Gee, thanks for that.

I almost puke as I stumble backwards and hit the car, landing on my butt against the pavement. Three moves toward me, only to be put in a headlock by Chris, who slams his head against the car. He passes out, too. Which leaves Mr. Main Dude. But instead of standing like a man and fighting, he takes off into the night, running, screaming, “Over here! Come on!”

Chris bends down and hoists me up with one sweep of his arm.

“You all right?” he asks, only slightly winded. Like beating up a couple of guys is just a walk in the park. “Cassidy?”

I shake myself, my headache pounding more than ever thanks to my butt slam onto the ground. “Fine,” I murmur. “He’s going for help, you know.”

“I know.” Chris doesn’t let go of my hand as he rounds the car, grabbing our backpacks. He hands me mine and helps me put it on. Then he bends down and grabs his gun from Guy Number Two’s belt, also shouldering the shotguns from both unconscious cronies. “You take one,” he says.

“Are you kidding? I can’t shoot that thing.”

Chris slings both of them across his back.

“Fine. Let’s hustle before he comes back with more rocket scientists.”

“Scary rocket scientists,” I shudder.

Chris pulls me along, tossing me one of their flashlights. I catch it. It almost slips through my fingers because my hands are so sweaty.  Chris and I jog for a long time before we slow to speed walking. It’s freezing, which makes my headache even worse.

“Wait,” I say. “Slow down.”

“We have to keep going,” Chris replies, “otherwise that idiot might bring back a whole gang on us.”

“I just want to get some pain meds,” I plead, trying to find the medicine box in the dark. “My head hurts.”

“Still?” Chris voice sounds concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“People get headaches, Chris. It’s not like I got shot.”

I wince with the pain of the migraine, not able to tell if I’m sweating from a fever or from running for a half an hour. I flick the flashlight on as I dig around, finally closing in on the pain meds. I chew several up, much to Chris’s disapproval.

“That’s too many,” he says, looking frustrated. “Don’t overdose.”

“It’s children’s medication,” I snort. “Please.”

I zip the pack up and get to my feet. Shaky, sweaty, migraine-ridden. All in all, considering that it’s the end of the world, I’m in pretty good shape.

Right?

Twenty-four hours later, it’s one o’clock in the morning and foggy. The fog is so thick that I can’t see more than five feet in front of me. I keep close to Chris as we follow the road, listening to suspicious sounds or lights. My headache is still around, but it’s not pounding like it was thanks to the pain meds.

Glad I threw them in my backpack a couple of months ago.

We haven’t seen any sign of Main Dude or a comeback posse. Good thing, too. Chris would probably just shoot them all if they showed up. It’s a relief. I’d like to survive this trip without my traveling partner turning into a ninja warrior.

We eventually stop and kick back on the side of the road, deciding that nobody will be able to sneak up on us because nobody can see us through the fog. I have my hood thrown over my head because the fog is heavy — almost like a literal blanket pressing down on my skin.

When my headache starts to come back again — and the fever — I take some more pain medication to keep it away. I don’t feel great, but at least I’m not dying or anything. Chris doses off for a little while and I do the same, slumping next to him with my head on his shoulder.

We start moving at three thirty, having covered at least another fifteen miles since last night. “I should have been a cross country marathon runner,” I grumble, wishing we could just stop and hang out at a McDonald’s with a bunch of junk food.

Oh, man. Junk food.

I miss you…

“You’re doing very well,” Chris assures me. “Taking it like a soldier.”

“Thanks,” I say, uninspired.

We stop again at six o’clock, just as the sun is coming up. Only we can’t really see the sun through all the fog, so everything just turns from black to gray. At seven we pick up the pace and I spot a McDonald’s off the freeway.

“I can’t take it anymore!” I announce, feeling my stomach rumble. “I need more food than an energy bar to stay alive. I’m going to see if there’s anything left in there.”

“Cassidy, that’s highly unlikely,” Chris replies. “Besides, we need to stay on the road and out of the cities.”

“This isn’t a city,” I point out. “It’s a fast food shack in the middle of nowhere. Nobody lives here but a couple of coyotes and a sewer rat.”

Chris sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Which means he’s getting sick of eating energy bars, too. It’s been six days since we’ve had anything else, and they’re not exactly as yummy as a box of French fries.

I climb over the center divider, cutting across the freeway exit ramp towards the McDonald’s. There are no cars in the parking lot — or at the gas station that’s across the street. A more positive sign is that the windows haven’t been smashed out of the McDonald’s yet.

Hooray.

I jog towards it, envisioning a bunch of greasy hamburgers and calorie-bomb milkshakes. Nothing could be better. Or sound better, anyway. I walk up to the front door and push. It doesn’t budge, which means it’s locked. Of course.

Chris tugs on the handle a few times and walks around the building, checking all the entries and exit points. Finally he says, “We’ll have to break in.”

“Awesome,” I say. “I’ll kick in the door.”

“Thank you, but I think I’d better handle this part,” Chris replies, flashing a wry smile. “Excuse me.”

He pulls his Bowie knife out of my belt and slips it between the glass double doors. It takes him a couple of minutes to pop the lock, but because there’s no electricity, there’s no alarm. Sweet.

“After you,” Chris says, holding the door open.

I walk inside, impressed with his thief-like skills.

“You should have been a professional bank robber,” I tell him.

“Yeah, my mother would have really loved that.”

I laugh and take a look around. The whole place is pretty much untouched. The trash hasn’t been taken out so it stinks. It’s dark inside, but no place is darker than the kitchen behind the front counter. Chris twirls the Bowie knife around a few times and jumps over the counter first.

I crawl after him, not wanting him to reach the freezer before me. If there are hash browns in there, I claim them all. I flick on the flashlight we took from the thugs last night and shine it around the kitchen. There’s some gross food scraped along the floor, like people were running around and got it stuck all over their shoes. Probably when the EMP hit.

“There’s the freezer over there,” I say, pointing to a big steel box in the wall. “Let’s raid it!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Chris warns. “It’s been a week since the electricity went out. If there’s anything in there it’s probably rotten.”

“Party pooper,” I snap.

Chris rolls his eyes. I keep the flashlight trained on the freezer as I tap the door. It’s halfway open. I frown. “Go ahead already,” Chris says.

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I open the door and look inside, seeing a bunch of empty steel shelves and melted icepacks. There are some disgusting packages of hamburger meat rotting in the back of the freezer. “Gross,” I mutter, shutting the door. “Great. It’s back to energy bars again.”

“Tried to tell you,” Chris shrugs.

“Forgive me for holding out some hope that there was still junk food left in the world.”

“You have the weirdest hopes.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

Ding.

Both of us freeze at the same time. Something metal hits the tile of the kitchen flooring and makes a noise like a bell. I whip my flashlight around, spotting a metal spoon spinning on the floor.