State of Emergency c-1

by Summer Lane

  Yeah. Things could be a lot worse.

  At the beginning of the third day, I start to get worried about the cloud cover.

  “Look at those clouds,” I say, tilting my head up. The sky is totally covered with dark, fat clouds. “Do you think it’s rain?”

  “I think it’s snow,” Chris replies. “How far is your cabin from here?”

  “I’d say about two days. We’re in deep.”

  He grunts. I fall into step beside him, pulling my hat a little tighter over my ears. “Do you think we’re heading into a snowstorm?” I ask. “You can tell me. I’m not afraid of the truth.”

  “It’s likely,” he replies.

  I bite my lip.

  “Great. We don’t even have a sled,” I quip.

  “We’ll be okay,” he replies, “as long as keep moving and try to get out of the storm as soon as we can.”

  I nod. It’s not that I’m scared of a snowstorm, per se, it’s more like I’ve never seen snow, so I don’t know what it’s going to be like. I mean, I grew up in Los Angeles, and the worst weather we got there were thunderstorms. I’ve only seen snow on TV or in the movies. And of course it always looks so fluffy and cute when Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing around in it.

  “Are you sure we’ll be okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, Cassidy,” Chris replies, a shadow of a smile on lips. “It’s just snow, not a nuclear explosion.”

  He slips his arm around my waist and kisses my cheek. I blush, which just makes him grin wider, and cross my arms. Trying to conserve heat. It’s just so dang cold. I can literally feel the cold air scraping down my throat every time I take a breath.

  We don’t cover much ground because I don’t feel up to it, drawing out our journey. By the time we stop for the night the temperature has dropped so much that my fingers are getting numb. “Don’t talk yourself into freezing to death,” Chris says, annoyed. Chris has a tiny portable stove the size of a small book stuffed into his backpack. I pull it out, pour some water into a pop-out canister, and heat it up on the stove.

  “Your mom has the coolest gadgets,” I say, shivering.

  “Stop shivering,” he replies, ignoring my comment. “You’re going to make yourself colder if you give into it. Think warm thoughts.”

  “I am!” I almost shout. “All I can think about are space heaters.”

  Chris watches my face for a long time, making me nervous. Once the water is warm enough I get out a package of tea and drop it in.

  “What are you staring at?” I finally say, waiting for the tea to steep.

  “Your lips are turning blue,” he replies.

  “Sure,” I deny. But he’s right. I can feel my lips numbing every second, like they’re being stuck with a million tiny needles. “Ouch.”

  Chris rolls his eyes and moves over to me, sitting behind me. He spreads his legs apart and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. Then he boxes me in with all his limbs and starts rubbing my arms up and down.

  “Talk about a personal space heater,” I murmur. “I think my tea is ready.”

  I take a sip of the hot liquid. Yup. It’s ready. I hand some to Chris. He takes a drink before giving it back to me. The tea doesn’t really have any nutritional value, but it helps get me warm before sleeping. Which is hard, considering the temperature.

  “I hope I don’t freeze to death in my sleep,” I comment.

  “You won’t.”

  “It could happen. People die in the mountains all the time.”

  “People who don’t know what they’re doing.”

  I purse my blue lips.

  “Yeah…?”

  Chris chuckles low in his chest, placing his lips close to my ear.

  “I won’t let you freeze to death, little girl,” he says. “Relax.”

  I try. We both roll to our sides, pressed together to stay warm.

  It takes me a long time to go sleep. I’m too tense from the cold. I eventually drop off for a few hours and wake up in the middle of the night. I doze off for a while longer before dawn. At that point Chris shakes me awake.

  “Cassidy, wake up,” he says, shaking my shoulders. “It’s snowing.”

  I struggle to pull myself upright, unable to feel my hands because they’re so cold. My face is totally frozen. I can barely move my mouth. When I open my eyes all I can see is a fine layer of white covering everything: the ground, the trees, our backpacks. Me. It’s Winter Wonderland central.

  “Um…” I can’t think of anything else to say, mainly because I can’t arrange my mouth to say it. “I’m frozen.”

  “I can see that.” Chris hooks his arms underneath my shoulders and pulls me upright. I’m stiff.

  “Oh, my god,” I say. “I did freeze during the night.”

  “You’re just a little chilled,” Chris replies. “As soon as we get moving you’ll be fine.”

  Yeah, right. Tell that to the two things on the end of my legs formerly known as feet.

  “I’m dying,” I complain.

  “You’re cold. Get over it.”

  Chris doesn’t have much sympathy for me. He can be lovey-dovey one second and all suck-it-up-cupcake the next. Such a typical man. At any rate, I forget about making tea or eating breakfast. I just throw on my backpack and trudge up a slippery bank of pine needles to the highway. Chris grabs my hands and hauls me up the last few feet.

  “Careful! Geez, I’m too stiff to move quickly,” I say.

  “You’ll warm up.”

  Maybe.

  We walk all day through the snow, freezing our butts off until nightfall, where we make camp again. We don’t sleep long because it’s too freezing — even Chris doesn’t like to stop moving.

  We make another six or seven miles by midafternoon before coming to a campground. Snow is covering all the roads, about six inches deep. Every time I exhale, my breath makes little white puffs in the air.

  You know it’s cold when you can see your own breath.

  The campground is nestled in the big trees off to the left. Down the road to the right there’s a gift shop and a bunch of restrooms. There’s even a restaurant. I see dull orange lights flickering in the windows of the restaurant, which is painted a rusty brown.

  “Do you see what I see?” I ask, wanting to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

  “Yeah,” Chris replies. “It looks like they’re open for business.”

  “No way. It’s got to be a trick.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I gape at him.

  “What happened to Mr. “Everything’s a Trap?” Did we leave him in Los Angeles?” I say.

  Chris shakes his head. We make our way through the snow, leaving big footprints behind us. By the time we get close enough to the restaurant, I actually see a sign that says, Survivors Welcome.

  I glance at Chris.

  “Score,” I say.

  He grins. We both pick up the pace and make it across the empty parking lot. There are a bunch of quads and old motorcycles chained up out front. We walk up some creaky steps, open a squeaky glass door and step inside.

  The first thing that hits me is the fantastic, mouth-watering scent. It’s got to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever smelled. If smells were beautiful, that is.

  It’s basically a big cabin with hardwood floors, tables and chairs, and a whole bunch of lamps hanging from the ceiling, lighting the place up. There are also quite a few people hanging around. Most of them look like they’ve either been starved to death or recently escaped from prison.

  I can’t decide if I’m relieved or ready to fend people off with a chair.

  “Come in, come in.” A sweet, motherly voice pops out of the silence behind us. We turn, seeing an older woman with a green and tan uniform on. “You look freezing to death! Come on over here by the fire.”

  I stare at her in confusion, wondering why she’s being so friendly, and follow her across the room towards a fireplace. It’s a huge one, giving off enough heat to slo
w cook a few pizzas. I sit on the edge of the mantle and hold out my hands, loving the pure warmth it gives off.

  “Where did you come from?” the woman asks, tossing a wet towel over her shoulder. Just like a waitress. “What’s your story?”

  I swallow, exchanging a look with Chris. His face is expressionless as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a long sleeve wool shirt. I stare for second, because man, does he make even the ugliest clothes look hot.

  “We’re from the city,” Chris replies, his lips curving into a smile.

  He doesn’t offer any more information. Wise.

  “What is this place?” I ask, turning the interrogation on Waitress Woman.

  “It was my business,” she replies, sighing. “But ever since everything happened…well, I’ve just been using it as long as I can to help out people traveling through here. There’s nothing else in these hills, and I can’t get down the mountain very well during the dead of winter. Besides, with the stories I’ve been hearing, it’s safer up here anyway.”

  I nod.

  “That’s for sure.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “If you’re from the city, what are you doing up here?” she asks.

  “We’re looking for my brother,” Chris says, lying like a pro. “He was camping up here when the pulse hit.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, softening. “But the chances of finding him are slim, honey.”

  “I know.” Chris suddenly turns his attention away from her and starts unbuttoning my jacket. He helps me out of it, pulling my gloves off. My fingers are red, maybe frostbitten.

  “Let me get you some food and drinks,” the woman says. “And by the way, my name’s Tasha.”

  I smile.

  “Thank you, Tasha.”

  Neither Chris nor I offer up our names. Now that we’re on Omega radar, it’d probably be better to keep that little nugget of information to ourselves.

  “Can you feel your fingers?” Chris asks, firelight casting shadows across his face.

  “They haven’t fallen off and defrosted yet, if that’s what you mean,” I smirk. “They’re a little numb, yeah.”

  He frowns, clasping my hands together. Then he starts rubbing them. The friction starts getting them warm. It also starts to bring back my sense of touch. Good thing, too. I could never play another round of cellphone ping-pong with frozen fingers.

  “I don’t trust her,” Chris says after a long silence. His voice is so quiet that I can barely hear him. “She’s fishing for information.”

  “We just walked into her restaurant,” I reply. “She’s naturally going to be curious.”

  “No. Something’s off,” he insists. “Don’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know. Agreed?”

  I give him a mock Boy Scout salute.

  “You have my word, captain,” I grin.

  By the time Tasha comes back with food and drinks we’re both pretty well thawed out. She gives us a plate of steaming meat and soup, along with some hot tea. When I ask Chris what kind of meat it is, he tells me that I don’t want to know, so I shouldn’t ask. Whatever. I don’t really care. It’s kind of tough, with a strange flavor that I’ve never tasted in meat before. That’s when I realize that this is probably wild deer meat…or even bear meat. Gross.

  Thankfully, I don’t have this revelation until after I’ve eaten.

  Chris and I scoot back against the wall, close enough to the fire to enjoy its heat. The people that are scattered around the restaurant are just as silent and suspicious as we are, so they don’t bother us.

  “You make yourselves at home,” Tasha says, cleaning up the trays.

  “Thank you so much,” I reply. “This is so nice of you.”

  She smiles.

  “I’m glad to be appreciated.”

  She disappears to who-knows-where. I press my head against Chris’s shoulder and he wraps his arm around me. “Warm at last?” he asks, smiling against my hair.

  “Totally,” I reply. “But we’ll have to get cold again tomorrow.”

  “Remember what I told you about thinking warm thoughts?”

  “Yeah. Space heaters and stuff.”

  “You’re not thinking warm thoughts.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, sorry. Fuzzy socks, bathrobes, electric blankets, soft boots. All that jazz. There. I feel warm.”

  “You only feel warm because I’m touching you,” he says, flashing one of his devilish grins. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “No. I’d say that it’s because we’re sitting next to a fireplace with the potential to heat a five hundred pound teakettle.” I press my nose against his chest, not wanting to admit that yes, I tend to forget about temperature issues when he’s got his arms around me.

  “Goodnight,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “Think you can handle the heat all night?”

  I slap his arm.

  “Yeah. I think I can,” I grumble, to his total amusement. His cheerful laughter is the last thing I hear before I doze off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It sucks to be shaken out of a deep sleep.

  That’s what happens to me at about four in the morning. The fire is still burning strong. I’m slumped across Chris at a weird angle. I rub my stiff neck before I look around the room, trying to figure out what woke me up. I heard a sound, hadn’t I? Why else would I wake up? Maybe Chris was snoring.

  No. He never snored. That I knew of, anyway.

  “…Yes, I’m sure. Positive.”

  Ah, voices. It was voices I heard. I close my eyes and concentrate on listening, mildly interested in the conversation. It sounds like Tasha talking to a couple of men. How a lone female in the middle of the wilderness has the guts to run a restaurant with a bunch of wild men in it I’ll never know.

  “They were here a few days ago, looking for them,” Tasha says, her voice rough. “The reward was pretty big, the way they told it.”

  I lick my lips, fists clenching around Chris’s shirt.

  “Chris,” I whisper, nudging his chin with my head. “Wake up.”

  He stirs, squeezing me tighter. Such a dude.

  “Chris!” I snap. “I think we were just compromised.”

  He opens his eyes, blinking off the fuzziness of sleep.

  “What?”

  “Shh. Listen.”

  He peers at the ceiling, straining to hear what I’m hearing.

  “…A man and a woman. They didn’t give me their names, but they fit the descriptions. And the picture that was on his military ID is definitely that man with her.”

  Chris’s whole body tenses up, but you wouldn’t know he was ticked off by the expression on his face: calm, cool, confident. Totally unconcerned. While I just stare at him like a scared bunny rabbit. “What do we do?” I hiss.

  “We get out of here.”

  As quietly as I can, I crawl forward and pull my jacket off the mantle. It’s warm and dry. I shrug it on and button it up, putting on my gloves. Chris does the same, only he looks way stealthier than me when he does. Like a cat. I’m more like a clumsy puppy.

  “They’re in the kitchen,” he whispers. “We can get out the front door.”

  I nod, afraid to speak. Tasha’s voice is joined by a couple more male voices, sending chills down my spine. They’re talking about us. There’s no doubt about that. What are the chances I would wake up and hear them discussing our doom?

  Dirty rat Tasha. Her deer meat was probably poisoned, for all I know.

  I give myself a brief heart attack considering this, then realize that if it had been poisoned we probably would have been dead a long time ago.

  Chris and I walk across the floor, silent. Everybody else here is still sound asleep. I wrap my fingers around the doorknob, locking eyes with Chris. He nods, which means I can go ahead and open it.

  I do. We get the door open, blistering cold air slamming into my face like a brick wall of ice. It seems like some kind of storm has hit outside.

  Perfect timing, I think. Tha
nks a lot, Jack Frost.

  But that’s before I remember that the door is squeaky. It makes a loud, screeching noise as we swing it open. I freeze, holding my breath. Like pretending I didn’t hear anything will make everybody else ignore the sound, too.

  No dice.

  Right on cue, Tasha rushes out of the kitchen. Her happy face is gone, replaced by an angry one. A few men come out of the kitchen behind her, and as soon as their eyes fall on us, we all stop and stare at each other.

  “Hey, guys,” I say weakly. “Just checking the weather.” I hold my hand over the threshold, immediately getting plastered with snow. “Yup. It’s definitely cold outside.”

  I force a smile.

  “Kill them,” Tasha says, deadpan. Like it’s totally normal to tell your crazed male friends to murder people. “It’s dead or alive.”

  “Screw you,” Chris replies, mock bowing.

  He grabs my arm and we run outside, Tasha’s little cronies hot on our heels. As soon as we hit the outdoors I’m almost blinded by flurries of snow and ice swirling through the air. The wind is whipping, the snow is deeper than ever, and it’s all I can do to hang onto Chris’s hand for dear life.

  It’s so dark that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Chris seems to have some sense of direction, though. As Tasha’s buddies run after us, I count four male bodies in hot pursuit.

  “Omega’s put out a reward for us?” I gasp, noticing that we’re running uphill. Through trees. We’re plunging into the forest, in the middle of the night, in a blizzard. Probably not a smart idea, but it’s either this or get killed by a bunch of maniacs. “How can we be that important to them?”

  “I think we just made them mad,” Chris replies, halfway dragging me up the hill. “That official — the one that hit you — Keller, doesn’t strike me as the type of person to forgive and forget.”

  “Moron,” I pant.

  But pretty soon I have no energy to pant at all, because Tasha’s Crappy Crew is gaining us. I can’t see them, but I can hear their heavy footsteps — and their explicit swearing every time one of them stumbles.