State of Emergency (Book) (21 page)

Because it’s not.

It’s the engine of a truck.

Choker stands up across the campfire, watching my movements.

“Don’t try to make a run for,” he says, yawning.

“Wake up, Bree!” I ignore Choker and kick her foot.

“What the –“ she begins, anger flashing across her face when she sees me. “What are you
doing
, Ginger?
”

“Trucks. Coming this way,” I warn. “Quick. Put out the fire. Get your gun loaded. We need to move
now
.”
            “Are you kidding?” Blondie rolls out of her sleeping bag, excitement written across her features. “Trucks mean people and people mean help. We can go home!”

“You’re insane!” I hiss. “They’ll kill us. No civilian’s cars are working right now.Omega vehicles are are, but that’s it. Listen to me. You stay here and you’re dead.”

“Shut her up,” Blondie commands, looking absolutely livid. “We’re going home, boys.”

“You’re going home alright!” I yell. “Don’t be stupid! You’re going to get everyone killed!”

Blondie pulls her hood across her face.

“Like I care what you say.”
            And just like that, she trots off into the darkness, following the sound of the trucks. Dear Lord, she’s lost her ever-loving mind.

“Stop her!” I tell the boys.

They just look at me with blank expressions.

“We
do
need help,” Choker shrugs.

I narrow my eyes.

“Yeah. And it’s not going be to from me.”

I slam my boot right between his legs, putting all my force into it. Choker cries out, dropping the rifle to the ground. Spot jumps out of his sleeping bag, looking momentarily terrified before he rushes toward me, trying to bring me down.

No. I’m not in the mood.

My wrists are still tied together, so I slam both my fists across his face in what’s possibly the most unorthodox punch in the history of self-defense. Spot stumbles backwards as I deliver a beautiful roundhouse kick to make my point. He crashes down, clutching his head and moaning.

I guess I
did
learn something from those self-teaching DVDs about martial arts from the library.

I reach down, grab the rifle, and aim it at Choker.

“Open my backpack and get my knife out,” I say. “And do it quickly.”

Choker slowly crawls across the dirt, dragging my backpack out from behind the log. He fumbles around for a little while before pulling out the knife.

“Give it to Spot,” I command.

Choker looks at me, confused, and I realize that I just called him by my nickname for him out loud. Whatever.

Choker tosses the knife to Spot, who stares at is as it lies on the ground. In the not-so-far-off distance, the sounds of multiple trucks seems extra loud against the night sky. Do I hear voices, too?

“Pick up the knife,” I say, “and cut these plastic ties off my wrist.”

I walk over to Spot, kneel, and keep my rifle trained on Choker’s head for the maximum effect. Spot, dizzy and terrified from the two smacks I gave him, obeys without thinking. He picks up Jeff’s knife and cuts through the binds.

I exhale, loving the freedom of movement I have, now.

“Stay where you are, big guy,” I tell Choker.

I grab my backpack, strap the knife to my belt, and keep the rifle within easy reach. “I would suggest that you run,” I advise, “because trust me when I say that what’s coming isn’t…” I trail off as Blondie’s piercing scream rips through the air.

Without a second glance at Choker and Spot, and sprint forward into the darkness, wishing to god those boys would kill the light from the fire. On second thought, I hope they just run.

Blondie screams again. There are voices. It sounds like some of the trucks’ engines have been cut, which means whoever’s coming is getting out of their vehicles. “Bree!” I shout, desperate.

Why do I care what happens to her?
            “Bree, answer me!”

A gunshot breaks the monotone of the truck engines. Dread hits me like a brick in the chest as run in the direction where the gun fired. I can’t see, but I can hear. “Bree? Bree!”

I stop and listen, leaning against a tree.

And then,

“Ginger?”

It’s faint, but it’s her voice. I scramble towards it, dropping to my hands and knees. I rake through the mud and leaves until I touch warm flesh, Blondie’s hand.

“Bree,” I say, leaning over her. I can’t see. “Are you…?”
            I run my hands up her stomach, trying to find her face, but I stop. There’s hot, sticky blood on her abdomen. “Oh, my god, Bree…” I breathe, choking on a gag. “I’m so sorry…”

Her breathing is heavy as her hand gropes for my face. When she finally finds it, she pulls my head forward and whispers, “I’m sorry, Ginger.”

She drops something into my lap. Her hand falls away from my face, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I push my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming, checking her wrist, her chest, and her neck for any sign of a pulse.

But there’s nothing.

She’s dead.

Trembling from head to toe, I reach into my lap. My fingers brush cool metal.

Chris’s gold chain.

I bite my lip, stuffing it into my pocket. I need to run. I need to move. Now. But I can’t leave her here like this. What kind of a person would I be?

“Hey, stop!”

It’s a man’s voice, and it doesn’t seem like it’s directed at me. There are flashlights about fifty feet away from me, combing through the woods. From here I can see dark shadows moving around the orange light of the campfire.

“Run, boys,” I murmur, leaning forward.

I compulsively press a kiss to Blondie’s – Bree’s – forehead and climb to my feet, feeling like I’m moving through a slow dream. I just held a girl’s hand as she
died
. Am I really doing this?

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper again.

Another gunshot. A scream.

Choker? Spot?

I have to go. I turn and break into a run, streaking through the dark forest, occasionally stumbling over roots and stones. Another scream. I slow to a halt. What am I doing? I can’t just leave those dumb kids to fend for themselves.

Against my better judgment, I take the rifle in my hand and feel for the safety switch. It’s off. I make sure the thing’s loaded and start running again…in the opposite direction. As I near the campfire, I hear the pleading, pathetic voices of Spot and Choker. I creep closer, staying out of the way of flashlight beams.

I inhale.

There are only
two
Omega soldiers. One’s got a gun, while the other holds a flashlight. Spot and Choker are on their knees with their hands behind their heads. I can hear more voices in the distance, which means this party’s about to be crashed by more animals.

I drop to my stomach, holding the gun close to my cheek, the butt steady against my shoulder. I look through the sight, taking a deep breath. I used to play Airsoft with my cousin when I was younger, and it wasn’t much different than this.

AT trooper Number One has his gun cocked and aimed at Choker’s head. Anger tears through my body, making me hot. I’ve still got Bree’s blood on my left hand, reminding me just how capable these guys are of taking a human life.

I aim my rifle, check the sight one more time, and pray.

Then I squeeze the trigger.

The AT guard with the gun screams, and both of the guys drop to the ground for cover. I fire a few rounds into the dirt, scaring the crap out of both of them. They start dragging themselves away from the fire, and in the process, Choker and Spot hunker down with their hands behind their necks.

As the troopers run, I realize something:

I have the perfect opportunity to kill both of them.

And why shouldn’t I? Stupid, pathetic bullies who enjoy killing innocent men, women and children don’t deserve any mercy from me.

But I’m not like them, am I? I don’t kill people. It’s not my job to decide who lives or dies. I guess that’s what sets me apart from the enemy in this game of survival. This state of emergency.

So I just fire another shot, the two Omega soldiers checking out and making a mad dash through the darkness, calling for backup. I stand up and run through the bushes, completely wired with adrenaline in its most dangerous form.

“Get up!”

I break into camp. Choker and Spot are staring at me with wide eyes, both covered with tears. “Listen to me,” I say, grabbing Spot by the collar. “Run. Run as fast as you can, as far as you can. Get your gear and go. Do you understand me?”
            He nods weakly, moaning something about Bree.

I don’t want to tell him that his sister’s dead, so I don’t. He’s probably figured it out already, judging by the blood I just smeared all over his shirt with my hands. “Just run,” I say again.

I toss the rifle into his arms.

He holds it awkwardly, frozen. I turn away from the fire and make my way back into the woods, stopping only when Spot says, “Thank you.” I cast him a final glance. He looks confused. “And my name’s Jack. This is Peter.”

I almost smile, but I’m too shell shocked.

“Cassidy,” I whisper.

And then I run.

At dawn, I literally skid to a halt and land on my butt under a tall redwood. I kind of lost all sense of direction running through the darkness, because my only priority all night was to run
away
from the trucks and the shots.

Where am I now? I could be at the North Pole for all I know.

I lay my head against the tree, pulling a water canteen out of my backpack with shaky hands. I’m not cold, I’m just exhausted. Probably slightly traumatized, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to check into group therapy when this all over, so I just swallow my anxiety and close my eyes.

When I open them again, it’s late morning. I must have slept for about three or four hours. Chilled, I force myself to eat some jerky and crackers. I have absolutely no appetite, but starvation isn’t going to earn me bonus points in the “staying alive” category, so I choke it down anyway.

When I get too cold, I get up and start walking. North? South? Which way am I going? I look at the sun, but that doesn’t help much. I can barely see the sky through the trees. On top of that, an icy wind starts cutting down the side of the mountain, just about freezing me to death.

And all I can think about is Peter and Jack. Are they still alive? How many people are like them? How many kids have been orphaned and hunted down for committing the simple crime of existing?  And what about Bree? I look down at my left hand. Under the glove, I wasn’t able to get all the blood off my hand. It makes me sick to look at it.

So I don’t.

Instead I just continue to wander the forest, going nowhere. Completely lost. No matter which way I go, I can’t seem to find the main highway again. Every stick and patch of weeds looks exactly the same. I actually get dizzy from walking in so many circles. 

Okay, so what is somebody supposed to do if they get lost?

1.
     
Hug a tree.

2.
     
Blow a whistle, if you have it.

3.
     
Stay in the same place until somebody finds you.

4.
     
Try to avoid angry bears and wasp nests.

The only problem is, nobody is going to be looking for me except for some rabid Omega soldiers, and I don’t want them to find me.

I’m so screwed.

When my dad and I drove up to the cabin every summer, we followed the main highway, veering off onto a lesser known mountain road until we blew it off altogether, hitting a dirt trail that climbed up the side of the mountain. It was virtually invisible to the outside world, but I knew the route by heart.

Now? Not so much. If only I had a compass with me. I’ve always been good with hiking and basic survival techniques, thanks to my dad, but I never really took the time to figure out which direction our cabin was.

Calm down
, I tell myself.
Just find the road and you’ll be okay.

Pumping fake confidence into my nervous system does me some good. At least it keeps me moving, anyway. I walk in a straight line for two hours, heading uphill. The side of the mountain is so steep that I have to dig my feet into the mountain at a parallel angle, literally climbing up on hands and knees. By the time I reach the top my muscles feel like they’re on fire.

Making matters even more fantastic, I’m left to look at yet another huge hill, more woods, more rocks, more fern. But no highway. I take a breather and skirt the bottom of the next incline, following a battered animal trail probably used by deer. I end up looking at a small boulder that looks suspiciously like one I just passed a couple of hours ago.

I bend to inspect the dirt, looking at the indents in the soft mud around the rock. There are footprints.
Boot
prints if we’re going to be technical about it. I study them closely, wondering for a split second if those are
my
footprints. Because if they are, I’m even more lost than I thought.