“Chris,” I say, afraid to release a breath.
He moves closer. Way too close. I can actually feel him breathing against my skin, and he smells a little bit like the leftover coffee from Walter’s apartment. His eyes search my face for some kind of emotion, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I lean forward just an inch, I could kiss him.
“What…time is it?” I ask, glancing down at the crank radio, dropping my eyes. I can see the time from here: 8:33 p.m. He knows I can see it, too. But instead of pointing that out, he slowly moves his arms from the camper shell and pulls away, making a point of taking his time finger the strands of hair falling over my shoulder. He looks either extremely smug or disappointed with my reaction. Maybe both.
Definitely both.
I finally exhale and scratch the side of my head, wondering what I should say. Something like, “Why didn’t you kiss me?” or “Why did I ask for the time?”
Chris says nothing, retreating into frustrating silence. I curl up into my usual ball and try to say warm as Chris flicks off the light. I crack one of the windows open so I can let my canteen fill up with water during the night. Eventually I fall asleep, but it takes me a long time, because I’m hyperaware of Chris’s body only a few feet away, and I know that he’s watching my silhouette in the darkness. It’s the weirdest, most puzzling thing I’ve ever experienced.
Well. Besides the end of the world.
At dawn, I sit up quickly because my feet feel cold. Rainwater is dripping through the window, pooling all over my boots. I groan and wonder how long my feet have been marinating in rainwater as Chris wakes up. His arm is thrown across the truck bed like he owns it, the other arm behind his head. I study his face, finding myself smiling in the process. He looks relaxed, almost boyish in sleep.
I grab my canteen, happy to see that it’s pretty much completely filled with water. The sky is still dark but it doesn’t seem like it’s raining anymore. Awesome. No more water-based adventures.
Chris stretches and sits up, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not raining,” is the first thing he says.
“Thank God.” I hold my hands up. “Literally.”
Chris smiles. “I agree. Breakfast?”
I dig into my pack. There are three packages of energy bars left, which means we’ve got about fifteen bars left. I hand him one, shutting the window. After we’re done with our gourmet breakfast, we get out of the truck. It’s colder than yesterday, a definite temperature change.
I button up my jacket, feeling bad for Chris because he’s only got his leather biking jacket — not exactly ideal for wet weather.
“So,” I say, staring down the road. “I guess we have a lot of walking to do.”
Chris puts his arm around my shoulders, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Fear not, little maiden,” he replies, “the road may be long, but the journey will be worth it.”
I stare at him.
“Seriously? Is that a line from Star Trek or something?”
Chris gives me an exasperated look.
“You’re impossible to impress,” he mutters, shifting his backpack.
As we begin walking I ask, “So what kind of stuff do you have in your pack? Any food? Maybe some candy?”
“No food,” Chris replies. “I was biking for the day in Santa Monica when the EMP hit. I was planning to go back to San Diego and eat dinner.”
“So do you live on the military base?” I grin. “Do you get to drive in a convoy everywhere?”
Chris looks highly amused.
“No,” he says. “I live in an apartment in Santee.”
“Santee? Why?”
“I’m not active duty anymore, Cassidy. I can’t live on a base.” He looks sad for a second, but quickly hides the emotion on his face. “It’s a beautiful city.”
“It’s dry,” I remark.
“It’s a desert by the sea.” Chris opens his arms out wide. “And I don’t think Culver City is any more lush with plant life than Santee.”
“Culver City happens to be within ten minutes of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica,” I point out. “I can visit the Walk of Fame on the weekends.”
“Santee is ten minutes away from the Pacific Ocean and the birthplace of California,” Chris argues. “Not to mention some of the best surfing spots on the coast.”
“You surf?” I ask, astonished.
“I’m a Navy Seal. I adapt to water.” He glances at me. “What about you?”
“Oh, sure. I adapt to water about as much as a rock does.”
He laughs.
“Not the aquatic type?” he teases. “I guess you don’t exactly have a swimmer’s build.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, crossing my arms.
“Swimmers are generally tall, with long arms and legs.”
“What? Nobody’s ever heard of a petite swimmer before?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he admits.
I mock punch him in the arm.
“Don’t make fun of my height,” I warn. “I’m tiny but mighty.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Chris reaches over and pinches my waist. “Sometime I’ll show you how to surf.”
“Awesome. Just you, me and the circling sharks.” I give him a thumbs up. “Fun.”
“It will be,” he shrugs. “You’ll make a perfect decoy.”
“Meaning…?”
“You can distract the sharks while I surf.”
This time I really sock him in the arm.
“Brilliant military strategy, my friend,” I deadpan. “All those years of training finally paid off.”
We both burst into laughter at the same time, struck by the complete weirdness of the conversation. But somehow it’s nice to be able to talk to someone and just be totally ridiculous in the middle of a freeway littered with abandoned cars.
It makes it easier.
The day passes without any incidents. We have a few conversations about conspiracy theories concerning the EMP and the murder of innocent civilians. Where did the EMP come from? Was it from Omega? Was it from somebody else? Maybe it’s just some kind of freak hoax that will end up being uncovered later.
But then I remember all those dead bodies and I find that hard to believe. In the process of discussing all our delightful theories of doom, I learn a lot more about Chris. Where’s he from. Who he is.
“I joined the military because I didn’t have any money to go to college,” he told me earlier, both of us bored to death after seeing a green Honda for the hundredth time. “Becoming a Seal wasn’t something I planned on. I just wanted the training. I always liked beating people up, you know,” he jokes, “so the combat aspect of it appealed to me.”
“Unsurprising,” I remarked. “And you’ve traveled a lot, right?”
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, like it was hard for him to admit. “My first tour was in Iraq. That lasted for three years. Then I came back to base for a couple months and I got shipped out again. I went to Iraq three times, then Afghanistan twice. Hell, I’ve been everywhere.”
“What did you do there?” I asked, impressed with his travel repertoire.
“Fight the bad guys,” he stated simply.
“So you were a Seal for about nine years,” I said. “Man, that’s cool.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“And where’d you get that tattoo on your arm?” I asked, referring to the not-so-attractive cobra winding around his bicep. “Because dude, that does not seem like something your mother would approve of.”
Chris rubbed his jaw then, apparently trying to think of a good excuse.
“My mother…would understand.”