by Summer Lane
“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.
“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.”
And it’s true. We’ve been driving around the back roads all day. Going on an interstate at eighty miles per hour, it only takes about sixty minutes to get through the Grapevine. It’s taken
us twelve hours to even get close, because many of the roads we’ve used have been dead ends and we’ve had to backtrack.
“Cassie…”
“It’s insane for us to waste gas driving around in the dark!” I exclaim. “None of my maps have any information about these roads. We need to wait until morning and figure out what’s going on. I can’t even see the North Star, for crying out loud! I have no idea what direction we’re headed.”
Rainclouds have darkened the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. It’s getting colder and windier by the minute. The entire windshield is coated with sleet. The climate control system in the Mustang broke about four months ago, and thanks to my brilliant habit of procrastination, I never got it fixed. Now I have no heater.
Lovely.
“I don’t want the engine to get frozen,” Chris mutters. “A car this old might have trouble starting up again.”
“I’d rather take that chance and not drive off a cliff in our sleep,” I say.
Chris nods.
“Okay,” he replies. “We’ll stop and rest for a couple of hours. If it’s a full blown winter storm we’ll want to keep moving, though.”
He’s right, of course. Mudslides are pretty common up in the Grapevine during storms. So is flooding and icy roads. It’s not like my Mustang is tricked out for that kind of crazy terrain, so it’d be safer not to push it.
Chris finds a type of hidey-hole off the road, wedged between a wall of bushes and trees. He cuts the engine, plunging us into total darkness. I instinctively check all the locks on the car before reaching for my backpack.
“It couldn’t get any colder, could it?” I mumble. “Stupid weather. Stupid EMP. Stupid crowbar.”
I dig through my pack in the dark. I finally find what I’m looking for, a wool camping blanket. I unroll it and spread it over my body. “Cold?” I ask, offering a corner up to Chris.
He shakes his head, instead shrugging on his leather jacket. Even in the dim lighting I could easily imagine him as a sexy greaser from the 50s. His hair might be a little long, but still…
“How’s your arm?” I ask, feeling guilty all of the sudden for not asking about it since I wrapped it up yesterday.
“Fine,” he shrugs.
“I should check it to make sure it’s not infected.”