Summer Lane - State of Emergency

Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be risking my life snow camping in the middle of nowhere with a parka and a backpack full of hand warmers.

Needless to say, we both find it hard to accept the crappy new world. After a few hours of hiking, I ask a question that’s been eating at me for the last few days.

“Do you think you would have been forced to join the new regime if you would have been active duty?” I ask, glancing at Chris. “I mean, they’re using our own military against us, right? They would take control of every branch. You’d be forced to kill civilians.”

Chris sighs, sounding tired when he speaks.

“Yes, but there will be a lot of soldiers who will refuse to turn their weapons on their own people,” he refuses. “And they’ll probably die for it.”

“How many people do you think planned this takeover?” I say. “Seriously, it’s got to be more than just California. I’ll bet all of the other states got hit with the EMP, then people panicked, they brought in the military, and everything just fell into place. It’s, like, genius.”

Chris nods.

“It is. It’s also simple, but who would have thought our own government would hit us with an EMP?” He shakes his head. “All we can do now is fight.”

“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.

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.