Текст книги "State of Emergency"
Автор книги: Summer Lane
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“Keep the doors locked,” he says calmly. “Just drive.”
The people, who are mostly bathed in shadow, are yelling angrily and running up to the car. They bang their fists against the windows. Even though I can’t make out one single discernable statement, it sounds to me like they’re saying, “We’re taking your car and we’re not giving it back.”
Just a guess.
“Alright, punch it!” Chris commands. “Right now.”
“I am!” I yell, coiled tight. I hit the accelerator and flip a U-turn, startled out when one of the people in the mob grabs onto the door handle and holds on as we gain speed. His shoes are scraping against the pavement.
“Don’t stop,” Chris warns. “That’s what he wants you to do.”
I look over my left shoulder and see a flash of a young man wearing a beanie in the window. His eyes are wild, desperate. And then he lets go. I hear something smack against the road. I feel bile rising in the back of my throat and urge to to stop, go back, and help him is overwhelming.
“Don’t do it,” Chris says, moving closer. There is no center console so he is right beside me. “That’s a mob out there. People are going to act like this for a long time until the power comes back on. They’ll take what you have if they can and leave you to die.”
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Tears spring up in my eyes. Stupid, stupid tears. “Why?” I manage to get out.
Chris studies my profile in the dark cab. Thinking.
“Because civilization as we know it is gone,” he says at last.
Chapter Three
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’m a realist. Most people would say that’s the same thing as being a pessimist, but it’s not. Really. I just look at something and don’t expect anything great to come of it. I’m just that way. If you hope for something good, you’re going to be disappointed. I side with reality and most of the time we get along just fine.
So naturally the end of the world as we know it doesn’t come as a complete shock to me, although it does put a serious question mark on whether or not I’ll be able to go bowling next Tuesday.
“So who do you think is behind this?” I ask Chris.
It’s about four in the morning. We have tried five different roads that lead out of Los Angeles. All of them have been blocked with mobs waiting to hijack working cars. Right now we’re trying the sixth route, and pretty soon I’m going to have to refill the gas tank.
“I heard something about the Chinese on the radio before we lost the signal,” I continue, yawning. “I bet they did it.”
“I don’t know.” Chris props his boot up on the dashboard. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why? Is there a secret love fest between China and America I don’t know about?”
“Look, I was in the military for nine years,” he replies. “I’ve seen a lot of different enemies of the United States around the world. I don’t think China is behind this.”
“Then who is?” I say, exasperated. “What if it’s not an attack? What if it’s just an accident?”
“You seriously think an electromagnetic pulse is an accident?” Chris chuckles. “Yeah, it could have been caused by a solar flare, but I doubt it.”
I snort.
“You don’t know any more than I do,” I say. “You’re just spit balling.”
“Who isn’t?” He looks out the window, staring into the distance. “This could be more widespread than we think. What if LA wasn’t the only city hit with this thing?”
I shiver.
“Then there’s no place to escape to.”
“Nah.” Chris turns back towards me. “This is the last route out of here. If it’s blocked…” He lets the sentence hang in the air between us. People are starting to act like maniacal psychopaths on the streets. It’s not safe to go back into the city. If there were any working cars, the freeways would be jammed to full capacity.
“Then what?” I ask, voicing our twin concerns.
“Then we find another way.”
I yawn again, feeling exhausted. This road is a two-lane highway that was probably built during the Babylonian Empire. It’s that outdated. It winds throughout the little hills that define Hollywood, dodging the freeways and dipping close to residential areas. Off in the distance there are sparks of orange light, signifying fires, explosions and the like.
“I haven’t seen any planes for a while,” I mutter.
“Most modern passenger planes have faraday cages,” Chris replies. “You know. They’re protected from EMPs.”
“Then what about the ones that fell out of the sky in Culver City?” I ask. “Those thing were like bombs.”
“They obviously weren’t protected well enough.” Chris stretches. “I can drive. You look like you’re going to fall asleep any second.”
“I probably am.”
“I’ll take over.”
“Sorry. Nobody drives the Mustang but me.”
Chris shakes his head. After another forty-five minutes we reach the other side of the hills, signifying the break out of Hollywood. I roll to a stop at the top of a rise, looking down over the beginning of the small mountain range separating Southern California from the rest of the state: Total darkness.
I just stare at it, my heart starting to race in my chest.
Who knows what’s out there? The freeway is probably jammed with a thousand accidents. Evacuees will be attempting to find transportation.
“Cassie?” Chris says.
I snap out of it.
“Yeah?” I reply, shaky. “I’m fine.”
But I’m so not. The world is coming to an end.
Who could be fine with that?
When late morning hits, I fall asleep at the wheel. We’ve spent the last three hours navigating some old halfway abandoned roads in the middle of nowhere in order to avoid jammed freeways and populated areas. It was a difficult thing to do, since the maps I have in the car aren’t specific when it comes to the back roads. So by the time the sun is getting warm enough to make me sleepy, I just can’t take it anymore.
My head lolls forward and hits the steering wheel. The next thing I know the whole car is jerking to the left and Chris’s hands are taking the controls as I come to my senses.
I choke on a gaspafter I realize what’s happened. Early morning sunlight is breaking over the road. It’s the kind of lighting that naturally puts you to sleep. I jerk backwards and Chris slams on the brakes, pulling the car to the side of the road.
Chris seems to realize that he’s almost sitting on top of me and draws back, flushing. “Let me drive,” is all he says. No chastisement. No lecture on how falling asleep at the wheel is worse than drinking a Frappuccino before bedtime.
As for me, my heart is beating out of my chest. I think I ruptured my nervous system. I just nod, mumbling something about having to use the restroom, and open the driver door. The air is crisp and cutting. Chris walks around the back of the car and, for the first time, I see my new traveling companion in daylight.
His skin is tanned, a thin scar trails from the inside of his wrist to his elbow. His eyes are green – electric green. I stand and stare at him for a full ten seconds with my mouth open like an idiot before realizing that he’s doing the exact same thing.
And the corner of his mouth is quirking upwards. My hands automatically fly to my face, trying to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks.
Being pale does little to hide emotions.
“It’s all yours,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “But if you crash or scratch her, I’ll shoot you.”
Placing his hand on the door above my head, he replies, “I’ll remember that.”
For one intense moment we lock gazes. I feel like a two-ton weight is dropped on my chest, unable to breathe, unable to move. Trapped between the car door and his body.
But I’m not, so I exhale and step away.
“I have to pee,” I say quickly.
In retrospect I realize that probably wasn’t the most seductive thing to say after a hot staring contest. But hey. The truth is the truth.
Chris smirks.
“Be my guest. I won’t steal the car.”
I blink. That actually hadn’t even occurred to me. Exhausted and traumatized from falling airplanes and malfunctioning cellphones, I shake my head. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, grinning. I pat my gun for effect, grab the car keys and walk off the asphalt.
When I’m done I walk back to the car, half expecting it to be gone. But Chris is still standing there, waiting patiently. I give him a funny look. Surprised, I guess, that he didn’t hotwire the car and supplies, I throw open the passenger door. “I’m impressed,” I mumble.
Chris slides behind the wheel.
“I knew you would be.”
A few strands of hair have escaped from his ponytail, accentuating the angles of his face. I’m tempted to reach out and brush them into place but I don’t. We’re not that chummy.
“So what’s in Squaw Valley for you?” I ask, closing my eyes.
He doesn’t answer right away. I curl up and lean my head against the window. “Family,” he replies.
“Don’t tell me. They’re doomsday preppers,” I quip.
“Something like that.” Chris raises an eyebrow. “You’re quite a prepper yourself.”
“Thanks to my dad,” I say, fighting the annoying tears that threaten to squeeze out every time I think about dad fighting his way out of Los Angeles. “He always believed we should be prepared for a national emergency.”
“Your father is a very wise man,” Chris nods. “Was he in the military?”
“For six years,” I reply. “Then he was a cop for thirty. Now he’s a private detective.”
“Impressive,” he says.
I close my eyes.
“Maybe.” I sigh. “Wake me up if you see anything alarming.”
“Like…?”
“Like an airplane dropping on our heads or a band of marauders on the side of the road.” I shrug. “Little things like that.”
Chris smirks.
“I’ll do that.”
“Good.”
I go to sleep. I nod off for about two hours. Fortunately, I’m so exhausted that I don’t have any nightmares – ironic, because I can’t help from waking up to one. One in which Los Angeles is without power and passenger airplanes are the new bombs of the 21st century.
At around 9:15 a.m. Chris suddenly shoves me on the shoulder. I slap his hand away, irritated. “What?” I slur. “Did I miss something?”
“You’ll want to see this,” he says, his voice calm.
I rub the crud out of my eyes and sit up. After a few blinks to clear my vision, I notice how slow Chris is driving. He’s watching something on the road straight ahead. We’re driving on the old highway that was pretty much abandoned after the massive Interstate was built into the Grapevine, the unofficial name for the mountains we find ourselves in. It’s like driving through the countryside, beautiful trees and tall grass swaying all around us.
And an object on the side of the road.
“Oh, my god!” I gasp. “It’s a baby carrier!”
It’s tilted sideways on the lip of the old road. There is also a diaper bag and an open suitcase. A dead car is sitting near all of it, its windows smashed out.
“We have to see if there’s a baby in there,” I say.
“It could be a trap.”
“A trap?” I roll my eyes. “Come on. It’s a baby! We can’t just drive by and not try to help.”
“Cassie…”
I open the door and step outside. Chris yells at me to stay put, swearing like a sailor. Appropriate, I guess, for a Navy Seal. I jog down the side of the road. Chris opens his door and runs after me, telling me in explicit terms to get back in the car.
“Cassidy, get the hell back in the car!” he yells.
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
I run up to the baby carrier and kneel down, pulling back the blanket. It’s empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” I say. “See? It’s okay.”
“Get back in the car,” Chris growls. “Now.”
“Sheesh. Whatever.” I stand up, dusting off my jeans. “You’re a little high-strung, you know that?”
Chris scowls.
“Don’t piss me off, kid.”
I glare at him.
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Chris steps forward and grabs my arm, half-walking, half-dragging me back to the Mustang. “Let go of me!” I say, angry. “That hurts.”
“It would have hurt worse if you were the people who were in that car.”
I look over at the wrecked car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think they stopped for, Cassie?” he points at the baby carrier. My eyes travel to the ravaged vehicle. I see the tip of a limp, white hand lolling out of the backseat. Droplets of blood are splattered across the broken glass on the ground. I gasp, hands darting to my mouth to keep from gagging.
“Oh, my god… what happened?”
“It’s called carjacking,” Chris says, walking me back to the car, physically turning me away from the horrible sight. “They use the baby carrier to get people out of their cars and onto the side of the road.”
I find myself choking on an embarrassing sob, more from the horror of the last fifteen hours than anything else. “How can everything change so fast?” I ask, a tear squeezing out. Chris opens the passenger door and catches the tear with his thumb, green eyes sad but serious.
“Nothing’s changed,” he says softly. “This crisis will just bring out the worst in people.”
He gestures for me to sit. I don’t argue, just sit down like a numbed zombie and snap the lock into place. Chris gets back in and pretty soon we’re picking up speed again. “Why didn’t they take the car?” I whisper. “Why did they lure them there if they were just going to kill them?”
Chris sighs.
“Their probably wasn’t enough gas left in the car for it to be useful,” he replies, his voice hard. “So they just killed them.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Why do you act so shocked?” he says. “Wasn’t your dad a cop for thirty years? Stuff like this is common in his world. Especially in LA.”
“This is different,” I answer, making a Herculean effort not to burst into erratic tears. “This is…psycho.”
Chris doesn’t answer. If he agrees with me he doesn’t show it. Everything about his body is tense, like a metal spring just waiting to be released. It makes me wonder how he would react if we end up getting jumped.
And killed.
“Is your brother a Seal, too?” I ask, feeling his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Trying to turn the conversation to something remotely normal
“No.” He presses his lips together. “He’s my little brother. Just graduated from High School.”
“Oh. What about your parents?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“Yeah, so what? How else am I supposed to get to know you?”
Chris shakes his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“We’ll need to refill the gas tank again in a minute,” he says, changing the subject. “How much you have left?”
I sigh.
“Enough to get us to Squaw Valley,” I reply. “But not to our cabin. And that’s only if we can avoid any more detours.”
“That could be a problem.”
“We can stop in a smaller city. Maybe the pulse only hit LA.”
“We can’t be sure.”
“Yeah, but if run out of gas things will really suck.” I shrug. “I’d rather take my chances in the city.”
Chris mulls the idea over in his head.
“Where’s the nearest city?” he asks.
I pull a map out of the passenger door pocket. After studying it for a little while I say, “There’s a place in Santa Clarita.”
“That’s right off the freeway,” Chris says. “We could get stuck in gridlock. It might be safer to just siphon off some gas from some of these abandoned cars.”
“But I want to see if Santa Clarita was affected by the EMP,” I point out. “It’s fairly remote. They have a gas station there. It might be a worth a shot.”
Chris doesn’t continue arguing with me, but I can tell he’s uneasy about the idea. Truthfully, so am I. But the more time elapses since the pulse hit, the more gas will continue to disappear from stations. The more people will panic and start raiding grocery stores for food and water, and the more anarchic society will become.
If this is indeed a widespread thing.
We’ll just have to find out how far the pulse reached, I guess.
Chapter Four
I’ve seen ghost towns that looked friendlier than this. It’s hard for me to believe that just fifteen hours ago Los Angeles and every freeway running in and out of the city was moving with 80 mile an hour traffic.
Santa Clarita, a little stretch of travel stops on the other side of the Magic Mountain rollercoaster park, is deserted. There are cars all over the interstate, many of them overturned or smashed together in giant piles. It looks a little like a junkyard. But there aren’t any people in sight. Not ambulances, helicopters or police cars.
Just an abandoned McDonald’s and a gas station.
Chris eases the Mustang down the road, keeping the window rolled down a few inches, listening. His face is pensive, his eyebrows drawn together.
“This is not normal,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. We just coast down the street, dodging a car that is crashed into a lamppost. I can see dark, thick skid marks all over the road. Some of them reach the sidewalk.
“At least we know that Santa Clarita was hit with the pulse, too,” I muse aloud. “We’re at least thirty-five miles out of L.A.”
This only makes Chris frown more.
“We’ll try the gas station,” he says. “But don’t count on finding any fuel.”
“I’m not.”
Chris drives up to the pumps and cuts the engine. We both get out. The sky is starting to darken around with rainclouds. Gusts of cold air are blowing through the abandoned rest area. “These are all dead,” I say, disappointed. But really, what had I been expecting? Of course the pumps would be dead if all the cars were.
“They might have some gas canisters inside,” Chris says, tapping the blank pump screen. “Stay here. Keep your eyes open.”
He reaches into the backseat and pulls out his backpack. He removes a semiautomatic that’s a lot newer – and cooler looking – than mine and tucks it into his belt.
“What? You think there’s going to be somebody in there to shoot?” I ask, alarmed. “And I didn’t know you had a gun.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says, completely serious. “Stay here.”
“I’m not moving. Geez. A little trust would be nice.”
Chris snorts and walks towards the building. I pull my jacket tighter and lean against the pump, overlooking the spooky scene before me. It’s like everybody just disappeared all at once. But where did they go? How did they get out so quickly?
Spooked, I grab my crank radio from the front seat. After a few hundred windups I shake my arm out and turn up the volume. I can only hear a crackling static at first before it’s interrupted by a short burst of dialogue.
“Citizens should take care to remain where they are and stay inside,” it says. A man’s voice. Pre-recorded. “For those that are unable to reach shelter, there are emergency camps in California for refugees. The following is a list of camp locations: Santee, San Bernardino, Bakersfield, Stockton, Elk Grove, Dublin, Yreka, San Jose and Fresno. Again, do not leave your homes unless necessary. Seek shelter at a relief camp or indoors. This is not a drill. The President has declared a state of emergency. Help is coming.”
The audio loops and starts over. I turn from station to station. Every broadcasting center is spouting out the same thing. My hand hovers over the off button just as I hear those words again: State of emergency. Apparently the whole state has gone dark. But what about the rest of the country?
God. I hope not.
“Chris!” I yell. “I got the radio to work!”
No answer. I roll my eyes and toss the radio back in the car. Down the street the road dips right underneath the freeway overpass. It’s completely stacked with cars. A virtual parking lot.
I’d hate to be the cleanup crew that has to take care of that.
Bored, I walk around the Mustang a few times and check for dents. There’s a scratch on the rear fender. I bend to inspect it, my reflection peeking out at me in the shiny chrome. This is what I get for letting him drive, I think.
And then I see a flicker of movement in the chrome. At first I think it’s just my hair blowing around my face. Then I think that it’s Chris returning from the building with a gas canister.
That’s before I realize it’s another person.
I stand straight up and turn around. On the other end of the McDonald’s parking lot, a guy dressed in gangster garb is standing there with his hat on backwards. He’s wearing all black, some kind of metal stick in his hand. A crowbar?
Not exactly a positive sign.
He’s staring straight at me. Both of us, motionless in the middle of this deserted rest stop. My heart drops to my stomach, not because I’m afraid of people per se, but because I’m afraid that a guy dressed like a gangster holding a crowbar in the middle of Armageddon doesn’t have sparkling intentions.
As expected, he starts moving toward me. I immediately reach for my gun, keeping my hand on the holster in case he tries anything.
“Chris!” I say, trying to keep my voice from echoing. “Get out here!”
No answer.
As gangster boy gets closer I notice the creepy tattoos covering his arms. Some of them even reach onto his face. It’s both fascinating and gross.
Well, mostly gross, but still...
“What do you want?” I demand.
He takes a step onto the gas station driveway. The metal object he’s carrying is a crowbar, and there seems to be something crusted over on his leg. Blood? I swallow, fear sending a shiver through my body.
“You alone?” he asks.
“None of your business,” I reply. “What are you doing with a ten pound metal stick in the middle of nowhere?”
“This ain’t nowhere,” he says. “This was a rest stop.”
“Was. Now what do you want?”
“I want a ride.”
“No can do. I don’t drive strangers.”
“I didn’t ask you if you were going to give me one,” he says, flashing a dangerous expression. “I said I wanted a ride.”
The reality of his words sinks in.
Ah. I get it.
“Get out of here,” I order, taking out my gun. I’ve never actually shot anything before so I try to make it look like I know what I’m doing. “Or I’ll shoot you…” I pause. “Right between the eyes.”
He raises his hands up.
“Easy,” he says, backing up. “I was just asking. I’m going, I’m going…”
“Good. Go a little faster. Your tattoos are making me dizzy.”
Feeling triumphant, I allow myself a smug smile. It’s only then that I remember my dad telling me in the fourth grade that pride always goes before fall. Seriously. Why is that always so true?
Somebody grabs my arms from behind and twists the gun out of my grip. It happens so fast that I have no time to stop it. One minute I’m standing with an idiotic smile on my face. The next my cheek is shoved up against the pavement and my hands are shoved into the small of my back.
Somebody’s got a knee crammed on top of my spine.
“Get…off…” I grunt weakly.
My adrenaline is spiking at record rates, causing my heart rate to skyrocket and my emotions to freak out. All I can think about is gangster boy’s bloody crowbar.
“Nice and easy, little girl,” he says, leaning down to peek at my face. “You keep quiet and I might be a nice guy and let you live.”
I bite back a stinging retort.
“Keep her there, Ray,” gangster boy says to the guy keeping my down. I can’t see his face but he’s got the same tattoos on his hands that his friend does.
“Yeah, there’s gas in the trunk!” gangster boy hoots. “She’s got food and water, too. Damn. She’s even got a radio.” He kicks my foot. “What’d you do? Raid a grocery store?”
“I like to stay prepared,” I spit, “so I don’t have to steal other people’s stuff.”
Gangster boy laughs.
“Let’s get out of here.”
The weight on my back vanishes. Gangster boy lifts my up by the collar of my jacket. “You’re kind of pretty for a little thing,” he sneers. He reeks of cigarettes. “Maybe I will take you along.”
“I’d rather chew glass than share a car with you,” I manage to choke out.
Sarcasm has always been my best weapon, for some reason. Unfortunately it doesn’t really swing any physical power. Gangster boy’s friend, Ray, comes into view. A pale guy with similar gangster garb. He looks unmoved by my predicament.
“We’ll see about that,” gangster boy says, twirling his crowbar around with one hand. “What do you think?”
Seeing the crowbar makes me lose it. I bring my combat boots up and kick him as hard as I can in his groin. While he doesn’t let go of my jacket, he does swear in pain and loosen his grip. I claw my fingernails across his face and bite his hand as hard as I can.
He spits out a string of profanities and drops me. I scramble to my feet and sprint away, heading for the front seat. Ray is right behind me. For a pale skinny guy he’s sure fast.
Maybe he’s a vampire.
I dive for the driver’s seat and grab the keys to the Mustang. Ray drags me out by the belt loop of my jeans. I literally shove the keys into my shirt, hoping they stay hidden in my camisole. Gangster boy grabs me by the neck and starts cursing in my face.
Apparently he plans to kill me and he just doesn’t know how to articulate it any other way.
He slams my entire body against the cement pillar that’s holding up the awning over the gas station. I gasp, feeling the air rush out of my lungs. He grabs me again and tosses me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach. I double over in pain, covering the back of my neck with my hands.
But that’s before I remember that you’re only supposed to do that if a bear attacks you. Idiot, I think. How do I get out of this?
I roll to my side, just missing gangster boy’s crowbar as it clangs against the ground where my head just was. Terror shoots up from my feet to my brain. I jump up and take a crowbar to the hip.
“Stop!” I plead, desperate.
Gangster boy slams the crowbar towards me. I cover my face and close my eyes. Bam. It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t my head that got hit. Or my stomach.Or anything else of physical importance. I peek through my hands, shocked to see Chris’s powerful arm blocking the crowbar.
He’s standing protectively in front of me. He whips his hand underneath the bar, twists it out of gangster boy’s hand and slams it into his head. I stifle a shocked gasp into my palm. Gangster boy goes down and Ray tries to advance on Chris.
I take a step backwards, gripping my throbbing hip. Chris twirls the crowbar around in his hand like it’s a baton, using it to thrust it forward into Ray’s stomach. Ray makes a weird gagging noise and bends forward, grabbing his abdomen in pain.
Join the club, I think.
Chris then drops the bar and takes Ray by the neck.
“I should kill you,” he growls, every muscle in his body tense, bulging.
Ray chokes out an unintelligible response.
“Get the hell out of here,” Chris warns, kicking the now-terrified gangster forward. “You come back and I will kill you.”
Ray, still gripping his stomach, nods weakly and takes off across the gas station. I can only stare at gangster boy’s unconscious body strewn across the asphalt. There’s no blood or anything, but it’s still freaky to see.
“Where is it?” Chris asks, breathing hard.
He’s amped up, his cheeks flushed red.
“Chris…where’s what?” I stammer, still shaking with shock.
“Where’d he hit you, Cassie?” he demands. “Did he hit you in the head? Yes or no?”
“What? No.” I grimace. “My side, though. It’s killing me.”
Chris swears and lifts my jacket. He pulls the shirt up underneath and I peer down at the skin right above my hip. It’s turning black and blue right in front of my eyes. “Dammit.” He places his hand on the skin. “I’m sorry, Cassie.”
Our eyes meet. I inhale sharply, realizing I must have dirt and gravel all over my face. Being the self-conscious idiot that I am, I look down and cover my face with my hand, embarrassed. Chris threads his fingers through mine and brings my hand down. “Cassie,” he says, his voice rough.
I look back up. Raw emotion is burning in his eyes.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper. “There’ll be more like them.”
Chris nods slowly.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and draws me closer. For one awkward yet incredible moment I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead he slips his arm behind my back and starts leading me to the car. I limp and hobble like a grandma on roller-skates thanks to the profound pain radiating through my body. Chris opens the passenger door.
“I didn’t find any gas,” he says, sliding his arms underneath my legs. He lowers me onto the seat, taking his sweet time pulling away from me. My pulse is pounding – but from the traumatic attack or his touch I can’t tell.
“We’ll just have to go as far as we can on what we have, then,” I reply.
He rubs his chin. Closes the door. Walks around the Mustang and gets into the driver’s seat. It’s funny how after just a few hours he’s automatically started driving my car.
“I’m sorry they hurt you, Cassie,” he says. He swallows, every muscle in his body taut, hard. “I won’t let that happen again.”
I smile despite everything.
“Thanks,” I reply in a soft voice. “For saving me.”
He doesn’t answer. He just moves his hand towards the ignition, looking for the keys. “Cassie…?”
I grin.
“Oh, I have them,” I say. “I didn’t want them to drive off and steal the car.”
I reach down into my shirt and take the keys out, tossing them to Chris. He stares at me, then at the keys, then back at me. A self-satisfied smirk touches his lips. “That’s good to know,” he says.
“What’s good to know?”
“Where you hide your important stuff.”
“Shut up.”
He starts the engine. He takes the Mustang back onto the old road.
“I say we stay away from all cities until further notice,” I propose, wincing every time we hit a bump. “When you were inside I got the crank radio to pick up a signal. They were playing an audio loop of the emergency camps set up for refugees. Apparently the whole state is down.”
Chris swears.
“This could be far-reaching,” he mutters. “Worse than I thought.”
“At least they have someplace for people to go,” I say.
“No,” Chris says, his voice sharp. “Those camps will just be full of panicking people who need help. We need to avoid those kinds of places.”
“Sometimes people need help, Chris,” I point out. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Trust me, I don’t think we’re going to want their help.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’ll take a closer look at that hit above your hip once we get far enough away from the populated areas.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a bruise.”
“It’s still worth checking out,” he insists. “You could have fractured something.”
His hands grip the steering wheel so hard that I’m afraid he’s going to pop it right off. “The President declared a state of emergency,” I say, trying to change the subject. Calm him down.
“No kidding,” Chris laughs, releasing a bit of the tension.
