State of Emergency (Book) (18 page)

            Chris and Jeff have taken up a “watch.” Jeff goes for five hours during the night, then Chris, and then I finish out the early morning, watching for any signs of Omega or nomadic thugs. Chris usually stays with me for my so-called shift, which is a great excuse to “accidentally” trip during the rounds so he has to catch me. He totally knows I’m pretending, but it’s worth it just to feel those arms around me every once in a while.

            I’m such a girl, sometimes.

            Living here is a simple, day-to-day existence that’s all about routine. What’s awesome is that everything is self-sustaining. Chickens, cows, horses, plants. All of this is what most people in the world – including myself if I hadn’t run into Chris – are living without. No more fast food. No more sixty-second soup packages. No more ice cream bars. No more obesity.

            Instead we’ll just have starvation and destruction. That’s one way to get the population to lose weight.

            About a week into my stay I’m sound asleep in my bed. It’s about six in the morning, and I’m oversleeping. There’s no alarm clock to scream at me, which means I don’t have to waste energy tossing one across the room. I must have broken about fifteen in High School.

            The door to my room creaks open. I’ve always been hyperaware of potentially scary noises when I’m in bed, so I wake up right away to see Chris standing in the doorway with his mother. Chris is wearing a tee-shirt that says “LIVE FREE OR DIE,” and his mom is wearing a red velvet dress.

            I sit up, rubbing grit out of my eyes.

            “Um…good morning?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

            Mrs. Young laughs.

            “Merry Christmas!” she exclaims. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
            My jaw hits the floor. Dude, it can’t be Christmas already…can it? I shake my head, amazed that I missed that. I have never, ever in the history of my life forgot about Christmas.

            Apparently post-apocalyptic environments make me forgetful. 

            “No way!” I say. “I don’t believe it!”

            Chris walks over to the bed, looking fantastic with his beautiful hair pulled back in a ponytail. His beard is still intact, but it’s not very thick anymore. It’s just right. He slips his hand behind my head and presses a quick, gentle kiss against my lips.

            “Merry Christmas, Cassie,” he says, eyeing me.

            I blush for two reasons. First, because he kissed me. And second, because he kissed me in front of his fifty-five year-old mother.

            “Thanks,” I say, rubbing the side of my face like an embarrassed five-year-old.

            “Come downstairs,” Chris says. “You’re going to love this.”

            I glance at Mrs. Young. She smiles at me – it’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever seen. Whenever
my
mom smiled at me, it was because she was A) trying to talk me into making her a seven-layer salad or B) she was about to give me a new pamphlet for a possible boarding school located in South Africa, where there would conveniently be no cell phone connection.

            Mrs. Young’s smile is totally different. It’s
real
.

            I jump out of bed and pull on an old sweatshirt – compliments of Mrs. Young - and lace my fingers through Chris’s. The three of us walk down the stairs, into the living room. The windows have been flung open. It’s flipping cold in here but Mr. Young has the floor furnace set up. There’s a fresh-cut Christmas tree in front of the window, and underneath it are some presents wrapped up in cloth, tied together with twine.

            Makeshift Christmas all the way, man.

            “Merry Christmas, Cassidy,” Jeff says, beaming. He pulls me into a warm hug. When he doesn’t let go, Chris shoves him in the shoulder and gives him the “death stare.” Needles to say, Jeff sits back down, but his goofy grin is still totally intact.

            “Merry Christmas,” I say, talking to Mr. Young.

            He’s wearing his beat up jeans and work shirt, but his hair is combed back for today. He cracks a tiny smile – which means he’s happy. He’s not the most emotional person, so I take what I can get with him.

            “I don’t have anything for you guys,” I say, embarrassed. “I totally forgot it was Christmas. I didn’t even know the date.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Young assures me, sitting next to her husband. “We’re just so glad to have you with us. You’ve been such a huge help around the farm.”

            I feel a little bit of pride trickling into my chest.

            “Thank you,” I reply, happy. “For everything.”

            She nods.

            Jeff jumps down on the floor like a five year-old and tosses a present to Chris just as Isabel skips into the room, wearing a wool sweater and a beret.

            “Merry Christmas, Cassie,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “I made you this.”

            She holds out a little bouquet of flowers. It’s wrapped in a sparkly ribbon.

            “Thank you,” I say, giving her a hug. “I love it.”

Jeff interrupts us by clearing his throat. We turn our attention back to the present he gave Chris. It’s a long, thin box. “I got this for you months ago, bro,” Jeff explains. “Been saving it.”

            Chris looks amused as he unfolds the cloth.

            “Nice!” he says, impressed.

            It’s some kind of fancy hunting rifle. Big whoop. But Chris is excited about it. Jeff tosses a couple of boxes of ammo onto his lap. “I got you, like, a couple thousand rounds. It’s all in the attic.”

            “Thanks man,” Chris says, giving his brother a hug.

            I almost tear up because it’s so cute. Two boys bonding over ammo. Classic.

            “So what loot did you get me?” Jeff grins.

            Chris pulls something from his pocket and flips it into Jeff’s hands. I catch a glimpse of something shiny. Jeff holds it up. It’s a ring.

            “Man, this is your senior class ring,” he says, looking completely shocked. “You can’t give me this.”

            “Keep it,” Chris replies. “Just because the world went to hell in a hand basket doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be allowed to graduate from High School.” 

            Jeff’s expression becomes more serious. He looks up at his brother, and I can see how much he idolizes him in just that one glance. “Thank you,” he says, giving Chris a long hug.

            I look at their parents. Mr. Young nods his head in approval, looking like an Army drill sergeant who just heard that cake is on the menu for dessert at the chow hall. Pleased, but not touched. Mrs. Young, on the other hand, is dabbing at tears with a tissue.

            You and me both, lady.

            “And for you,” Jeff says, tossing me a long, slender box. “This is epic.”

            I laugh.                                                                                                  

            “Seriously? You didn’t have to do this.”

            He shrugs.

            I unwrap the cloth and pop open the box. There’s a gorgeous, sharp knife with an ivory handle. I turn it sideways, looking at the carved inscription:

Cassidy Hart

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. Because I’m about to cry.

            “Jeff, this is amazing,” I say, knowing my voice is wobbly. “Thank you so much.”

            “You got it,” he smiles. “I carved the handle myself. The knife came from this old shop they used to have downtown. I thought you could use it, sinceOmega took all your gear on the way up here.”

            I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him.

            “You’re awesome,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to tell him.

            “I know.” He presses the knife against the palm of my hand. “I totally am.”

            I laugh. Chris rolls his eyes, and Mrs. Young stands up.

            “I have Christmas breakfast, lunch and dinner,” she announces. “Just because times are tough doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate the holidays.” She puts an arm around each of her sons. “As long as we’re all together, we have all we need. I love you boys. You know that, I hope.”

             Chris pulls his mom into a strong embrace. He kisses her cheek.

            “Yes, Ma’am.”

            Yeah. I should have brought a pack of tissue and a pillow to cry on. This is just too sweet.

            We eat a great breakfast of eggs, bacon, and homemade biscuits with some of Mrs. Young’s raspberry preserves. Nobody works all day. We just kick back and enjoy Christmas. I spend most of my time listening to Chris and Jeff fool around with the new gun, but nobody’s allowed to fire any shots in case dangerous individuals are roaming the area.

            Later on we eat an even more delicious dinner of roast chicken, fruit, rolls and salads. Not only is it yummy, but it’s also amazing. Every single piece of food on the table is from the Young farm. None of it came from a store. None of it was purchased.

            At the end of the day, when I’m leaning back in the window seat of my bedroom, watching the darkness set in, I have to admit: these are the kind of people that are going to survive this catastrophe.

            “Cassidy?”

            I turn. Chris walks into the room carrying a dinner roll in his hand.

            “What? Seven rolls weren’t enough for you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

            “I like even numbers. Eight appealed to me.”

            “Don’t appeal yourself right into obesity.”

            He tosses the roll up and down like a baseball and takes a seat next to me.

            “What are you doing up here in the dark?” he asks, curious.

            “Nothing. Just thinking.”

            “About…?”

            “How amazing your family is.” I sigh. “Really. Your family is…unbelievable. It’s not that they’re
just
nice people, it’s this place. They’re alive because they can do things for themselves. It’s how life is supposed to be lived.”

            Chris doesn’t answer for a long time. He stretches his legs across the window seat, leaning against the wall. “Society moved so far away from farming and self-sufficiency,” he answers at last, “that a catastrophe like this will wipe out most of the country. Concentrated population spots are in the cities. The biggest death tolls will be in places like New York or Los Angeles.”

            I shut my eyes, thinking of my dad. And my mom.

            “Hey,” Chris says, nudging me with his boot. “You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

            I shrug.

            “Yeah, but what about my dad?”

            Chris remains silent. I can tell that he’s trying to avoid talking about that, since last time we discussed it things didn’t go over so well. It was more like a verbal boxing match than a conversation.

            Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold chain.

            “Here.” He holds his hand out. I reach forward and open the palm of my hand. He drops it into my hand. There is a small object attached to the chain: A shield with a year on it, and on the back, Chris’s name.

            “What is it?” I ask.

            “It’s the gold chain that goes with the ring I gave Jeff.” He picks it up and slips it over my head. “I want you to have it.”

            “Chris, I can’t take this.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I’m not family. I can’t. It’s not right.”

            “Cassidy,” he says, fingering the necklace. “You
are
family now.”

            He leans back against the wall, looking straight into my eyes.

            “Are you glad I almost ran over you with my Mustang in Culver City?” I ask.

            “Yeah.” He closes his eyes. “I’m glad.”

            I study his face in the shadowy candlelight of the room. God, he really is a beautiful man. A little rough around the edges, but I’ve always liked ruggedness. Without thinking, I lean over the length of the windowsill and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

            He immediately slips his arms around my waist and presses me against his chest. I pull away and smile into the crook of his shoulder. “So…” I say, touching his arm. “What exactly does this cobra tattoo represent?”

            I pull up his sleeve just enough to glimpse the ugly, vicious-looking head of the snake. “It obviously doesn’t represent peace, love and good karma,” I observe.

            He kisses my forehead, sighing deeply.

            “It’s a Gadsden,” he replies, stroking my hair.

            “Pardon me? A
what
?”

            “A Gadsden,” he chuckles. “It’s a snake. Common military tattoo.”