As for me, my heart is beating out of my chest. I think I ruptured my nervous system. I just nod, mumbling something about having to use the restroom, and open the driver door. The air is crisp and cutting. Chris walks around the back of the car and, for the first time, I see my new traveling companion in daylight.
His skin is tanned, a thin scar trails from the inside of his wrist to his elbow. His eyes are green — electric green. I stand and stare at him for a full ten seconds with my mouth open like an idiot before realizing that he’s doing the exact same thing.
And the corner of his mouth is quirking upwards. My hands automatically fly to my face, trying to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks.
Being pale does little to hide emotions.
“It’s all yours,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “But if you crash or scratch her, I’ll shoot you.”
Placing his hand on the door above my head, he replies, “I’ll remember that.”
For one intense moment we lock gazes. I feel like a two-ton weight is dropped on my chest, unable to breathe, unable to move. Trapped between the car door and his body.
But I’m not, so I exhale and step away.
“I have to pee,” I say quickly.
In retrospect I realize that probably wasn’t the most seductive thing to say after a hot staring contest. But hey. The truth is the truth.
Chris smirks.
“Be my guest. I won’t steal the car.”
I blink. That actually hadn’t even occurred to me. Exhausted and traumatized from falling airplanes and malfunctioning cellphones, I shake my head. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, grinning. I pat my gun for effect, grab the car keys and walk off the asphalt.
When I’m done I walk back to the car, half expecting it to be gone. But Chris is still standing there, waiting patiently. I give him a funny look. Surprised, I guess, that he didn’t hotwire the car and supplies, I throw open the passenger door. “I’m impressed,” I mumble.
Chris slides behind the wheel.
“I knew you would be.”
A few strands of hair have escaped from his ponytail, accentuating the angles of his face. I’m tempted to reach out and brush them into place but I don’t. We’re not that chummy.
“So what’s in Squaw Valley for you?” I ask, closing my eyes.
He doesn’t answer right away. I curl up and lean my head against the window. “Family,” he replies.
“Don’t tell me. They’re doomsday preppers,” I quip.
“Something like that.” Chris raises an eyebrow. “You’re quite a prepper yourself.”
“Thanks to my dad,” I say, fighting the annoying tears that threaten to squeeze out every time I think about dad fighting his way out of Los Angeles. “He always believed we should be prepared for a national emergency.”
“Your father is a very wise man,” Chris nods. “Was he in the military?”
“For six years,” I reply. “Then he was a cop for thirty. Now he’s a private detective.”
“Impressive,” he says.
I close my eyes.
“Maybe.” I sigh. “Wake me up if you see anything alarming.”
“Like…?”
“Like an airplane dropping on our heads or a band of marauders on the side of the road.” I shrug. “Little things like that.”
Chris smirks.
“I’ll do that.”
“Good.”
I go to sleep. I nod off for about two hours. Fortunately, I’m so exhausted that I don’t have any nightmares — ironic, because I can’t help from waking up to one. One in which Los Angeles is without power and passenger airplanes are the new bombs of the 21st century.
At around 9:15 a.m. Chris suddenly shoves me on the shoulder. I slap his hand away, irritated. “What?” I slur. “Did I miss something?”
“You’ll want to see this,” he says, his voice calm.
I rub the crud out of my eyes and sit up. After a few blinks to clear my vision, I notice how slow Chris is driving. He’s watching something on the road straight ahead. We’re driving on the old highway that was pretty much abandoned after the massive Interstate was built into the Grapevine, the unofficial name for the mountains we find ourselves in. It’s like driving through the countryside, beautiful trees and tall grass swaying all around us.
And an object on the side of the road.
“Oh, my god!” I gasp. “It’s a baby carrier!”
It’s tilted sideways on the lip of the old road. There is also a diaper bag and an open suitcase. A dead car is sitting near all of it, its windows smashed out.
“We have to see if there’s a baby in there,” I say.
“It could be a trap.”
“A trap?” I roll my eyes. “Come on. It’s a baby! We can’t just drive by and not try to help.”
“Cassie…”
I open the door and step outside. Chris yells at me to stay put, swearing like a sailor. Appropriate, I guess, for a Navy Seal. I jog down the side of the road. Chris opens his door and runs after me, telling me in explicit terms to get back in the car.
“Cassidy, get the hell back in the car!” he yells.
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
I run up to the baby carrier and kneel down, pulling back the blanket. It’s empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” I say. “See? It’s okay.”
“Get back in the car,” Chris growls. “Now.”
“Sheesh. Whatever.” I stand up, dusting off my jeans. “You’re a little high-strung, you know that?”
Chris scowls.
“Don’t piss me off, kid.”
I glare at him.
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Chris steps forward and grabs my arm, half-walking, half-dragging me back to the Mustang. “Let go of me!” I say, angry. “That hurts.”
“It would have hurt worse if you were the people who were in that car.”
I look over at the wrecked car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think they stopped for, Cassie?” he points at the baby carrier. My eyes travel to the ravaged vehicle. I see the tip of a limp, white hand lolling out of the backseat. Droplets of blood are splattered across the broken glass on the ground. I gasp, hands darting to my mouth to keep from gagging.
“Oh, my god… what happened?”
“It’s called carjacking,” Chris says, walking me back to the car, physically turning me away from the horrible sight. “They use the baby carrier to get people out of their cars and onto the side of the road.”
I find myself choking on an embarrassing sob, more from the horror of the last fifteen hours than anything else. “How can everything change so fast?” I ask, a tear squeezing out. Chris opens the passenger door and catches the tear with his thumb, green eyes sad but serious.
“Nothing’s changed,” he says softly. “This crisis will just bring out the worst in people.”
He gestures for me to sit. I don’t argue, just sit down like a numbed zombie and snap the lock into place. Chris gets back in and pretty soon we’re picking up speed again. “Why didn’t they take the car?” I whisper. “Why did they lure them there if they were just going to kill them?”
Chris sighs.
“Their probably wasn’t enough gas left in the car for it to be useful,” he replies, his voice hard. “So they just killed them.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Why do you act so shocked?” he says. “Wasn’t your dad a cop for thirty years? Stuff like this is common in his world. Especially in LA.”
“This is different,” I answer, making a Herculean effort not to burst into erratic tears. “This is…psycho.”
Chris doesn’t answer. If he agrees with me he doesn’t show it. Everything about his body is tense, like a metal spring just waiting to be released. It makes me wonder how he would react if we end up getting jumped.