State of Emergency

Later on we eat an even more delicious di

At the end of the day, when I’m leaning back in the window seat of my bedroom, watching the darkness set in, I have to admit: these are the kind of people that are going to survive this catastrophe.

“Cassidy?”

I turn. Chris walks into the room carrying a di

“What? Seven rolls weren’t enough for you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I like even numbers. Eight appealed to me.”

“Don’t appeal yourself right into obesity.”

He tosses the roll up and down like a baseball and takes a seat next to me.

“What are you doing up here in the dark?” he asks, curious.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About…?”

“How amazing your family is.” I sigh. “Really. Your family is…unbelievable. It’s not that they’re just nice people, it’s this place. They’re alive because they can do things for themselves. It’s how life is supposed to be lived.”

Chris doesn’t answer for a long time. He stretches his legs across the window seat, leaning against the wall. “Society moved so far away from farming and self-sufficiency,” he answers at last, “that a catastrophe like this will wipe out most of the country. Concentrated population spots are in the cities. The biggest death tolls will be in places like New York or Los Angeles.”

I shut my eyes, thinking of my dad. And my mom.

“Hey,” Chris says, nudging me with his boot. “You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

I shrug.

“Yeah, but what about my dad?”

Chris remains silent. I can tell that he’s trying to avoid talking about that, since last time we discussed it things didn’t go over so well. It was more like a verbal boxing match than a conversation.

Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold chain.

“Here.” He holds his hand out. I reach forward and open the palm of my hand. He drops it into my hand. There is a small object attached to the chain: A shield with a year on it, and on the back, Chris’s name.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s the gold chain that goes with the ring I gave Jeff.” He picks it up and slips it over my head. “I want you to have it.”

“Chris, I can’t take this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not family. I can’t. It’s not right.”

“Cassidy,” he says, fingering the necklace. “You are family now.”

He leans back against the wall, looking straight into my eyes.

“Are you glad I almost ran over you with my Mustang in Culver City?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes. “I’m glad.”

I study his face in the shadowy candlelight of the room. God, he really is a beautiful man. A little rough around the edges, but I’ve always liked ruggedness. Without thinking, I lean over the length of the windowsill and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He immediately slips his arms around my waist and presses me against his chest. I pull away and smile into the crook of his shoulder. “So…” I say, touching his arm. “What exactly does this cobra tattoo represent?”

I pull up his sleeve just enough to glimpse the ugly, vicious-looking head of the snake. “It obviously doesn’t represent peace, love and good karma,” I observe.

He kisses my forehead, sighing deeply.

“It’s a Gadsden,” he replies, stroking my hair.

“Pardon me? A what?”

“A Gadsden,” he chuckles. “It’s a snake. Common military tattoo.”

“Bet your mom’s go

“Yeah.” He rests his head on top of mine, and we just stay there for a little while, until practically all the wax from my bedside candle is pooling onto its glass plate.

It’s such a perfect way to end Christmas day. But as I’m laying there in his arms, totally content and love struck, I know deep down that this won’t last. Because sooner or later, I’m going to have to leave all this behind. I’m going to have to hike up to the cabin and find my dad.

That was the whole point of leaving LA, after all.

Chapter Twelve

Something I’ve learned over the years — and particularly in the last few months — is that it never hurts to be prepared for the worst. Hope for the best, get ready for the crappy. Why not? It saved my life when the EMP hit the world.

So now I’m wrapped in three layers of clothing plus a heavy wool jacket. My hair is tied up underneath a scarf and wide brimmedhat; my fingers are covered with leather gloves. I’m wearing socks that weigh enough to sink a dead body in a river, so it’s kind of a challenge to take a step because my feet weigh more than I do.

I’ve got a backpack full of camping gear and first aid stuff. And I’m standing on the edge of the Young’s doorway, tears burning my eyes. Or maybe it’s the cold weather. Whatever. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to do this. But I have to — I have to get to the cabin to meet my dad.

 I’m not afraid of the wilderness.  Heck, I’m not even afraid of the dark like I used to be in Los Angeles. Pine trees and random squirrels just aren’t as scary as a guy walking down the street with his pants falling off.

What I’m afraid of — and I mean really terrified of — is not doing the right thing here. I can’t abandon my dad just because it’s comfortable kicking back and roasting weenies at the Young farm. Dad is counting on me, just like I would be counting on him entirely if I had never met Chris or his family.

No, failing my father is somehow more scary than sleeping in the forest during the winter. Although I will freely admit that the thought of facing down a bear does make me want to walk a little faster.

I have to do this alone. Chris is safe, here, with his family. He’s protecting them by being here, just like he protected me when we were escaping Los Angeles. He doesn’t deserve the pain of a long hike on the cusp of winter. No. I’m doing this alone because I care about him. Because I want him to be happy.

I take a final glance at the Young property, a stillness washing over me. It’s peaceful and silent at this early hour. Nobody has even gotten up to feed the chickens, yet. And somewhere in the house or in the barn, Chris is sound asleep, oblivious to the fact that I’m leaving.

A tear slips down my cheek, the first of many that are building up, threatening to spill over onto my face. I’m suddenly afraid.

I kick the ground in frustration. If I cry, I’ll lose my nerve.

I’ll be back, I remind myself. I’ll tell dad about the Youngs and we’ll come back here together to help them with the farm. Then we can all be together.

Even as I’m thinking it, I feel selfish. Here I am on a mission to make sure my dad is still alive and all I can focus on is getting back to the Young house — and Chris — again as fast as I can.

I’m a regular Mother Theresa.

“Snap out of it,” I tell myself, swallowing my hesitation. I physically tear my gaze away from the house and squeeze through the bushes, hacking a path back down to the highway.

I’ll be back…I’ll be back…

That’s what I keep repeating. Because the cold air is sharp against my skin, and the road seems a lot bigger than usual. I guess I’m just not used to walking alone. I pick up the pace. When mental reasoning doesn’t calm me down, I like to keep moving.

As I walk, the more distance I put between me and the house makes my anxiety click up a notch. I mean, come on. I’m not a tactical ninja like Chris is. I can’t find food just by looking under a rock. I can’t wrestle wild animals with my bare hands.

I’m just a kid from LA.

Caw!

My head snaps up and I spot a massive crow landing on top of a tree. He makes a few loud noises, hops onto a lower branch, and then swoops down onto the road. “Good to know somebody’s comfortable being out here,” I mutter.