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.

I kept that nightlight until the second the EMP hit. And now, all I can remember is how nice it was to have somebody to tell you that your nightmare wasn’t real. It’s okay to go back to sleep.

Sucks to be me. I’ve been crying into Chris’s shoulder for hours. Probably days. Maybe weeks.

Well, maybe just an hour or two, but you get the idea. We’re sitting on the floor of the cabin kitchen, cocooned in total darkness. I’ve got the hiccups from crying so much, and now that the panic and shock have worn off, empty despair has set in.

I feel totally numb, like I could die right now and I wouldn’t care. I’d almost welcome it.

“We’ll find him,” Chris keeps saying, over and over. “I promise. I won’t let them take him away from you.”

Thank God I have Chris. I would have never gotten this far without him, and if he weren’t here right now, I probably would have gone skydiving off the nearest cliff without a parachute the second I found out my dad had been arrested. He’s a good insurance policy.

“What now?” I whisper, hoarse.

“We sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Yes, you can. You’re exhausted. We both are.”

“I just lost everything.” I sniffle. “What’s the point of sleeping or eating or caring? They’re just going to keep taking things away from us until they kill us! First our cars, our cellphones, our houses. Then our lives. They’re not going to stop.”

“You’re wrong, Cassidy,” Chris replies, his voice even. “They haven’t taken everything from you or me. They haven’t taken us. Who we are. They can’t take our souls, and they can try to kill us and subjugate us, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.”

I take a shaky, painful breath.

“Why fight?” I ask. “They’ll kill us. Just like they killed all those people at the rest stop and in Bakersfield. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, out strategized. We’re screwed and you know it.”

“We’re alive,” Chris answers, taking my face between his hands. “We’re together. We’re a team, and they can’t change that.”

I suck in my breath, trying not to burst into tears again.

“We’re a team?” I echo, tired. “Are you sure about that?”

Chris chuckles. It’s an exhausted but sincere sound.

“I’m sure,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, tears running down my face.

“We’re a team,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I trust you.”

It’s true. I do trust him. I can’t think of anybody else who could have gotten me to this point without dying. Only a Navy Seal, I guess. At any rate, maybe I’ll feel differently about things in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel more optimistic. Maybe my dad is alive.

But finding him…how is that supposed to happen?

First rule of the new world: don’t hoard. All of the supplies that my dad and I brought to this cabin have been taken by Omega. Everything. Every drop of water, every flake of dehydrated chicken breast. All we’ve got is what Chris’s mom gave us, and even then it’s a miracle we’ve got anything left.

Apparently, nobody but the big dogs are allowed to have emergency supplies. Makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to subjugate people. What better way than to control the food supply?

 Try explaining that to the bottomless pit known as my stomach. I’m hungry.

It’s about eight o’clock at night. We’ve draped heavy blankets over the windows and stuffed rags in all the cracks around the doors. Only then do we light a couple of lanterns. I’m curled up on the loft bed above the kitchen, watching Chris get some food together. He’s making some coffee with our camping stove and heating up some biscuits.

“I’ll cook,” I volunteer, sliding down the ladder.

“Rest, Cassie,” he advises, without turning around. “You’re tired.”

“I don’t want to rest. And I happen to be a biscuit expert.” I sit on the edge of the makeshift counter. “Coffee at night? Really?”

“As soon as the storm settles down we need to get back home,” he replies, placing one hand on each side of me. “Are you up for that?”

No. Just the thought of doing anything right now is sickening.

“Sure,” I lie. “Sounds good.”

He raises his eyebrows, obviously not buying it.

“Coffee’s burning,” I mutter.

He turns around, snatching it off the stove before it scorches.

There are still some dishes left in the cupboard. Stuff from thrift stores that my dad I bought cheaply to bring up here. Fat lot of good it did. Without food or water…or dad…things are kind of pointless.

“Have you cleaned that knife wound?” I ask as he pours the coffee.

He hands me a cup.

“No,” he replies. “I was getting around to it.”

“Better hurry up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection and die,” I say, trying to smile.

Chris brushes my cheek with the back of his hand and nods. “You’re right.”

He walks to the other side of the cabin — which is only about twenty feet in length — and starts digging through his backpack. I take a sip of the coffee, almost spitting it out. “It’s bitter.”

“Coffee generally is,” Chris laughs, rolling the first aid kit out on the counter. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Why? Because it’s like a liquid drug? Trying to turn me into an addict?”

“That’s the plan.” Chris pulls of his jacket, revealing the bloodstain on his wool shirt. It’s not as bad as I thought. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not the addiction type.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.

“I was talking about the blood, Cassie.”

“Oh. Looks okay.”

He rolls up the shirt enough to get a good view of the cut — and his very nice stomach. It’s not very deep, but nicked enough to get infected if left untreated. Chris looks at me.

“Can you stitch it?” he asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat — I’ve never been good with first aid stitching — and nod. “Sure,” I say. “I need the antiseptic wipes.”

He dumps the first aid kit on the counter and opens his arms out wide.

“Be my guest.”

 I find the wipes, the needle, the thread. If you even call it thread. I stifle a shudder and flip open the emergency handbook. There are directions for stitching up a wound. I’ve practiced in the past on a dummy — a routine my dad periodically had me do because, “You just never know when you’re going to get gouged open with a knife.”