“Easy,” he says, lifting up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Prove it.”
He wiggles his fingers, which are covered in blood, too.
“I just need a ride,” he says. “If you’re headed north.”
“I didn’t stop to give you a ride,” I reply, opening the door to the backseat. “I stopped to see if I could help you with all that blood.”
I rifle through my backpack and pull out a first aid kit. He watches me without moving, still halfway encased in the glare and shadows of the headlights.
“You got a name or what?” I ask.
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”
I smirk. “Clever.” I wave him over, keeping my fingers ready to grab my weapon at any moment. So I can, like, wave it in his face to seem intimidating. “What happened to you?”
He walks over. His body is tensed up, but from pain or stress I can’t tell. Closer to me I inhale, noting how tall he is. He’s also very ripped. Not that I care, but facts are facts. His face is handsome, lined with a thin beard that would accentuate his long hair nicely if it weren’t smudged with sweat and grease.
“Long story,” he grunts. “I can do this.”
“It’s my stuff. I’ll do it,” I snap. “Where?”
He pulls the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a muscular arm with a painful injury. It’s crusted over with dried blood.
“What is that?” I ask, feeling squeamish.
“Glass.”
“How…?”
“Car accident. Five miles back.” He sighs heavily. “Whenever everything went out. I got slammed into a pickup.”
“You might have a concussion.” I have to stand on my tiptoes to flush the wound out with a bottle of water It’s not bleeding too badly — nothing that will kill him, anyway. A rush of heat bolts up my arm when our hands accidentally touch. I draw back instantly, embarrassed. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Have you seen the city?” I ask.
“Part of it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You?”
“I was there.” I swallow, getting shaky thinking about the crap that went down. “There were airplanes falling out of the sky. Everything died at the same time. People were everywhere…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m a complete nervous wreck. “They’re evacuating everybody.”
“Yeah, but without cars people won’t be going anywhere.”
I bite my lip.
“I know.”
I take tweezers and start pulling little shards of glass out of his skin. It’s seriously the grossest thing I’ve ever done. Plus, the fact that my hands are shaking doesn’t help matters.
The man gently takes my wrist and holds it for a second, shifting his position. He looks right at my face, giving me the once-over from head to toe. I blush, flustered, but don’t move.
“How old are you?” he asks. “Where’s your family?”
“I’m old enough,” I reply, slipping out of his grasp. “Let me wrap that for you.”
I take out my medical tape, dry the wound and wrap it up.
He stands there, silent.
“You’re alone,” he states gravely.
“What’s it to you?” My hand inches back towards my gun.
Noticing my anxiety, he makes an effort to relax his stance.
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “I’m a Navy Seal. I’m not a bad guy.”
“Sounds like something a bad guy would say,” I snort.
“I’m going to be straight with you. I need a ride.”
“My dad told me never to talk to strangers, much less give them rides.” I shut the back door. “I shouldn’t have even stopped.”
“But you did.” The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Thank you.”
I pause, sitting down on the driver’s seat. One leg in, one leg out.
“You’re welcome.” I place my hand on the door. “And you’re not an active duty Navy Seal. Your hair is way too long.”
“I’m a former Seal,” he shrugs.
“So you lied,” I mutter.
“No, I didn’t. Listen, I can pay you for a ride, if that’s what you want,” he says.
“I don’t want money.”
“Look,” he says. “I just need to get to Squaw Valley. It’s just outside of Sequoia National Park.”
I close my eyes, ticked.
Of course.
Squaw Valley is in the foothills, about forty miles below our emergency cabin.
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
“Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.”
I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes.
“I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.”
He almost smiles.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I nod. “Get in. I’m wasting gas.”
“Let me get my gear.” He walks over to the side of the road and grabs a backpack and jacket, coming around to the passenger side. It’s a military-issue backpack, his jacket is leather, though.
“What are you, a biker?” I ask.
“Was,” he says.
“The pulse got your bike?”
“Totaled it.”
“You’re lucky you’re alive, you know that?”
He flashes a brilliant smile.
“I know.”
I clear my throat and press down on the accelerator, eager to get the heck out of here. Chris’s presence in my car puts me on edge, reminding me for the millionth time that my dad has warned me repeatedly over the course of my young life never to talk to strangers and never get in a car with one.
Well, guess what? The world has turned into a freaking Armageddon and I’m going to do what I want. Besides, Chris might come in handy. He’s a military guy. Tough, by the looks of it. This could be a positive thing.
“So what’s your name?” he asks, totally relaxed against the seat.
His voice is deep. Just the hint of a southern accent. “Or are you going to tell me?”
“Cassidy,” I say. “You can call me Cassie, though.”
“Alright, Cassie,” he replies, serious. “What’s a kid like you doing with a vintage piece of work like this?”
“You mean my car?”
“No, I mean your boots.”
“Shut up.” I find myself smiling. “It’s my dad’s. I mean, it’s both of ours.”
Silence.
I turn up the radio, discouraged when nothing but static comes through yet again. “Where are you from?” I ask at last.
“San Diego.”
“What were you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Weekend bike ride.” He looks sideways at me. “And you?”
“I live in Culver City,” I shrug.
“Where are your parents?”
“Seriously? Do I really look that young?” I press down on the accelerator a little more, giving into my unconscious habit of flooring it when I’m irritated.
“Yeah,” Chris says. “You do.”
I press my lips together, wondering how much I should tell a complete stranger. “I got separated from my dad. I’m going to meet him somewhere.”
“How far are you driving?”
“Towards Squaw Valley,” I reply, vague.
“You’re going to keep it a secret?” He smiles. “You’re what…sixteen?”
“I’m nineteen,” I snap. “Come on. At least try to guess accurately.”
He chuckles.
“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“You’re doing a lousy job.” I keep my eyes trained on the road, taking the curves slow and the straightaways like a racecar driver on steroids. “I don’t trust you yet, by the way. Keep that in mind.”