Too bad our car got stolen by a group of desperate rioters. We had to travel by foot, and in the process, we passed by Omega emergency relief camps. Only they were being used as concentration camps, killing people off. Taking over. We came to the conclusion that maybe Omega sent out the EMP as an excuse to take control of everything and yeah…they pulled it off.

Long story short, now Chris and I are on the run from Omega. My dad, as far as I know, was taken by Omega officials and imprisoned as a war criminal because he wouldn’t go to a “relief camp.” Chris’s family, his parents and his brother, were taken, too. Their house was burned down. A friend of ours named Isabel was also arrested.

So now it’s just the two of us.

We’ve been keeping a low profile in the foothills for about two months. Omega officials would love to arrest us and ship us off to a happy harmonious death camp, but we’re not really into the whole execution-without-a-trial thing.

We’re not even criminals. The only thing that sets us apart from the masses is that we chose to avoid the concentration camps and stayed off the radar rather than take the bait. That makes us a target, I guess.

Sucks to be us.

Chris, as a Navy Seal and a special ops guy, has kept us fed. The dude can make a meal out of a piece of grass. It might not be great for the taste buds, but his skills have kept us alive. And I’m learning from him, too.

I’m pretty good at finding shelter, locating at least something edible, and keeping away from danger. But while I tend to go into shock in the middle of an intense situation, Chris is the one who goes into battle-mode and takes control, usually saving both our butts.

So, yeah. He’s cooler than me. Before the EMP, that would have bothered me a lot more than it does now. I would have had to one-up him at everything, but since my life depends on things like finding food or avoiding getting shot by an Omega soldier, I just don’t go there.

Conversely, Chris is way out of my league. If we hadn’t been forced together when the end of the world came crashing down around our ears, there’s not a chance he would have been romantically interested in me. I mean, I’ve never been into self-deprecation, but I’m not exactly dream girl material. I never had a friend in my life, and my idea of a wild night out on the town was picking up Starbucks before hanging out at the library for three hours, reading Edgar Allan Poe.

My social life was a little lacking, obviously.

Chris, if doomsday hadn’t popped in to pay us a visit, would be dating some hot swimsuit poster girl for the Navy otherwise. He’s that gorgeous.

To me, at least.

When you’re in love with somebody, it’s hard to see anything wrong with them. Even though I’m crazy about him, I can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s only interested in me because we’ve been forced together. Literally. Our families are both in a prison somewhere, if not dead, and we’re the only ones who care enough to find them. We need each other, and that makes the lines between friendship and romance blur. I mean, you spend twenty-four seven with somebody for three months and see what happens.

So what’s our plan? How are we even going to find the prison or camp that our families have been taken to? We don’t really know. We just figure that they’ll do it somewhere they can publicize it, where they can make an example of their “criminals” and scare people into submission.

There’s only one place we can go to look for our families: the city. But what city? What state? What building? It’s an impossible rescue mission, but thinking about it and working towards it — even if it’s never going to happen — gives us something to hold onto.

It gives us hope.

My grandpa used to have a favorite quote. “Give me a ship and a star to sail her by.” Well, I just want a car. Any car. A decrepit piece of junk from an underhanded car dealer would be better than what we have: Nothing.

Nothing but our feet and a couple of pairs of socks that are worn through with holes. I’m tired of eating whatever scraps we find in the wilderness. I want a Big Mac and a strawberry smoothie. Unfortunately for me, the rations in my backpack aren’t doing anything to grant my wish. After two months, all I’ve got left is a handful of camping materials, some water purifying tablets, a knife (a gift from Chris’s brother, Jeff) and a plastic bag with one serving of coffee.

We’ve been saving that last one for a special occasion.

Lately we’ve been doing our hiking, hunting or foraging — whatever we’re doing to keep alive — during the night. It keeps us from freezing to death by staying active, and it’s easier for us to avoid detection if we’re not skipping across an open field in broad daylight.

Right now it’s barely dawn. Streams of early morning sunlight are breaking through the fog, giving everything a weird in-between appearance of day and night. On the edge of the field there’s a worn chain link fence. It’s the property line of a trailer park, and for us, it’s going to be our camping area all day.

“I hope there aren’t any creeps hanging around here,” I murmur.

“They won’t live long,” Chris replies.

I wait for him to smile, but apparently he’s not joking. I decide to blame it on exhaustion as we approach the chain link fence surrounding the property. It’s falling apart in some places so we’re able to squeeze between gaps in between the metal. The trailer park is dotted with trees and picnic benches. Useless cars are parked near most of the houses, and by the looks of the broken blinds in some of the windows — and the condition of some of the trailers — it’s hard to tell if everything’s been vandalized since the EMP or if this was just a bad area.

There are no voices, no sounds. But it’s early and most people, if there’s anybody here, will be sleeping at this hour. Chris waves me forward as we creep between the trailers, pausing beneath windows or doors, listening for sounds. How are we supposed to tell if anybody is inside? I whisper this question into Chris’s ear. He shrugs. “Look through the window.”

“Are you kidding? All of your tactical knowledge and expertise comes down to sticking my head through a window?”

“Look, I’m tired,” he says, stifling a yawn. “I checked this place out earlier.”

“What? When?”

“When you fell asleep last night… when you were supposed to be keeping watch.”

“Ah. Right.” I cough. “Sorry.”

“Go ahead,” he says, challenging me. “Look.”

I sigh, hating when he makes me do things just to keep my confidence levels up. Must be a military thing. I creep underneath a trailer window without curtains or blinds, slowly bringing my eyes over the windowsill. I peer through the dirty glass, seeing nothing but an empty living room.

“Looks safe,” I say, giving him a thumbs up.

Chris nods.

“It is.” He stands up and strolls up to the front door, working with the doorknob for a few seconds before popping the lock. “After you.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?”

He finally laughs.

“Cassie, I was here earlier. I wouldn’t send you into a trailer cold turkey, would I? I’m just messing with you.”

I raise an eyebrow. He chuckles again, swinging the door open and taking the first few steps into the trailer. I wait at the threshold, listening for any suspicious sounds. I stifle a scream when Chris jumps out of the shadows, grabbing my shoulders. “Gotcha.”

I rake my hands through my hair, heart racing.

“That was not funny,” I say, feeling sick. “I really didn’t need that.”

“Yeah, you did. Don’t let your guard down for a second. Remember that.”

“Sure, sure.”

Chris slides two fingers under my chin, tilting my head up.

“I’m just trying to help you,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Come on. Let’s eat.”