State of Emergency (Book) (11 page)

“We’re better off than most people,” Chris smiles. I mean,
really
smiles. It’s kind of gorgeous, even though I can barely see in the dark. Because he’s not wearing a jacket, his shirt is pretty much soaking wet from the constant drizzle, sticking to his muscles in all the right places.

Whoa…

“And you’re staring at me,” he states, snapping me out of my reverie.

“I am
not
,” I laugh nervously. “I’m just…thinking. Without blinking.”

Chris breaks into good-natured laughter.

“Sure you are.”

I roll my eyes, feigning innocence. I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of him knowing that I think he has Thor-like looks or anything. It would go to his head. Immediately.

“What about food and water?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “We’re going to run out.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Chris says.

“How can you be so
calm
about possible starvation? And dehydration? You know how long it’s been since I’ve peed?” I clear my throat, realizing I probably could have kept that bit of information to myself.

To my surprise, Chris doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me. Instead he looks serious and says, “Drink what water you have left in your canteen. We’ll stop for the night and as long as it rains you can keep drinking. Dehydration is more deadly than going without food for a couple of days, so we’ll address that problem first. We can use the poncho in your backpack to gather more water if you want.”

“Great. I’m going to die.”

“Quit being dramatic,” he sighs.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being realistic.”

Chris shoots me an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. After we get about five miles out of Bakersfield, I’m about ready to plop down on the ground and fall asleep with my head in a puddle. We find an old truck with a camper shell over the back and crawl inside, looking through a bunch of fishing gear.

“There’s no river nearby, is there?” I ask just as Chris shuts the door.

“He was driving Northbound,” he shrugs. “Probably headed to the mountains.” He twirls a camping permit in his fingers. “Kings Canyon.”

I open my pack and turn on the crank radio and electric lamp. Chris decides to be noble and wind the radio up while I get out “dinner,” which is basically just another bland energy bar.

“Got anything?” I ask, peeling the wrapper back.

Chris sets the radio on the floor. There isn’t even any static anymore.

“Looks like the days of the radio are over,” Chris announces, flashing a fake smile. “What’s for dinner?”

“Turkey and potatoes,” I deadpan, tossing him a bar. “And for dessert, pumpkin pie.”

“Someone’s got Thanksgiving dinner on their mind,” Chris says, amused. “What did you do last time?”

“For Thanksgiving?” I yawn. “I made dinner for me and my dad and then we watched
How the West Was Won
.”

Chris laughs.

“Your mom must appreciate all your cooking.”

I frown, tearing my energy bar into tiny little pieces.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Noticing my mood change – or as my dad always called them:
Mood swings from hell –
Chris decides for some reason that he needs to find out more information about my dear old mom.

“Where’s your mom, Cassidy?” he asks, looking right at me.

I avoid his eyes, finding a super interesting thread on my jacket sleeve to focus on. “Not sure,” I shrug. “Why?”

“Do you have any family besides your father?”

“Not really, no.” I look up, kind of angry with him for bringing this up. It always makes me cry like an overly emotional child when I think about my lack of family. “And this is important to you
because
…?”

“I’m just asking,” Chris says, throwing his hands up.

But I can tell there’s more to it than that. So I decide to get snarky.

“Where are
your
parents?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

And she throws a curveball!

Chris takes a bite of his bar, giving me an I-Totally-Know-What-You’re-Doing look.

“They’re retired,” he replies.

“Both of them?”

He nods.

“What did they do?”

“They were farmers,” he says.

“What about your brother?”

“I think I said before that he’s a senior in High School.”

I smile evilly.

“Is he cute?” I ask. “Or single?”

Chris stops chewing and leans forward.

“And this matters to you because…?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Just asking,” I grin. “But seriously. Is your brother cute?”

“Not as cute as me.” He winks. He actually
winks
, and somehow it actually comes across as sexy rather than stupid or creepy. I feel my cheeks turning red, and I am extremely grateful that it’s so dark inside the camper shell.

“Well, you’re not cute,” I say, finishing off my bar.

“
I’m
not cute?” Chris repeats, looking shocked. “Is that why you stare at me all the time?”

“I’m not staring at you!” I retort. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to kill me or something. Or steal my backpack.”

“Right. I’m just dying to steal a backpack with two energy bars and a plastic poncho.” He smirks. “That’s been my plan all along.”

“Hey, desperation drives people to do crazy things,” I say, taking my jacket off.

“You still don’t think I’m cute?” His smile is playful. Pleasant, even.

I spread my coat out like a blanket over my body, thankful for my thermal black shirt. Warmth is super important these days. “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. Chris isn’t
cute
. He’s way too mature and fit and
older
to be cute. He’s
hot
. But he doesn’t need to know that’s what I think.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I can see you smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” I answer. “I’m laughing at
you
. Vanity is so yesterday.”

“Ah.” He suddenly reaches across the truck and places his arms right over my head. I freeze, surprised – and stunned. What is he
doing
?

“My brother,” he says, his face
way
too close, “is very similar to me. But he’s eleven years younger than I am.”

I hold my breath, my eyes flicking down to the fine goatee he has all the way around his mouth, up the sides of his cheeks. He’s got nice skin, a strong jaw, long, thick hair right above the shoulders that’s dark brown with blonde highlights.

“Chris,” I say, afraid to release a breath.

He moves closer. Way too close. I can actually feel him breathing against my skin, and he smells a little bit like the leftover coffee from Walter’s apartment. His eyes search my face for some kind of emotion, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I lean forward just an
inch
, I could kiss him.

“What…time is it?” I ask, glancing down at the crank radio, dropping my eyes. I can see the time from here: 8:33 p.m. He knows I can see it, too. But instead of pointing that out, he slowly moves his arms from the camper shell and pulls away, making a point of taking his time finger the strands of hair falling over my shoulder. He looks either extremely smug or disappointed with my reaction. Maybe both.

Definitely both.

I finally exhale and scratch the side of my head, wondering what I should say. Something like, “Why didn’t you kiss me?” or “Why did I ask for the
time
?” 

Chris says nothing, retreating into frustrating silence. I curl up into my usual ball and try to say warm as Chris flicks off the light. I crack one of the windows open so I can let my canteen fill up with water during the night. Eventually I fall asleep, but it takes me a long time, because I’m hyperaware of Chris’s body only a few feet away, and I know that he’s watching my silhouette in the darkness. It’s the weirdest, most puzzling thing I’ve ever experienced.

Well. Besides the end of the world.

At dawn, I sit up quickly because my feet feel cold.  Rainwater is dripping through the window, pooling all over my boots. I groan and wonder how long my feet have been marinating in rainwater as Chris wakes up. His arm is thrown across the truck bed like he owns it, the other arm behind his head. I study his face, finding myself smiling in the process. He looks relaxed, almost boyish in sleep.

I grab my canteen, happy to see that it’s pretty much completely filled with water. The sky is still dark but it doesn’t seem like it’s raining anymore. Awesome. No more water-based adventures.

Chris stretches and sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not raining,” is the first thing he says.

“Thank God.” I hold my hands up. “Literally.”

Chris smiles. “I agree. Breakfast?”

I dig into my pack. There are three packages of energy bars left, which means we’ve got about fifteen bars left. I hand him one, shutting the window. After we’re done with our gourmet breakfast, we get out of the truck. It’s colder than yesterday, a definite temperature change.

I button up my jacket, feeling bad for Chris because he’s only got his leather biking jacket – not exactly ideal for wet weather.

“So,” I say, staring down the road. “I guess we have a lot of walking to do.”

Chris puts his arm around my shoulders, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Fear not, little maiden,” he replies, “the road may be long, but the journey will be worth it.”

I stare at him.

“Seriously? Is that a line from
Star Trek
or something?”

Chris gives me an exasperated look.

“You’re impossible to impress,” he mutters, shifting his backpack.

As we begin walking I ask, “So what kind of stuff do you have in
your
pack? Any food? Maybe some candy?”

“No food,” Chris replies. “I was biking for the day in Santa Monica when the EMP hit. I was
planning
to go back to San Diego and eat dinner.”

“So do you live on the military base?” I grin. “Do you get to drive in a convoy everywhere?”

Chris looks highly amused.

“No,” he says. “I live in an apartment in Santee.”

“Santee? Why?”

“I’m not active duty anymore, Cassidy. I can’t live on a base.” He looks sad for a second, but quickly hides the emotion on his face. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“It’s
dry
,” I remark.

“It’s a desert by the sea.” Chris opens his arms out wide. “And I don’t think Culver City is any more lush with plant life than Santee.”

“Culver City happens to be within ten minutes of Hollywood, Beverly Hills
and
Santa Monica,” I point out. “I can visit the Walk of Fame on the weekends.”

“Santee is ten minutes away from the Pacific Ocean and the birthplace of California,” Chris argues. “Not to mention some of the best surfing spots on the coast.”

“You
surf
?” I ask, astonished.

“I’m a Navy Seal. I adapt to water.” He glances at me. “What about you?”

“Oh, sure. I adapt to water about as much as a rock does.”

He laughs.

“Not the aquatic type?” he teases. “I guess you don’t exactly have a swimmer’s build.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I demand, crossing my arms.

“Swimmers are generally tall, with long arms and legs.”

“What? Nobody’s ever heard of a petite swimmer before?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he admits.

I mock punch him in the arm.

“Don’t make fun of my height,” I warn. “I’m tiny but mighty.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Chris reaches over and pinches my waist. “Sometime I’ll show you how to surf.”

 “Awesome. Just you, me and the circling sharks.” I give him a thumbs up. “Fun.”

“It will be,” he shrugs. “You’ll make a perfect decoy.”

“Meaning…?”

“You can distract the sharks while I surf.”

This time I really sock him in the arm.

“Brilliant military strategy, my friend,” I deadpan. “All those years of training finally paid off.”

We both burst into laughter at the same time, struck by the complete weirdness of the conversation. But somehow it’s nice to be able to talk to someone and just be totally ridiculous in the middle of a freeway littered with abandoned cars.

It makes it easier.

The day passes without any incidents. We have a few conversations about conspiracy theories concerning the EMP and the murder of innocent civilians. Where did the EMP come from? Was it from Omega? Was it from somebody else? Maybe it’s just some kind of freak hoax that will end up being uncovered later.

But then I remember all those dead bodies and I find that hard to believe. In the process of discussing all our delightful theories of doom, I learn a lot more about Chris. Where’s he from. Who he is.