State of Emergency (Book) (6 page)

“Have you been overseas?” I ask.

“Many times.”

“Where?” I lean forward. “I always wanted to travel.”

Chris sighs.

“I didn’t exactly have time to do a lot of sightseeing,” he says. “I’ve been on six tours since my first deployment. Iraq and Afghanistan for the most part.” His face darkens. “That was a couple years ago, though.”

“That explains your hippie hair,” I remark.

“Hey, I like my hair.”

“So do I, I’m just saying.”

Chris smiles again and I realize how much I
like
seeing him do so. I play a game with myself to keep my mind off the world’s seeming doom by seeing how many times I can make him smile or laugh. I manage to get him about five times in forty-five minutes. Not bad.

“It’s so cold,” I complain for the hundredth time. “Damn.”

Chris laughs – weird, because I wasn’t even trying to get him to do it.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“You haven’t been in snow much, have you?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“No,” I huff. “Now I know why. It sucks.”

“Nah. It’s just different than what you’re used to.” He shrugs. “Then again, you
are
a city girl.”

I mutter something about him about being egotistical before rubbing my hands together. My head hurts
so
bad. It’s ridiculous. I grit my teeth and wrap my fingers around the roots of my hair at the crown. I pull on the hair enough to ease the pain in my head – a little trick I learned from those stupid online health forums on the Internet.

The Internet.
Now a thing of the past.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

“My head hurts,” I say, admitting it. “I think I have some pain meds in my backpack.” The headache is so painful that it hurts to blink. By the time I rifle through all the survival crap in my bag I am tearing the pain medication package open like someone possessed.

“Aren’t those children’s painkillers?” Chris remarks, seeing the happy face on the label.

“Yes,” I groan, chewing up the grape-flavored drug.

“Why not just buy the adult doses? It’s more effective.”

“I prefer the grape flavor.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Fine,” I admit. “I
like
the happy face on the label. Geez.”

Chris bursts into laughter, chortling on like I’m some kind of sitcom. Whatever. My head hurts and yeah, I
like
the happy face. I fling the bottle back into to the bag. I press my forehead against the freezing window, hoping it will act as the equivalent of an ice pack.

“I’m just going to rest for a minute,” I murmur, knowing I sound whiny.

I drop off to sleep after a few minutes. When I dream I have weird nightmares about driving down a road that never ends. Ironic. When I wake up it’s around three in the morning. Still dark. Still cold enough to make Frosty the Snowman wear a parka.

“Where are we?” I ask, yawning.

My head feels better thanks to the painkillers. Chris looks weary from all the driving and I consider offering to take his place. My brain feels kind of thick and foggy from the meds, so I decide to keep my generous offer to myself.

“We’re almost to the valley,” Chris says. “I think.”

“You think?” I blink a few times to focus. “Or are we lost again?”

“We were never
lost
,” Chris replies firmly. “We just ran into bad roads.”

“We were lost.”

“We weren’t
lost
.”

I sigh. “Why can’t men ever admit it when they’re lost?” I lean forward, straining to see out the sleet-covered windshield. “Chris, that’s the Interstate.”

The narrow back road we’re on curves up alongside the mountain and drops off underneath the freeway. Thanks to the EMP, there’s not a single pair of headlights in sight.

“The freeway’s all downhill,” I remark. “I mean, that means we
are
getting closer to the valley.”

“You wanna chance getting on the Interstate?” Chris asks.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “There’s probably a hundred pileups the size of the Wall of Jericho on there.”

“There’s no other road,” he sighs. “We don’t really have a choice. We don’t have the luxury of wasting gas looking for an alternate route. We’re far enough away from the city that we might be able to squeeze by the messy areas because traffic here wasn’t as dense when the pulse hit.”

I shiver, realizing how we’ve started talking about the “pulse” like it’s some thing. Some historic event that occurred a hundred years ago when it was really only twenty-four hours back.

“Okay,” I agree. “But what if there’s people?”

“Then we deal with them.”

“And what if they get violent?”

“We defend ourselves.” He slows the car near the freeway onramp, both of us noting the cars lined up on the road. Frozen in time. “We don’t have a choice, Cassie. We need to get out of here. The weather will only get worse, and even though
I
might be able to handle the climate, you won’t like it.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right.

“Just keep your gun ready,” I advise, only halfway joking. “I’m ready to shoot anybody who comes within a five-foot radius.”

“I hope that doesn’t include me,” Chris chuckles, easing onto the freeway. We have to go slow, avoiding one car after another that is either turned on its side or smashed into a giant pileup. As we descend, I keep looking for the valley. Usually I would be able to see a few lights twinkling below but tonight there is nothing but darkness.

Everything’s dead.
People
are dead.

“Holy crap!” I exclaim. We drive by an oilrig on its side. Some of the liquid is leaking onto the road, just waiting to be ignited. I shut my eyes and think of a happy place. Someplace that’s
not
a graveyard of utter destruction.

It’s slow going, picking our way through the wreckage. At one point I think that cars are blocking the way entirely but Chris manages to squeeze the Mustang between the guardrail and the cars.

He’s a pretty good driver, but I’d never admit that to his face.

“Chris! I see it!” I cry, lifting myself off the seat, grinning. Although there is no sign of electricity in the valley, I can easily identify the flat stretch of land peeking out behind the mountains. It’s just light enough to it.

I clap my hands together as Chris watches me in silence.

“What? Aren’t you
happy
?” I demand.

“Yeah. But I’m not sure if you are.”

I lightly punch him in the shoulder.

“Shut up.”

Crash
. Something slams against my window. I scream. The blunt force makes the entire car shake. Chris hits the gas and the whole car lurches forward. I see dark shapes and recognize human shapes running through the spaces between cars.

“Chris!”

“I see them.”

Every few seconds our headlights flashes across somebody’s face, revealing bloody skin, torn clothing and wild eyes. How long have these people been stuck out here, waiting for emergency assistance that never came? Our car is like a magnet to them.

“Hit the gas!” I yell.

Chris floors it as much as he dares, knowing that there are too many obstacles in the road to go too quickly. People keep slamming against the side of the Mustang in an attempt to grab onto the roof or trunk and hitch some kind of a ride.

Or stop us altogether.

Chris dodges freak stragglers without too much difficulty but the car pileups are getting bigger. “Chris…” I whisper, fear slithering down my spine.

There is a massive car accident in front of us. A semi truck is lying on its side, blocking half the road. Other vehicles are stacked up on the other side of it, completely barricading the freeway.

“Turn around!” I say. “We have to get out of here!”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Chris snaps.

He swings the car into a quick U-turn. The headlights illuminate the road. I stare in terror, seeing a mob of people running towards us. They’re coming from all sides and we have nowhere to go but
into
the mob if we want to escape.

“Get your pack,” Chris warns. “Get everything you can.”

“But-”

“-Just
do
it!”

I strap my backpack on and grab Chris’s. Chris doesn’t stop the car but keeps moving forward just as three people throw themselves onto the trunk. They start banging on the windows, shrieking profanities. Freaked out beyond all reasonable belief, I look to Chris, hoping he’ll offer some solution. But what can he do? People are throwing themselves at the car, creating a human barrier around the entire vehicle. Pretty soon the human claw is so heavy Chris can’t move the car forward. The banging and yelling gets more intense. The windows start cracking.

I look around frantically, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. At last somebody breaks through the passenger window. Their knuckles and arm are scratched and bloody as they rip more of the glass away with their bare hands.

“Cassidy!” Chris says.

More hands start ripping away the glass, arms reach through the window, grabbing my hair, head, shoulders, waist. Dragging me outside. I scream and scream, biting and clawing at the psychos who won’t let go. I feel Chris’s hand on my legs as he tries to yank me back inside the car, but really – what good would that do?

Pretty soon I’m caught up in a swirling mob of people, crushed in on all sides, sweaty, bloody bodies yelling and hollering like wild savages hunting hyenas. I can’t breathe, I can
barely
see and the mob is breaking apart more of the windows on the Mustang.

People are trying to rip my backpack off my shoulders but it’s strapped on at two places: across my chest and across my waist. I hold onto it for dear life, knowing that what I have inside is actually worth more than the car.

“Give us the pack!” a crazy woman spits in my face. She slaps me repeatedly until I finally kick her off, shoving her against the ground where she’s swallowed up by the mob. Under normal circumstances I would feel lousy for kicking somebody, but now is not the time to get on a guilt trip.

“Take it!” somebody hollers. I assume they’re talking about the Mustang. The mob surges forward, getting tighter, wilder. It’s really unbelievable just how insane these people have become. Some of them are wearing business suits or beachwear suited for Santa Monica. And now they’re acting like a bunch of maniacal zombies.

Desperation really
does
bring people down to the same level.

“Give me the girl!” I hear Chris shout. I spot him climbing onto the roof of the Mustang. He’s got his backpack on one shoulder – a miracle – and his gun in the other hand. The crowd doesn’t pay him any attention.

Until he fires the gun. He points it at the sky, not hurting anybody, but the sound draws everybody’s attention. It’s like an instant freeze falls over the crowd.

“Give me the girl,” Chris commands, his voice echoing over the scene of destruction. “Or will shoot as many people as I can before I’m done here.”

The crowd surrounding me parts just enough for me to work my way back to the Mustang. Chris keeps the gun in plain sight, his free hand up in the air. He jumps down on the asphalt and hooks his arm around my waist. I hang onto him for dear life as he halfway drags me through the mob, people backing off just a few feet as Chris keeps the gun in sight.

When we clear the crowd everybody stares at us before turning back and busting into the car. “Chris, my gun is in the car!” I say, feeling my empty holster. “I took it out…”

Chris grabs my hand and yanks me away.

“Move,” he commands. “Now.”

“But Chris! My
car
,” I moan. 

We break into a jog, putting distance between us and the mob from the mouth of hell. Chris climbs up the side of the overturned semi and reaches down for me. I take his hands and he pulls me up just as another gunshot rings through the air. People in the mob start dispersing and breaking for the hills. The Mustang rolls forward. I can hear somebody gunning the engine, lurching backward and forward as people cram their bodies into the tiny cab, trying to steal it the car for themselves.

It’s painful to watch.

But we have to leave before we get killed. Chris drops to the ground and holds out his arms for me. I jump down, wincing from the still-painful crowbar injury. Chris catches me around the waist, his fingers lightly grazing my hip. I notice a ribbon of blood running down his forehead.

“Are you okay?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question.

We just got attacked by a crazy mob. We’re
so
not okay.

Chris offers an amused smile, touching my cheek.

“Are you?”

I nod.

“Let’s move, then,” he says.

I pause, another crash breaking the silence of the night.

“But we have no car,” I say, realization setting in like a ten pound weight.