“Maybe they can’t,” I reply, frowning. “The EMP disabled all our technology, right? Maybe our military is suffering just as much as we are. Hey, you don’t think…?” I trail off.
Chris casts a sideways glance at me.
“What?” he asks.
“You don’t think this whole EMP thing was a plan?” I say. “Maybe whoever is behindOmega planned it and then they were just waiting to roll in and take over. Does that make any sense?”
“It makes perfect sense,” Chris replies. “The question is, who is orchestrating all this?”
“And why?” I add. “Man, this sucks.”
Understatement of the century.
Chris claps me on the shoulder, making me stumble.
“No, it could be worse,” he assures me. “And we’re going to be fine.”
“Considering it’s the end of the world, I don’t know if fine is the word I would use to describe our situation.”
“We’re better off than most people,” Chris smiles. I mean, really smiles. It’s kind of gorgeous, even though I can barely see in the dark. Because he’s not wearing a jacket, his shirt is pretty much soaking wet from the constant drizzle, sticking to his muscles in all the right places.
Whoa…
“And you’re staring at me,” he states, snapping me out of my reverie.
“I am not,” I laugh nervously. “I’m just…thinking. Without blinking.”
Chris breaks into good-natured laughter.
“Sure you are.”
I roll my eyes, feigning innocence. I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of him knowing that I think he has Thor-like looks or anything. It would go to his head. Immediately.
“What about food and water?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “We’re going to run out.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Chris says.
“How can you be so calm about possible starvation? And dehydration? You know how long it’s been since I’ve peed?” I clear my throat, realizing I probably could have kept that bit of information to myself.
To my surprise, Chris doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me. Instead he looks serious and says, “Drink what water you have left in your canteen. We’ll stop for the night and as long as it rains you can keep drinking. Dehydration is more deadly than going without food for a couple of days, so we’ll address that problem first. We can use the poncho in your backpack to gather more water if you want.”
“Great. I’m going to die.”
“Quit being dramatic,” he sighs.
“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being realistic.”
Chris shoots me an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. After we get about five miles out of Bakersfield, I’m about ready to plop down on the ground and fall asleep with my head in a puddle. We find an old truck with a camper shell over the back and crawl inside, looking through a bunch of fishing gear.
“There’s no river nearby, is there?” I ask just as Chris shuts the door.
“He was driving Northbound,” he shrugs. “Probably headed to the mountains.” He twirls a camping permit in his fingers. “Kings Canyon.”
I open my pack and turn on the crank radio and electric lamp. Chris decides to be noble and wind the radio up while I get out “dinner,” which is basically just another bland energy bar.
“Got anything?” I ask, peeling the wrapper back.
Chris sets the radio on the floor. There isn’t even any static anymore.
“Looks like the days of the radio are over,” Chris announces, flashing a fake smile. “What’s for dinner?”
“Turkey and potatoes,” I deadpan, tossing him a bar. “And for dessert, pumpkin pie.”
“Someone’s got Thanksgiving dinner on their mind,” Chris says, amused. “What did you do last time?”
“For Thanksgiving?” I yawn. “I made dinner for me and my dad and then we watched How the West Was Won.”
Chris laughs.
“Your mom must appreciate all your cooking.”
I frown, tearing my energy bar into tiny little pieces.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Noticing my mood change — or as my dad always called them: Mood swings from hell — Chris decides for some reason that he needs to find out more information about my dear old mom.
“Where’s your mom, Cassidy?” he asks, looking right at me.
I avoid his eyes, finding a super interesting thread on my jacket sleeve to focus on. “Not sure,” I shrug. “Why?”
“Do you have any family besides your father?”
“Not really, no.” I look up, kind of angry with him for bringing this up. It always makes me cry like an overly emotional child when I think about my lack of family. “And this is important to you because…?”
“I’m just asking,” Chris says, throwing his hands up.
But I can tell there’s more to it than that. So I decide to get snarky.
“Where are your parents?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
And she throws a curveball!
Chris takes a bite of his bar, giving me an I-Totally-Know-What-You’re-Doing look.
“They’re retired,” he replies.
“Both of them?”
He nods.
“What did they do?”
“They were farmers,” he says.
“What about your brother?”
“I think I said before that he’s a senior in High School.”
I smile evilly.
“Is he cute?” I ask. “Or single?”
Chris stops chewing and leans forward.
“And this matters to you because…?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“Just asking,” I grin. “But seriously. Is your brother cute?”
“Not as cute as me.” He winks. He actually winks, and somehow it actually comes across as sexy rather than stupid or creepy. I feel my cheeks turning red, and I am extremely grateful that it’s so dark inside the camper shell.
“Well, you’re not cute,” I say, finishing off my bar.
“I’m not cute?” Chris repeats, looking shocked. “Is that why you stare at me all the time?”
“I’m not staring at you!” I retort. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to kill me or something. Or steal my backpack.”
“Right. I’m just dying to steal a backpack with two energy bars and a plastic poncho.” He smirks. “That’s been my plan all along.”
“Hey, desperation drives people to do crazy things,” I say, taking my jacket off.
“You still don’t think I’m cute?” His smile is playful. Pleasant, even.
I spread my coat out like a blanket over my body, thankful for my thermal black shirt. Warmth is super important these days. “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. Chris isn’t cute. He’s way too mature and fit and older to be cute. He’s hot. But he doesn’t need to know that’s what I think.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I can see you smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” I answer. “I’m laughing at you. Vanity is so yesterday.”
“Ah.” He suddenly reaches across the truck and places his arms right over my head. I freeze, surprised — and stunned. What is he doing?
“My brother,” he says, his face way too close, “is very similar to me. But he’s eleven years younger than I am.”
I hold my breath, my eyes flicking down to the fine goatee he has all the way around his mouth, up the sides of his cheeks. He’s got nice skin, a strong jaw, long, thick hair right above the shoulders that’s dark brown with blonde highlights.