by Summer Lane
Chris’s hand on my arm keeps me from running headfirst into a Redwood tree. I wonder vaguely if he has some kind of super night vision that I don’t know about when I trip on some kind of rock. On the other hand, it could be a stick, but who cares? The end product is going to be the same either way.
I pitch forward and land on my hands and knees. Cold snow soaks through my gloves. “Cassidy, get up,” Chris breathes, turning around to help me.
“Look out!” I warn.
One of the guys slams into his side, sending them both down the hill in a tumble of arms and legs. I struggle to my feet, only able to listen to the struggle. Between the darkness and the storm I’m pretty much blind.
“Gotcha!”
Another dude steps out from behind a tree, nothing but a black shadow. I take a step back, terrified, and wish I’d have had the common sense to grab some kind of a weapon before we bolted out of the restaurant.
Wait.
I stick my hand under my jacket, feeling for my belt. Yes! The knife that Jeff gave me is snug against my skin, sheathed in a leather case. I’d completely forgotten about it. I pull it out, holding it in front of my like a spear.
“I’ll kill you,” I warn, even though I know it’s not true. “Back off.”
The shadow man releases a deep, creepy laugh.
“You might as well give up,” he says. “I’m going to kill you either way. You’re worth a lot of money.”
He lunges. Instead of standing my ground and fighting, I take a few steps backwards and dance away from him. He swipes at me again, and I twist my body to stay out of his reach. In broad daylight that wouldn’t be possible, but in the dark storm it’s not hard for him to miscalculate distance.
My luck can’t hold out forever, though. I end up diving to the ground when he gets to close, scrambling away on my hands and knees. He grabs my leg and drags me backwards — classic horror movie style. I gasp and kick upwards, hoping my foot connects with something. It doesn’t.
Fighting in real life is nothing like the movies, I think absently.
But that’s right before he pins me to the ground, hovering over me. He’s just close enough for me to see his dirty face streaked with grime. “You’re annoying,” he mutters.
I kick and bite and squirm under his weight but it’s no good. He weighs a lot more than I do and he’s not going anywhere. I’m so going to die. My brain flips into overdrive at the thought. I start fighting even harder.
At that moment I feel him shift his arm, which means he’s no longer pinning down mine. He’s gripping something. A knife? I freak out. Jeff’s knife is still in my hand, but it’s turned away from my body, stuck underneath my enemy’s weight. I thrust forward with my knees enough to relieve the pressure for just a second. Long enough for me to move the knife up and jam it as hard as I can into his bicep.
He screams. I do, too. I kick him off me, never taking my hand of Jeff’s knife, and start running away. Something wet and warm slicks over my hand, making me gag. It’s blood. What else would it be? Coffee?
“Chris?!” I yell, the wind whipping my hair around my face. “Chris!”
I can’t see anything, hear anything, or feel anything except the cold. I bump into a tree and wrap my arms around it, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “hug a tree if you get lost.”
“Chris,” I whimper, becoming a bunny rabbit once again.
Well, a bunny rabbit with stabbing capabilities, but still…
I sink to the ground and huddle up against the tree, shielding myself from the snow cutting into my exposed skin. Who would have thought that that white fluffy stuff I’d seen on TV all my life could be so brutal?
Lucky for me, I have the common sense to quit screaming out Chris’s name so nobody else can find me and try to shove a knife in my throat. I just keep low to the ground, stay still and listen. There’s definitely some kind of background noise going on — voices, lots of yelling. I know Chris is close, but I just can’t see him. It’s frustrating beyond all belief.
Crunch, crunch.
I tense up as footsteps crash close by. Closer. Closer. There’s a bush a few feet away from me. It starts shaking. Apparently somebody is walking through it. Crack. There goes a branch. More footsteps. Then I see the shadow of the same guy that tackled me a minute ago with the knife. I can tell from his heavy breathing.
Wrapped in a dark coat and hat, I remain motionless on the ground, holding my breath. He can’t see me. It’s like being stuck in one of those scary movies where the monster is a few inches away from you and you know that the second you let yourself breathe, you’re screwed.
So I try not to breathe. The seconds tick by, seeming like eternity. I’m turning red like a balloon so I try to eek in a little bit of oxygen. In the process I end up sounding like somebody choking to death.
It only takes a second for my crazed attacker to pinpoint the direction of my breathing. He takes a few steps towards me, moving with all the grace of an elephant. I slide backwards, crawling inside some kind of scratchy shrub. I put my hands behind my neck and curl up, concentrating on being still.
Be one with the shrub, I think, remembering a yoga course I once took.
A few minutes tick by. Pretty soon my leg muscles are screaming at me for being in such a tight, tense position without moving. I ignore them and keep covered by the bush for long time. I have no idea how much time passes before I hear footsteps again, more cautious than the previous pair.
I pray to God that whoever it is won’t walk into my bush and trip over my head. That could be detrimental to my “avoid being killed” strategy. The footsteps come closer, but by this time the storm is whipping the wind so wild that I can’t tell which direction they’re coming from. It also hurts to open my eyes, because when I do, I’m hit with a million tiny snowflakes. It’s like being cut on the eyeball.
Gross and painful. A double whammy.
“Cassidy…?”
His voice is a faint whisper, but I hear it. I scramble to my feet, knocking branches and snow out of my way as I stumble around in the dark. “Chris! Where are you? I can’t see.”
“Here. Shhh. Don’t yell.” Chris’s voice is much closer. I whirl around, smacking into his chest nose-first.
“Ouch!” I hold my nose between my hands. “That was unnecessarily painful.”
“Take my hand,” Chris says, feeling for my arm. “Are you hurt?”
“No. How long have I been hiding under that stupid shrub?”
“You hid under a shrub?” An unusually powerful gust of wind howls through the trees. “Never mind. Just follow me.”
I hang onto his hand, but because we’re both wearing thick gloves, it’s easy to lose a grip. I decide to take no chances. Instead, I basically stick my hand through his belt so it’s almost impossible to let go of him. Of course, if he takes a step off a cliff, then we’re both pretty much doomed.
We hike along, uphill, before I finally yell,
“Where are we going? We’re lost, aren’t we?”
“No!” Chris sounds disturbed.
“Then where are we going? Because we’re going to freeze to death!”
We practically have to scream at each other to be heard.
“Look, I don’t know!” Chris finally shouts. “If you have any ideas, I’m game!”
“We need to find shelter! Like, right now!”
I notice that Chris is bent over like he’s going to faint. I kneel next to him and put my head close to his face so he can hear me. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you alright?”
“Just got nicked,” he replies, his voice breaking off.
Oh, great. He’s hurt. Looks like I’m going to have to save the day. I slide my arm under his shoulders, realizing that he’s not fighting me. He’s actually letting me take the brunt of his weight.
It’s a good thing I’m in shape, because he weighs about ten tons.
“Trust me on this,” I mutter.
My entire body is completely numb wi
th cold. My face is frozen, my mouth is dry from the cold wind, and it hurts to blink. Chris’s breath is warm on my cheek — and that’s the only warmth I’ve got. If we don’t find shelter soon, we’ll both freeze to death. And I seriously don’t want to turn into some kind of preserved wooly mammoth parallel. With my luck I’d end up in a museum a hundred years from now on display as a prehistoric Neanderthal.
Not happening.
I slough through the snow, taking the whole thinking warm thoughts thing Chris is always nagging me about seriously. If I think warm, I will become warm. Right? Tell that to the snow. Eventually I drop to my knees, bringing Chris down with me. His breathing is labored, and I can feel his body tight under my hands.
“Where are you hurt?” I ask.
“Stomach. I think. Got…stabbed.”
He’s been stabbed? God, what am I supposed to do? What’s going to happen to us? We’re going to die, that’s what.
Shut up, Cassidy, I snap. Chris is always the one who takes control of the situation. Now it’s your turn. Man up and save both of your butts before you turn into snow sculptures.
I can’t really explain what happens, but all of the sudden I feel angry about our situation, and that gives me the energy to press on. We keep walking until we literally walk headfirst into some kind of giant boulder. I slam my fist against it and cuss it out before I realize something: It’s blocking the wind.
I drop, trembling from head to toe like a Chihuahua, and zip open my backpack. I find my flashlight and flick it on, shedding some light on the subject. It’s almost impossible to make out anything, but I set the flashlight on the ground and start digging with my hands. I dig and dig and dig until I have a trench about five feet wide and seven feet long. By that point it’s been about thirty minutes and Chris is still breathing hard.
I pull out our portable blankets and a couple of those cheap hand warmer packages you can get from dollar stores. I snap them on and shove a few of them down my shirt and Chris’s. I shine the flashlight over his coat, but I don’t see any wound. I can’t move my fingers enough to unbutton his coat, so I just roll it up. There is a bloody spot on the right of his stomach.
Feeling nauseated, I manage to see enough of it to realize that although it might be painful, the cut isn’t that deep. I look at Chris’s face. He’s pale, and his eyes aren’t focusing.
What he’s really suffering from is a concussion.
“Chris…come on,” I pant, easing him into the trench. He lies down on his back and I curl up beside him. He slips his arm underneath me and holds me close.
“You know more about survival than you let on,” he breathes, his lips curving upward.
I would grin if I could move my facial muscles.
I take the blankets and spread them out over us, snuggling into the miniature snow trench I’ve created. That, combined with the giant boulder or whatever it is, keeps the biting wind from killing us.
We should conserve just enough heat to make it through the night.
I hope.
Freezing to death was never on my list of top ten ways to die. No, my number one way to die was being wrapped in an electric blanket with Food Network on in the background.
This is so not as comforting.
The good news is, it’s morning. I can actually see the trees and the snow. I can still feel my limbs, and Chris seems to be recovering from being smacked in the head by those crazed thugs from Tasha’s. The snow is falling softly now. The wind let off during the night, and now I’m lying on my side, propped up on one arm.
Chris is smiling at me, which means he’s got to be feeling better. And while it may not be anywhere near sunbathing temperature, I don’t feel as cold as I did last night.
“You scared me,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were dying.”
“I probably was.” He grins. “But you knew that.”
“Shut up.”
He lifts himself up, wincing a little bit. Other than that, he looks as sexy as ever. “You perform well under pressure,” he remarks. “The trench was smart. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I felt like I was immobilized.”
“You got your bell rung,” I say dryly, echoing my dad.
One time I’d fallen off a playground slide and slammed my head against the cement. My dad had told me I’d gotten my “bell rung,” and I had no idea where I was or who I was for a couple of hours.
I take a good look around. A few snowflakes fall on my nose, reminding me that the cute little pieces of fluff can turn vicious in just a few minutes.
“I know where we are,” I say, shocked. “My dad and I hiked here from our cabin last year.”
I stand up, stiff, and Chris follows my lead. There’s no logical reason for me to recognize one grove of trees from the other, but I know this place. Because the big rock that saved our lives is the same one I took my picture on last year.
“It’s Lizard Rock,” I say, awed.
“Excuse me. Lizard Rock?” Chris repeats, giving me a weird look.
“During the summertime it’s crawling with little lizards,” I reply. “You know. Miniature Godzillas.”
I climb up the side of the rock, careful not to slip on any of the ice.
“I’m king of the rock,” I exclaim, feeling playful. “And I know how to find the cabin from here. Follow me, please.”
Chris doesn’t look as amused as I am, but he follows me anyway. We walk through the bushes and undergrowth, trying to avoid leaving footprints behind. The new snow will cover the tracks eventually, but if there’s anybody still actively hunting for us, it’s better to play it safe.
We make a long hike uphill. Chris still seems a little off, concentrating more on his steps than me.
“What did you get hit with?” I ask. “Was it more than one guy?”
“It was three guys, and it was their fists,” he replies.
“Yeah, but you kicked their butts, didn’t you?”
He ghosts a smile at me.
“Ha. I knew it. You did kick their butts,” I laugh. “I did, too. Kick butt, that is.”
“How many did you bring down?”
“Well, we can’t all bring down seven in one blow, oh mighty tailor,” I quip. “But I got away from one of them. Jeff’s knife saved my life.”
Chris gives me a strange look.
“You’ve changed.”
“What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer.
“How much longer, Cassidy?” he asks.
“We’ll be there by nighttime,” I reply. “We must have walked miles in the storm. We’re a lot closer to it than we were at Tasha’s death trap.”
“I think that place is a front,” he muses. “Refugees trying to get away from Omega camps and the military executions are going to run to the mountains. She’s using it as a way to turn people in toOmega.”
“That’s sick,” I say, disgusted. “I can’t believe any of this is even happening.”
“But it is.”
Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be risking my life snow camping in the middle of nowhere with a parka and a backpack full of hand warmers.
Needless to say, we both find it hard to accept the crappy new world. After a few hours of hiking, I ask a question that’s been eating at me for the last few days.
“Do you think you would have been forced to join the new regime if you would have been active duty?” I ask, glancing at Chris. “I mean, they’re using our own military against us, right? They would take control of every branch. You’d be forced to kill civilians.”
Chris sighs, sounding tired when he speaks.
“Yes, but there will be a lot of soldiers who will refuse to turn their weapons on their own people,” he refuses. “And they’ll probably die for it.”
“How many people do you think planned this takeover?” I say. “Seriously, it’s got to be more than just California. I’ll bet all of the other states got hit with the EMP, then people panicked, they brought in the military, and every
thing just fell into place. It’s, like, genius.”
Chris nods.
“It is. It’s also simple, but who would have thought our own government would hit us with an EMP?” He shakes his head. “All we can do now is fight.”
“You mean literally or metaphorically speaking?”
He grins.
“Both.”
When I press him on the subject, he won’t go into detail. I hope he’s not planning to storm anOmega camp and start throwing tomatoes at the officials. Because that’s not exactly what I’d call a fabulous rebellion.
We hike for what seems like an eternity before I stop, staring at the ground.
“Chris.”
He kneels beside me, tracing his finger along the snow.
“A footprint,” he says. “Look.”
He points to a lot more. My chest seizes up, fear spiking through my system.
“Omega?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. These are fresh. Not more than an hour.”
I close my eyes.
Really? Again?
“Keep going,” Chris tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s going to get dark and there’s no reason for us to stop walking.”
I shudder — but it’s definitely not from the cold.
It’s late afternoon, which means it’s getting dark already. The temperature is dropping by the second.
“We’re here,” I breathe, anticipation making me feel like I’m going to vomit.
Dad. He’s right over this hill.
We climb up a little knoll lined with thick Manzanita bushes. It’s also extra dark, surrounded by redwoods, firs, cedars and pines. Nestled inside everything is a little cabin made out of clapboard wood. There’s no road leading up to it — just a trail that disappears every year with each storm.
It’s our cabin.
I whoop with joy, tears coming to my eyes. It seems like it took fifty years to get here. “We made it!!” I say, throwing my arms around Chris’s waist. “Yes!”
Chris shakes me by the shoulders, not looking as excited as me. In fact, he looks like an outright downer, judging by his not-so-happy face.
“Cassidy, think,” he replies. “There are footprints everywhere. We might not be alone.”