State of Emergency (Book) (4 page)

“No.” He presses his lips together. “He’s my little brother. Just graduated from High School.”

“Oh. What about your parents?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You ask a lot of questions,
you know that
?”

“Yeah, so what? How else am I supposed to get to know you?”

Chris shakes his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We’ll need to refill the gas tank again in a minute,” he says, changing the subject. “How much you have left?”

I sigh.

“Enough to get us to Squaw Valley,” I reply. “But not to our cabin. And that’s only if we can avoid any more detours.”

“That could be a problem.”

“We can stop in a smaller city. Maybe the pulse only hit LA.”

“We can’t be sure.”

“Yeah, but if run out of gas things will
really
suck.” I shrug. “I’d rather take my chances in the city.”

Chris mulls the idea over in his head.

“Where’s the nearest city?” he asks.

I pull a map out of the passenger door pocket. After studying it for a little while I say, “There’s a place in Santa Clarita.”

“That’s right off the freeway,” Chris says. “We could get stuck in gridlock. It might be safer to just siphon off some gas from some of these abandoned cars.”

“But I want to see if Santa Clarita was affected by the EMP,” I point out. “It’s fairly remote. They have a gas station there. It might be a worth a shot.”

Chris doesn’t continue arguing with me, but I can tell he’s uneasy about the idea. Truthfully, so am I. But the more time elapses since the pulse hit, the more gas will continue to disappear from stations. The more people will panic and start raiding grocery stores for food and water, and the more anarchic society will become.

If this is indeed a widespread thing.

We’ll just have to find out how far the pulse reached, I guess.

I’ve seen ghost towns that looked friendlier than this.  It’s hard for me to believe that just fifteen hours ago Los Angeles and every freeway running in and out of the city was moving with 80 mile an hour traffic.

Santa Clarita, a little stretch of travel stops on the other side of the Magic Mountain rollercoaster park, is deserted. There are cars all over the interstate, many of them overturned or smashed together in giant piles. It looks a little like a junkyard. But there aren’t any people in sight. Not ambulances, helicopters or police cars.

Just an abandoned McDonald’s and a gas station.

Chris eases the Mustang down the road, keeping the window rolled down a few inches, listening. His face is pensive, his eyebrows drawn together.

“This is
not
normal,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. We just coast down the street, dodging a car that is crashed into a lamppost. I can see dark, thick skid marks all over the road. Some of them reach the sidewalk.

“At least we know that Santa Clarita was hit with the pulse, too,” I muse aloud. “We’re at least thirty-five miles out of L.A.”

This only makes Chris frown more.

“We’ll try the gas station,” he says. “But don’t count on finding any fuel.”

“I’m not.”

Chris drives up to the pumps and cuts the engine. We both get out. The sky is starting to darken around with rainclouds. Gusts of cold air are blowing through the abandoned rest area. “These are all dead,” I say, disappointed. But really, what had I been expecting? Of course the pumps would be dead if all the cars were.

“They might have some gas canisters inside,” Chris says, tapping the blank pump screen. “Stay here. Keep your eyes open.”

He reaches into the backseat and pulls out his backpack. He removes a semiautomatic that’s a lot newer – and cooler looking – than mine and tucks it into his belt.

“What? You think there’s going to be somebody in there to shoot?” I ask, alarmed. “And I didn’t know you had a
gun
.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says, completely serious. “Stay here.”

“I’m not moving. Geez. A little trust would be nice.”

Chris snorts and walks towards the building. I pull my jacket tighter and lean against the pump, overlooking the spooky scene before me. It’s like everybody just
disappeared
all at once. But where did they go? How did they get out so quickly?

Spooked, I grab my crank radio from the front seat. After a few hundred windups I shake my arm out and turn up the volume. I can only hear a crackling static at first before it’s interrupted by a short burst of dialogue.

“Citizens should take care to remain where they are and stay inside,” it says. A man’s voice. Pre-recorded. “For those that are unable to reach shelter, there are emergency camps in California for refugees. The following is a list of camp locations: Santee, San Bernardino, Bakersfield, Stockton, Elk Grove, Dublin, Yreka, San Jose and Fresno. Again, do not leave your homes unless necessary. Seek shelter at a relief camp or indoors. This is not a drill. The President has declared a state of emergency. Help is coming.”

The audio loops and starts over. I turn from station to station. Every broadcasting center is spouting out the same thing. My hand hovers over the off button just as I hear those words again:
State of emergency
. Apparently the whole state has gone dark. But what about the rest of the country?

God. I hope not.

“Chris!” I yell. “I got the radio to work!”

No answer. I roll my eyes and toss the radio back in the car. Down the street the road dips right underneath the freeway overpass. It’s completely stacked with cars. A virtual parking lot.

I’d hate to be the cleanup crew that has to take care of
that.

Bored, I walk around the Mustang a few times and check for dents. There’s a scratch on the rear fender. I bend to inspect it, my reflection peeking out at me in the shiny chrome.
This is what I get for letting him drive
, I think.

And then I see a flicker of movement in the chrome. At first I think it’s just my hair blowing around my face. Then I think that it’s Chris returning from the building with a gas canister.

That’s before I realize it’s another person.

I stand straight up and turn around. On the other end of the McDonald’s parking lot, a guy dressed in gangster garb is standing there with his hat on backwards. He’s wearing all black, some kind of metal stick in his hand. A crowbar?

Not exactly a positive sign.

He’s staring straight at me. Both of us, motionless in the middle of this deserted rest stop. My heart drops to my stomach, not because I’m afraid of people per se, but because I’m afraid that a guy dressed like a gangster holding a crowbar in the middle of Armageddon doesn’t have sparkling intentions.

As expected, he starts moving toward me. I immediately reach for my gun, keeping my hand on the holster in case he tries anything.

“Chris!” I say, trying to keep my voice from echoing. “Get
out
here!”

No answer.

As gangster boy gets closer I notice the creepy tattoos covering his arms. Some of them even reach onto his face. It’s both fascinating and gross.

Well, mostly gross, but still...

“What do you want?” I demand.

He takes a step onto the gas station driveway. The metal object he’s carrying
is
a crowbar, and there seems to be something crusted over on his leg. Blood? I swallow, fear sending a shiver through my body.

“You alone?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I reply. “What are you doing with a ten pound metal stick in the middle of nowhere?”

“This ain’t nowhere,” he says. “This
was
a rest stop.”

“Was. Now what do you want?”

“I want a ride.”

“No can do. I don’t drive strangers.”

“I didn’t ask you if you were going to
give
me one,” he says, flashing a dangerous expression. “I said I wanted a ride.”

The reality of his words sinks in.

Ah. I get it.

“Get out of here,” I order, taking out my gun. I’ve never actually shot anything before so I try to make it look like I know what I’m doing. “Or I’ll shoot you…” I pause. “Right between the eyes.”

He raises his hands up.

“Easy,” he says, backing up. “I was just asking. I’m going, I’m going…”
            “Good. Go a little faster. Your tattoos are making me dizzy.”

Feeling triumphant, I allow myself a smug smile. It’s only then that I remember my dad telling me in the fourth grade that pride always goes before fall. Seriously. Why is that always so true?

Somebody grabs my arms from behind and twists the gun out of my grip. It happens so fast that I have no time to stop it. One minute I’m standing with an idiotic smile on my face. The next my cheek is shoved up against the pavement and my hands are shoved into the small of my back.

Somebody’s got a knee crammed on top of my spine.

“Get…off…” I grunt weakly.

My adrenaline is spiking at record rates, causing my heart rate to skyrocket and my emotions to freak out. All I can think about is gangster boy’s bloody crowbar.

“Nice and easy, little girl,” he says, leaning down to peek at my face. “You keep quiet and I might be a nice guy and let you live.”

I bite back a stinging retort.

“Keep her there, Ray,” gangster boy says to the guy keeping my down. I can’t see his face but he’s got the same tattoos on his hands that his friend does.

“Yeah, there’s gas in the trunk!” gangster boy hoots. “She’s got food and water, too. Damn. She’s even got a radio.” He kicks my foot. “What’d you do? Raid a grocery store?”

“I like to stay prepared,” I spit, “so I don’t have to steal other people’s stuff.”

            Gangster boy laughs.

            “Let’s get out of here.”

            The weight on my back vanishes. Gangster boy lifts my up by the collar of my jacket. “You’re kind of pretty for a little thing,” he sneers. He reeks of cigarettes.  “Maybe I
will
take you along.”

            “I’d rather chew glass than share a car with you,” I manage to choke out.

Sarcasm has always been my best weapon, for some reason. Unfortunately it doesn’t really swing any physical power. Gangster boy’s friend, Ray, comes into view. A pale guy with similar gangster garb. He looks unmoved by my predicament.

“We’ll see about that,” gangster boy says, twirling his crowbar around with one hand. “What do you think?”

Seeing the crowbar makes me lose it. I bring my combat boots up and kick him as hard as I can in his groin. While he doesn’t let go of my jacket, he
does
swear in pain and loosen his grip. I claw my fingernails across his face and bite his hand as hard as I can.

He spits out a string of profanities and drops me. I scramble to my feet and sprint away, heading for the front seat. Ray is right behind me. For a pale skinny guy he’s sure fast.

Maybe he’s a vampire.

I dive for the driver’s seat and grab the keys to the Mustang. Ray drags me out by the belt loop of my jeans. I literally shove the keys into my shirt, hoping they stay hidden in my camisole. Gangster boy grabs me by the neck and starts cursing in my face.

Apparently he plans to kill me and he just doesn’t know how to articulate it any other way.

He slams my entire body against the cement pillar that’s holding up the awning over the gas station. I gasp, feeling the air rush out of my lungs. He grabs me again and tosses me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach. I double over in pain, covering the back of my neck with my hands.

But that’s before I remember that you’re only supposed to do that if a bear attacks you.
Idiot
, I think.
How do I get out of this?

I roll to my side, just missing gangster boy’s crowbar as it clangs against the ground where my head just was. Terror shoots up from my feet to my brain. I jump up and take a crowbar to the hip.

“Stop!” I plead, desperate.

 Gangster boy slams the crowbar towards me. I cover my face and close my eyes.
Bam.
It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t my head that got hit. Or my stomach.Or anything else of physical importance. I peek through my hands, shocked to see Chris’s powerful arm blocking the crowbar.

He’s standing protectively in front of me. He whips his hand underneath the bar, twists it out of gangster boy’s hand and slams it into his head. I stifle a shocked gasp into my palm. Gangster boy goes down and Ray tries to advance on Chris.

I take a step backwards, gripping my throbbing hip. Chris twirls the crowbar around in his hand like it’s a baton, using it to thrust it forward into Ray’s stomach. Ray makes a weird gagging noise and bends forward, grabbing his abdomen in pain.

Join the club
, I think.

Chris then drops the bar and takes Ray by the neck.

“I should
kill
you,” he growls, every muscle in his body tense, bulging.

Ray chokes out an unintelligible response.

“Get the hell out of here,” Chris warns, kicking the now-terrified gangster forward. “You come back and I
will
kill you.”

Ray, still gripping his stomach, nods weakly and takes off across the gas station. I can only stare at gangster boy’s unconscious body strewn across the asphalt. There’s no blood or anything, but it’s still freaky to see.

“Where is it?” Chris asks, breathing hard.

He’s amped up, his cheeks flushed red.

“Chris…where’s
what
?” I stammer, still shaking with shock.

“Where’d he
hit
you, Cassie?” he demands. “Did he hit you in the head? Yes or no?”

“What? No.” I grimace. “My side, though. It’s killing me.”

Chris swears and lifts my jacket. He pulls the shirt up underneath and I peer down at the skin right above my hip. It’s turning black and blue right in front of my eyes. “Dammit.” He places his hand on the skin. “I’m sorry, Cassie.”

Our eyes meet. I inhale sharply, realizing I must have dirt and gravel all over my face. Being the self-conscious idiot that I am, I look down and cover my face with my hand, embarrassed. Chris threads his fingers through mine and brings my hand down. “Cassie,” he says, his voice rough.

I look back up. Raw emotion is burning in his eyes.

“We have to get out of here,” I whisper. “There’ll be more like them.”

Chris nods slowly.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and draws me closer. For one awkward yet incredible moment I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead he slips his arm behind my back and starts leading me to the car. I limp and hobble like a grandma on roller-skates thanks to the profound pain radiating through my body. Chris opens the passenger door.

“I didn’t find any gas,” he says, sliding his arms underneath my legs. He lowers me onto the seat, taking his sweet time pulling away from me. My pulse is pounding – but from the traumatic attack or his touch I can’t tell.