Summer Lane - State of Emergency

While my sympathy for their loss is real, I can’t believe that anybody would be so stupid as to camp out next to the road with a campfire for days at a time. Sheer dumb luck is the only reason they haven’t been found by unsavory characters.

“We’re fine right here,” Blondie replies.

“It’s winter. You can’t go very long without running into a huge storm.”

“Mind your own business.”

“I will when you tell me what you plan on doing with me,” I say. “Because I can’t just sit here forever, and since you won’t take my advice, I’m thinking that I want to get out of here beforeOmega swoops in and kills us all.”

Blondie rolls her eyes.

“Seriously?” she laughs. “Omega? What the hell isOmega? You’re insane.”

I blink a few times before the truth hits me: Of course. Who would know about the whole OMEGA thing except for Chris and me? I mean, we had a teacher sit down and explain it to us…and even he could have been wrong. So I try to explain the basics of it to her. Blondie, however, just thinks I’m making it all up as an excuse to escape and disregards everything I say.

Genius.

I really do need to get out of here. But I have to patient. My best bet is during the night. At least two of them are asleep at once, while one of the boys stays up to keep guard. I’ll just have to come up with something.

Until then, it’s boredom central. I take advantage of the opportunity to nap and rest. I anxiously scan the skies when I’m awake, noting the approach of heavy, dark clouds over the higher mountains. A storm is coming. And these dingbats are probably foolish enough to stay in the open and ignore a search for shelter.

When I make mention of the storm, Blondie just shrugs and pretends I never said anything. I eventually figure out that all three of them are in a state of denial over their situation, and they don’t intend to break a sweat over staying alive.

Screw that approach. I want to live.

When it gets dark at last, Blondie and Spot go to sleep around the fire while Choker stays up to watch me. I lean against the backpack, puzzling out how I’m going to escape. I could ask to go to the bathroom and sneak off into the night…but I don’t want to leave without Chris’s chain and my backpack.

So what’s my game plan?

The distant roll of thunder over Kings Canyon startles me. Great. There’s probably a flood washing down the hill at this moment. But will they care? No. I sit upright, listening to the thunder roll again. And again.

And…

I stop moving, a chill crawling up my spine. The thunder is steady, getting louder. Getting…closer. Oh, my god. I stand up, more noise joining the first chorus of what I thought was thunder.

Because it’s not.

It’s the engine of a truck.

Choker stands up across the campfire, watching my movements.

“Don’t try to make a run for,” he says, yawning.

“Wake up, Bree!” I ignore Choker and kick her foot.

“What the –“ she begins, anger flashing across her face when she sees me. “What are you doing , Ginger? ”

“Trucks. Coming this way,” I warn. “Quick. Put out the fire. Get your gun loaded. We need to move now .”

“Are you kidding?” Blondie rolls out of her sleeping bag, excitement written across her features. “Trucks mean people and people mean help. We can go home!”

“You’re insane!” I hiss. “They’ll kill us. No civilian’s cars are working right now.Omega vehicles are are, but that’s it. Listen to me. You stay here and you’re dead.”

“Shut her up,” Blondie commands, looking absolutely livid. “We’re going home, boys.”

“You’re going home alright!” I yell. “Don’t be stupid! You’re going to get everyone killed!”

Blondie pulls her hood across her face.

“Like I care what you say.”

And just like that, she trots off into the darkness, following the sound of the trucks. Dear Lord, she’s lost her ever-loving mind.

“Stop her!” I tell the boys.

They just look at me with blank expressions.

“We do need help,” Choker shrugs.

I narrow my eyes.

“Yeah. And it’s not going be to from me.”

I slam my boot right between his legs, putting all my force into it. Choker cries out, dropping the rifle to the ground. Spot jumps out of his sleeping bag, looking momentarily terrified before he rushes toward me, trying to bring me down.

No. I’m not in the mood.

My wrists are still tied together, so I slam both my fists across his face in what’s possibly the most unorthodox punch in the history of self-defense. Spot stumbles backwards as I deliver a beautiful roundhouse kick to make my point. He crashes down, clutching his head and moaning.

I guess I did learn something from those self-teaching DVDs about martial arts from the library.

I reach down, grab the rifle, and aim it at Choker.

“Open my backpack and get my knife out,” I say. “And do it quickly.”

Choker slowly crawls across the dirt, dragging my backpack out from behind the log. He fumbles around for a little while before pulling out the knife.

“Give it to Spot,” I command.

Choker looks at me, confused, and I realize that I just called him by my nickname for him out loud. Whatever.

Choker tosses the knife to Spot, who stares at is as it lies on the ground. In the not-so-far-off distance, the sounds of multiple trucks seems extra loud against the night sky. Do I hear voices, too?

“Pick up the knife,” I say, “and cut these plastic ties off my wrist.”

I walk over to Spot, kneel, and keep my rifle trained on Choker’s head for the maximum effect. Spot, dizzy and terrified from the two smacks I gave him, obeys without thinking. He picks up Jeff’s knife and cuts through the binds.

I exhale, loving the freedom of movement I have, now.

“Stay where you are, big guy,” I tell Choker.

I grab my backpack, strap the knife to my belt, and keep the rifle within easy reach. “I would suggest that you run,” I advise, “because trust me when I say that what’s coming isn’t…” I trail off as Blondie’s piercing scream rips through the air.

Without a second glance at Choker and Spot, and sprint forward into the darkness, wishing to god those boys would kill the light from the fire. On second thought, I hope they just run.

Blondie screams again. There are voices. It sounds like some of the trucks’ engines have been cut, which means whoever’s coming is getting out of their vehicles. “Bree!” I shout, desperate.

Why do I care what happens to her?

“Bree, answer me!”

A gunshot breaks the monotone of the truck engines. Dread hits me like a brick in the chest as run in the direction where the gun fired. I can’t see, but I can hear. “Bree? Bree!”

I stop and listen, leaning against a tree.

And then,

“Ginger?”

It’s faint, but it’s her voice. I scramble towards it, dropping to my hands and knees. I rake through the mud and leaves until I touch warm flesh, Blondie’s hand.

“Bree,” I say, leaning over her. I can’t see. “Are you…?”

I run my hands up her stomach, trying to find her face, but I stop. There’s hot, sticky blood on her abdomen. “Oh, my god, Bree…” I breathe, choking on a gag. “I’m so sorry…”

Her breathing is heavy as her hand gropes for my face. When she finally finds it, she pulls my head forward and whispers, “I’m sorry, Ginger.”

She drops something into my lap. Her hand falls away from my face, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I push my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming, checking her wrist, her chest, and her neck for any sign of a pulse.