“You mean literally or metaphorically speaking?”
He grins.
“Both.”
When I press him on the subject, he won’t go into detail. I hope he’s not planning to storm anOmega camp and start throwing tomatoes at the officials. Because that’s not exactly what I’d call a fabulous rebellion.
We hike for what seems like an eternity before I stop, staring at the ground.
“Chris.”
He kneels beside me, tracing his finger along the snow.
“A footprint,” he says. “Look.”
He points to a lot more. My chest seizes up, fear spiking through my system.
“Omega?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. These are fresh. Not more than an hour.”
I close my eyes.
Really? Again?
“Keep going,” Chris tells me, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s going to get dark and there’s no reason for us to stop walking.”
I shudder — but it’s definitely not from the cold.
It’s late afternoon, which means it’s getting dark already. The temperature is dropping by the second.
“We’re here,” I breathe, anticipation making me feel like I’m going to vomit.
Dad. He’s right over this hill.
We climb up a little knoll lined with thick Manzanita bushes. It’s also extra dark, surrounded by redwoods, firs, cedars and pines. Nestled inside everything is a little cabin made out of clapboard wood. There’s no road leading up to it — just a trail that disappears every year with each storm.
It’s our cabin.
I whoop with joy, tears coming to my eyes. It seems like it took fifty years to get here. “We made it!!” I say, throwing my arms around Chris’s waist. “Yes!”
Chris shakes me by the shoulders, not looking as excited as me. In fact, he looks like an outright downer, judging by his not-so-happy face.
“Cassidy, think,” he replies. “There are footprints everywhere. We might not be alone.”
It takes me a few seconds to absorb his words because honestly, for just a tiny bit I forgot about doom and destruction and felt victorious.
And now back to the drawing board.
Chris waves me back, warning me to stay behind his shoulder. He whips his macho rifle out and locks and loads. “What are you going to do? Shoot people?” I ask. “That will really be discreet.”
He rolls his eyes.
We both approach the cabin at an angle, staying away from the windows. The area around the cabin is coated in thick snow, and even though I can barely make them out, the remnants of footprints are all over the place.
They’ve got to be my dad’s. There’s no other explanation.
Chris edges up against the cabin edge, looking dangerous. We both listen for sounds inside the cabin. Hearing nothing, we both drop to our stomachs and crawl underneath the front windows.
Still no sounds.
My heart is pretty much beating in my throat, banging like a cymbal inside my chest. Chris draws himself up to his full height, casting a glance at me. He shrugs, as if to say, “what have we got to lose?” and kicks in the door.
The whole door crashes and shudders…because it’s not locked. I spring up, panic tearing through me. No, no, no, no, no. I shove in front of Chris and run inside. It’s got one room with an open loft above the kitchen. There’s a table, a fireplace and a bunch of bedding stacked against the wall.
But it’s empty.
I spin around in a circle, looking at Chris. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s looking at the back of the door, which has just shut behind us. There’s a white piece of paper nailed to it — like some kind of warrant straight out of Robin Hood.
I walk up to and tear it off, hands shaking.
Oh, my god…
Under Penalty of the LAW:
A Warrant of Arrest for
FRANK HART
For storing and hoarding supplies rightfully allotted to emergency services, possessing dangerous weapons, and failing to enroll in Omega’s urgent CENSUS.
This property is hereby confiscated by the
FEDERAL GOVERNMENT
For use in emergency relocation programming and redistricting.
FURTHER
A WARRANT OF ARREST for
CASSIDY ELEANOR HART
And
CHRISTOPHER YOUNG
Co-conspirators wanted for defamation, treason, attempted murder, and hoarding.
“They expected to find us here with him,” I say, panicking. “My god, Chris. They took him. They arrested him. They killed him.”
I’m breathing in and out so fast that I’m actually choking on my own air. And why shouldn’t I? My worst nightmare has just come true. Not that I didn’t know that this was a likely scenario, but standing here, seeing it happen…it’s worse than a nightmare. It’s inescapable.
“You don’t know that,” Chris replies, grabbing me. He literally holds me there and doesn’t let me move. “Look around you. There’s no sign of a struggle. He might not even be here yet.”
I stare at him, turning white with shock.
This is just too much.
But that’s before I see my dad’s backpack on the floor.
“No…” I whisper.
I break free of Chris’s arms and kneel on the ground. It’s a standard-issue survival pack, and I can see that most of the supplies are gone. My dad’s name is stitched on the side of it. I know, because I’m the one who talked him into getting the backpack personalized a few years ago.
Its contents are spilling all over the floor, and when I follow the line of debris from the backpack into the kitchen, I see a broken bowl on the floor.
“He was here,” I state, horrified. “They did take him. He’s as good as dead.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, feeling both traumatized and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t know that he’s dead,” Chris replies, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “Cassie…?”
I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I’m too busy crying my eyes out.
It’s all over.
Chapter Fifteen
When I was eight years, old, I watched a scary movie that my parents had specifically told me not to. I’d seen the DVD lying around the house and I thought I’d turn it on, and once I did, I couldn’t turn it off. Needless to say, I had the most horrible nightmares of my life.
My dad, instead of getting mad at me for watching the movie, brought me a nightlight and plugged it into the electric socket in my room. He even sang me a lullaby — and if you knew my dad, you knew that was special.
I kept that nightlight until the second the EMP hit. And now, all I can remember is how nice it was to have somebody to tell you that your nightmare wasn’t real. It’s okay to go back to sleep.
Sucks to be me. I’ve been crying into Chris’s shoulder for hours. Probably days. Maybe weeks.
Well, maybe just an hour or two, but you get the idea. We’re sitting on the floor of the cabin kitchen, cocooned in total darkness. I’ve got the hiccups from crying so much, and now that the panic and shock have worn off, empty despair has set in.
I feel totally numb, like I could die right now and I wouldn’t care. I’d almost welcome it.
“We’ll find him,” Chris keeps saying, over and over. “I promise. I won’t let them take him away from you.”
Thank God I have Chris. I would have never gotten this far without him, and if he weren’t here right now, I probably would have gone skydiving off the nearest cliff without a parachute the second I found out my dad had been arrested. He’s a good insurance policy.