“We’ll just have to go as far as we can on what we have, then,” I reply.
He rubs his chin. Closes the door. Walks around the Mustang and gets into the driver’s seat. It’s funny how after just a few hours he’s automatically started driving my car.
“I’m sorry they hurt you, Cassie,” he says. He swallows, every muscle in his body taut, hard. “I won’t let that happen again.”
I smile despite everything.
“Thanks,” I reply in a soft voice. “For saving me.”
He doesn’t answer. He just moves his hand towards the ignition, looking for the keys. “Cassie…?”
I grin.
“Oh, I have them,” I say. “I didn’t want them to drive off and steal the car.”
I reach down into my shirt and take the keys out, tossing them to Chris. He stares at me, then at the keys, then back at me. A self-satisfied smirk touches his lips. “That’s good to know,” he says.
“What’s good to know?”
“Where you hide your important stuff.”
“Shut up.”
He starts the engine. He takes the Mustang back onto the old road.
“I say we stay away from all cities until further notice,” I propose, wincing every time we hit a bump. “When you were inside I got the crank radio to pick up a signal. They were playing an audio loop of the emergency camps set up for refugees. Apparently the whole state is down.”
Chris swears.
“This could be far-reaching,” he mutters. “Worse than I thought.”
“At least they have someplace for people to go,” I say.
“No,” Chris says, his voice sharp. “Those camps will just be full of panicking people who need help. We need to avoid those kinds of places.”
“Sometimes people need help, Chris,” I point out. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Trust me, I don’t think we’re going to want their help.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’ll take a closer look at that hit above your hip once we get far enough away from the populated areas.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a bruise.”
“It’s still worth checking out,” he insists. “You could have fractured something.”
His hands grip the steering wheel so hard that I’m afraid he’s going to pop it right off. “The President declared a state of emergency,” I say, trying to change the subject. Calm him down.
“No kidding,” Chris laughs, releasing a bit of the tension.
I look down at my hands, still shaking like leaves.
“It’s a cabin,” I blurt out.
“Excuse me?”
“The place I’m meeting my dad,” I explain. “It’s a little cabin we own. We have it stocked with supplies. You…you’re welcome to come if you want.”
“I gotta find my brother first.”
“After you find your brother, then,” I say. “My dad says strength is in numbers, anyway.”
Chris cocks his eyebrow.
“True.” He looks over at me, ghosting a sexy smile. “Thanks for offering.”
I blush for no logical reason and turn back towards the window.
“Chris?” I ask. “Do you think my dad is still alive?”
I voice the horrible thought that has been nagging at the back of my mind since that first airplane went down in Culver City. Who’s to say that my dad wasn’t caught in one of those freak explosions? The odds are certainly in his favor.
Chris remains silent for a long time before answering.
“What do you believe?” he says at last, glancing over at me.
I hesitate, fear and doubt telling me that my dad is as good as dead. That even if I make it to the cabin in the mountains, I’ll be stuck there alone, because he won’t be there to meet me.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “He didn’t have the Mustang, so I don’t know how he would have got out of the city. I don’t know how long it would take him to figure out where I went.”
When I stop to take a shaky breath, Chris grabs my hand. He squeezes it hard and we lock eyes again. “Hey,” he says. “If your dad is anything like you, he’s definitely alive.”
I bite down on my lip to keep from bursting into tears like an overly emotional child. Unable to keep my voice steady enough to reply, I just smile to convey my thanks. Chris releases my hand and touches my cheek before focusing back on the road.
As we put distance between ourselves and the gas station from hell, I can’t help but think how much my life has changed in less than twenty-four hours.
What a trip.
The back roads only go so far. Many of them were abandoned during the 1970s when the state came in and built a giant eight-lane interstate. Chris periodically gets out and drags portable fences and “Do Not Enter,” obstructions out of the way.
About thirty minutes ago I rubbed some anti-inflammatory cream on my bruise, hoping that something isn’t broken. It’s kind of impossible to tell since I can’t touch it. It’s a little too sensitive at this stage.
Since we left the gas station behind we haven’t been able to get another signal on the crank radio. It could be because we’re getting higher up into the Grapevine. Radio signals always did tend to go out at this altitude.
Still…
The road we’re on right now has virtually eroded away to dirt. Bushes are sometimes overgrown onto the road. As we ascend the air gets colder. I can even see powdery snow dusting the top of some of the higher mountains. Chris voiced his concern earlier about running out of gas earlier than we had estimated — all of this steep climbing and detouring is costing us mileage. It could be bad.
“When we run out,” I say, hating to use the word when, “what then?”
Chris ponders the question, avoiding a fallen branch in the road.
“We can siphon gas from the cars along the road,” he says.
“It might be raining or snowing up in the mountains,” I point out.
“And that’s supposed to be worse than staying in the city and getting mugged to death?” Chris says, raising an eyebrow.
“Fine, I get it,” I sigh. “I just hope the car makes it to Squaw Valley, at least. It’s at least forty miles away from our cabin. And uphill.”
“You could hike it.” Chris flicks the radio on again. Still nothing. “Just follow the road and stay out of sight.”
“Do you think everybody in the state has gone crazy?” I ask. “I mean, have they all gone psycho?”
“Of course not,” Chris replies, halfway laughing. “But the majority don’t know how to survive without technology — without electricity or plumbing — and they’ll panic. They’ll get their hands on anything that works. Upstanding citizens will become criminals in a week or two. Desperation brings human beings down to the same level.” I notice his body begins to tense up as he talks. “Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”
His voice becomes depressing, dark, and he stops talking. I watch his demeanor shift from totally calm to irritated and come to the conclusion that either he’s just prone to mood swings or he’s seen something really bad as a Navy Seal.
Probably a combination of both.
When nighttime comes we have to refill the gas tank again. That leaves us without about two more tanks, but with smaller canisters and an old car, that doesn’t mean we can get all the way to the hills without running out. Thank God Chris knows how to siphon gas from other cars.
Why didn’t my dad ever teach me how to do that?
“Chris,” I say at around nine o’clock. “We should stop and rest. Both of us.”
“We’re making good time.”
“We’re lost.”