“This isn’t a marathon, you know!” I say.

“Oh, yeah? Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You two,” Mrs. Young murmurs, smiling. Her gray hair is falling in soft wisps to her shoulders. Mr. Young — an aged version of his two sons — climbs up behind her and takes her hand. “Let them be, Jeff,” he says, winking at me.

I sigh. A flash of normalcy on an otherwise totally odd day.

It’s nice.

We stop to have lunch, resting under the green tent of the forest. Our food consists of supplies the militia had time to gather up before they fled the base camp. Dried meat, crackers, canned vegetables. Water. Gone are the days of sandwiches and bottles of soda.

As we hike, I catch up with my dad. We have a conversation that lasts for hours. I give him a recap of everything that’s happened to me since we got separated after the EMP. Everything from escaping through underground tunnels in Bakersfield to getting imprisoned in a slave labor camp under Vika Kamaneva. For some reason, talking about what I’ve been through in the last year makes everything seem that much more real. Like waking up from a dream.

Yes, it actually did happen. Yes, the world really did end.

Yes, it’s a lot to swallow.

At least Dad and I are back together.

“So,” Dad says at last, just as evening starts to set in. “Chris Young. What’s going on between you two?”

“Oh. Um…”

Idiot. You’ve been rehearsing this all day.

“Chris and I… we’ve been through a lot,” I shrug. “We’re kind of together, I guess.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “He’s a lot older than you.”

“I know.”

“A lot older.”

“Older isn’t bad. I mean, you’re older.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

We duck under an overhanging, mossy branch. The temperature has dropped substantially, so I pull my jacket out of my backpack and wrap it around myself.

“He’s a good man,” I say softly, glancing behind us.

Chris is overlooking his militia, alert and ready.

“I believe you,” Dad replies. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him completely overnight.”

“You don’t have to.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “But you will, eventually. You’ll see what I see. He’s special, Dad. There’s nobody like him.”

He shakes his head, kicking a rock down the trail.

Seriously?

“You’ll see,” I press.

“I’m more concerned about the age difference than anything else.”

“It’s not exactly cradle-robbing, Dad. I’m going to be twenty.”

“He’s almost thirty years old.”

“He’s twenty-eight.”

“Exactly. He’s a man. A SEAL. Tough guy.” Dad exhales dramatically. “Don’t get caught up in something you can’t handle. The last thing you need right now is a relationship that consumes you. Our lives right now are walking the razor’s edge already. One wrong move and you can throw everything out of balance. Be careful.”

“Chris is the only reason I’m alive,” I state. “You have no idea what he’s been through to keep me safe. He took control of this militia just to break me out of Kamaneva’s labor camp. Who does that? He’s not your typical guy, Dad.”

Dad falls silent. He opens his mouth to say something just as Isabel sidles up next to me, twirling a piece of moss between her fingers.

“Look,” she says, holding it under her nose. “A mustache.”

“Wow. Impressive.” I grab it, holding it beneath my chin. “But a beard is cooler.”

“Nothing is cooler than a mustache.”

“I don’t know about that…”

I rub her head, mussing her blonde hair. Dad walks faster to keep up with his men. I roll the moss between my fingers, watching the back of his hat bob up and down with each step.

I guess that concludes our father-daughter chat.

It could have gone a lot worse.

Right?

Our trek into the high mountains lasts exactly four days, just like Dad said it would. The woods are quieter here. The shadows are deeper. And the weather is cooler. I can’t detect a single sign of human life. We occasionally spot deer or squirrels, but that’s it. No people.

I decide that this is a good thing, given our track record of run-ins with unfriendly locals in the mountains.

Dad and Chris have been talking off and on all day in hushed voices. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t want me to know about it. As ticked off as I am that they’re keeping secrets, I don’t let it eat at me for long. Cassidy Hart, the girl who left Los Angeles with a backpack and her grandfather’s pistol, no longer has time to worry about petty things.

Funny how priorities change.

“I’m very ready to be done with this hike,” Sophia comments, walking beside me. The last couple of days have been nothing but a sheer uphill climb through slippery terrain. “How about you?”

“Yeah,” I pant. “I’m ready.”

We walk for a couple more hours before Dad and Chris slow our group to a halt. I peer ahead, spotting a small clearing. Wait. It’s not a clearing, it’s a road. Sophia and I share a bewildered look. We’ve been making a point of avoiding any and all roads. Why? Because roads mean people and people could mean Omega.

I weave my way through the militias, coming up on Chris’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“We’re almost to the camp,” Dad replies. “Let me walk in front. They’ll recognize me.”

I peek at the road. There is no asphalt, only dirt. Pieces of black pavement make it obvious that this was a road at one time, but fell out of use. On the other hand, the road is big enough for a large vehicle, and the overhanging trees make great cover. Nobody can see you from the air.

Then again, I haven’t seen any active aircraft since the EMP hit. I wonder why. Omega has trucks and computers. Why not airplanes and helicopters, too?

Another mystery for another time, I guess.

Up ahead, two large concrete blocks are sitting in the middle of the road.

“What…?” I begin, trailing off as I scan the sides of the path. Nothing but thick green bushes and trees. The perfect place for an ambush.

“This is a checkpoint,” Dad says, seeing the expression on my face. “There are three of them before we reach the camp.”

“Where are the guards?”

“They’re here.”

I nod. Given the heavy foliage, I’m going to assume that our every move is being observed by militiamen hidden in the forest. When we reach the concrete blocks, a man steps out of the bushes wearing camouflage gear. He’s got a rifle, and his face is smudged with black and green paint.

“Eagle One,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

I turn around, noticing from this angle the sentries posted within the trees, dressed in camouflage gear. We’re surrounded at gunpoint, and I can feel Chris tensing up beside me. He doesn’t like this situation.

But Dad doesn’t seem concerned.

“Hey, Uriah,” he greets, an almost smile on his face.

Almost.

“This is the unit we went to back up downstairs,” he continues. “The Freedom Fighters. This is Alpha One, and this is my daughter.”

Uriah’s eyes widen, looking unnaturally white against his painted face.

“You found her,” he exclaims. “Nice going, Boss.”

“Thanks. Alert the other sentries that we’ve got company, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sentries posted around this checkpoint, lower their weapons, but they don’t come down to greet us. They have a job to do, after all. The guy named Uriah waves us forward and I follow Dad and Chris between the blocks of concrete, continuing on our way down the road.

“So do they just live out here?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“Who?” Dad says.

“The sentries.”

“No,” he chuckles. “They rotate shifts, just like any other military base.”

“Are they all under your command?”

“No. Some of them come from other militias.”

“How many militias are we talking about?” I press.