Текст книги "State of Emergency"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Chapter Eight

So if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the United States of America has generally been a pretty cool place to live. I mean, sure, it’s not perfect by any stretch, but at least I have the freedom to snag a caramel macchiato every once in a while. Or watch a soap opera instead of doing homework.

Yeah, my idea of the land of the free and home of the brave is pretty basic. Until now.Because my caramel macchiato and soap operas seem to be in permanent jeopardy.

Chris and I take turns sleeping on the sofa in Walter’s apartment, neither of us really feeling comfortable enough to be asleep at the same time. Before we know it, the rest of the day has passed, and Walter is walking up and down the length of the living room, excited.

“What’s eating you, old man?” Chris asks, stretching his tall, lean frame over the couch. “You’re not the one who’s going to escape.”

“But you’re more than welcome to come with us,” I add, shooting Chris a look.

Walter shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says. “There’s nothing in it for me. This better work, though.”

He pulls out a thin sheet of white, almost transparent paper. He shoves all the magazines off the coffee table and brings some of the candles closer. “What is it?” I ask, spreading the paper out.

“The tunnels,” he says. “These belonged to my wife. The whole construction meant to be a sort of a drainage system that would dump into a basin outside the city. Never did work right.” His eyes mist over. “So as far as I know, they’re completely empty.”

“Are you sure?” I press.

“I said as far as I know.” He traces his finger along the route that we should take. Chris listens intently, studying the map from every angle. Me? The whole thing just looks like a bunch of squares and circles, and I hardly understand a word they’re saying. How are we supposed to know what direction we’re headed when we’re traveling underground, anyway? What good does a map do when we’ll have no light to read it with?

“What about light?” I ask. “Do you have any flashlights?”

“Sorry, no,” Walter says. “Mine were electric. Dead.”

I sigh.

“So we’re going to go underground in the dark,” I state. “We’re going to die.”

“We’ll be fine,” Chris replies. “You’re not claustrophobic, though, are you?”

I run my fingers through my hair.

“Who isn’t?” I mutter.

Chris pats me on the back, capturing one of my frizzy locks of hair around his finger. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there to keep you company.” He smiles devilishly, sending blood straight into my cheeks.

“Stop teasing,” I say, slapping his hand away. “This is serious.”

“I know.” Chris looks at the map one more time. “It looks easy enough. We just follow the tunnel until it drops off at the basin.”

“That’s all there is to it,” Walter nods. “It’s a piece of cake.”

“Get your stuff, Cassidy,” Chris says. “It’s time.”

I stand up from my cross-legged position on the floor and check my pack. I shrug my jacket on, twist my hair into a messy bun, and pull my boots back on.

“Ready,” I say. “Tah-dah.”

Chris rolls of the couch and grabs his gear, pausing only to flick a non-existent piece of dust off the collar of my coat. I scowl, wishing he’d stop flirting with me. It’s only making things awkward.

Isn’t it?

I shake myself. I can’t think about that right now. It’s escape time.

Walter puts on an old wool jacket and pulls a crochet beanie over his head. I almost burst into tears when I watch him adjust the hat, recognizing the fact that it’s homemade – probably made lovingly by his wife.

Walter turns to us, smiling.

“Let’s go, shall we?”

Chris squeezes my shoulders.

“Stick close,” he whispers.

“Do as I do,” Walter warns, opening the apartment door. I suddenly feel anxious, seeing the dark hallway, realizing that whatever tunnel we plan to drop into will be fifty times darker.

Chris nudges me out the door, lacing his fingers through mine. I exhale, charged with energy from that one simple gesture. I could get used to life-threatening situations.

Walter locks the apartment door behind us, walking down the stairs. He’s incredibly spry for an eighty-seven year-old man. When we reach the bottom level, he takes a long time opening the door and security bars. He exits first. Chris pauses at the door, waiting for the go-ahead.

“It’s safe,” Walter whispers.

Chris and I walk outside. It’s dark on this side of town. No floodlights, no guards as far as I can see. There is light in the distance, though, probably coming from the Relief Camps on the other side of the city.

Walter ducks into an alleyway.

“It’s about a quarter of a mile from here,” he whispers.

“What is?” I ask.

“Weren’t you paying attention to everything we said inside?”

“No. It made no sense.”

Chris releases a deep, soft laugh beside me.

“We’re looking for the entrance to the tunnels,” he explains.

“What does it look like?”

“You’ll see,” Walter snaps, obviously irritated that I didn’t pay attention to his tunnel strategy/lecture upstairs. That’s a teacher for you.

We take several left and right hand turns, Walter avoiding lighted areas. He stops at the corner of an abandoned Starbucks. “There’s a guard at the end of this block,” he says.

Chris nods as I peek around the corner, spotting a blue-uniformed trooper ambling across the street with a flashlight. He does a sweep of the area and takes off to another part of the city.

“What’s he even looking for?” I wonder.

“Escapees,” Walter says, chuckling.

I swallow a huge lump in my throat. Walter starts moving across the street, leaving Starbucks behind. We walk up to the sidewalk, Walter staring at a metal gutter opening.

“A gutter?” I say, deadpan. “How am I supposed to fit in there?”

“It’s a lot bigger than it looks,” he replies. “Trust me.”

Chris kneels down and wraps his fingers around the gutter grill, popping it out without any trouble. Well, either that or he’s just freakishly strong. I’m willing to go with the latter assumption.

Chris bends down.

“It is a lot bigger than it looks,” he confirms. “Down you go.”

“What? No. You go first.”

He smirks. “You’re scared.”

“Um, yeah. A big dark hole in the ground has the potential to scare me quite a bit,” I point out.

Chris stands up, amused.

“Well, you can take it from here,” Walter says.

We immediately turn our attention back to the old man with the crochet beanie on his head.

“Thank you for your help,” Chris says, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“This is my home,” Walter replies. “I intend to keep it that way.”

Walter looks at me.

“You keep your eye on him, alright?” he smiles.

“Whatever you say.” I stand there fiddling with my jacket buttons, overcome with the urge to hug him. So I do. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a warm embrace. “Everything will be okay,” I say. “This isn’t Nazi Germany. Not yet.”

I step back, hoping he didn’t see that as an invasion of personal space or anything. “I believe you,” he replies, taking my hand. “Be careful, both of you. And good luck.”

Chris drops to his knees and slides under the metal plating of the gutter. He rolls over the side of the cement slope and disappears under the sidewalk. I freeze, waiting for him to hit the bottom.

I hear a soft thud, then, “Your turn, Cassie.”

I turn around and kiss Walter on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I say.

I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the sidewalk. The cement slopes downward, covered with wet leaves. I swallow and whisper, “Here I come.”

I roll off the slope, twisting to brace for the impact. I land on my feet, halfway on the ground, halfway on top of Chris. He catches me, making the hit pretty soft. “Good thing you don’t weight much,” he mutters.

It’s absolutely impossible to see down here. A little stream of light is coming from the gutter opening above. It’s almost completely extinguished as Walter puts the gutter grill back on, propping it against the sidewalk.

“I’ve never heard of a gutter this size,” I say. “This is against so many safety regulations.”

“That’s the least of our problems.” Chris reaches for my hand and holds on tight. “Don’t let go. Just trust that I know where I’m going.”

“I don’t,” I reply, “but I still won’t let go.”

I reach out to touch the wall, grossed out when my fingers brush something wet and slimy. My shoes are apparently ankle deep in city sludge, too.

“No talking unless absolutely necessary,” Chris says. “We don’t want anybody to hear us.”

“What if somebody else is down here? Somebody bad?” I ask.

“The chances of that are slim. Come on.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I didn’t want to.” A few beats of infuriating silence go by before he continues. “If there is someone down here, that would make it even more important to be quiet. Yes?”

I nod.

“Cassidy?”

“I nodded! We’re not supposed to talk, remember?”

Chris either chokes or laughs, tightening his grip on my hand. He starts walking forward, and I realize that I have to bend down a little bit to keep from hitting my head on what is now a cement ceiling. We’re in a tunnel, sloughing through sticky grossness that’s been washed right off the city streets.

“I thought these tunnels were supposed to be empty,” I say, disgusted by the feel of dirty water around my ankles.

“They’re abandoned,” Chris whispers, “not empty. Relax. Walking through sewage is better than being arrested.”

Sewage?

I try not to gag. Chris is hunched down more than I am on account of him being six foot four. After a few hours – okay, minutes – of feeling our way down the cold tunnel, I start to feel claustrophobic. Why?

One: There is no light. Two: I feel like I’m trapped in a box. And three: It smells like a bunch of rats came and died down here.

“How much farther?” I ask.

“About a mile.”

“A mile!?”

“Shhh.” Chris slaps his hand over my mouth. “Quiet, remember?”

I move his hand away from my face, noting just how stale and pungent the air is down here. I had expected a cold, freezing tunnel system. Instead it’s almost warm, like no air ever enters the tunnels.

Every once in a while we hear weird dripping or scurrying noises, sending horrible images of Indiana Jonesand the Temple of Doom through my head. I curl my hands into fists and keep my lips pressed together, trying to avoid inhaling any unseen insects.

If Chris is perturbed about being stuck in a hole in the ground, I don’t sense it. His whole body is totally relaxed, his breathing nice and even.

“This is suffocating…” I begin, trailing off as the sound of an engine cuts through the tunnels. It begins as a soft sound, escalating into a full roar. I clap my hands over my ears. The entire tunnel feels like it’s shaking. Above us, a faint square of light is painted across the cement walls of the gutter. The tunnel opens up into a wide space under the sidewalk. Another entrance.

“We must be close to the city center,” Chris says into my ear. “That’s another gutter opening.”

“What’s that noise?”

“Trucks.”

He feels for my hand again. For a few seconds, I can see his face outlined in the shadows cast by the light of the streets above. I breathe in the current of cold air flowing through the opening, freezing in terror at the sound of an AT trooper’s voice:

“Take that one to the camp. I’ll take care of things here.”

A door slams. Another engine starts, shadows flit across the light pouring in from the street. Chris tenses up slightly and tugs on my hands. “Move.”

I get to my feet. We hunker back down and slip into the continuation of the tunnel. The light disappears again, and this time the water is up to my calves. It’s also getting colder, the farther we progress, a weird change from the stale temperatures we ran into before.

I take the opportunity to think about everything Walter told us in the apartment about Omega and wonder why nobody has ever heard of them before. How could we be invaded by an army that has no country, no king, and most importantly – how could nobody even know that these people existed? Why do the troops speak different languages? Are they all paid hit men, and if so, where did Omega find enough people to create an army big enough to invade an entire country? How long have they been planning this?

These are the totally normal thoughts that run through my head as we sneak around in the dark tunnels beneath the city.

Every once in a while we come to another gutter opening, tiptoe past the lights and voices, and slip into the next tunnel. It’s impossible to get lost because there is only one tunnel. We just keep following it until our necks ache from hunching over for so long and I’m pretty sure the smell of rotting leaves is permanently stamped into my brain.

“Smell that?” Chris suddenly says.

“What?”

“Fresh air.”

I sniff, catching a whiff of cold, clean air. It’s blowing through the tunnel pretty quickly, too. “We must be at the basin,” I say.

“Yeah. That was faster than I thought.”

Sure. Only two solid hours of tromping through the sewers.Piece of cake.

We pick up the pace, following the clean scent of open air. Chris stops unexpectedly and we bump into a solid wall. I experience a flash of panic. Is it a dead end? Have we been sealed in here for all eternity? Am I destined to become a Mummy?

The claustrophobia is doing weird things to my mind.

“What…?” Chris murmurs, sliding his palm across the cement. “Ah.”

“What is it?”

“The tunnel’s curving.” He walks forward and sure enough, we both follow the wall into a neat left hand turn.

I clap my hands together, natural light spilling into the tunnel. Even though it’s nighttime, it seems extraordinarily bright compared to the total blackness of being underground. “Freedom!” I exclaim.

I jog forward, getting down and crawling on my hands and knees towards the exit. Chris crawls behind me, the two of us tired of twisting our necks for two hours. Flecks of rain blow on my face from outside. I come to the edge of the tunnel, cautious about sticking my head out into the open without making sure it’s safe. I’ve seen too many television shows to be that naïve.

So I inch forward, peeking outside. The first thing I see is a wide-open expanse of darkness. It must be the empty basin. The second thing I see is the sky. The third thing I see is Chris crouching in the mouth of the tunnel, a frown on his face.

Because then my other senses kick in and I hear it: Water lapping against the side of the basin. I squint at the basin again, my eyes adjusting to the light.

The basin is full of water.

“What?!” I exclaim, shocked. “He said this thing was empty! Where did all this water come from?”

“Not from this tunnel, obviously.” Chris is rubbing his chin. “It’s about twenty feet from here to the top of the basin. It’s a slope. You can climb that.”

“How deep do you think that water is?” I ask, sticking my hand out. I dip my finger into the water. It’s freezing cold, leaving traces of silt on my fingertips.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chris shrugs. “The only thing that matters is that we’re out of the city, and we did it without getting arrested.”

I take a deep breath and brush some stray strands of hair out of my face. I stand up and wrap my hands around the top of the tunnel, leaning over the water and looking up. Chris is right. The top of the basin is only about twenty feet away, and it’s sloped enough that we could climb it.

“Go ahead,” I say, shivering.

“Ladies always go first,” Chris replies, standing up beside me. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I scowl, swinging my feet out of the tunnel and into the hard surface of the basin. The sound of the water lapping against the dirt is seriously freaking me out, because if there’s one thing I hate even more than small, dark spaces, it’s dark, deep water.

I dig my hands into the dirt and lie on my stomach against the ground. The angle’s not too bad. I climb up on my hands and knees, hearing a soft pat as Chris swings onto the ground below me.

“Race you to the top,” I say.

“Get ready to lose, kid.”

I pick up the speed, trying to go fast enough to beat him, but slow enough to avoid skidding downhill. I start laughing, actually enjoying myself for the first time since…well, since the apocalypse.

“Eat my dust,” I tease, turning my head up towards the top of the basin. I inhale sharply, a tall man short hair staring straight at me.

I lose my footing on the dirt and begin sliding backwards. The guy is standing motionless, just watching us, making no move to do anything violent. Chris grabs my legs as I slide down, pushing me back up. “Careful…” he whispers, his eyes trained on the guy. “What do you want?”

The guy cocks his head to the side and brushes his coat behind his hips. Even against the night sky I can see the flash of his teeth from his creepy smile.

“Chris…” I mutter.

“You popped up on the wrong side of town,” he says.

“What’s it to you?” Chris asks, and in my opinion he looks and sounds way more intimidating than this random dude.

“Nothing. Just making a comment, man.”

Chris urges me to keep climbing. I hesitate. Every inch puts me closer to the stranger. “What you got in those packs?” the guy asks. “Any food? Water?”

“Nothing that belongs to you,” I say before I can stop myself.

The guy laughs.

“Maybe it does.”

I climb to the right, coming up on the other side of the guy. He still doesn’t move, even as I climb to my feet and stand at the top of the basin. Chris draws himself up to his full height and steps in front of me. “Move on,” he warns. “Now.”

The guy has wide, bloodshot eyes. Now that I’m standing a few feet away from him, I can see the obvious tears and smatterings of blood throughout his shirt. He’s hurt, and by the looks of it, starving.

“Maybe we should…” I start to say.

Chris cuts me off, indicating that I should start walking away. I look around the basin. There is a chain link fence surrounding the property, but thanks to a stroke of luck, there’s no barbed wire.

“Just give me the packs, man,” the guy says, and this time his voice has a note of warning. “Come on. Help a guy out.”

Chris holds his hands up and takes a few steps backwards, pushing me with him. “Not today. Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be.”

The man moves lightening quick. For somebody who looks like he’s halfway bleeding to death, he sure doesn’t act like it. He strikes out at Chris’s face with nothing but his fist. Chris blocks the blow with hardly any effort, snapping the guy’s arm back and kicking him into the ground.

I just blink a few times, all of it happening it less than three seconds.

The guy isn’t done yet, though. He springs back to his feet and flings off his jacket, revealing toned, muscular arms. “You wanna fight? I can do that,” he growls, wiping his nose. “Come on.”

“Your funeral,” Chris says under his breath.

I roll my eyes, watching the testosterone-fueled gladiator match play out before my eyes. “We could just give him some food,” I suggest.

They both ignore me. Chris ducks his head to the left, avoiding a right hook from the guy. They both circle each other for a few seconds. Chris prowls around him like some kind of cat, twice as tall and definitely more knowledgeable in self– defense than this street fighter.

Maybe the guy realizes that Chris is going to pound him into a pulp, or maybe he really is just as wounded as he looks – because he turns around, looks right at me, and rips the pack right off my back. He grabs my arms and whips around the other side of me, literally flinging me to the ground. I hit the ground on my side, tumbling tail over teakettle down the edge of the basin. I just roll all the way to the bottom, scraping my face up in the process.

I hear some yelling and scuffling in the background, but all that disappears when I plunge sideways into the cold water of the basin. The shock of the freezing water is like sticking your finger in a light socket and getting electrocuted. For a second I can’t even move, completely submerged in black water. I can’t see anything. I can’t even feel the walls of the basin. Then my common sense kicks in and I start kicking upward, breaking the surface, sputtering for air. I’m only about eight feet away from the bank, so I start swimming towards it, hating how I have no idea how deep the water is – or what’s in it.

Above me, the guy is laid out on the ground and starts tumbling down the bank, too.

What is this? Public swimming appreciation day?

Chris slides down after him, upright, keeping his balance perfectly. The guy skids to a halt right before the water, about two feet away from me. He reaches out and dunks my head under the water – just to spite me, I guess. The next thing I know, his hand is gone, I’m breaking the surface again, and the guy is about ten feet away in the water, having been put there by Chris.

Chris grabs me by the belt of my pants and pulls me onto the dirt. He’s got a bloody lip, but other than that, he looks great. As always.

I shiver, hating how gross my wet clothing feels against the soil.

“Now what?” I ask, Chris linking his arms under my shoulders to get me on my feet. “Are you just going to leave him there?”

“Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson,” he says, combing my hair back from my face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I nod. “Just wet.”

Chris helps me climb up the side of the basin again while the guy kicks and flails around in the water, not bothering to chase us up. I guess he finally got tired of getting his butt handed to him by a Navy Seal.

Chris picks up my backpack from the ground and swings it around his shoulder. “I can carry that,” I say, my teeth chattering.

“I got it,” he replies. “Take your coat off and try to get it dry.”

I nod and peel off the fabric, feeling my skin tighten as the cold wind hits me. Chris casts a final glance at the guy, who’s pulling himself out of the water and crawling to the other side of the basin.

“Punk,” he mutters.

“All he wanted was a little help.”

Chris places his hand on the small of my back, motioning for us to move.

“He didn’t ask politely.”

“You’re such a boy,” I mutter.

We come to the chain link fence. Chris climbs it without any trouble. I manage to scramble over without landing on my butt, which means I have something going for me, at least.  The two of us continue walking back towards the highway, which is clearly visible from here. It’s littered with abandoned cars, making it kind of hard to miss.

“Do you think Walter will be okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.” Chris steps over a broken scooter. How the heck did a scooter get out in the middle of a grassy field? “Don’t worry about him, Cassidy. We have our own problems.”

“There’s really no place left that’s safe, is there? They’ve probably taken over every city.” I pause. “And who is they anyway? What do these Omega freaks really want? How is possible that somebody we’ve never heard of has started setting up death camps all over the freaking state?”

“Good question.” Chris thinks it over for a second. “It would make sense that they’re a U.N. based group. Where else would they come from? How else would they be ready for this? But it’s amazing to me why nobody’s doing anything to stop it.”

“Maybe they can’t,” I reply, frowning. “The EMP disabled all our technology, right? Maybe our military is suffering just as much as we are. Hey, you don’t think…?” I trail off.

Chris casts a sideways glance at me.

“What?” he asks.

“You don’t think this whole EMP thing was a plan?” I say. “Maybe whoever is behindOmega planned it and then they were just waiting to roll in and take over. Does that make any sense?”

 “It makes perfect sense,” Chris replies. “The question is, who is orchestrating all this?”

“And why?” I add. “Man, this sucks.”

Understatement of the century.

Chris claps me on the shoulder, making me stumble.

“No, it could be worse,” he assures me. “And we’re going to be fine.”

“Considering it’s the end of the world, I don’t know if fine is the word I would use to describe our situation.”

“We’re better off than most people,” Chris smiles. I mean, really smiles. It’s kind of gorgeous, even though I can barely see in the dark. Because he’s not wearing a jacket, his shirt is pretty much soaking wet from the constant drizzle, sticking to his muscles in all the right places.

Whoa…

“And you’re staring at me,” he states, snapping me out of my reverie.

“I am not,” I laugh nervously. “I’m just…thinking. Without blinking.”

Chris breaks into good-natured laughter.

“Sure you are.”

I roll my eyes, feigning innocence. I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of him knowing that I think he has Thor-like looks or anything. It would go to his head. Immediately.

“What about food and water?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “We’re going to run out.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Chris says.

“How can you be so calm about possible starvation? And dehydration? You know how long it’s been since I’ve peed?” I clear my throat, realizing I probably could have kept that bit of information to myself.

To my surprise, Chris doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me. Instead he looks serious and says, “Drink what water you have left in your canteen. We’ll stop for the night and as long as it rains you can keep drinking. Dehydration is more deadly than going without food for a couple of days, so we’ll address that problem first. We can use the poncho in your backpack to gather more water if you want.”

“Great. I’m going to die.”

“Quit being dramatic,” he sighs.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being realistic.”

Chris shoots me an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. After we get about five miles out of Bakersfield, I’m about ready to plop down on the ground and fall asleep with my head in a puddle. We find an old truck with a camper shell over the back and crawl inside, looking through a bunch of fishing gear.

“There’s no river nearby, is there?” I ask just as Chris shuts the door.

“He was driving Northbound,” he shrugs. “Probably headed to the mountains.” He twirls a camping permit in his fingers. “Kings Canyon.”

I open my pack and turn on the crank radio and electric lamp. Chris decides to be noble and wind the radio up while I get out “dinner,” which is basically just another bland energy bar.

“Got anything?” I ask, peeling the wrapper back.

Chris sets the radio on the floor. There isn’t even any static anymore.

“Looks like the days of the radio are over,” Chris announces, flashing a fake smile. “What’s for dinner?”

“Turkey and potatoes,” I deadpan, tossing him a bar. “And for dessert, pumpkin pie.”

“Someone’s got Thanksgiving dinner on their mind,” Chris says, amused. “What did you do last time?”

“For Thanksgiving?” I yawn. “I made dinner for me and my dad and then we watched How the West Was Won.”

Chris laughs.

“Your mom must appreciate all your cooking.”

I frown, tearing my energy bar into tiny little pieces.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Noticing my mood change – or as my dad always called them: Mood swings from hell – Chris decides for some reason that he needs to find out more information about my dear old mom.

“Where’s your mom, Cassidy?” he asks, looking right at me.

I avoid his eyes, finding a super interesting thread on my jacket sleeve to focus on. “Not sure,” I shrug. “Why?”

“Do you have any family besides your father?”

“Not really, no.” I look up, kind of angry with him for bringing this up. It always makes me cry like an overly emotional child when I think about my lack of family. “And this is important to you because…?”

“I’m just asking,” Chris says, throwing his hands up.

But I can tell there’s more to it than that. So I decide to get snarky.

“Where are your parents?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

And she throws a curveball!

Chris takes a bite of his bar, giving me an I-Totally-Know-What-You’re-Doing look.

“They’re retired,” he replies.

“Both of them?”

He nods.

“What did they do?”

“They were farmers,” he says.

“What about your brother?”

“I think I said before that he’s a senior in High School.”

I smile evilly.

“Is he cute?” I ask. “Or single?”

Chris stops chewing and leans forward.

“And this matters to you because…?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Just asking,” I grin. “But seriously. Is your brother cute?”

“Not as cute as me.” He winks. He actually winks, and somehow it actually comes across as sexy rather than stupid or creepy. I feel my cheeks turning red, and I am extremely grateful that it’s so dark inside the camper shell.

“Well, you’re not cute,” I say, finishing off my bar.

“I’m not cute?” Chris repeats, looking shocked. “Is that why you stare at me all the time?”

“I’m not staring at you!” I retort. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to kill me or something. Or steal my backpack.”

“Right. I’m just dying to steal a backpack with two energy bars and a plastic poncho.” He smirks. “That’s been my plan all along.”

“Hey, desperation drives people to do crazy things,” I say, taking my jacket off.

“You still don’t think I’m cute?” His smile is playful. Pleasant, even.

I spread my coat out like a blanket over my body, thankful for my thermal black shirt. Warmth is super important these days. “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. Chris isn’t cute. He’s way too mature and fit and older to be cute. He’s hot. But he doesn’t need to know that’s what I think.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I can see you smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” I answer. “I’m laughing at you. Vanity is so yesterday.”

“Ah.” He suddenly reaches across the truck and places his arms right over my head. I freeze, surprised – and stunned. What is he doing?

“My brother,” he says, his face way too close, “is very similar to me. But he’s eleven years younger than I am.”

I hold my breath, my eyes flicking down to the fine goatee he has all the way around his mouth, up the sides of his cheeks. He’s got nice skin, a strong jaw, long, thick hair right above the shoulders that’s dark brown with blonde highlights.

“Chris,” I say, afraid to release a breath.

He moves closer. Way too close. I can actually feel him breathing against my skin, and he smells a little bit like the leftover coffee from Walter’s apartment. His eyes search my face for some kind of emotion, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I lean forward just an inch, I could kiss him.

“What…time is it?” I ask, glancing down at the crank radio, dropping my eyes. I can see the time from here: 8:33 p.m. He knows I can see it, too. But instead of pointing that out, he slowly moves his arms from the camper shell and pulls away, making a point of taking his time finger the strands of hair falling over my shoulder. He looks either extremely smug or disappointed with my reaction. Maybe both.