Текст книги "State of Emergency"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

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.”