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Chris stretches and sits up, ru
“It’s not raining,” is the first thing he says.
“Thank God.” I hold my hands up. “Literally.”
Chris smiles. “I agree. Breakfast?”
I dig into my pack. There are three packages of energy bars left, which means we’ve got about fifteen bars left. I hand him one, shutting the window. After we’re done with our gourmet breakfast, we get out of the truck. It’s colder than yesterday, a definite temperature change.
I button up my jacket, feeling bad for Chris because he’s only got his leather biking jacket — not exactly ideal for wet weather.
“So,” I say, staring down the road. “I guess we have a lot of walking to do.”
Chris puts his arm around my shoulders, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Fear not, little maiden,” he replies, “the road may be long, but the journey will be worth it.”
I stare at him.
“Seriously? Is that a line from Star Trek or something?”
Chris gives me an exasperated look.
“You’re impossible to impress,” he mutters, shifting his backpack.
As we begin walking I ask, “So what kind of stuff do you have in your pack? Any food? Maybe some candy?”
“No food,” Chris replies. “I was biking for the day in Santa Monica when the EMP hit. I was pla
“So do you live on the military base?” I grin. “Do you get to drive in a convoy everywhere?”
Chris looks highly amused.
“No,” he says. “I live in an apartment in Santee.”
“Santee? Why?”
“I’m not active duty anymore, Cassidy. I can’t live on a base.” He looks sad for a second, but quickly hides the emotion on his face. “It’s a beautiful city.”
“It’s dry,” I remark.
“It’s a desert by the sea.” Chris opens his arms out wide. “And I don’t think Culver City is any more lush with plant life than Santee.”
“Culver City happens to be within ten minutes of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica,” I point out. “I can visit the Walk of Fame on the weekends.”
“Santee is ten minutes away from the Pacific Ocean and the birthplace of California,” Chris argues. “Not to mention some of the best surfing spots on the coast.”
“You surf?” I ask, astonished.
“I’m a Navy Seal. I adapt to water.” He glances at me. “What about you?”
“Oh, sure. I adapt to water about as much as a rock does.”
He laughs.
“Not the aquatic type?” he teases. “I guess you don’t exactly have a swimmer’s build.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, crossing my arms.
“Swimmers are generally tall, with long arms and legs.”
“What? Nobody’s ever heard of a petite swimmer before?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he admits.
I mock punch him in the arm.
“Don’t make fun of my height,” I warn. “I’m tiny but mighty.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Chris reaches over and pinches my waist. “Sometime I’ll show you how to surf.”
“Awesome. Just you, me and the circling sharks.” I give him a thumbs up. “Fun.”
“It will be,” he shrugs. “You’ll make a perfect decoy.”
“Meaning…?”
“You can distract the sharks while I surf.”
This time I really sock him in the arm.
“Brilliant military strategy, my friend,” I deadpan. “All those years of training finally paid off.”
We both burst into laughter at the same time, struck by the complete weirdness of the conversation. But somehow it’s nice to be able to talk to someone and just be totally ridiculous in the middle of a freeway littered with abandoned cars.
It makes it easier.
The day passes without any incidents. We have a few conversations about conspiracy theories concerning the EMP and the murder of i
But then I remember all those dead bodies and I find that hard to believe. In the process of discussing all our delightful theories of doom, I learn a lot more about Chris. Where’s he from. Who he is.
“I joined the military because I didn’t have any money to go to college,” he told me earlier, both of us bored to death after seeing a green Honda for the hundredth time. “Becoming a Seal wasn’t something I pla
“Unsurprising,” I remarked. “And you’ve traveled a lot, right?”
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, like it was hard for him to admit. “My first tour was in Iraq. That lasted for three years. Then I came back to base for a couple months and I got shipped out again. I went to Iraq three times, then Afghanistan twice. Hell, I’ve been everywhere.”
“What did you do there?” I asked, impressed with his travel repertoire.
“Fight the bad guys,” he stated simply.
“So you were a Seal for about nine years,” I said. “Man, that’s cool.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“And where’d you get that tattoo on your arm?” I asked, referring to the not-so-attractive cobra winding around his bicep. “Because dude, that does not seem like something your mother would approve of.”
Chris rubbed his jaw then, apparently trying to think of a good excuse.
“My mother…would understand.”
“Oh, so she doesn’t know?” I laughed. “Ha. Afraid to face the music?”
“You haven’t met my mother.”
“I’d like to shake her hand. Give her a medal.” I smirked. “You know, for putting up with you?” I paused. “On second thought, maybe I’d better save that medal for me.”
“You’re very fu
“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why’d you’re family move from Virginia to California?”
“My mother was from here,” he explained. “She always wanted to move back. When I joined the military, they left. Got a nice piece of a land up in the foothills, set way back from the road. My brother’s doing a charter school.”
“Hey, that’s what I did!” I exclaimed. “It sucked.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because I had to go to class three times a week.”
Chris smiled. It was a beautiful sight. I stopped myself from sighing like a typical girl and asked him to repeat his question. I was too busy staring to hear.
“I said, lucky you,” he repeated, amused. “And you’re staring at me again.”
“I am not.”
“My smile must be dazzling.”
“Please.” I waved him off. “You’re so full of it.”
“No. I just notice things.”
He reached out then and touched my cheek — barely a feathery brush against my skin, but it sent a rush of heat from my face all the way to the tips of my toes. Ever since then the two of us have been trading not-so-secret glances at each other, which are starting to get kind of a
It’s getting weird beyond words.
We stop to rest a few times, propping up along the center freeway divider, discussing favorite television shows or pop artists. Chris is way more conservative than I am in that respect. I like my soap operas juicy. He doesn’t like them at all. So I educate him on the wonders of dramatic television while he tries to talk me into watching military reality shows.
Yeah. Probably not going to happen.
By the time it starts to get dark again, the rain clouds are breaking up just enough to let some blue sky through. It’s nice to know that the world won’t stay gray forever, even if World War III is upon us.
We make camp in another car again, sleeping lighter because there’s no rainfall and we’re used to the noise. Well, at least I am. Chris goes out like a light so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Mr. Sandman to pay me a visit.