State of Emergency (Book) (25 page)

            Still no sounds.

            My heart is pretty much beating in my throat, banging like a cymbal inside my chest. Chris draws himself up to his full height, casting a glance at me. He shrugs, as if to say, “what have we got to lose?” and kicks in the door.

            The whole door crashes and shudders…because it’s not locked. I spring up, panic tearing through me. No, no, no, no, no. I shove in front of Chris and run inside. It’s got one room with an open loft above the kitchen. There’s a table, a fireplace and a bunch of bedding stacked against the wall.

            But it’s empty.

            I spin around in a circle, looking at Chris. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s looking at the back of the door, which has just shut behind us. There’s a white piece of paper nailed to it – like some kind of warrant straight out of Robin Hood.

            I walk up to and tear it off, hands shaking.

           
Oh, my god…

Under Penalty of the LAW:

A Warrant of Arrest for

FRANK HART

For storing and hoarding supplies rightfully allotted to emergency services, possessing dangerous weapons, and failing to enroll in Omega’s urgent CENSUS.

This property is hereby confiscated by the

FEDERAL GOVERNMENT

For use in emergency relocation programming and redistricting.

FURTHER

A WARRANT OF ARREST for

CASSIDY ELEANOR HART

And

CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

Co-conspirators wanted for defamation, treason, attempted murder, and hoarding.

            “They expected to find us here with him,” I say, panicking. “My god, Chris. They took him. They arrested him. They
killed
him.”

            I’m breathing in and out so fast that I’m actually choking on my own air. And why shouldn’t I? My worst nightmare has just come true. Not that I didn’t know that this was a likely scenario, but standing here, seeing it happen…it’s worse than a nightmare. It’s inescapable.

            “You don’t know that,” Chris replies, grabbing me. He literally holds me there and doesn’t let me move. “Look around you. There’s no sign of a struggle. He might not even
be
here yet.”

            I stare at him, turning white with shock.                                          

            This is just too much.

            But that’s before I see my dad’s backpack on the floor.

            “No…” I whisper.

            I break free of Chris’s arms and kneel on the ground. It’s a standard-issue survival pack, and I can see that most of the supplies are gone. My dad’s name is stitched on the side of it. I know, because I’m the one who talked him into getting the backpack personalized a few years ago.

            Its contents are spilling all over the floor, and when I follow the line of debris from the backpack into the kitchen, I see a broken bowl on the floor.

            “He was here,” I state, horrified. “They
did
take him. He’s as good as dead.”

            I cover my mouth with my hands, feeling both traumatized and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t know that he’s dead,” Chris replies, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “Cassie…?”

            I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I’m too busy crying my eyes out.

            It’s all over.

            When I was eight years, old, I watched a scary movie that my parents had specifically told me
not
to. I’d seen the DVD lying around the house and I thought I’d turn it on, and once I did, I couldn’t turn it off. Needless to say, I had the most horrible nightmares of my life.

            My dad, instead of getting mad at me for watching the movie, brought me a nightlight and plugged it into the electric socket in my room. He even sang me a lullaby – and if you knew my dad, you knew that was special.

            I kept that nightlight until the second the EMP hit. And now, all I can remember is how nice it was to have somebody to tell you that your nightmare wasn’t real. It’s okay to go back to sleep.

           
Sucks to be me
. I’ve been crying into Chris’s shoulder for hours. Probably days. Maybe weeks.

            Well, maybe just an hour or two, but you get the idea. We’re sitting on the floor of the cabin kitchen, cocooned in total darkness. I’ve got the hiccups from crying so much, and now that the panic and shock have worn off, empty despair has set in.

            I feel totally numb, like I could die right now and I wouldn’t care. I’d almost welcome it.

            “We’ll find him,” Chris keeps saying, over and over. “I promise. I won’t let them take him away from you.”

            Thank God I have Chris. I would have never gotten this far without him, and if he weren’t here right now, I probably would have gone skydiving off the nearest cliff without a parachute the second I found out my dad had been arrested. He’s a good insurance policy.

            “What now?” I whisper, hoarse.

            “We sleep.”

            “I can’t sleep.”

            “Yes, you can. You’re exhausted. We both are.”

            “I just lost everything.” I sniffle. “What’s the point of sleeping or eating or
caring
? They’re just going to keep taking things away from us until they kill us! First our cars, our cellphones, our houses. Then our lives. They’re not going to stop.”

            “You’re wrong, Cassidy,” Chris replies, his voice even. “They haven’t taken everything from you
or
me. They haven’t taken
us
. Who we are. They can’t take our souls, and they can try to kill us and subjugate us, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.”

            I take a shaky, painful breath.

            “Why fight?” I ask. “They’ll kill us. Just like they killed all those people at the rest stop and in Bakersfield. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, out strategized. We’re screwed and you know it.”

            “We’re alive,” Chris answers, taking my face between his hands. “We’re together. We’re a team, and they can’t change that.”

            I suck in my breath, trying not to burst into tears again.

            “We’re a team?” I echo, tired. “Are you sure about that?”
            Chris chuckles. It’s an exhausted but sincere sound.

            “I’m sure,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”

            I wrap my arms around his neck, tears running down my face.

            “We’re a team,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I trust you.”

            It’s true. I
do
trust him. I can’t think of anybody else who could have gotten me to this point without dying. Only a Navy Seal, I guess. At any rate, maybe I’ll feel differently about things in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel more optimistic. Maybe my dad
is
alive.

            But finding him…how is
that
supposed to happen?

            First rule of the new world: don’t hoard. All of the supplies that my dad and I brought to this cabin have been taken by Omega. Everything. Every drop of water, every flake of dehydrated chicken breast. All we’ve got is what Chris’s mom gave us, and even then it’s a miracle we’ve got anything left.

            Apparently, nobody but the big dogs are allowed to have emergency supplies. Makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to subjugate people. What better way than to control the food supply?

             Try explaining that to the bottomless pit known as my stomach. I’m
hungry
.

            It’s about eight o’clock at night. We’ve draped heavy blankets over the windows and stuffed rags in all the cracks around the doors. Only then do we light a couple of lanterns. I’m curled up on the loft bed above the kitchen, watching Chris get some food together. He’s making some coffee with our camping stove and heating up some biscuits.

            “I’ll cook,” I volunteer, sliding down the ladder.

            “Rest, Cassie,” he advises, without turning around. “You’re tired.”

            “I don’t want to rest. And I happen to be a biscuit expert.” I sit on the edge of the makeshift counter. “Coffee at night? Really?”

            “As soon as the storm settles down we need to get back home,” he replies, placing one hand on each side of me. “Are you up for that?”

            No. Just the thought of doing
anything
right now is sickening.

            “Sure,” I lie. “Sounds good.”

            He raises his eyebrows, obviously not buying it.

            “Coffee’s burning,” I mutter.

            He turns around, snatching it off the stove before it scorches.

            There are still some dishes left in the cupboard. Stuff from thrift stores that my dad I bought cheaply to bring up here. Fat lot of good it did. Without food or water…or
dad
…things are kind of pointless.

            “Have you cleaned that knife wound?” I ask as he pours the coffee.

            He hands me a cup.

            “No,” he replies. “I was getting around to it.”

            “Better hurry up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection and die,” I say, trying to smile.

            Chris brushes my cheek with the back of his hand and nods. “You’re right.”

            He walks to the other side of the cabin – which is only about twenty feet in length – and starts digging through his backpack. I take a sip of the coffee, almost spitting it out. “It’s bitter.”

            “Coffee generally is,” Chris laughs, rolling the first aid kit out on the counter. “It’ll make you feel better.”

            “Why? Because it’s like a liquid drug? Trying to turn me into an addict?”

            “That’s the plan.” Chris pulls of his jacket, revealing the bloodstain on his wool shirt. It’s not as bad as I thought. “What do you think?”
            “I think I’m not the addiction type.”

            He runs a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.

            “I was talking about the blood, Cassie.”

            “Oh. Looks okay.”

            He rolls up the shirt enough to get a good view of the cut – and his very nice stomach. It’s not very deep, but nicked enough to get infected if left untreated. Chris looks at me.

            “Can you stitch it?” he asks.

            I swallow a lump in my throat – I’ve never been good with first aid stitching – and nod. “Sure,” I say. “I need the antiseptic wipes.”

            He dumps the first aid kit on the counter and opens his arms out wide.

            “Be my guest.”

             I find the wipes, the needle, the thread. If you even call it thread. I stifle a shudder and flip open the emergency handbook. There are directions for stitching up a wound. I’ve practiced in the past on a dummy – a routine my dad periodically had me do because, “You just never know when you’re going to get gouged open with a knife.”

            Thanks for the tip,
dad
.

            I follow the instructions step by step, holding back a gag as I clean the wound and touch the disconnected piece of skin. So. Gross.

            “This is disgusting,” I complain.

            Chris just grunts.

            I “accidentally” prick him with the needle before starting the stitching. I actually get
really
close to puking weaving in and out of the flesh, which just makes Chris laugh at me. When I’m done, I close the stiches up like the book says and set down the needle.

            “There. You’re a regular ragdoll now.”

            Chris inspects my handiwork. It’s a little uneven, but hey. At least I did it.

            “Not bad,” he comments. “Thanks.”

            He lets his shirt drop and I start cleaning the needle with an antiseptic wipe.

            “Does it hurt?” I ask, putting everything back in the kit.

            “Nah. You?”

            “I didn’t get wounded,” I remind him.

            “You know what I mean.”

            I shut my mouth, not because I’m speechless, but because if I start to talk I’ll burst into tears. Again. And that’s
so
not happening. Instead I just shrug and slap the kit closed.

            “Cassie, we’ll find him,” Chris says, touching my arm. “We got this far, didn’t we?”

            “Yeah, and he wasn’t here.” I turn around, glad he can’t see my eyes watering up in the dim lighting. “Who knows where they took him, Chris? It could be anywhere in the whole country.” I run a hand through my hair and toss the first aid kit across the room. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

            “There’s always something.”

            Chris grabs my hand, pressing it against his chest. He’s warm, and I can feel his heart beating in a steady rhythm under his skin.

            “Are we having a Tarzan moment?” I crack, not feeling the joke.

            “As long as we’re both alive,” he says, tipping my chin up, “and our hearts are still beating, there’s still a chance. I won’t go down without a fight, and I know you won’t either.
That
gives us a chance, Cassie.”

            I meet his firm gaze, and what I see there is encouraging. Exhaustion? Yes. A little uncertainty? You bet. But there’s also hope, and if Chris is still holding onto it, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

            I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly. Chris folds me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Listen to me,” he says. “Do you remember when we saw the dead bodies at the camp in Bakersfield?”

            “Yes,” I nod.

            “Those were systematic executions. There was no real reason for those. They do that to scare people into submission. Other people – like you and me – they’re going to make an example out of us. Just to scare the crap out of people. War criminals are perfect for that. People like you and me and your dad. Why the hell would they bother with an arrest warrant for the three of us when the military is killing whoever they want? Think about it. Three people out of billions? Why would they care where we go?”

            I pull away and look into his face.

            Light bulb.

            “Because they need to keep the population under control,” I say, swallowing. “And killing off the few survivors or resistors will scare people from getting any ideas about rebelling.”

            He leans closer, and I can smell the coffee on his breath.

            “Exactly.” He brushes the hair out of my eyes. “And it’s a fact that they don’t usually execute those “examples” right away. They drag it out. They take them somewhere.”

            My eyes widen.

            “They take them to prison.”

            “Someplace where they can publicize the whole thing.”

            “But where?”

            Chris smiles.

            “I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”
            I groan. “Are you kidding me? We just
got
here! All I want to do is hibernate for the winter. Is that too much to ask?”

            Chris places his hands on each side of my waist.

            “You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”

            I grit my teeth. Even if there was any chance of locating my dad again, it would mean that we’d have to trek across the former heartland of California on foot through hostile territory. Again.

            “We’ll wait until the storm dies down,” Chris tells me, almost like he can read my thoughts. “Then we’ll head back towards my house, check in with my parents, and try to figure this thing out. We’ll come up with a plan.”

            “Yeah,” I say. “We always do.”