State of Emergency c-1

by Summer Lane

“Have you been living off cookies and apples for a week?” I ask.

  “There were French fries and hamburgers and stuff at first,” she answers. “Then everything started getting yucky.”

  I nod.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what’s happening everywhere.” I turn to Chris, who’s putting a few cookies in his backpack. “Don’t overdo it there, pal. Chocolate melts.”

  He stuffs one more in his bag before shooting me a you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do look. I turn back to Isabel. “Look, we can’t leave you here alone,” I say. “We’re headed north. You can come with us.”

  Behind me, Chris heaves a sigh.

  “She’s a kid,” he mumbles.

  “She’s coming with us,” I say, making it clear that I won’t take no for an answer. I’m not going to look back on my life a hundred years from now and have to remember that I left twelve year-old girl in the middle of an empty McDonald’s when the world ended.

  “Seriously?” she says, looking surprised. “I can come with you?”

  “Sure,” I smile. “You’ll be safe with us.”

  “That’s debatable,” Chris remarks.

  “Shut up, Chris,” I say.

  Isabel suddenly jumps forward and hugs me around the waist. It takes me by surprise, since just a minute ago she was kicking Chris in the shins. Then again, I would be a little defensive, too, if I’d been hiding out in a dark kitchen for a week.

  “Okay,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “We should move. You up for this?”

  “Totally!” she beams. “Where are you going?”

  “The mountains,” I answer, not wanting to dump too much important information off on her. “It’s safe there.”

  “That’s also debatable,” Chris says.

  “Go away,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Hey, I found these, too,” Isabel says, pulling open another drawer. There are some small water bottles inside. “Want some?”

  I clap my hands together. “Water!” I exclaim. “Awesome. Good job, Isabel.”

  We fit as many as we can into our packs. Isabel stuffs a few into a backpack she pulls from underneath the counter. It’s a pink with sparkly rhinestones all over the top. “Nice,” I comment.

  “Thanks,” she replies. “It’s for school. I’m in sixth grade.”

  “Wow.” We hop over the front counter, walking out of the McDonald’s. The fog isn’t as dense as it was during the early morning, but it’s still pretty cold. And wet. And depressing.

  “I haven’t been outside since it happened,” Isabel remarks, skipping along beside me. “There were a lot of weird people hanging around for a few days.”

  “What kind of weird people?” Chris asks.

  “Like gangsters or something,” she replies, making a face. “They came inside the McDonald’s and stole all the money from the cash register. Then they left. I didn’t want to go outside because I thought they might still be there.”

  “That was a good idea,” I say, sharing a concerned glance with Chris.

  “Yeah, I know!” she kicks a rock down the road. “So where are we going again?”

  “The mountains,” I repeat. “There won’t be any weirdos up there.”

  “Cool. Do you have, like, a secret fortress or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “When you need to know, I’ll explain it to you, okay?”

  “Okay,” she sighs. “So are you like, in High School?”

  “No. College.” I tilt my head. “Chris was a Navy Seal.”

  “A Navy Seal?” she laughs. “What’s that?”

  I raise my eyebrows at Chris. He shifts the rifles and the backpack before launching into a convincing explanation about the awesomeness of his former Seal team. Even I get into it, asking him if he’s ever pulled a James Bond and worn a tuxedo under his diving gear.

  Unfortunately, he’s never tried that.

  “You know,” Isabel says, “I had a foster mom once who was in the army.”

  “Did you like her?” I ask.

  “No. She yelled all the time.” Isabel sighs. “Do you have any parents?”

  “Kind of.”

  We walk to the freeway, going back to car counting and complaining about the weather. Only now we have a twelve year-old cutting into the conversation, talking almost non-stop about school and math and her less than attractive history teacher from Greece.

  Mid-morning rolls around, leaving us all sleepy. Except for Isabel, who seems to have endless energy and a need to bring up talking points concerning why jellyfish are the most persecuted animals in the ocean. Apparently she’s a science geek.

  “Hey,” I say, around ten o’clock. “What’s that?”

  We slow down, spotting dark shapes in the distance.

  “Probably just some more cars,” Isabel yawns.

  “Maybe.”

  Chris drops behind her and tosses me one of the rifles.

  “I can’t shoot one of these!” I say.

  “Just hold it to keep up appearances,” he replies. “Just in case.”

  I don’t argue. Frankly, I’m too tired. Tromping along for miles and having to keep up a conversation with a tween is burning me out. As we get closer to the dark shapes all three of us just stop talking. Miracle of miracles, even Isabel stops yacking about the stupid endangered jellyfish.

  There’s just something about the silence here that makes us all shut up. I keep a grip on the rifle, even though I have pretty much no idea how to use it. Chris does, though, so I let him walk out front. I’ll just be the moving target if something goes wrong.

  Noble of me, I know.

  “Guys,” Isabel hisses.

  Startled by her voice, I jerk backwards a little bit, turning back to scowl at her. “Be quiet,” I say.

  “Look!” she points.

  I follow her finger, trying to see what she’s looking at in the fog. Only after a few seconds do I finally make out the shape of an upright vehicle. Then three, then four then five. All pointed South on a freeway where all the vehicles were headed North.

  “Oh, my god,” I say. “It’s a roadblock.”

  Half-visible figures get out of the vehicles. Car doors slam. Somebody yells something. I yell, “RUN!” to Isabel, and she doesn’t hesitate. She takes off into the fog and disappears before I can even remind her to stay close to me. Chris backs up a few steps and puts his hand on my arm.

  “Catch up to her,” he breathes. “Go.”

  We both break into a dead sprint as a bunch of footsteps become audible behind us. “STOP!” a man yells.

  Yeah, sure. Like I’m going to do that.

  Then, completely out of nowhere, somebody tackles Chris. He tumbles to the ground and rolls right back up to his feet, yelling at me not to stop. Just keep going! I hesitate and head back towards him, spotting the guy who tackled him. He’s wearing an Omega uniform. I stare at him and we lock eyes. I feel like a kitten that just got cornered by a Great Dane.

  Somebody tackles me this time. I hit the road, hoping I don’t break something, and scramble to my feet. A guard with beady eyes and thick muscles hauls me backwards and locks his arms around my upper body. I kick against him, jamming my elbows into his stomach as hard as I can. He loosens just enough for me to wriggle away and kick him right into his mouth.

  He falls backwards just as somebody else grabs me from behind. Mr. Beady Eyes climbs back up and wrestles me to the ground. Now I have two guys on top of me. I can’t even see or hear Chris because I’m so deep in my own troubles. I kick and scratch and bite and punch but it doesn’t do much good because I’m pinned. Totally, completely pinned.

  “What’s this?” Beady Eyes says, ripping my backpack off. Probably dislocating my shoulder in the process. Thanks a lot. “Supplies? Where are you going?”

  “Get off me,” I say, wishing I could spit in his eye. That always looks so cool in the movies. “Let me up!”

  “Not so fast, little girl,
” he replies, looking smug. “You know why we have this roadblock? To keep people from getting out of town so easily. So many people follow the freeways to get out. You can’t just leave, you know. It’s not legal.”

  “I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” I shout. “This is a free country.”

  Mr. Beady Eyes breaks into a creepy smile.

  “You only think it is.”

  And then everything goes black.

  Major bummer.

  When I was six years old, I got mad at my mom and threw a glass of water on her head. Granted, that was kind of stupid, but I was six years old and I had a bad temper. My dad came home the next morning and made me sit in the corner of the living room for two hours without moving. I just remember being really frustrated because no matter what I said, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere until the two hours were up. It was embarrassing. I never threw water on anybody’s head again.

  When I wake up, I’m facing a corner again. My cheek is pressed against scratchy carpet and my head is ringing, pounding. Yup. My old friend the Headache is back. Again.

  I sit upright and look around, seeing nothing but a bright florescent light coming from the back of the room.

  Wait. Room?

  I refocus. I’m in a hotel room. But there is no furniture. No bed, no chairs, no TV or TV stand, no nothing. It’s totally empty. The bright light is coming from over the hotel room sink, right outside the bathroom.

  I hobble to my feet, feeling unsteady, calling, “Chris? Isabel?”

  Apparently I’m by myself. Creepy. Then it all comes back to me: the roadblock, Mr. Beady Eyes…crap. What did they do to me? I feel a line of dried mud along the top of my forehead. When I rub it between my fingers I realize that it’s not mud — it’s blood. I walk over to the mirror and stare at the tiny, redheaded girl staring back with blood crusted over her forehead.

  I’m a regular fashion model.

  I splash some cold water on my face and scrub the blood away, wondering where my backpack is. And my pain meds. I don’t think I can take much more of this stupid headache. What’s wrong with me?

  I walk over to the door and try pulling it open. No dice. It’s locked. The windows are covered with a black tarp nailed to the wall. I try to tear through it but fingers aren’t going to cut it.

  I bang on the door a few times. Then I kick it. Then I sit down in the middle of the empty room and pick at the gross carpet that’s probably been rolled on by a thousand dogs. This doesn’t exactly strike me as an upscale hotel.

  Screech…

  I look up as the door opens. A beam of light falls across the floor. AnAT trooper walks in. It’s my old enemy: Beady Eyes. He’s wearing the same blue uniform with a white O stitched on the sleeve. He’s also alone. I get a glimpse of an outdoor hallway and railing before he shuts the door.

  “Sleep well?” he asks, flashing a calculating smile. He’s got a German accent.

  “Yeah, I did,” I reply, folding my arms across my chest. “Where am I? Where are my friends?”

  He just keeps smiling, squatting down so he’s at eye level at me. Not something I find appealing at all. “Why don’t I ask the questions, hmm? What is your name?”

  “Anne of Green Gables,” I say.

  “Where are you from?” he demands.

  “Canada. Where the moose live.”

  “Give me real answers,” he hisses, totally not smiling anymore.

  “Those were real.”

  “I mean the truth.”

  “Oh, that,” I click my tongue against my teeth, hoping he won’t be able to tell how scared I am. “Why don’t you start? Like, why is Omega killing innocent civilians? And what do you know about the Electromagnetic Pulse?”

  He slowly stands up, his eyes going from beady to steely.

  “You are a stupid American,” he spits. “Like most of the people in this country. Nobody ever saw it coming. You didn’t. Or did you?” He raises a finger. “You have supplies. You were headed North on foot. You were avoiding the relief camps. Why?”

  “Maybe because the relief camps are more like kill zones,” I deadpan. “My idea of relief isn’t being shot in the chest, shockingly.”

  “Your traveling companion, the soldier,” he continues, ignoring my answer, “is well trained. The two of you together were planning something, weren’t you?”

  “Planning what? An evil scheme to steal all the Big Macs left in the McDonald’s along I-99?” I roll my eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

  Quicker than I can see, his hand lashes out and he hits me right across the face. I grab my head and grind my teeth together. Now my head really hurts. I swear and look up. “Dude, what is your problem?”

  “I want to know where you and your companion were going,” he demands.

  And that’s when I realize he used the word companion. Not plural, but single. Which means Isabel must have escaped. “We were trying to find food and water,” I say. “That’s it.”

  “What about the supplies in your backpacks? And the weapons?”

  “Never hurts to be prepared to run into a bunch of morons.”

  He looks like he’s going to hit me again, but restrains himself.

  Well, whoopee for you.

  “We are functioning under a state of emergency,” he drawls. “Martial Law prevails, and if you are somehow involved in a conspiracy against the relief effort, I promise you, I will get it out of you sooner or later.”

  “Conspiracy against the relief effort?” I echo. “You mean your executions?”

  “You and I see things in different lights.”

  “Yeah. You’re psychotic and I’m not. Big difference.”

  “We will see how sarcastic you are after a week without food or water,” he says, giving me the evil eye. “That’s if you even live long enough.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off, but inside I’m shaking like a leaf. “Death, doom and destruction. Whatever.”

  He walks away and opens the door, slamming it shut behind him. Sliding the lock into place. I lie on my back and wrap my hands around the roots of my hair, trying to take the pain away. I can feel part of my face swelling up from Beady Eyes’ little love tap, too.

  Seriously.

  First the world ends, then I’m taken captive by a bunch of maniacal relief workers turned murderers in the middle of an empty hotel room.

  Nobody would believe this. Not even my dad.

  It feels like three weeks go by before the door opens again. I’m pretty much starving and, because the water in the room doesn’t work, dying for water. Propped up against the wall, I open my eyes, watching a pair of black boots walk across the carpet towards me. I look up into the face of Mr. Beady Eyes. He looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

  “Come with me,” he says simply.

  I don’t move. One, because I don’t want to. And two, because I feel like if I move I’d just faint and faceplant into the carpet. Mr. Beady Eyes grabs me by the arm and yanks me to my feet. As I thought, the room swirls around me and my head throbs. I catch a glimpse of a nametag on Mr. Beady Eyes’ uniform: Keller.

  He marches with me in tow out the door, into an outdoor hallway. There’s not much to see. It’s just a grimy little motel with an outside stairwell and a bunch of rooms. There are some military vehicles in the parking lot. Everything looks creepy because there’s no light except for a big bonfire in the middle of all the cars.

  “Living the high life?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  Keller doesn’t answer. He just grunts and drags me along. At any other time in my life, I would have kicked his butt, but I feel like a bowl of gelatin right now and kicking would probably result in embarrassment.

  We climb down the stairwell, walk across the parking lot, and come to a glass door marked Main Office. I spot a few other Soldiers standing around the bonfire before we walk inside. It’s totally cold in here. It also smells like stale sardines, which is more than a little gross. Kind of like a Motel 6 my dad and I once
stayed at on the way to Yosemite National Park.

  Good times.

  The main office has a shelf of travel brochures and a clock that’s ticking way too loudly. Keller shoves me ahead of him to make some kind of point about being in charge right before the door shuts again.

  I have to try really hard to keep my face expressionless because the first person I see is Chris. He’s sitting in one of the office chairs. There are four AT troop guards standing around him, two of them have guns pointed right at his head. He’s a bruised, bloody mess. By the looks of it, his time here has been way worse than mine.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, Chris and I locking eyes.

  His jaw tightens as he takes in my appearance. I must look crappier than usual. He remains silent, but his eyes are telling me that he’s unhappy. Very unhappy.

  “Your companion would not tell us anything about himself,” Keller says, leaning close enough to breathe on me. I make a mental not to stop inhaling. “His ID told us very little, only that he was in the military. Perhaps you can tell us more about the two of you and your plans?”

  I glance at Chris. He nods slightly, only enough for me to catch.

  “First of all,” I say, putting my hand on the counter for support, “you can stop talking like a formal European. Second of all, I don’t have a freaking idea what you’re talking about. The world ended, okay? Everything died. We had to get out of the city because the radio stations were broadcasting that people should evacuate. That’s what we did. We left.”

  “This man is a highly trained ex-military operative,” Keller yells, almost knocking me over with his voice alone. “The driver’s license in your purse indicates that you’re the daughter of Frank Hart, also a highly trained private detective with the Department of Homeland Security.”

  “How do you know any of this?” I demand, angry. “You can’t look it up on the computer!”

  Keller smirks.

  “Can’t we?”

  “You have computers?” I say, openmouthed. “How?”

  “You tell me. You seemed to have anticipated the EMP. You’re avoiding the relief camps while everybody else is flocking to them. You had a vehicle that was protected from EMPs. You were even armed.”