We are in the foothills. It has been only a few months since the EMP. I still have not found my father, but I have Chris Young. He is growing on me, and I on him. I think we make a good team. I have learned a lot in just a few months about survival — what gets you killed, and what keeps you alive.
I am not naïve anymore.
I am scared. There is a difference.
My long red hair is braided back. The cold morning air nips at my cheeks. Chris is checking his backpack, counting the bullets we have left for his shotgun. One box. That’s all. We haven’t been able to find much ammunition foraging through abandoned trailers and houses in Squaw Valley. Supplies are running out. I have been depending on Chris’s hunting skills to provide us with dinner.
Wild rabbits and squirrels? Yum.
“What’s on the menu today?” I ask, just to make conversation.
“Same thing as yesterday,” Chris replies. “And the day before that.”
He’s worn holes in his dark pants, and the soles of his boots are starting to come apart. He stands tall — six feet, four inches. It’s been weeks since he’s shaved, and he’s growing quite a beard.
“Where are we going to sleep tonight?” I ask.
“Thinking a little far ahead, aren’t you, Cassie?” he asks, flashing a wry smile.
“I’m preparing.” I tap my temple. “You’ve taught me well, Sansei.”
He laughs and slings his shotgun across his back, leaning on the tree I’ve got my back against. He places his large, warm hand on the side of my cheek and kisses me. It’s a comforting gesture, sending tendrils of electricity to my toes.
“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Then why are you worried?”
I shake my head. “I’m not worried.”
Chris kisses me again, and this time I bite his bottom lip ever so slightly, making him pause. He studies my face, wrapping a strand of my loose hair around his finger.
“We’re both worried,” he says softly. “There’s no shame in that.”
I want to believe him.
I’m just not ready to.
“If we find my father and your family,” I say, “that doesn’t mean that the world is going to go back to the way it was. I don’t think it will ever be the same. Too much has changed.”
“Nothing will ever be the same,” Chris replies. “But if we find the people we love we can bring the best parts of the old world into the new one.”
I smile at his logic, admiring his positive outlook.
“You’re a good man, Chris,” I state.
The words leave my mouth automatically, a statement of truth.
He kisses my forehead.
“Let’s go find food,” he says.
And then we are moving again.
I snap awake. I sit up straight, gasping for breath, expecting waves of cold seawater to rush over my head and drown the life out of me.
“Hey, now. Easy, girl. Lie back down before you hurt yourself.”
My hand flies to my belt, but my knife isn’t there. My heart flips and I jump to my feet, losing my balance. I am in a small, contained room that is rocking back and forth. I fall and hit the wall, landing on my hands and knees.
“See? What’d I tell you?”
I turn toward the voice. An old man is rising from a chair in the corner of the room, a wool cap pulled over his forehead and ears. He is grizzled, with deep lines running throughout his face. Judging by his rubber boots and baggy overalls, I instantly make the assumption that he is a fisherman.
“Who are you?” I say, rolling back to my feet, crouched on the floor like a cat. “Where am I?”
The old man has a tobacco pipe in his hand. The smoke is acrid, strong.
“Call me Jonas,” the man replies, slowly. “This is my boat, Mia Bella. You’re lucky I came along when I did, missy. Your whole crew is dead.”
My heart sinks.
“You’re a… fishing boat?”
“Sure am.” He tilts his head. “Now who are you?”
I’m not sure what to say. I look down at my body, realizing for the first time that I am not in uniform. I’m wearing old jeans and an oversized tee-shirt. My feet are covered with floppy socks. I look back at the corner of the room, where I was lying. A small cot has been layered with blankets and quilts. I spot my uniform, my gun and my knife drying on the back of a chair nearby. A small window above the bed peeks into the bay.
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“A good while,” Jonas replies. “You were suffering from hyperthermia when I pulled you in. Saw the whole thing from a distance. The rockets, the cutter capsizing, the crew. You were the only survivor I found. You’re a lucky girl, missy.”
I frown.
“I wouldn’t put it that way, but yeah,” I whisper. “Omega didn’t fire at you?”
“The battle was long over when I got there.” Jonas raises one bushy eyebrow. “It took me about twenty minutes to come pull you out of the water. You’re lucky you’re young. My old body couldn’t have taken that long in the bay water.”
I shiver. My hands have been wrapped in cloth.
“You saved my life,” I state.
He shrugs.
“Thank you,” I say.
There’s nothing else to articulate. I am grateful to be alive, but I am sad that Captain Adams and the rest of the crew are dead.
“Any idea why Omega would fire on a Coast Guard cutter like that?” Jonas pursues. “They usually don’t bother with little patrol boats like that, there’s no reason to. It’s a dead giveaway of their position.”
A theory forms in my mind.
What if Omega knew that I was on the boat? A Commander and a Senator?
What if they went out of their way to destroy the cutter because of me?
I say nothing about this to Jonas.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “They’re Omega. That’s explanation enough.”
He doesn’t look too sure.
“You got a name, missy?” he asks, taking a drag on his pipe.
The boat bobs back and forth.
“Rachelle,” I say, thinking fast. “Rachelle Barton. I’m… with the National Guard. This was supposed to be a routine patrol, just trying to learn the ropes. I don’t understand what went wrong.” I glance sideways at my uniform. My rank is visible on the sleeve, and I hope that Jonas doesn’t know that I am bluffing.
Jonas stands from his chair.
“Sometimes things happen, honey,” he replies. “That’s life.” He pats my shoulder. “It’s just me on this boat, so I’ll take you back into Monterey Bay. That’s where I dock this vessel — does that work for you, too?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He nods, opening the door. I get a glimpse of the foggy night sky and the murky waters of the Pacific Ocean.
I’ve been out a long time and he never brought the ship back to the mainland? Why would he do that?
“Your clothes should be just about dry, Miss Barton,” he tells me.
I nod. He closes the door and I stare after him, a sick feeling pooling in the pit of my stomach. I know that I should be nothing but grateful to this man for keeping me alive… but I can’t shake the bad, premonitory cloud gathering in the back of my mind.