“Take it!” somebody hollers. I assume they’re talking about the Mustang. The mob surges forward, getting tighter, wilder. It’s really unbelievable just how insane these people have become. Some of them are wearing business suits or beachwear suited for Santa Monica. And now they’re acting like a bunch of maniacal zombies.
Desperation really does bring people down to the same level.
“Give me the girl!” I hear Chris shout. I spot him climbing onto the roof of the Mustang. He’s got his backpack on one shoulder — a miracle — and his gun in the other hand. The crowd doesn’t pay him any attention.
Until he fires the gun. He points it at the sky, not hurting anybody, but the sound draws everybody’s attention. It’s like an instant freeze falls over the crowd.
“Give me the girl,” Chris commands, his voice echoing over the scene of destruction. “Or will shoot as many people as I can before I’m done here.”
The crowd surrounding me parts just enough for me to work my way back to the Mustang. Chris keeps the gun in plain sight, his free hand up in the air. He jumps down on the asphalt and hooks his arm around my waist. I hang onto him for dear life as he halfway drags me through the mob, people backing off just a few feet as Chris keeps the gun in sight.
When we clear the crowd everybody stares at us before turning back and busting into the car. “Chris, my gun is in the car!” I say, feeling my empty holster. “I took it out…”
Chris grabs my hand and yanks me away.
“Move,” he commands. “Now.”
“But Chris! My car,” I moan.
We break into a jog, putting distance between us and the mob from the mouth of hell. Chris climbs up the side of the overturned semi and reaches down for me. I take his hands and he pulls me up just as another gunshot rings through the air. People in the mob start dispersing and breaking for the hills. The Mustang rolls forward. I can hear somebody gunning the engine, lurching backward and forward as people cram their bodies into the tiny cab, trying to steal it the car for themselves.
It’s painful to watch.
But we have to leave before we get killed. Chris drops to the ground and holds out his arms for me. I jump down, wincing from the still-painful crowbar injury. Chris catches me around the waist, his fingers lightly grazing my hip. I notice a ribbon of blood running down his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question.
We just got attacked by a crazy mob. We’re so not okay.
Chris offers an amused smile, touching my cheek.
“Are you?”
I nod.
“Let’s move, then,” he says.
I pause, another crash breaking the silence of the night.
“But we have no car,” I say, realization setting in like a ten pound weight.
“We’ll be okay,” Chris replies. “We’ve got our packs.”
He starts walking down the freeway. I swallow thickly, surprised to feel a couple of hot tears slide down my face. Chris’s body is tensed up, determined. He’s not going to wait for me. I stumble to catch up with him, crying silently. Not because a bunch of losers just wrecked our only form of transportation, or because our gas supply was stolen, or because our water is gone. But because this is what the world has been reduced to less than forty-eight hours after the pulse hit.
It sucks. Big time.
Chapter Five
My dad always used to tell me, “Life is hard, and then you die.”
Yeah, he wasn’t the touchy feely, optimistic type.
My mom was. She was all into eastern religions. Everyday at around ten o’clock at night I could find her doing her Zen yoga routine in the middle of the living room in pink workout gear. She was very into positive thinking and Nirvana and coming back as a bug or a frog in the next life. Something she called reincarnation. I never believed in any of it, I just nodded and agreed with her whenever she said anything about the spirit world guiding her to a certain carton of milk at the grocery store.
Divine intervention? I don’t think so.
I always went along with what dad believed, which was basically try to survive while you’re here, because it’s short and tough. Maybe if I had known just how tough things were going to be I would have built a bulletproof motorhome and stocked it with artillery and food. That way I wouldn’t be in my present situation.
Which is very, very tough.
Dawn is breaking over the horizon, turning everything to a faded blue. The sky is totally covered by a canopy of angry rainclouds. And by angry, I mean furious. They look like they’re about to explode at any second.
We have followed the freeway downhill and now we’re standing at the huge bridge that slopes down to the beginning of the Grapevine. Beyond that is the valley. Big, flat and pretty much uninspiring in light of our current situation.
Chris is hauling his backpack around like it weighs nothing. It must be nice being six foot four and all muscle. I’m only two inches above five feet and comparing my muscle mass to his is like setting a Grizzly bear and a bunny rabbit side by side.
It’s not happening.
“The rest stop is no more than an hour away,” Chris says, pausing at the top of the slope. “Can you make it?”
I trudge forward to keep pace, panting and freezing to death. There’s a gigantic rest stop at the bottom of the hill. There aren’t any lights, so it’s impossible to tell from here if there’s any human activity.
“Yeah, of course I can make it,” I retort, insulted. “I’m not that weak.”
Chris assesses my drooping posture and heavy breathing.
“Whatever you say,” he shrugs.
As we walk downhill I note the presence of runaway truck ramps. Apparently a lot of trucks used them when the pulse hit, because their engines died and the brakes went to automobile heaven. Semis are piled up here more than anywhere previously on the road.
“I’m glad I wasn’t driving when it hit,” I mutter, thankful for the Chinese takeout text that possibly spared my life.
Chris makes a sound in the back of his throat, reminding me that he was driving when the EMP hit. A motorcycle, no less. “You do a lot of biking?” I ask, trying to make small talk.
He nods.
“I’ve never been on a bike,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been on a bike but not a motorcycle.”
“And why is that?” he asks.
“Bugs. They get in your mouth, right? That’s just gross.”
Chris smirks.
“If you ride around with your mouth hanging open, I assume that could be a possibility.”
“Well, unless you wear a helmet,” I point out.
“I don’t wear helmets.”
“Why? Do they ruin your perfect hair?” I tug on my waist-length locks. “I don’t know if I’d be able to fit all this into a helmet, anyway.”
In a sudden act of uncharacteristic playfulness, Chris steps to the side yanks on the ends of my hair. “Hey, knock it off!” I laugh, slapping him away.
“Damn, you’re like Rapunzel,” he says, threading his fingers through the long locks. “A ginger Rapunzel, actually.”
“A ginger?” I roll my eyes. “Who says Rapunzel couldn’t be a redhead?”
“I don’t know. Who said?”
He swings around and blocks my path. I walk right into his chest, his arms coming up around me to keep me from falling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, totally baffled.