State of Emergency (Book) (2 page)

I open the garage door and back up, coasting into the alley. I keep my headlights off, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I’m probably the only person in the city with a working car. That could be seriously dangerous.

I hit the road and step on the gas, doing sixty on the boulevard. As I get closer to the more populated areas I have to avoid stopped cars on the road. People perk up and start pointing and yelling when my car roars by. It makes me nervous.
Way
nervous. I’ve seen
War of the Worlds
before.

“Okay, dad,” I say, holding the steering wheel with a death grip. “I know where to find you. You’d better know where to find me.”

I had a pretty normal family. My mom was the manager of a chain hotel in Culver City, which meant her work was about five minutes from our house. She would spend all her time there, only coming home to eat, drink and sleep.

Oh, and occasionally speak to me.

I didn’t see her very much. My dad was a Los Angeles cop, so he kept weird hours, too. He worked at night and slept during the day, which meant that the curtains in our house were pretty much closed all the time.

As for myself? My mom wanted to send me to some fancy boarding school in Europe, but of course my parents couldn’t afford that, so her dream of dumping me off in a foreign country was canned. My dad was more old fashioned in his thinking. He wanted me to be at home more often, so he enrolled me in a charter school program. I only had to go to a class three times a week, while all my other homework was done at home.

I loved that setup. I was a shy kid. Terrified of my own shadow, as my dad would always tell me. I hung out at home most of the time, seeing my parents only in glimpses. I didn’t have any friends. It just wasn’t my thing.

When I was eight years old, my parents divorced. It didn’t affect me in the way you would think it would. I never saw my parents
together
anyway, so it was just like having one of them permanently gone. Big whoop. Fortunately, my boarding-home-crazed mother didn’t win custody of me. I got to stay with my dad.

I only visited my mother three times a year, despite the fact that she worked only five minutes away from our house. I think it was because I was angry with her for trying to get rid of me for so many years. I just didn’t want to see her.

My dad, Frank Hart, had been in the military for a few years before he decided to become a cop. He entered the academy when he was twenty-five. He was on the Los Angeles force for thirty years before he decided to become a private detective. Now he helps sniff out terrorists in buildings and give advice to young guys who don’t know one end of their guns from the other.

I loved my dad. I love him now.

I didn’t get to see him very much, but the difference between his love and my mother’s love for me was worlds apart. Mom wanted to dump my butt in France. Dad wanted me to stay home because he said he’d miss me.

            My dad was also one of
those
people that believed a national emergency could happen at any second. He’d dealt with the Los Angeles riots during the 90s and seen all kinds of crazy crap as a cop. Murders, abuse, suicides. He was the kind of person that hoped for the best but expected the worst. His belief that bad things could happen at any moment turned into a hobby that I was more than happy to humor him about – anything to make him forget to make me do my algebra homework.

            Which is why we have go-bags in every room of the house and a pre-planned rendezvous point. It’s all suddenly becoming an outstanding idea, given the fact that my dad’s paranoid prophecy about Los Angeles becoming the immediate site of Armageddon is coming true. I can’t believe it’s even happening.

I am racing down a little-known back road in Los Angeles, curving around the city and away from the freeway.

            “If there’s ever a crisis in Los Angeles, like a natural disaster or a terrorist attack,” my dad had told me, “we need to count on the fact that the Internet and cell towers will go down. There won’t be any electricity, so if we get separated we have to know where to rendezvous.”

            In retrospect, my dad is a genius. The two of us own a little cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains, not too far away from Kings Canyon National Park. It’s beautiful, secluded and supplied with emergency goodies. Our plan was that if we ever got separated for some reason, we would meet at the cabin. And now, with the entire city swarming like ants escaping a flooded anthill, it was the wisest decision we ever made.

As I drive I keep my headlights on only when I am far enough away from heavily populated areas. This road is windy. Definitely the
long
way out of the city, but I don’t want to risk getting stuck in a panicked mob.

            “Give me
something
,” I say out loud, turning the crank radio up to full volume. Only bits and pieces of an emergency broadcast will come through. All I can catch are words, like “electromagnetic pulse,” “seek shelter,” and “terrorist attack.” Those words send a chill up my spine, making me wonder who and what is behind such a devastating attack on Los Angeles. And were
we
the only ones that were hit?

            I take a few calming breaths. An anxiety attack behind the wheel of a moving vehicle would probably be detrimental to my health, so I concentrate on navigating the winding, empty road. I keep looking out my windows, paranoid that an airplane is going to drop on my head and turn me into a barbeque appetizer.

            I scream.

            Somebody is standing in the middle of the two-lane highway. It’s a man. He’s perfectly still, looking directly into my headlights like I’m an oncoming mosquito rather than a moving mass of metal going eighty miles per hour.

            I slam on the brakes and my car screeches, smelling like burning rubber. I turn the steering wheel in an attempt to swerve out of the lane, barely missing him by a foot or two. My car starts to skid, then drift, then turn in a full circle. I take my foot off the brake and I’m thrown forward against my airbag-lacking steering wheel. The car screeches to a halt, throwing puffs of smoke into the air.

            Panting for breath, trying to get my senses together, I look out the window. The man is moving towards my car. Quickly. I panic throw the car in reverse, hitting the gas. But, because I suck at backwards navigation, I shift back to drive. The man starts waving his hands back and forth.

            “Wait!” he says. “I’m a soldier!”

            At the word
soldier
I hesitate for a moment. He’s wearing jeans, but no uniform. Just a green tee shirt. I can’t see his face, but his hair is overgrown, drawn back in a ponytail. There’s no way he’s active duty military.

            And then I see the blood.

            His shirt is stained with it, crusting over on the sleeve. I suck in my breath, horrified, and open the door without thinking. See, I’m a pansy when it comes to helping people. When I was little I used to run up to stray cats and put them in a box to take to the animal shelter. When I was in high school I used to run up to stray
people
and give them money or clothes or shoes. Whatever they needed.

            It’s my weakness as much as it is my strength.

            “What happened?” I ask, stepping out, keeping the engine running. It’s freezing outside, 11:30 p.m. We’re alone on the back roads of some lesser-known Hollywood hills.  “Oh, god…how bad are you hurt?”

            Wary, I keep my distance, sliding my hand underneath my coat for the semi-automatic. I have no desire to use it – and don’t ever plan on it – but it gives me some confidence that I have
something
to defend myself with.

            “Easy,” he says, lifting up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
            “Prove it.”

            He wiggles his fingers, which are covered in blood, too.

            “I just need a ride,” he says. “If you’re headed north.”

            “I didn’t stop to give you a ride,” I reply, opening the door to the backseat. “I stopped to see if I could help you with all that blood.”

            I rifle through my backpack and pull out a first aid kit. He watches me without moving, still halfway encased in the glare and shadows of the headlights.

            “You got a name or what?” I ask.

            “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

I smirk. “Clever.” I wave him over, keeping my fingers ready to grab my weapon at any moment.  So I can, like, wave it in his face to seem intimidating. “What happened to you?”

            He walks over. His body is tensed up, but from pain or stress I can’t tell. Closer to me I inhale, noting how tall he is. He’s also
very
ripped. Not that I care, but facts are facts. His face is handsome, lined with a thin beard that would accentuate his long hair nicely if it weren’t smudged with sweat and grease. 

            “Long story,” he grunts. “I can do this.”

            “It’s
my
stuff. I’ll do it,” I snap. “Where?”
            He pulls the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a muscular arm with a painful injury. It’s crusted over with dried blood.

            “What is that?” I ask, feeling squeamish.

            “Glass.”

            “How…?”

            “Car accident. Five miles back.” He sighs heavily. “Whenever everything went out. I got slammed into a pickup.”

            “You might have a concussion.” I have to stand on my tiptoes to flush the wound out with a bottle of water It’s not bleeding too badly – nothing that will kill him, anyway. A rush of heat bolts up my arm when our hands accidentally touch. I draw back instantly, embarrassed. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Have you seen the city?” I ask.

            “Part of it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You?”

            “I was there.” I swallow, getting shaky thinking about the crap that went down. “There were
airplanes
falling out of the sky. Everything died at the same time. People were everywhere…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m a complete nervous wreck. “They’re evacuating everybody.”

            “Yeah, but without cars people won’t be going anywhere.”
            I bite my lip.

            “I know.”

I take tweezers and start pulling little shards of glass out of his skin. It’s seriously the grossest thing I’ve ever done. Plus, the fact that my hands are shaking doesn’t help matters.

            The man gently takes my wrist and holds it for a second, shifting his position. He looks right at my face, giving me the once-over from head to toe. I blush, flustered, but don’t move.

            “How old are you?” he asks. “Where’s your family?”

            “I’m old enough,” I reply, slipping out of his grasp. “Let me wrap that for you.”

            I take out my medical tape, dry the wound and wrap it up.

            He stands there, silent.

            “You’re alone,” he states gravely.

            “What’s it to you?” My hand inches back towards my gun.

            Noticing my anxiety, he makes an effort to relax his stance.

            “I’m just trying to help,” he says. “I’m a Navy Seal. I’m not a bad guy.”

            “Sounds like something a bad guy would say,” I snort.

            “I’m going to be straight with you. I need a ride.”

            “My dad told me never to talk to strangers, much less give them rides.” I shut the back door. “I shouldn’t have even stopped.”

            “But you did.” The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Thank you.”

            I pause, sitting down on the driver’s seat. One leg in, one leg out.

            “You’re welcome.” I place my hand on the door. “And you’re not an active duty Navy Seal. Your hair is
way
too long.”

            “I’m a
former
Seal,” he shrugs.

            “So you lied,” I mutter.

            “No, I didn’t. Listen, I can pay you for a ride, if that’s what you want,” he says.

            “I don’t want money.”

            “Look,” he says. “I just need to get to Squaw Valley. It’s just outside of Sequoia National Park.”

            I close my eyes, ticked.

Of course.

Squaw Valley is in the foothills, about forty miles below our emergency cabin.

            “What’s your name?” I ask again.

            “Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.”

            I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes.

            “I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try
anything
, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.”

            He almost smiles.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            I nod. “Get in. I’m wasting gas.”

            “Let me get my gear.” He walks over to the side of the road and grabs a backpack and jacket, coming around to the passenger side. It’s a military-issue backpack, his jacket is leather, though.

            “What are you, a biker?” I ask.

            “Was,” he says.

            “The pulse got your bike?”

            “Totaled it.”

            “You’re lucky you’re alive, you know that?”

            He flashes a brilliant smile.

            “I know.”

            I clear my throat and press down on the accelerator, eager to get the heck out of here. Chris’s presence in my car puts me on edge, reminding me for the millionth time that my dad has warned me repeatedly over the course of my young life never to talk to strangers and
never
get in a car with one.