Текст книги "State of Emergency"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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“Where are you hurt?” I ask.

“Stomach. I think. Got…stabbed.”

He’s been stabbed? God, what am I supposed to do? What’s going to happen to us? We’re going to die, that’s what.

Shut up, Cassidy, I snap. Chris is always the one who takes control of the situation. Now it’s your turn. Man up and save both of your butts before you turn into snow sculptures.

I can’t really explain what happens, but all of the sudden I feel angry about our situation, and that gives me the energy to press on. We keep walking until we literally walk headfirst into some kind of giant boulder. I slam my fist against it and cuss it out before I realize something: It’s blocking the wind.

I drop, trembling from head to toe like a Chihuahua, and zip open my backpack. I find my flashlight and flick it on, shedding some light on the subject. It’s almost impossible to make out anything, but I set the flashlight on the ground and start digging with my hands. I dig and dig and dig until I have a trench about five feet wide and seven feet long. By that point it’s been about thirty minutes and Chris is still breathing hard.

I pull out our portable blankets and a couple of those cheap hand warmer packages you can get from dollar stores. I snap them on and shove a few of them down my shirt and Chris’s. I shine the flashlight over his coat, but I don’t see any wound. I can’t move my fingers enough to unbutton his coat, so I just roll it up. There is a bloody spot on the right of his stomach.

Feeling nauseated, I manage to see enough of it to realize that although it might be painful, the cut isn’t that deep. I look at Chris’s face. He’s pale, and his eyes aren’t focusing.

What he’s really suffering from is a concussion.

“Chris…come on,” I pant, easing him into the trench. He lies down on his back and I curl up beside him. He slips his arm underneath me and holds me close.

“You know more about survival than you let on,” he breathes, his lips curving upward.

I would grin if I could move my facial muscles.

I take the blankets and spread them out over us, snuggling into the miniature snow trench I’ve created. That, combined with the giant boulder or whatever it is, keeps the biting wind from killing us.

We should conserve just enough heat to make it through the night.

I hope.

Freezing to death was never on my list of top ten ways to die. No, my number one way to die was being wrapped in an electric blanket with Food Network on in the background.

This is so not as comforting.

The good news is, it’s morning. I can actually see the trees and the snow. I can still feel my limbs, and Chris seems to be recovering from being smacked in the head by those crazed thugs from Tasha’s. The snow is falling softly now. The wind let off during the night, and now I’m lying on my side, propped up on one arm.

Chris is smiling at me, which means he’s got to be feeling better. And while it may not be anywhere near sunbathing temperature, I don’t feel as cold as I did last night.

“You scared me,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were dying.”

“I probably was.” He grins. “But you knew that.”

“Shut up.”

He lifts himself up, wincing a little bit. Other than that, he looks as sexy as ever. “You perform well under pressure,” he remarks. “The trench was smart. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I felt like I was immobilized.”

“You got your bell rung,” I say dryly, echoing my dad.

One time I’d fallen off a playground slide and slammed my head against the cement. My dad had told me I’d gotten my “bell rung,” and I had no idea where I was or who I was for a couple of hours.

I take a good look around. A few snowflakes fall on my nose, reminding me that the cute little pieces of fluff can turn vicious in just a few minutes.

“I know where we are,” I say, shocked. “My dad and I hiked here from our cabin last year.”

I stand up, stiff, and Chris follows my lead. There’s no logical reason for me to recognize one grove of trees from the other, but I know this place. Because the big rock that saved our lives is the same one I took my picture on last year.

“It’s Lizard Rock,” I say, awed.

“Excuse me. Lizard Rock?” Chris repeats, giving me a weird look.

“During the summertime it’s crawling with little lizards,” I reply. “You know. Miniature Godzillas.”

I climb up the side of the rock, careful not to slip on any of the ice.

“I’m king of the rock,” I exclaim, feeling playful. “And I know how to find the cabin from here. Follow me, please.”

Chris doesn’t look as amused as I am, but he follows me anyway. We walk through the bushes and undergrowth, trying to avoid leaving footprints behind. The new snow will cover the tracks eventually, but if there’s anybody still actively hunting for us, it’s better to play it safe.

We make a long hike uphill. Chris still seems a little off, concentrating more on his steps than me.

“What did you get hit with?” I ask. “Was it more than one guy?”

“It was three guys, and it was their fists,” he replies.

“Yeah, but you kicked their butts, didn’t you?”

He ghosts a smile at me.

“Ha. I knew it. You did kick their butts,” I laugh. “I did, too. Kick butt, that is.”

“How many did you bring down?”

“Well, we can’t all bring down seven in one blow, oh mighty tailor,” I quip. “But I got away from one of them. Jeff’s knife saved my life.”

Chris gives me a strange look.

“You’ve changed.”

“What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer.

“How much longer, Cassidy?” he asks.

“We’ll be there by nighttime,” I reply. “We must have walked miles in the storm. We’re a lot closer to it than we were at Tasha’s death trap.”

“I think that place is a front,” he muses. “Refugees trying to get away from Omega camps and the military executions are going to run to the mountains. She’s using it as a way to turn people in toOmega.”

“That’s sick,” I say, disgusted. “I can’t believe any of this is even happening.”

“But it is.”

Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be risking my life snow camping in the middle of nowhere with a parka and a backpack full of hand warmers.

Needless to say, we both find it hard to accept the crappy new world. After a few hours of hiking, I ask a question that’s been eating at me for the last few days.

“Do you think you would have been forced to join the new regime if you would have been active duty?” I ask, glancing at Chris. “I mean, they’re using our own military against us, right? They would take control of every branch. You’d be forced to kill civilians.”

Chris sighs, sounding tired when he speaks.

“Yes, but there will be a lot of soldiers who will refuse to turn their weapons on their own people,” he refuses. “And they’ll probably die for it.”

“How many people do you think planned this takeover?” I say. “Seriously, it’s got to be more than just California. I’ll bet all of the other states got hit with the EMP, then people panicked, they brought in the military, and everything just fell into place. It’s, like, genius.”

Chris nods.

“It is. It’s also simple, but who would have thought our own government would hit us with an EMP?” He shakes his head. “All we can do now is fight.”

“You mean literally or metaphorically speaking?”

He grins.

“Both.”

When I press him on the subject, he won’t go into detail. I hope he’s not planning to storm anOmega camp and start throwing tomatoes at the officials. Because that’s not exactly what I’d call a fabulous rebellion.

We hike for what seems like an eternity before I stop, staring at the ground.

“Chris.”

He kneels beside me, tracing his finger along the snow.

“A footprint,” he says. “Look.”

He points to a lot more. My chest seizes up, fear spiking through my system.

“Omega?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. These are fresh. Not more than an hour.”

I close my eyes.

Really? Again?

“Keep going,” Chris tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s going to get dark and there’s no reason for us to stop walking.”

I shudder – but it’s definitely not from the cold.

It’s late afternoon, which means it’s getting dark already. The temperature is dropping by the second.

“We’re here,” I breathe, anticipation making me feel like I’m going to vomit.

Dad. He’s right over this hill.

We climb up a little knoll lined with thick Manzanita bushes. It’s also extra dark, surrounded by redwoods, firs, cedars and pines. Nestled inside everything is a little cabin made out of clapboard wood. There’s no road leading up to it – just a trail that disappears every year with each storm.

It’s our cabin.

I whoop with joy, tears coming to my eyes. It seems like it took fifty years to get here. “We made it!!” I say, throwing my arms around Chris’s waist. “Yes!”

Chris shakes me by the shoulders, not looking as excited as me. In fact, he looks like an outright downer, judging by his not-so-happy face.

“Cassidy, think,” he replies. “There are footprints everywhere. We might not be alone.”

It takes me a few seconds to absorb his words because honestly, for just a tiny bit I forgot about doom and destruction and felt victorious.

And now back to the drawing board.

Chris waves me back, warning me to stay behind his shoulder. He whips his macho rifle out and locks and loads. “What are you going to do? Shoot people?” I ask. “That will really be discreet.”

He rolls his eyes.

We both approach the cabin at an angle, staying away from the windows. The area around the cabin is coated in thick snow, and even though I can barely make them out, the remnants of footprints are all over the place.

They’ve got to be my dad’s. There’s no other explanation.

Chris edges up against the cabin edge, looking dangerous. We both listen for sounds inside the cabin. Hearing nothing, we both drop to our stomachs and crawl underneath the front windows.

Still no sounds.

My heart is pretty much beating in my throat, banging like a cymbal inside my chest. Chris draws himself up to his full height, casting a glance at me. He shrugs, as if to say, “what have we got to lose?” and kicks in the door.

The whole door crashes and shudders…because it’s not locked. I spring up, panic tearing through me. No, no, no, no, no. I shove in front of Chris and run inside. It’s got one room with an open loft above the kitchen. There’s a table, a fireplace and a bunch of bedding stacked against the wall.

But it’s empty.

I spin around in a circle, looking at Chris. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s looking at the back of the door, which has just shut behind us. There’s a white piece of paper nailed to it – like some kind of warrant straight out of Robin Hood.

I walk up to and tear it off, hands shaking.

Oh, my god…

Under Penalty of the LAW:

A Warrant of Arrest for

FRANK HART

For storing and hoarding supplies rightfully allotted to emergency services, possessing dangerous weapons, and failing to enroll in Omega’s urgent CENSUS.

This property is hereby confiscated by the

FEDERAL GOVERNMENT

For use in emergency relocation programming and redistricting.

FURTHER

A WARRANT OF ARREST for

CASSIDY ELEANOR HART

And

CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

Co-conspirators wanted for defamation, treason, attempted murder, and hoarding.

“They expected to find us here with him,” I say, panicking. “My god, Chris. They took him. They arrested him. They killed him.”

I’m breathing in and out so fast that I’m actually choking on my own air. And why shouldn’t I? My worst nightmare has just come true. Not that I didn’t know that this was a likely scenario, but standing here, seeing it happen…it’s worse than a nightmare. It’s inescapable.

“You don’t know that,” Chris replies, grabbing me. He literally holds me there and doesn’t let me move. “Look around you. There’s no sign of a struggle. He might not even be here yet.”

I stare at him, turning white with shock.

This is just too much.

But that’s before I see my dad’s backpack on the floor.

“No…” I whisper.

I break free of Chris’s arms and kneel on the ground. It’s a standard-issue survival pack, and I can see that most of the supplies are gone. My dad’s name is stitched on the side of it. I know, because I’m the one who talked him into getting the backpack personalized a few years ago.

Its contents are spilling all over the floor, and when I follow the line of debris from the backpack into the kitchen, I see a broken bowl on the floor.

“He was here,” I state, horrified. “They did take him. He’s as good as dead.”

I cover my mouth with my hands, feeling both traumatized and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t know that he’s dead,” Chris replies, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “Cassie…?”

I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I’m too busy crying my eyes out.

It’s all over.

Chapter Fifteen

When I was eight years, old, I watched a scary movie that my parents had specifically told me not to. I’d seen the DVD lying around the house and I thought I’d turn it on, and once I did, I couldn’t turn it off. Needless to say, I had the most horrible nightmares of my life.

My dad, instead of getting mad at me for watching the movie, brought me a nightlight and plugged it into the electric socket in my room. He even sang me a lullaby – and if you knew my dad, you knew that was special.

I kept that nightlight until the second the EMP hit. And now, all I can remember is how nice it was to have somebody to tell you that your nightmare wasn’t real. It’s okay to go back to sleep.

Sucks to be me. I’ve been crying into Chris’s shoulder for hours. Probably days. Maybe weeks.

Well, maybe just an hour or two, but you get the idea. We’re sitting on the floor of the cabin kitchen, cocooned in total darkness. I’ve got the hiccups from crying so much, and now that the panic and shock have worn off, empty despair has set in.

I feel totally numb, like I could die right now and I wouldn’t care. I’d almost welcome it.

“We’ll find him,” Chris keeps saying, over and over. “I promise. I won’t let them take him away from you.”

Thank God I have Chris. I would have never gotten this far without him, and if he weren’t here right now, I probably would have gone skydiving off the nearest cliff without a parachute the second I found out my dad had been arrested. He’s a good insurance policy.

“What now?” I whisper, hoarse.

“We sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Yes, you can. You’re exhausted. We both are.”

“I just lost everything.” I sniffle. “What’s the point of sleeping or eating or caring? They’re just going to keep taking things away from us until they kill us! First our cars, our cellphones, our houses. Then our lives. They’re not going to stop.”

“You’re wrong, Cassidy,” Chris replies, his voice even. “They haven’t taken everything from you or me. They haven’t taken us. Who we are. They can’t take our souls, and they can try to kill us and subjugate us, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.”

I take a shaky, painful breath.

“Why fight?” I ask. “They’ll kill us. Just like they killed all those people at the rest stop and in Bakersfield. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, out strategized. We’re screwed and you know it.”

“We’re alive,” Chris answers, taking my face between his hands. “We’re together. We’re a team, and they can’t change that.”

I suck in my breath, trying not to burst into tears again.

“We’re a team?” I echo, tired. “Are you sure about that?”

Chris chuckles. It’s an exhausted but sincere sound.

“I’m sure,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, tears running down my face.

“We’re a team,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I trust you.”

It’s true. I do trust him. I can’t think of anybody else who could have gotten me to this point without dying. Only a Navy Seal, I guess. At any rate, maybe I’ll feel differently about things in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel more optimistic. Maybe my dad is alive.

But finding him…how is that supposed to happen?

First rule of the new world: don’t hoard. All of the supplies that my dad and I brought to this cabin have been taken by Omega. Everything. Every drop of water, every flake of dehydrated chicken breast. All we’ve got is what Chris’s mom gave us, and even then it’s a miracle we’ve got anything left.

Apparently, nobody but the big dogs are allowed to have emergency supplies. Makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to subjugate people. What better way than to control the food supply?

 Try explaining that to the bottomless pit known as my stomach. I’m hungry.

It’s about eight o’clock at night. We’ve draped heavy blankets over the windows and stuffed rags in all the cracks around the doors. Only then do we light a couple of lanterns. I’m curled up on the loft bed above the kitchen, watching Chris get some food together. He’s making some coffee with our camping stove and heating up some biscuits.

“I’ll cook,” I volunteer, sliding down the ladder.

“Rest, Cassie,” he advises, without turning around. “You’re tired.”

“I don’t want to rest. And I happen to be a biscuit expert.” I sit on the edge of the makeshift counter. “Coffee at night? Really?”

“As soon as the storm settles down we need to get back home,” he replies, placing one hand on each side of me. “Are you up for that?”

No. Just the thought of doing anything right now is sickening.

“Sure,” I lie. “Sounds good.”

He raises his eyebrows, obviously not buying it.

“Coffee’s burning,” I mutter.

He turns around, snatching it off the stove before it scorches.

There are still some dishes left in the cupboard. Stuff from thrift stores that my dad I bought cheaply to bring up here. Fat lot of good it did. Without food or water…or dad…things are kind of pointless.

“Have you cleaned that knife wound?” I ask as he pours the coffee.

He hands me a cup.

“No,” he replies. “I was getting around to it.”

“Better hurry up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection and die,” I say, trying to smile.

Chris brushes my cheek with the back of his hand and nods. “You’re right.”

He walks to the other side of the cabin – which is only about twenty feet in length – and starts digging through his backpack. I take a sip of the coffee, almost spitting it out. “It’s bitter.”

“Coffee generally is,” Chris laughs, rolling the first aid kit out on the counter. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Why? Because it’s like a liquid drug? Trying to turn me into an addict?”

“That’s the plan.” Chris pulls of his jacket, revealing the bloodstain on his wool shirt. It’s not as bad as I thought. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not the addiction type.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.

“I was talking about the blood, Cassie.”

“Oh. Looks okay.”

He rolls up the shirt enough to get a good view of the cut – and his very nice stomach. It’s not very deep, but nicked enough to get infected if left untreated. Chris looks at me.

“Can you stitch it?” he asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat – I’ve never been good with first aid stitching – and nod. “Sure,” I say. “I need the antiseptic wipes.”

He dumps the first aid kit on the counter and opens his arms out wide.

“Be my guest.”

 I find the wipes, the needle, the thread. If you even call it thread. I stifle a shudder and flip open the emergency handbook. There are directions for stitching up a wound. I’ve practiced in the past on a dummy – a routine my dad periodically had me do because, “You just never know when you’re going to get gouged open with a knife.”

Thanks for the tip, dad.

I follow the instructions step by step, holding back a gag as I clean the wound and touch the disconnected piece of skin. So. Gross.

“This is disgusting,” I complain.

Chris just grunts.

I “accidentally” prick him with the needle before starting the stitching. I actually get really close to puking weaving in and out of the flesh, which just makes Chris laugh at me. When I’m done, I close the stiches up like the book says and set down the needle.

“There. You’re a regular ragdoll now.”

Chris inspects my handiwork. It’s a little uneven, but hey. At least I did it.

“Not bad,” he comments. “Thanks.”

He lets his shirt drop and I start cleaning the needle with an antiseptic wipe.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, putting everything back in the kit.

“Nah. You?”

“I didn’t get wounded,” I remind him.

“You know what I mean.”

I shut my mouth, not because I’m speechless, but because if I start to talk I’ll burst into tears. Again. And that’s so not happening. Instead I just shrug and slap the kit closed.

“Cassie, we’ll find him,” Chris says, touching my arm. “We got this far, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, and he wasn’t here.” I turn around, glad he can’t see my eyes watering up in the dim lighting. “Who knows where they took him, Chris? It could be anywhere in the whole country.” I run a hand through my hair and toss the first aid kit across the room. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

“There’s always something.”

Chris grabs my hand, pressing it against his chest. He’s warm, and I can feel his heart beating in a steady rhythm under his skin.

“Are we having a Tarzan moment?” I crack, not feeling the joke.

“As long as we’re both alive,” he says, tipping my chin up, “and our hearts are still beating, there’s still a chance. I won’t go down without a fight, and I know you won’t either. That gives us a chance, Cassie.”

I meet his firm gaze, and what I see there is encouraging. Exhaustion? Yes. A little uncertainty? You bet. But there’s also hope, and if Chris is still holding onto it, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly. Chris folds me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Listen to me,” he says. “Do you remember when we saw the dead bodies at the camp in Bakersfield?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“Those were systematic executions. There was no real reason for those. They do that to scare people into submission. Other people – like you and me – they’re going to make an example out of us. Just to scare the crap out of people. War criminals are perfect for that. People like you and me and your dad. Why the hell would they bother with an arrest warrant for the three of us when the military is killing whoever they want? Think about it. Three people out of billions? Why would they care where we go?”

I pull away and look into his face.

Light bulb.

“Because they need to keep the population under control,” I say, swallowing. “And killing off the few survivors or resistors will scare people from getting any ideas about rebelling.”

He leans closer, and I can smell the coffee on his breath.

“Exactly.” He brushes the hair out of my eyes. “And it’s a fact that they don’t usually execute those “examples” right away. They drag it out. They take them somewhere.”

My eyes widen.

“They take them to prison.”

“Someplace where they can publicize the whole thing.”

“But where?”

Chris smiles.

“I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

I groan. “Are you kidding me? We just got here! All I want to do is hibernate for the winter. Is that too much to ask?”

Chris places his hands on each side of my waist.

“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”

I grit my teeth. Even if there was any chance of locating my dad again, it would mean that we’d have to trek across the former heartland of California on foot through hostile territory. Again.

“We’ll wait until the storm dies down,” Chris tells me, almost like he can read my thoughts. “Then we’ll head back towards my house, check in with my parents, and try to figure this thing out. We’ll come up with a plan.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We always do.”