State of Emergency

“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 pi

“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?”

“A

“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 i

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 pla

“Pla

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?”