Summer Lane - State of Emergency

We don’t cover much ground because I don’t feel up to it, drawing out our journey. By the time we stop for the night the temperature has dropped so much that my fingers are getting numb. “Don’t talk yourself into freezing to death,” Chris says, annoyed. Chris has a tiny portable stove the size of a small book stuffed into his backpack. I pull it out, pour some water into a pop-out canister, and heat it up on the stove.

“Your mom has the coolest gadgets,” I say, shivering.

“Stop shivering,” he replies, ignoring my comment. “You’re going to make yourself colder if you give into it. Think warm thoughts.”

“I am !” I almost shout. “All I can think about are space heaters.”

Chris watches my face for a long time, making me nervous. Once the water is warm enough I get out a package of tea and drop it in.

“What are you staring at?” I finally say, waiting for the tea to steep.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he replies.

“Sure,” I deny. But he’s right. I can feel my lips numbing every second, like they’re being stuck with a million tiny needles. “Ouch.”

Chris rolls his eyes and moves over to me, sitting behind me. He spreads his legs apart and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. Then he boxes me in with all his limbs and starts rubbing my arms up and down.

“Talk about a personal space heater,” I murmur. “I think my tea is ready.”

I take a sip of the hot liquid. Yup. It’s ready. I hand some to Chris. He takes a drink before giving it back to me. The tea doesn’t really have any nutritional value, but it helps get me warm before sleeping. Which is hard, considering the temperature.

“I hope I don’t freeze to death in my sleep,” I comment.

“You won’t.”

“It could happen. People die in the mountains all the time.”

“People who don’t know what they’re doing.”

I purse my blue lips.

“Yeah…?”

Chris chuckles low in his chest, placing his lips close to my ear.

“I won’t let you freeze to death, little girl,” he says. “Relax.”

I try. We both roll to our sides, pressed together to stay warm.

It takes me a long time to go sleep. I’m too tense from the cold. I eventually drop off for a few hours and wake up in the middle of the night. I doze off for a while longer before dawn. At that point Chris shakes me awake.

“Cassidy, wake up,” he says, shaking my shoulders. “It’s snowing.”

I struggle to pull myself upright, unable to feel my hands because they’re so cold. My face is totally frozen. I can barely move my mouth. When I open my eyes all I can see is a fine layer of white covering everything: the ground, the trees, our backpacks. Me. It’s Winter Wonderland central.

“Um…” I can’t think of anything else to say, mainly because I can’t arrange my mouth to say it. “I’m frozen.”

“I can see that.” Chris hooks his arms underneath my shoulders and pulls me upright. I’m stiff.

“Oh, my god,” I say. “I did freeze during the night.”

“You’re just a little chilled,” Chris replies. “As soon as we get moving you’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right. Tell that to the two things on the end of my legs formerly known as feet.

“I’m dying,” I complain.

“You’re cold. Get over it.”

Chris doesn’t have much sympathy for me. He can be lovey-dovey one second and all suck-it-up-cupcake the next. Such a typical man . At any rate, I forget about making tea or eating breakfast. I just throw on my backpack and trudge up a slippery bank of pine needles to the highway. Chris grabs my hands and hauls me up the last few feet.

“Careful! Geez, I’m too stiff to move quickly,” I say.

“You’ll warm up.”

Maybe.

We walk all day through the snow, freezing our butts off until nightfall, where we make camp again. We don’t sleep long because it’s too freezing — even Chris doesn’t like to stop moving.

We make another six or seven miles by midafternoon before coming to a campground. Snow is covering all the roads, about six inches deep. Every time I exhale, my breath makes little white puffs in the air.

You know it’s cold when you can see your own breath.

The campground is nestled in the big trees off to the left. Down the road to the right there’s a gift shop and a bunch of restrooms. There’s even a restaurant. I see dull orange lights flickering in the windows of the restaurant, which is painted a rusty brown.

“Do you see what I see?” I ask, wanting to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“Yeah,” Chris replies. “It looks like they’re open for business.”

“No way. It’s got to be a trick.”

“I don’t know.”

I gape at him.

“What happened to Mr. “Everything’s a Trap?” Did we leave him in Los Angeles?” I say.

Chris shakes his head. We make our way through the snow, leaving big footprints behind us. By the time we get close enough to the restaurant, I actually see a sign that says, Survivors Welcome .

I glance at Chris.

“Score,” I say.

He grins. We both pick up the pace and make it across the empty parking lot. There are a bunch of quads and old motorcycles chained up out front. We walk up some creaky steps, open a squeaky glass door and step inside.

The first thing that hits me is the fantastic, mouth-watering scent. It’s got to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever smelled. If smells were beautiful, that is.

It’s basically a big cabin with hardwood floors, tables and chairs, and a whole bunch of lamps hanging from the ceiling, lighting the place up. There are also quite a few people hanging around. Most of them look like they’ve either been starved to death or recently escaped from prison.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or ready to fend people off with a chair.

“Come in, come in .” A sweet, motherly voice pops out of the silence behind us. We turn, seeing an older woman with a green and tan uniform on. “You look freezing to death! Come on over here by the fire.”

I stare at her in confusion, wondering why she’s being so friendly, and follow her across the room towards a fireplace. It’s a huge one, giving off enough heat to slow cook a few pizzas. I sit on the edge of the mantle and hold out my hands, loving the pure warmth it gives off.

“Where did you come from?” the woman asks, tossing a wet towel over her shoulder. Just like a waitress. “What’s your story?”

I swallow, exchanging a look with Chris. His face is expressionless as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a long sleeve wool shirt. I stare for second, because man , does he make even the ugliest clothes look hot.

“We’re from the city,” Chris replies, his lips curving into a smile.

He doesn’t offer any more information. Wise.

“What is this place?” I ask, turning the interrogation on Waitress Woman.

“It was my business,” she replies, sighing. “But ever since everything happened…well, I’ve just been using it as long as I can to help out people traveling through here. There’s nothing else in these hills, and I can’t get down the mountain very well during the dead of winter. Besides, with the stories I’ve been hearing, it’s safer up here anyway.”

I nod.

“That’s for sure.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“If you’re from the city, what are you doing up here?” she asks.

“We’re looking for my brother,” Chris says, lying like a pro. “He was camping up here when the pulse hit.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, softening. “But the chances of finding him are slim, honey.”

“I know.” Chris suddenly turns his attention away from her and starts unbuttoning my jacket. He helps me out of it, pulling my gloves off. My fingers are red, maybe frostbitten.