle. After a couple of hours of climbing uphill, you’ll take a rest, contemplate heading back and renting a motorcycle, and then decide to tough it out.
You’ll reach your destination, eat a picnic lunch with Cheetos and Gatorade, take a few random pictures of the carpenter ants that have crawled up your arm, and hike back down. You’ll get in your car, drive home, and that’s the end of it.
For me? Not so much.
My life has been a perpetual walk-a-thon since December of last year. And considering it’s now February, I wouldn’t mind pigging out on a picnic lunch with a bunch of fried chicken and a few gallons of Sprite.
But I never get a break. Even now, I’m pushing my way through a big field of golden grass in the foothills right below what used to be Sequoia National Park. It’s freezing – there’s ice on the ground – and the sun is just coming up over the horizon.
“Could you slow down for two seconds and let me catch my breath?” I pant, placing my hands against my waist. “I’m shriveling up back here!”
Chris turns around. He shoves stray pieces of hair away from his face, looking more than a little annoyed with my complaining. He’s wearing a wool shirt under a thick leather jacket, pants tucked into his combat boots. His hair is pulled tight into a ponytail, accentuating the angles of his face.
“Sweat it out, Cassidy,” he says, not sympathizing. “We’re almost there.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re like a fitness maniac.”
He snorts, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his arms, and starts walking again. At six foot four, he towers over me by more than a foot, which makes it even harder for me to keep up with his pace. One of his steps is like three of mine.
“Could you at least not take gigantic strides?” I ask, jogging beside him. “I can’t keep up.”
He rolls his eyes. Even in the near darkness he looks handsome, his goatee thicker than it used to be, his green eyes bright against his dirty blonde hair. He’s also ten years older me, and I like to think of him as my boyfriend.
Technically, labeling someone your “boyfriend” at this point in time is about as worthless as paper money, but I like to pretend that at least one thing about our situation is normal. Chris is twenty-eight, I’m just nineteen. He’s a former Navy Seal with a serious reputation for kicking butt.
I, on the other hand, am an abandoned teenager with a reputation for whining about cold temperatures and suffering obscene taco cravings. And trust me, since there’s no such thing as Taco Bell anymore, I’ve been left with serious withdrawals.
“It’s totally insane anyway,” I mutter. “We’ll never make it there in one piece.”
“We don’t have a choice.” He shoots me a stern, disciplinary look. I get that a lot from him. “You know that.”
I exhale, creating a small white cloud over my mouth.
“Yeah. I know.”
And I do. I just didn’t think we’d be able to come to a decision to pull it off.
Rescue our families from Omega, I mean.
When the electromagnetic pulse hit in December, the world pretty much died. The modern world, that is. An electromagnetic pulse, or an EMP, is an invisible energy wave that disables all forms of technology based in computer mechanics. Your cellphone, your laptop, your television, your cars, your generators, your radios. Everything dies instantly. Nothing works. Helicopters, airplanes, buses, trains, trucks, satellites, you name it. Anything with a computer chip. And the worst part of it is that once something’s been hit with an EMP, it’s fried forever. You can’t revive a computer once it’s been killed. It’s gone.
An EMP hit the entire United States. For all I know, it could have hit the whole world. I was in Culver City, California when it happened. Right down the street from Hollywood and Wilshire Boulevard ordering Chinese takeout. Planes started falling out of the sky like nuclear bombs. Everyone panicked. I only got out of the city because my dad, as a military guy and a doomsday prepper (yeah, I had one of those parents), always insisted that we be prepared in the case of a national emergency.
I threw a bunch of emergency go-bags in the back of my old Mustang – which is EMP-proof because it doesn’t have a computer based electronic ignition – and booked it. I was separated from my dad, but we’d had a plan in case anything like this ever happened: Meet at our family cabin in the mountains.
Plans rarely pan out. Especially for me. I’m like a bad karma magnet, something Chris can attest to. I met him when I was escaping the city. He was wounded, I helped him, and in exchange for a ride to his family’s home in the foothills, he helped me survive.
Too bad our car got stolen by a group of desperate rioters. We had to travel by foot, and in the process, we passed by Omega emergency relief camps. Only they were being used as concentration camps, killing people off. Taking over. We came to the conclusion that maybe Omega sent out the EMP as an excuse to take control of everything and yeah…they pulled it off.
Long story short, now Chris and I are on the run from Omega. My dad, as far as I know, was taken by Omega officials and imprisoned as a war criminal because he wouldn’t go to a “relief camp.” Chris’s family, his parents and his brother, were taken, too. Their house was burned down. A friend of ours named Isabel was also arrested.
So now it’s just the two of us.
We’ve been keeping a low profile in the foothills for about two months. Omega officials would love to arrest us and ship us off to a happy harmonious death camp, but we’re not really into the whole execution-without-a-trial thing.
We’re not even criminals. The only thing that sets us apart from the masses is that we chose to avoid the concentration camps and stayed off the radar rather than take the bait. That makes us a target, I guess.
Sucks to be us.
Chris, as a Navy Seal and a special ops guy, has kept us fed. The dude can make a meal out of a piece of grass. It might not be great for the taste buds, but his skills have kept us alive. And I’m learning from him, too.
I’m pretty good at finding shelter, locating at least something edible, and keeping away from danger. But while I tend to go into shock in the middle of an intense situation, Chris is the one who goes into battle-mode and takes control, usually saving both our butts.
So, yeah. He’s cooler than me. Before the EMP, that would have bothered me a lot more than it does now. I would have had to one-up him at everything, but since my life depends on things like finding food or avoiding getting shot by an Omega soldier, I just don’t go there.
Conversely, Chris is way out of my league. If we hadn’t been forced together when the end of the world came crashing down around our ears, there’s not a chance he would have been romantically interested in me. I mean, I’ve never been into self-deprecation, but I’m not exactly dream girl material. I never had a friend in my life, and my idea of a wild night out on the town was picking up Starbucks before hanging out at the library for three hours, reading Edgar Allan Poe.
My social life was a little lacking, obviously.
Chris, if doomsday hadn’t popped in to pay us a visit, would be dating some hot swimsuit poster girl for the Navy otherwise. He’s that gorgeous.
To me, at least.
When you’re in love with somebody, it’s hard to see anything wrong with them. Even though I’m crazy about him, I can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s only interested in me because we’ve been forced together. Literally. Our families are both in a prison somewhere, if not dead, and we’re the only ones who care enough to find them. We need each other, and that makes the lines between friendship and romance blur. I mean, you spend twenty-four seven with somebody for three months and see what happens.
So what’s our plan? How are we even going to find the prison or camp that our families have been taken to? We don’t really know. We just figure that they’ll do it somewhere they can publicize it, where they can make an example of their “criminals” and scare people into submission.
There’s only one place we can go to look for our families: the city. But what city? What state? What building? It’s an impossible rescue mission, but thinking about it and working towards it – even if it’s never going to happen – gives us something to hold onto.
It gives us hope.
Chapter Two
My grandpa used to have a favorite quote. “Give me a ship and a star to sail her by.” Well, I just want a car. Any car. A decrepit piece of junk from an underhanded car dealer would be better than what we have: Nothing.
Nothing but our feet and a couple of pairs of socks that are worn through with holes. I’m tired of eating whatever scraps we find in the wilderness. I want a Big Mac and a strawberry smoothie. Unfortunately for me, the rations in my backpack aren’t doing anything to grant my wish. After two months, all I’ve got left is a handful of camping materials, some water purifying tablets, a knife (a gift from Chris’s brother, Jeff) and a plastic bag with one serving of coffee.
We’ve been saving that last one for a special occasion.
Lately we’ve been doing our hiking, hunting or foraging – whatever we’re doing to keep alive – during the night. It keeps us from freezing to death by staying active, and it’s easier for us to avoid detection if we’re not skipping across an open field in broad daylight.
Right now it’s barely dawn. Streams of early morning sunlight are breaking through the fog, giving everything a weird in-between appearance of day and night. On the edge of the field there’s a worn chain link fence. It’s the property line of a trailer park, and for us, it’s going to be our camping area all day.
“I hope there aren’t any creeps hanging around here,” I murmur.
“They won’t live long,” Chris replies.
I wait for him to smile, but apparently he’s not joking. I decide to blame it on exhaustion as we approach the chain link fence surrounding the property. It’s falling apart in some places so we’re able to squeeze between gaps in between the metal. The trailer park is dotted with trees and picnic benches. Useless cars are parked near most of the houses, and by the looks of the broken blinds in some of the windows – and the condition of some of the trailers – it’s hard to tell if everything’s been vandalized since the EMP or if this was just a bad area.
There are no voices, no sounds. But it’s early and most people, if there’s anybody here, will be sleeping at this hour. Chris waves me forward as we creep between the trailers, pausing beneath windows or doors, listening for sounds. How are we supposed to tell if anybody is inside? I whisper this question into Chris’s ear. He shrugs. “Look through the window.”
“Are you kidding? All of your tactical knowledge and expertise comes down to sticking my head through a window?”
“Look, I’m tired,” he says, stifling a yawn. “I checked this place out earlier.”
“What? When?”
“When you fell asleep last night… when you were supposed to be keeping watch.”
“Ah. Right.” I cough. “Sorry.”
“Go ahead,” he says, challenging me. “Look.”
I sigh, hating when he makes me do things just to keep my confidence levels up. Must be a military thing. I creep underneath a trailer window without curtains or blinds, slowly bringing my eyes over the windowsill. I peer through the dirty glass, seeing nothing but an empty living room.
“Looks safe,” I say, giving him a thumbs up.
Chris nods.
“It is.” He stands up and strolls up to the front door, working with the doorknob for a few seconds before popping the lock. “After you.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?”
He finally laughs.
“Cassie, I was here earlier. I wouldn’t send you into a trailer cold turkey, would I? I’m just messing with you.”
I raise an eyebrow. He chuckles again, swinging the door open and taking the first few steps into the trailer. I wait at the threshold, listening for any suspicious sounds. I stifle a scream when Chris jumps out of the shadows, grabbing my shoulders. “Gotcha.”
I rake my hands through my hair, heart racing.
“That was not funny,” I say, feeling sick. “I really didn’t need that.”
“Yeah, you did. Don’t let your guard down for a second. Remember that.”
“Sure, sure.”
Chris slides two fingers under my chin, tilting my head up.
“I’m just trying to help you,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
I lick my lips, wondering how a guy so logical can get so much enjoyment out of scaring the crap out of me. Only a man.
“Dusty,” I remark, wrinkling my nose and closing the door behind me. The trailer home looks nearly thirty years old, complete with wallpaper from the 80s. There’s a tiny kitchen, a living room with puke green carpet and a hallway in the back of the house. “I’m guessing this place hasn’t been cleaned since it was built.”
“Probably an accurate assumption,” Chris replies, dropping his gear on a couch. “Whoever was living here is long gone.”
“What about food and water?”
“Let’s check it out.” Chris shrugs his jacket off, keeping his favorite knife sheathed in a strap around his thigh. “Here.” He helps me remove my backpack, rubbing my sore shoulders for a few minutes. I lean against his chest, finding myself wrapped into a warm hug.
“You don’t hug me enough,” I sigh.
Totally embarrassing. But hey, it’s the truth.
I feel his mouth turn up into a smile against my forehead. He draws his hands up my arms, pausing to assess me from head to toe. “You’re right,” he says at last, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. “I don’t.”
I laugh.
“Come on. Let’s get some dinner.”
Chris looks extremely disappointed when I slip out of his embrace and walk into the kitchen. Everything smells stale and pungent. A few dirty coffee mugs are sitting in a sink that dried up long ago. Post-it notes and magnets are stuck all over a dead fridge.
“I wonder who lived here,” I whisper, struck by the weirdness of standing in somebody else’s home without permission. “I wonder how old they were.”
Chris shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, watching me carefully. I bend down and open up some of the oak cabinets, finding dishes and junk. There’s nothing in the fridge that’s not already rotten, but in a cupboard above the dishwasher, Chris finds some canned goods.
“What have we here?” he muses, tossing me a can.
“Pears!” I exclaim, excited. “And beans. Okay, wait. Pears, beans and soup.”
“But what kind of soup? That’s the question.”
“Corn chowder. It’s still good.”
“Let’s get cooking then.”
So we do. As strange as it is to camp inside somebody’s old trailer home, I adjust quickly. Anything’s better than sleeping outdoors again. The winter has been brutal – lots of rain, snow and fog. Being able to take my shoes off and walk around on the carpet feels great. No mud, no ice, and no bugs.
Chris is in an unusually good mood, which means he finds plenty of reasons to tease me about my non-existent cooking skills. But let’s face it. There’s not a lot you can do with canned food during an apocalypse.
“Smells good,” Chris says, studying a heavy mirror in the living room. “Hey, Cassidy…?”
I recognize a level of sneakiness in his voice, so I turn around.
“What?”
“Ever leave a secret message in a mirror?”
“Please. That’s a Boy Scout trick.”
“Boy Scout?” Chris feigns an offended expression. “Honey, I was an Eagle Scout. It’s not just a simple trick.” He leans against the wall. “I left a lot of messages for my mom on the bathroom mirror…” he trails off, swallowing.
Silence fills the room. I know what he’s thinking. Is his mother even alive?
I blink back tears and get back to cooking. I can’t think about that right now. There’s no electricity, obviously, but the gas line to the house is still good so all I have to do is open the burner and light the stove with a match. I’m cooking the beans and soup in one of the pots I found above the sink.
“Hand me those bowls, will you?” I ask, gesturing to a stack of plastic mixing bowls I dug out of the cupboards. “We’ll split everything.”
I give a bowl of soup and beans to Chris, and I take what’s left of it.
“Gourmet food,” I say, raising my bowl in a toast. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Chris can’t find any silverware so we just tip the bowls back and sip the hot food. It’s delicious, and it trumps eating a field rodent or some random plant any day.
“So what now?” I ask, the two of us lounging on the beat up sofa in the living room. “Are we going to live the rest of our lives in an abandoned trailer park?”
“Not a bad idea, actually,” Chris smiles. “I can think of worse things than being trapped in a confined space with you.”
“Your attempts at flirting are falling flat,” I say, sticking my tongue out. But I’m lying. I love it when he flirts with me. “I’m serious. What’s our next move?”
“There’s not a lot we can do.” Chris finishes up the rest of his soup, rubbing his chin. “We don’t know where they are. We don’t even know if they’re —”
“—Don’t,” I interrupt, nausea spreading in my chest. “They’re alive.”
Chris says nothing, just picks up our empty bowls and walk into the kitchen. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach every time we bring this up, but we can’t wander aimlessly in the wilderness for all eternity. We have to have a plan. We need to at least find someplace to live so we don’t freeze to death when winter comes around again.
“What if they took them to Los Angeles?” I say.
“What if they took them to San Jose? Or San Bernardino? Or San Francisco?” Chris stalks out of the kitchen, clearly not in the mood to discuss the loss of our families. “They could be anywhere. We don’t have a choice but to stay here and be smart, Cassidy. Impulsive action will get us killed. We have to be patient and thoughtful. We can’t rush into anything.”
I fold my arms around my knees, pressing my face into my legs. Over the past couple of months, I’ve stopped crying about losing dad and the Young family. I’ve become almost numb to the entire idea of being alone. It’s amazing how fast I’ve adjusted to living in a post-apocalyptic world. It makes me wonder if I spent way too much time reading fiction when I was in high school – reality just doesn’t freak me out anymore.
“Cassie?” Chris gently slides his hands through my hair, pushing back the scarf tied around my forehead for warmth. “We can’t go looking for people who’ve completely vanished. Our focus right now is surviving. If we put ourselves in unnecessary danger, we’ll get killed.”
“Is that what they taught you in the Navy?” I ask.
“Yes.” He pauses. “I’m sizing up the odds, Cassie. They’re not in our favor.”
“But—”
“—They’re not in our favor yet. Don’t give up. We’re alive, right?”
“Yeah. Big whoop.”
He frowns. “It is. A lot of people would love to be us.”
I crawl forward and lay my head against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. It’s kind of a summary of who Chris is as a person: Steady. Reliable. Confident.
Logical.
“What do we do until then?” I whisper.
“We stay alive,” he replies, wrapping his arms around me, tracing his fingers down the curve of my back. “Deal?”
I nod.
“Deal.”
I get a temporary feeling of security with those words. Granted, I don’t really believe that everything’s going to be all rainbows and lollipops if we start thinking positively, but we need to focus on one thing at a time.
I fall asleep snuggled into Chris’s warmth, lulled to sleep by his breathing and the sound of a strong wind slapping tree branches against the trailer roof. At around four in the morning, Chris stirs, stretching one arm behind his head. “Could be another storm,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with sleep. “You warm enough?”
I shrug.
He gets off the couch, walking into the hallway. Out of respect – and maybe a little bit of superstition – I haven’t ventured into the bedrooms of the house yet. It seems wrong, somehow.
“Where are you going?” I demand.
“Getting blankets,” he calls back, and I hear him moving stuff around. Curiosity gets the better of me and I walk across the living room, still sleepy. I poke my head into the first bedroom. There’s a king size bed and a matching dresser. Pictures have been taken off the wall, but besides that, it looks like most of the belongings of the couple that lived here are still intact.
“What I’d give to sleep in a bed,” I remark.
“So do it.” Chris kicks his boots off, rolling onto the mattress. “I forgot what it was like to sleep on a bed. Get over here, Cassidy.”
“I’m not sleeping on a bed with you.”
“In a bed with me.” He pulls back the covers, waving me over. “It’s warm.”
I roll my eyes, looking over the contents of the dresser. A string of faux pearls is hanging on a jewelry tower. A half-empty perfume bottle is tilted sideways against a wooden box full of earplugs and defunct hearing aids. Apparently whoever lived here was on the older side.
“I wonder where they went,” I say. “If they took all their stuff, maybe they had a working car.”
“Probably.” Chris spreads his arms across the pillows. “Cassidy?”
“Hmm?”
“Come here.”
My hand hovers over a stainless steel bracelet etched with the name Annalisa. I slip it over my wrist, realizing how long it’s been since I’ve worn any jewelry. Well, besides the necklace Chris gave me…and I put it back. I can’t bring myself to take anything out of this house. It’s just not right.
I walk over to Chris. He’s conveniently propped up on his side, waiting for me to crawl in bed. “Trying to seduce me or something?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Obviously.” Chris offers a handsome smile, hooking his thumbs around my belt loops, pulling me forward. “What are you so afraid of?”
I swallow, suddenly feeling very warm. I brace myself against his shoulders, Chris leaning up and kissing the bottom of my chin. I close my eyes, relaxing into him, just as he presses his lips against mine. The heat of the kiss is intense – different than when I kissed him earlier – as he pulls me closer, tighter. I link my hands together behind his neck, Chris rubbing comforting circles into my arms.
“Chris,” I say, breaking the embrace.
“Mmm?” He strokes the side of my face with his finger.
“I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Are you kidding?” He grins, sitting up, holding me in his lap. “And miss out on all this?”
“Exactly,” I breathe, hot. “I just...I’m tired. Okay?”
“Really?” Chris looks amused. “Come on. Stay.”
“No.”
He presses the tip of his nose against mine, closing his eyes.
“I’ve been sleeping beside you for months,” he says. “Whether it’s in the snow or on a bed doesn’t really make a difference, does it?”
I take a shaky breath, my hormones going wild.
“This is different,” I insist.
And it is. If there’s one thing I know about Chris, he does things all the way. He doesn’t stop. He’s the logical, steady man when it comes to any situation except…well, this. I may – possibly (probably) – be in love with the man, but I’m only nineteen. He’s twenty-eight, he’s ready for this kind of thing. And I’m not.
Not yet.
“Sorry,” I say, kissing his forehead. “But it’s the couch for me.”
“Cassie,” he replies, laughter rumbling in his chest. “I’m not going to—”
“—Don’t even say it!” I cut in. “Please.”
“Say what?”
Thank God it’s dark in here. I’m blushing fire engine red.
“I’m not talking about that with you,” I say, shifting back.
“You’re too easy to read, Cassie.” He grins again. “Extremely easy.”
“Not that easy.” I swing my legs around and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m just saying…I don’t…” I rub my temples. “Never mind. Goodnight.”
Unperturbed, Chris keeps his arms around my waist.
“Trust me,” he says.
I turn around to face him, his voice getting soft. He’s making it hard to say no to him. “Fine,” I reply, squeezing his hand. “I trust you.”
I slip under the heavy quilt of the bed – having a blanket is almost better than having hot food – and Chris lays his arm across the pillow. I rest my head against his bicep, comfortable just lying close enough to take in his scent of spice and coffee.
“Goodnight, Cassidy,” he says, his voice teasing. Fingering my shirt.
“Goodnight.”
As I fall asleep, all I can think is,
One of these days I’m going to get the hang of this love thing.
The next morning I wake up alone in bed. Groggy, I sit up and make a note of the fact that it’s gray and foggy outside. For the fifty-millionth time. “Chris?” I slip out of the covers and place my feet on the floor, yawning. I glimpse my reflection in the dresser mirror. Bad hair day.
Bad hair month.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping into the living room. Chris is dressed in his jacket and boots, checking his weapons – or as I like to call them, his “arsenal of awesome.”
“Hello?” I fold my arms over my chest, glancing at his face. “What’s wrong? Are we in trouble?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Cassie,” he grins. “Relax.”
“Then what’s up with all the weaponry?”
“I’m hungry.” He gestures towards the kitchen. “I need more than veggies and soup to keep alive. I’m going hunting. You stay here, okay?”
“Are you kidding? You could be gone for hours.”
“Most likely.”
He slings his gun over his back, picking up a few more, leaving me with a couple of knives and a rifle that’s about twice my size. “Go back to bed. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
“Can’t I come?”
Chris shakes his head, fighting a smile.
“No. You’re a little too impatient for hunting.” He moves in to press a kiss against my cheek. “See you later. Do not leave the trailer. Don’t draw attention to yourself. I’ll be back by sundown.”
“And if you’re not?”
“You stay here and wait for me until I show up. Period.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Stick to the plan.”
“Be careful,” I warn.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a Boy Scout salute before heading out the door. I lock it behind him, uncomfortable being alone in an abandoned house by myself. So I start digging around in the kitchen, searching for the rest of the canned goods.
Bavarian sauerkraut.
Okay. Not exactly an appetizing name.
I set the can aside and decide that I’ll only be eating the contents if it’s the only food I can find in the kitchen. Thankfully, I come across some cans of fruit and vegetables in one of the cupboards, sparing me the misery of eating the sauerkraut. I eat it cold, feeling a rush of energy come with the sugar.
The day is long and boring without Chris around. I’ve got nobody to talk to besides myself – which makes me feel like I’ve gone crazy– so I resort to reading some of the books lying around the home. Whoever lived here had really dull taste in books. Nothing but poetry about forgotten love and a framed magazine article from Reader’s Digest. Inspirational stuff.
I actually do end up taking a nap through the afternoon. I guess I’m more tired than I thought I was. By the time evening rolls around, I’m antsy, bored and in dire need of a television or computer.
It’s sucks to be a survivor of an EMP. There’s nothing to do.
“This is riveting,” I mutter, flicking a crumb across the kitchen table.
But when nighttime comes, I start to get worried. Tick, tock. My mental clock is ticking – loudly. Chris said he’d be back by nighttime. With dinner. I pace the living room a few times, playing with my knife, fiddling with the ends of my hair. Reading poetry again. Cleaning the living room window with a rag.
At around eight o’clock, Chris still hasn’t returned. I’m not worried in the normal sense. More like concerned. Maybe he got hurt and it’s taking him a long time to limp back to the trailer. Maybe he ran into a gang. Maybe there was nothing to hunt so he decided to travel farther away from the trailer park to find food.
