Chris bursts into laughter, chortling on like I’m some kind of sitcom. Whatever. My head hurts and yeah, I like the happy face. I fling the bottle back into to the bag. I press my forehead against the freezing window, hoping it will act as the equivalent of an ice pack.
“I’m just going to rest for a minute,” I murmur, knowing I sound whiny.
I drop off to sleep after a few minutes. When I dream I have weird nightmares about driving down a road that never ends. Ironic. When I wake up it’s around three in the morning. Still dark. Still cold enough to make Frosty the Snowman wear a parka.
“Where are we?” I ask, yawning.
My head feels better thanks to the painkillers. Chris looks weary from all the driving and I consider offering to take his place. My brain feels kind of thick and foggy from the meds, so I decide to keep my generous offer to myself.
“We’re almost to the valley,” Chris says. “I think.”
“You think?” I blink a few times to focus. “Or are we lost again?”
“We were never lost,” Chris replies firmly. “We just ran into bad roads.”
“We were lost.”
“We weren’t lost.”
I sigh. “Why can’t men ever admit it when they’re lost?” I lean forward, straining to see out the sleet-covered windshield. “Chris, that’s the Interstate.”
The narrow back road we’re on curves up alongside the mountain and drops off underneath the freeway. Thanks to the EMP, there’s not a single pair of headlights in sight.
“The freeway’s all downhill,” I remark. “I mean, that means we are getting closer to the valley.”
“You wanna chance getting on the Interstate?” Chris asks.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “There’s probably a hundred pileups the size of the Wall of Jericho on there.”
“There’s no other road,” he sighs. “We don’t really have a choice. We don’t have the luxury of wasting gas looking for an alternate route. We’re far enough away from the city that we might be able to squeeze by the messy areas because traffic here wasn’t as dense when the pulse hit.”
I shiver, realizing how we’ve started talking about the “pulse” like it’s some thing. Some historic event that occurred a hundred years ago when it was really only twenty-four hours back.
“Okay,” I agree. “But what if there’s people?”
“Then we deal with them.”
“And what if they get violent?”
“We defend ourselves.” He slows the car near the freeway onramp, both of us noting the cars lined up on the road. Frozen in time. “We don’t have a choice, Cassie. We need to get out of here. The weather will only get worse, and even though I might be able to handle the climate, you won’t like it.”
I sigh, knowing he’s right.
“Just keep your gun ready,” I advise, only halfway joking. “I’m ready to shoot anybody who comes within a five-foot radius.”
“I hope that doesn’t include me,” Chris chuckles, easing onto the freeway. We have to go slow, avoiding one car after another that is either turned on its side or smashed into a giant pileup. As we descend, I keep looking for the valley. Usually I would be able to see a few lights twinkling below but tonight there is nothing but darkness.
Everything’s dead. People are dead.
“Holy crap!” I exclaim. We drive by an oilrig on its side. Some of the liquid is leaking onto the road, just waiting to be ignited. I shut my eyes and think of a happy place. Someplace that’s not a graveyard of utter destruction.
It’s slow going, picking our way through the wreckage. At one point I think that cars are blocking the way entirely but Chris manages to squeeze the Mustang between the guardrail and the cars.
He’s a pretty good driver, but I’d never admit that to his face.
“Chris! I see it!” I cry, lifting myself off the seat, grinning. Although there is no sign of electricity in the valley, I can easily identify the flat stretch of land peeking out behind the mountains. It’s just light enough to it.
I clap my hands together as Chris watches me in silence.
“What? Aren’t you happy?” I demand.
“Yeah. But I’m not sure if you are.”
I lightly punch him in the shoulder.
“Shut up.”
Crash. Something slams against my window. I scream. The blunt force makes the entire car shake. Chris hits the gas and the whole car lurches forward. I see dark shapes and recognize human shapes running through the spaces between cars.
“Chris!”
“I see them.”
Every few seconds our headlights flashes across somebody’s face, revealing bloody skin, torn clothing and wild eyes. How long have these people been stuck out here, waiting for emergency assistance that never came? Our car is like a magnet to them.
“Hit the gas!” I yell.
Chris floors it as much as he dares, knowing that there are too many obstacles in the road to go too quickly. People keep slamming against the side of the Mustang in an attempt to grab onto the roof or trunk and hitch some kind of a ride.
Or stop us altogether.
Chris dodges freak stragglers without too much difficulty but the car pileups are getting bigger. “Chris…” I whisper, fear slithering down my spine.
There is a massive car accident in front of us. A semi truck is lying on its side, blocking half the road. Other vehicles are stacked up on the other side of it, completely barricading the freeway.
“Turn around!” I say. “We have to get out of here!”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Chris snaps.
He swings the car into a quick U-turn. The headlights illuminate the road. I stare in terror, seeing a mob of people running towards us. They’re coming from all sides and we have nowhere to go but into the mob if we want to escape.
“Get your pack,” Chris warns. “Get everything you can.”
“But-”
“-Just do it!”
I strap my backpack on and grab Chris’s. Chris doesn’t stop the car but keeps moving forward just as three people throw themselves onto the trunk. They start banging on the windows, shrieking profanities. Freaked out beyond all reasonable belief, I look to Chris, hoping he’ll offer some solution. But what can he do? People are throwing themselves at the car, creating a human barrier around the entire vehicle. Pretty soon the human claw is so heavy Chris can’t move the car forward. The banging and yelling gets more intense. The windows start cracking.
I look around frantically, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. At last somebody breaks through the passenger window. Their knuckles and arm are scratched and bloody as they rip more of the glass away with their bare hands.
“Cassidy!” Chris says.
More hands start ripping away the glass, arms reach through the window, grabbing my hair, head, shoulders, waist. Dragging me outside. I scream and scream, biting and clawing at the psychos who won’t let go. I feel Chris’s hand on my legs as he tries to yank me back inside the car, but really — what good would that do?
Pretty soon I’m caught up in a swirling mob of people, crushed in on all sides, sweaty, bloody bodies yelling and hollering like wild savages hunting hyenas. I can’t breathe, I can barely see and the mob is breaking apart more of the windows on the Mustang.
People are trying to rip my backpack off my shoulders but it’s strapped on at two places: across my chest and across my waist. I hold onto it for dear life, knowing that what I have inside is actually worth more than the car.
“Give us the pack!” a crazy woman spits in my face. She slaps me repeatedly until I finally kick her off, shoving her against the ground where she’s swallowed up by the mob. Under normal circumstances I would feel lousy for kicking somebody, but now is not the time to get on a guilt trip.