Summer Lane - State of Emergency

Both of us just study each other without saying a word. Chris’s face is very relaxed, and he’s smiling softly at me with a look of adoration.

Yes. Adoration. I make a mental note to remember this moment.

I cup the side of his cheek with my hand, feeling the rough stubble under my fingers. I gently kiss him on the lips. He snakes his hand into my hair and returns the gesture before lying on his back, tracing his fingers over every angle of my face. He brushes his mouth across the hollow my throat and I roll to his side, tucked underneath his arm and against his chest.

I toy with the fabric of his shirt for a few moments before he finally breaks the silence with his deep, strong voice. “I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he says, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb.

“Was it worth the wait?” I reply, grinning.

“Absolutely. We should have done this sooner.” He kisses me again, sending tendrils of electricity through my body. “Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know.” I prop myself up on one arm, still buzzing with the rush of such intimate contact. “Hey, you know what?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an older man.”

“Meaning?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m nineteen. You’re twenty-eight. This is practically illegal.”

Chris sits up, laughing. It’s a deep, slightly seductive sound.

“Last I checked, nineteen was over the threshold of legal adulthood,” he replies, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I think mutual consent is part of the equation.”

“What if I don’t consent?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll convince you,” Chris says in a low voice.

“Do tell.”

Chris chuckles and pulls me against him. I have to admit, if there’s one positive thing about the EMP and the Omega takeover — it’s definitely this.

For the next couple of days, I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine. My health is almost completely back to normal. I spend my time helping Mrs. Young around the property, gathering chicken eggs — which are really breakable, by the way — cleaning the house and gathering and preserving food. At night we sit around the dining room table and eat together. We keep the curtains pulled tight so no light will escape. Of course, our lights are just lamps and candles, but still. We don’t want to give ourselves away.

Chris and Jeff have taken up a “watch.” Jeff goes for five hours during the night, then Chris, and then I finish out the early morning, watching for any signs of Omega or nomadic thugs. Chris usually stays with me for my so-called shift, which is a great excuse to “accidentally” trip during the rounds so he has to catch me. He totally knows I’m pretending, but it’s worth it just to feel those arms around me every once in a while.

I’m such a girl, sometimes.

Living here is a simple, day-to-day existence that’s all about routine. What’s awesome is that everything is self-sustaining. Chickens, cows, horses, plants. All of this is what most people in the world — including myself if I hadn’t run into Chris — are living without. No more fast food. No more sixty-second soup packages. No more ice cream bars. No more obesity.

Instead we’ll just have starvation and destruction. That’s one way to get the population to lose weight.

About a week into my stay I’m sound asleep in my bed. It’s about six in the morning, and I’m oversleeping. There’s no alarm clock to scream at me, which means I don’t have to waste energy tossing one across the room. I must have broken about fifteen in High School.

The door to my room creaks open. I’ve always been hyperaware of potentially scary noises when I’m in bed, so I wake up right away to see Chris standing in the doorway with his mother. Chris is wearing a tee-shirt that says “LIVE FREE OR DIE,” and his mom is wearing a red velvet dress.

I sit up, rubbing grit out of my eyes.

“Um…good morning?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Young laughs.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaims. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

My jaw hits the floor. Dude, it can’t be Christmas already…can it? I shake my head, amazed that I missed that. I have never, ever in the history of my life forgot about Christmas.

Apparently post-apocalyptic environments make me forgetful.

“No way!” I say. “I don’t believe it!”

Chris walks over to the bed, looking fantastic with his beautiful hair pulled back in a ponytail. His beard is still intact, but it’s not very thick anymore. It’s just right. He slips his hand behind my head and presses a quick, gentle kiss against my lips.

“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” he says, eyeing me.

I blush for two reasons. First, because he kissed me. And second, because he kissed me in front of his fifty-five year-old mother.

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing the side of my face like an embarrassed five-year-old.

“Come downstairs,” Chris says. “You’re going to love this.”

I glance at Mrs. Young. She smiles at me — it’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever seen. Whenever my mom smiled at me, it was because she was A) trying to talk me into making her a seven-layer salad or B) she was about to give me a new pamphlet for a possible boarding school located in South Africa, where there would conveniently be no cell phone connection.

Mrs. Young’s smile is totally different. It’s real .

I jump out of bed and pull on an old sweatshirt — compliments of Mrs. Young - and lace my fingers through Chris’s. The three of us walk down the stairs, into the living room. The windows have been flung open. It’s flipping cold in here but Mr. Young has the floor furnace set up. There’s a fresh-cut Christmas tree in front of the window, and underneath it are some presents wrapped up in cloth, tied together with twine.

Makeshift Christmas all the way, man.

“Merry Christmas, Cassidy,” Jeff says, beaming. He pulls me into a warm hug. When he doesn’t let go, Chris shoves him in the shoulder and gives him the “death stare.” Needles to say, Jeff sits back down, but his goofy grin is still totally intact.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, talking to Mr. Young.

He’s wearing his beat up jeans and work shirt, but his hair is combed back for today. He cracks a tiny smile — which means he’s happy. He’s not the most emotional person, so I take what I can get with him.

“I don’t have anything for you guys,” I say, embarrassed. “I totally forgot it was Christmas. I didn’t even know the date.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Young assures me, sitting next to her husband. “We’re just so glad to have you with us. You’ve been such a huge help around the farm.”

I feel a little bit of pride trickling into my chest.

“Thank you,” I reply, happy. “For everything.”

She nods.

Jeff jumps down on the floor like a five year-old and tosses a present to Chris just as Isabel skips into the room, wearing a wool sweater and a beret.

“Merry Christmas, Cassie,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “I made you this.”

She holds out a little bouquet of flowers. It’s wrapped in a sparkly ribbon.

“Thank you,” I say, giving her a hug. “I love it.”

Jeff interrupts us by clearing his throat. We turn our attention back to the present he gave Chris. It’s a long, thin box. “I got this for you months ago, bro,” Jeff explains. “Been saving it.”

Chris looks amused as he unfolds the cloth.

“Nice!” he says, impressed.

It’s some kind of fancy hunting rifle. Big whoop. But Chris is excited about it. Jeff tosses a couple of boxes of ammo onto his lap. “I got you, like, a couple thousand rounds. It’s all in the attic.”

“Thanks man,” Chris says, giving his brother a hug.