State of Emergency (Book) (16 page)

            “Why?” I say, kicking the door. “We never did anything to them!”

            “We’re anomalies,” Chris shrugs. “They think we’re trying to fight against the new regime.”

            “Maybe we are,” I say bitterly, the adrenaline starting to wear off. The uncertainties – and the headache – are all coming back to me now. “How did Keller know we had the Mustang? How did he know who my dad was?”

            “Apparently there’s still some Internet access that the government’s got going for their boys,” Chris replies, knitting his brow. “Which means we were right, Cassie. Our side
did
plan the EMP. They planned out everything.”

            I lay my head against the seat, exhausted all of the sudden. Anytime you find out that your own government is trying to kill you, you’re bound to feel a little depressed. I’ll probably need therapy when all this is over.

            “So what do we do?” I say. “We have their car. Will they be able to track us somehow?”

            “I don’t think so,” Chris muses. “Wherever their computer is, it’s in a truck somewhere and it’s probably got limited connection to a satellite.”

            “So we’re safe?” Isabel asks, leaning between our two seats.

            “Yeah,” I say, not wanting to scare the poor kid, even though she’s probably got more courage than me. “We’re okay right now.”

            She sighs and leans her head against my shoulder.

            “Awesomesauce.”

            Around dawn, I see it. The foothills. I whoop for joy and Isabel joins in. Chris just smiles and laughs. “We seriously should get some kind of blue ribbon for getting this far,” I say. “Who’s with me?”

            “Totally with you,” Isabel agrees, giving me a high-five.

            “Chris?” I ask, grinning.

            “Fine. A blue ribbon for everyone.” He shifts in the driver’s seat. He’s probably stiff from the hours of driving he had to do. It took a long time to get here, to find our way out of the five million twists and turns of the country roads. We even had to avoid a cow pasture with a missing fence. Dude, cows are not
just
stinky. They also have an attitude.

            But now we’re coasting down the road that leads straight into the foothills, right into Squaw Valley. Epic win. We have enough gas in the tank to get us to Chris’s parent’s home, which he says isn’t too far away. That’s assuming we make it through the foothills without running into a stupid roadblock again.

           
I’ll never walk in the fog without a flashlight again,
I think.

           
After that, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Continue to the cabin by myself, I guess. Dad will be expecting me. I have to be there…

            I dump the thought out the window, trying to focus on the positive – a new thing for me, since I’ve always been a self-avowed “realist.” I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.

            “So what are you parents like?” I ask, turning to Chris.

            He shrugs.

            “They’re farmers,” he replies.

            “That’s it? Give me more to work with, here. I’ve got time to listen.”

            “They’ll like you,” he says, smiling. “My dad’s a little rough around the edges… My brother will
love
you.” He visible cringes when he says the last sentence, which, of course, piques my radar-like curiosity.

            “Oh, so he
is
single,” I answer, wiggling my eyebrows. “Did you hear that, Isabel? Chris’s brother is
single
.”

            “Oh, how wonderful,” she drawls, closing her eyes.

            “What’s his name?” I ask.

            “Jeff,” Chris replies, annoyed. “And he’s seventeen. He’s too young for you.”

            “I’m
nineteen
,” I snort. “That’s like, a two year age difference. Who cares?”

            “Yeah, well…he’s not your type.”

            “Not my type?” I start laughing, holding my head in my hands. “You have no idea what my type is.”

            “Neither do you,” he mutters.

            I just keep on laughing softly, realizing that I can’t seem to stop. At the same time, my headache comes roaring back with all the force of a steam engine. The chills, nausea and all around gross feeling I’ve been fighting off for days hits me in the face like a brick wall. I inhale sharply.

            And then I start
crying
.

             Just like that. I literally
burst
into irrational tears. My hands are shaking and I’m acting like an emotional train wreck. All of this happens in about ten minutes, enough time for the pressure to build and for me to make a fool out of myself.

            I think I’m losing my sanity.

            “Cassidy, what’s wrong?” Chris asks, looking slightly worried.

            “Yeah, what’s wrong?” Isabel echoes, poking her head up front.

            “I don’t know,” I gasp, unable to stop sniffling.

            I comb my hair back from my face while Isabel and Chris try to calm me down. “Relax, Cassie,” Chris keeps saying. “Relax. It’s okay. Take a deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. Ah, okay, it
is
, but we’re alive, right?”

            “Chris,” I say.

            He casts an anxious glance at me.

            “I’m going to puke,” I state matter-of-factly, feeling nauseas. “Like, right now!”

            I slap my hand over my mouth. Chris slams on the breaks like a racing pro and eases to the side of the road. I throw the door open and jump outside, the cold air stinging my cheeks. I kneel down and vomit all over the gravel, heaving up a bunch of food that I don’t have in my stomach.

            How is that even possible? 

            Chris runs around the front of the car and kneels beside me, holding my hair away from my face. He rubs my back as I upchuck some more just for fun, keeping my eyes closed. I just can’t handle gore, even when I’m the one responsible for it.                                                             

            “Cassidy, look at me,” Chris says, turning my face towards him. “You’re sick. Okay? That’s all. You’re going to be fine.”

            The lines of his face are tight. I dry heave and look down at the gravel I just plastered with my insides, horrified. It’s bloody. I’m vomiting blood.

            “What’s wrong with me?” I ask, shaking.

            He adjusts his stance and tightens his grip on my arms.

            “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But my mom will.”

            “Your…mom?” I murmur, getting drowsy all of the sudden.

            “Yeah. She used to be a nurse. Did I mention that?”

            “Mmm…no.”

            “Huh.” Chris scoops me up into his arms like I don’t weight anything. A totally swoonworthy moment that I ruin by coughing up blood all over my shirt. “Hang in there, kid.”

            Isabel opens the back door and Chris lays me flat against the floor in the backseat. The world is spinning around me anyway, so I don’t care. Everything is quickly getting loud and blurry. Painful to listen to. I squeeze my eyes shut, not even noticing when we get back on the road. When I open my eyes again I can see streams sunlight coming through the windshield as Isabel peers at my face like a curious cat.

            “Are you still alive?” she asks.

            I blink, shaking my head.

            “She says she’s not alive,” Isabel says, looking over the front seat.

            I fade out before I can hear Chris’s reply. If it’s possible to feel any weirder than I do now, the pit of my stomach cramps up in pain. I slide my hand under my shirt and pull it up, glimpsing my bruise from crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita. It’s totally black and blue, veins of red running through it. It’s also painful to the touch.

            “Guys…” I mutter, but don’t finish my sentence. I feel way too exhausted to open my mouth. The only thing I can remember before I pass out is how loud my heart sounds in my ears, like it’s trying to escape my chest. Totally not how my heart is supposed to sound.

            Then again, this hasn’t exactly been the best week of good luck.

            All I can think about is my dad stuck in an Omega concentration camp, lined up against a railing before he gets shot a bunch of blue-uniformed guards. Who would have believed that just a couple of weeks ago, my biggest problem was getting an employment rejection from an airline company. Now everything’s gone. Stuff like that doesn’t matter anymore. Money doesn’t matter. College degrees don’t matter. Whether or not you saw the latest Oscar winning film doesn’t matter.

            All that matters is one thing: are you still alive? 

            These are the totally morbid thoughts that run through my mind before I wake up. I feel numb all over my body, like a bunch of needles are pricking my skin. I’ve only felt that once, when I broke my arm and I had to go to the hospital to set it. But there are no more hospitals. So where am I?

            I force my eyes open. The first thing I see is a dark wood ceiling and a couple of closed curtains with sunlight poking through the openings. I’m lying like a mummy with my hands to my sides underneath a heavy quilt.

            How did I get into a
bed
? It’s way more comfy than the back of a camper shell. I chalk that up to score one for me.

            I push myself up, surprised to notice that my headache is gone. Finally. I feel a little spacey, like I’m floating above everything in the room, but besides that…I feel good. “Hello?” I say, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I clear my throat. “Hello?”
            No answer.

            I peel the sheets back, noting what I’m wearing. A pair of flannel pajama pants and a white tank top. Creepy. Who dressed me? I hope it was Isabel.

            It
better
have been Isabel.

            I swing my legs over the side of the bed, touching cold hardwood flooring. The whole room is like a little cabin, with pictures and books and an old lamp covered with dust. I touch an old dresser and spot a picture frame. Fueled by my insane curious nature, I grab it and look it over. It’s a picture of a rugged, handsome young man in a suit and tie. He bears a striking resemblance to Chris.

            Hmm.

            I turn it over. Someone has written
Chris
,
Senior Year
, on the back in permanent ink. I stare it then turn the picture over, smitten with the young man in the picture. Chris. Ten years ago. And now he’s got a goatee, long hair and a tattoo of a cobra on his left bicep.

            Nice.

            I put the picture back and creep to the door. I know where I am now. We must have made it to Chris’s family home. I open it and peek into a long dark hallway. Everything looks like it was built in the 1940s. The architecture is on the smaller side. I’m guessing there was no obesity epidemic back then, because my great aunt could never squeeze through the doorframe…
            I follow the hall. Every door is closed except for mine, which means I can’t snoop. Bummer. I come to a stairway, where a bunch of black and white photos are tacked onto the wall. Family heirlooms, I guess.

            I go downstairs. There’s a big door and a bunch of windows covered with curtains. On the left is a living room – a huge one with beat up couches and an old television set – and on the right is a dining room with a big table. I can’t hear any noises from anywhere in the house, so I turn and go back upstairs. Frankly, I may be feeling
better
, but I still feel tired. I yawn, walk back into the bedroom I was in, and crawl onto the bed. I hug a pillow, dub him my best friend, and pull the quilt over me. Obviously Chris and Isabel are here
somewhere
, I just have to wait for them to come back here.

            “Knock, knock.”

            I squeeze my BFF Mr. Pillow and look up. A tall, lean young man with blonde hair is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, taking off a pair of dirty gloves.

            “Jeff?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

            He grins. It’s cute.

            “Yeah, that’s me,” he replies “I know who you are. My brother told me about you.”

            “Interesting,” I say, stifling another yawn. “Where is he? Chris, I mean. And Isabel.”

            “They’re outside, helping the folks,” he answers. “I’ll tell them you’re awake.”

            “Hey, wait!” I say, stumbling out of bed. “Listen, how long have I been here? What happened?”

            “You’ve been out for about two days,” Jeff replies, and I can’t help but notice how his eyes keep checking me out from head to toe. I must look really bad. “My mom’s a nurse, so she helped you. She’s got medicine and stuff she keeps for emergencies.” He sticks his gloves in his back pocket, crossing his arms. Totally
ripped
arms, I might add. Not as strong looking as his older brother’s, but still. “You were really sick.”

            “Yeah, I know,” I say, tugging on the ends of my hair. “What was wrong with me?”
            “I think you were bleeding internally,” he shrugs. “I mean, that’s what my mom said. It must have been fixable, though.” He grins. “Obviously.”

            I smile, flushing.

            “Thanks for taking me in,” I say, feeling the need to let me him know how much appreciate sleeping indoors for the first time in over a week. “I just…thank you.”

            “No problem,” he answers. “Chris has never brought home any friends before, let alone any girls. Or pretty ones.”

            I totally blush, so I try to hide the color in my cheeks by walking to the window and throwing back the curtains. “I’d like to meet your parents,” I say. “I need to thank your mom.”

            “Sure,” he agrees, smiling brightly. “Why don’t you come down to the kitchen? You gotta be hungry. Chris and Isabel ate, like, two tons when they got here.”

            “Sounds like them,” I remark.

            “Come on,” he waves for me to follow him. “So you’re like nineteen, right?”

            “Yeah.” We walk down the hall, to the stairs. “And you’re seventeen. A senior.”

            “Like that matters anymore,” he sighs. “I think the school year kind of froze when the pulse hit.”