State of Emergency (Book) (12 page)

“I joined the military because I didn’t have any money to go to college,” he told me earlier, both of us bored to death after seeing a green Honda for the hundredth time. “Becoming a Seal wasn’t something I planned on. I just wanted the training. I always liked beating people up, you know,” he jokes, “so the combat aspect of it appealed to me.”

“Unsurprising,” I remarked. “And you’ve traveled a lot, right?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, like it was hard for him to admit. “My first tour was in Iraq. That lasted for three years. Then I came back to base for a couple months and I got shipped out again. I went to Iraq three times, then Afghanistan twice. Hell, I’ve been everywhere.”

“What did you do there?” I asked, impressed with his travel repertoire.

“Fight the bad guys,” he stated simply.

“So you were a Seal for about nine years,” I said. “Man, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And where’d you get that tattoo on your arm?” I asked, referring to the not-so-attractive cobra winding around his bicep. “Because dude, that does
not
seem like something your mother would approve of.”

Chris rubbed his jaw then, apparently trying to think of a good excuse.

“My mother…would understand.”

“Oh, so she
doesn’t
know?” I laughed. “Ha. Afraid to face the music?”

“You haven’t met my mother.”

“I’d like to shake her hand. Give her a medal.” I smirked. “You know, for putting up with you?” I paused. “On second thought, maybe I’d better save that medal for
me
.”

“You’re very funny, Cassidy,” Chris said. “Ha. Ha.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why’d you’re family move from Virginia to California?”

“My mother was from here,” he explained. “She always wanted to move back. When I joined the military, they left. Got a nice piece of a land up in the foothills, set way back from the road. My brother’s doing a charter school.”

“Hey, that’s what I did!” I exclaimed. “It sucked.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because I had to go to class three times a week.”

Chris smiled. It was a beautiful sight. I stopped myself from sighing like a typical
girl
and asked him to repeat his question. I was too busy staring to hear.

“I said,
lucky you
,” he repeated, amused. “And you’re staring at me again.”

“I am
not
.”

“My smile must be dazzling.”

“
Please
.” I waved him off. “You’re so full of it.”

“No. I just notice things.”

He reached out then and touched my cheek – barely a feathery brush against my skin, but it sent a rush of heat from my face all the way to the tips of my toes. Ever since then the two of us have been trading not-so-secret glances at each other, which are starting to get kind of annoying. Every time I turn to look at him, he looks away, and when he looks at me and I turn to meet his gaze,
I
look away.

It’s getting weird beyond words.

We stop to rest a few times, propping up along the center freeway divider, discussing favorite television shows or pop artists. Chris is way more conservative than I am in that respect. I like my soap operas juicy. He doesn’t like them at all. So I educate him on the wonders of dramatic television while he tries to talk me into watching military reality shows.

Yeah. Probably not going to happen.

By the time it starts to get dark again, the rain clouds are breaking up just enough to let some blue sky through. It’s nice to know that the world won’t stay gray forever, even if World War III
is
upon us.

We make camp in another car again, sleeping lighter because there’s no rainfall and we’re used to the noise. Well, at least
I
am. Chris goes out like a light so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Mr. Sandman to pay me a visit.

At around nine o’clock, I plug the earphones into the crank radio and tune into all the stations available. There’s not a single signal from any of them, and since I know what I know aboutOmega now, I’m wondering if the stations are really dead. Maybe they’ve just been
commandeered
. In that case, maybe somebody will rebroadcast one of Hitler’s speeches to make us feel at home under the new order. It would only be fitting.

I hate you
, I think bitterly, thinking about whatever sick mind is behind all this crap.
I hope somebody finds you and takes you down.

I try to relax after that. I don’t want to think about my dad because then I might start believing that he never made it out of LA and won’t be meeting me at the cabin. I don’t want to think about my mom working at the hotel in Culver City. I’d heard that she was on vacation out of state this week, so maybe she’s okay if she was out of the big cities. I didn’t have any friends back home, so besides my estranged mom and maybe-alive father, I don’t have many people to worry about.

Story of my life.

At ten, I drop off to sleep. I don’t dream about anything, but at midnight I wake up gasping for breath, freaked out. My heart is racing like I just ran a marathon and I feel my headache again, back in full force. I’m also covered in a cold sweat. Disturbed, I try to prop myself up along the inside of the car and get comfortable, but that just makes me dizzy.

I realize that I’ve probably caught some kind of cold after traveling for five days in the pouring rain with hardly any food, so I search around in my backpack for emergency protein supplements.

And that’s when I hear the voices. Real human voices that sound like they’re not too far away. I freeze like a deer in headlights, forgetting about my headache for a minute.

Male voices…I
think
. Several. A yellow beam of light flashes through the air and I drop to my stomach, terrified. Somebody is walking down the Interstate. Granted, they could be survivors, just like Chris and me, but they could also be thugs. Like crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita.

“Chris,” I whisper, tugging on his sleeve. “People. Hello. There are possible enemies outside with big flashlights!”

He snaps awake. I grab his arm to keep him from sitting up in front of the windows. “There are
people
outside,” I hiss.

Chris knits his brow, making a move to grab his gun and whatever other weapon he’s been keeping hidden in his pant leg pocket. I realize that my fingernails are digging into his skin because I’m gripping his arm so hard. “Sorry,” I whisper.

He pats my cheek. Under normal circumstances I would have blushed, but another flashlight beam slides across the road. Then two more. I peek my head over the bottom of the window, spotting three figures in the darkness. They’re tall, definitely masculine and they’ve got
rifles
slung across their backs.

“Big. Strong. Armed,” I breathe, sufficiently spooked. “If they find us, we’re toast.”

“We don’t know they’re our enemies yet,” Chris whispers, but he still makes sure his gun is loaded. He hands me a heavy Bowie knife. It’s sharp enough to split a hair. “Use this if you have to.”

I nod.

“But you can feel free to go ahead and shoot them first,” I advise. “I kind of suck with knives. I almost cut off my thumb once when I was slicing a tomato.”

Chris blinks.

“Really, Cassie?” He says, a tremor of laughter in his voice. “Focus here.”

 I flush.

“Sorry.”

Just then all the strangers’ flashlights go out. I will myself to remain motionless, to stop breathing.

Be a statue, I tell myself.

It’s totally dark, and their voices vanish altogether. Chris tenses beside me, his hand on my shoulder. Neither of us is willing to speak and give ourselves away.

Drip drop.

Rain?

I scream, taken completely by surprise as the trunk of the SUV pops open and three powerful flashlights are shined right in our faces. Chris throws his arm out in front of me, pushing me backwards, and holds his gun up defensively.

At first the light is so glaring that I can’t begin to see the faces of the people who are holding them. But I
can
hear their voices.

“Well,” someone says. Young male voice. “What have we got here?”

His face comes into view. He’s tall, short black hair cut to the scalp. Pinched face. The guy next to him is around the same age, same haircut. The last guy is younger than the rest, but stocky. Probably powerful.

The second two are also pointing their rifles at us.

Chris doesn’t lower his weapon, and for a few
really
long seconds everybody just kind of stares at everybody else like we’re all on the
pause
mode of a DVD player. “Put down the weapon, man,” the main guy says. The one with the black hair. “We’ll blow your head off if you try to shoot us.”

Chris, realizing that we’re literally backed into a hole (aka as an SUV), slowly lowers his gun and sets it on the floor. Guy Number Two grabs the gun and stuffs it into his belt, grinning.

“Pretty girl,” he says, looking right at me. “
Real
pretty. Remember me?”

If there were such a thing as a literal death stare, Chris would have killed all three of them with the intense glare he’s shooting their way. But I only stare, horrified. Because the guy I’m looking at is the same jerk that pushed me into the basin in Bakersfield. I can even see the bruises on his face where Chris beat the crap out of him.

Has he been
tracking
us?

“What do you want?” Chris asks, his voice a lot calmer than his body language.

“Just sniffing out rats, man,” the main dude replies. “We found a couple. Climb on outta there. You too, baby.” He holds his hand out to me. I ignore the gesture and step onto the pavement, Chris right beside me. “That’s right. Nice and easy.”

Main Dude looks me over, a creepy grin crawling across his face.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” He motions to the backpack. “Got anything
this
time?”

“No,” I lie.

Guy Number Two shoves the cold barrel of his rifle into my back.

“Don’t lie to us,” he warns.

“I’m not. There’s nothing in there but…feminine products.” I bite my lip, fighting the urge to smirk. “Seriously. You can have them if you want, but I can’t see why a couple of macho guys like you would be interested. I mean, that’s just
wrong
.”

Main Dude’s mouth twitches. He flicks his finger underneath my chin, inspecting my face like I’m some kind of exhibit. “She always like this?” he asks, looking at Chris.

He shrugs.

“You have no idea.”

Main Dude smiles. It’s probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, because he leans just a little closer and says, “I think we can use you.” He turns to Chris. “You, on the other hand, I can’t think of a reason to keep alive.”

“Whoa!” I say, almost shouting. “Excuse me. Exactly what is your purpose for holding us at gunpoint in the middle of the remains of a freeway? I’d give you some change, but I seriously doubt if coins are worth anything anymore.”

“Just staying off the radar,” Main Dude says. “And enjoying it while we do.”

“Staying off the radar?” I repeat. “MeaningOmega’s radar, right?”

He nods.

“They’re everywhere, man.” He shakes his head. “Like roaches.”

“So let us go,” I say. “We’re just trying to do the same thing.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pretty girl, and I know a lot of guys back at camp that wouldn’t mind your company,” he replies like it’s no big deal. “Come on.”

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me forward. Scared, I don’t think about what I do. But I do it. I whack him across the face with my fist as hard as I can. He stumbles backwards, bewildered, just as Chris literally
rips
the rifle out of Guy Number Two’s hands and smashes the butt against his head.

Guy Number Two hits the ground, out cold – maybe
dead
– when I spin around, face to face with Guy Number Three. He grabs me by the hair and jams the heavy side of
his
gun into my stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.

Gee, thanks for
that
.

I almost puke as I stumble backwards and hit the car, landing on my butt against the pavement. Three moves toward me, only to be put in a headlock by Chris, who slams his head against the car. He passes out, too. Which leaves Mr. Main Dude. But instead of standing like a man and fighting, he takes off into the night, running, screaming, “Over here! Come on!”

Chris bends down and hoists me up with one sweep of his arm.

“You all right?” he asks, only slightly winded. Like beating up a couple of guys is just a walk in the park. “Cassidy?”

I shake myself, my headache pounding more than ever thanks to my butt slam onto the ground. “Fine,” I murmur. “He’s going for help, you know.”

“I know.” Chris doesn’t let go of my hand as he rounds the car, grabbing our backpacks. He hands me mine and helps me put it on. Then he bends down and grabs his gun from Guy Number Two’s belt, also shouldering the shotguns from both unconscious cronies. “You take one,” he says.