Chris cocks his eyebrow.

“True.” He looks over at me, ghosting a sexy smile. “Thanks for offering.”

I blush for no logical reason and turn back towards the window.

“Chris?” I ask. “Do you think my dad is still alive?”

I voice the horrible thought that has been nagging at the back of my mind since that first airplane went down in Culver City. Who’s to say that my dad wasn’t caught in one of those freak explosions? The odds are certainly in his favor.

Chris remains silent for a long time before answering.

“What do you believe?” he says at last, glancing over at me.

I hesitate, fear and doubt telling me that my dad is as good as dead. That even if I make it to the cabin in the mountains, I’ll be stuck there alone, because he won’t be there to meet me.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “He didn’t have the Mustang, so I don’t know how he would have got out of the city. I don’t know how long it would take him to figure out where I went.”

When I stop to take a shaky breath, Chris grabs my hand. He squeezes it hard and we lock eyes again. “Hey,” he says. “If your dad is anything like you, he’s definitely alive.”

I bite down on my lip to keep from bursting into tears like an overly emotional child. Unable to keep my voice steady enough to reply, I just smile to convey my thanks. Chris releases my hand and touches my cheek before focusing back on the road.

As we put distance between ourselves and the gas station from hell, I can’t help but think how much my life has changed in less than twenty-four hours.

What a trip.

The back roads only go so far. Many of them were abandoned during the 1970s when the state came in and built a giant eight-lane interstate. Chris periodically gets out and drags portable fences and “Do Not Enter,” obstructions out of the way.

About thirty minutes ago I rubbed some anti-inflammatory cream on my bruise, hoping that something isn’t broken. It’s kind of impossible to tell since I can’t touch it. It’s a little too sensitive at this stage.

Since we left the gas station behind we haven’t been able to get another signal on the crank radio. It could be because we’re getting higher up into the Grapevine. Radio signals always did tend to go out at this altitude.

Still…

The road we’re on right now has virtually eroded away to dirt. Bushes are sometimes overgrown onto the road. As we ascend the air gets colder. I can even see powdery snow dusting the top of some of the higher mountains. Chris voiced his concern earlier about running out of gas earlier than we had estimated — all of this steep climbing and detouring is costing us mileage. It could be bad.

“When we run out,” I say, hating to use the word when, “what then?”

Chris ponders the question, avoiding a fallen branch in the road.

“We can siphon gas from the cars along the road,” he says.

“It might be raining or snowing up in the mountains,” I point out.

“And that’s supposed to be worse than staying in the city and getting mugged to death?” Chris says, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine, I get it,” I sigh. “I just hope the car makes it to Squaw Valley, at least. It’s at least forty miles away from our cabin. And uphill.”

“You could hike it.” Chris flicks the radio on again. Still nothing. “Just follow the road and stay out of sight.”

“Do you think everybody in the state has gone crazy?” I ask. “I mean, have they all gone psycho?”

“Of course not,” Chris replies, halfway laughing. “But the majority don’t know how to survive without technology — without electricity or plumbing — and they’ll panic. They’ll get their hands on anything that works. Upstanding citizens will become criminals in a week or two. Desperation brings human beings down to the same level.” I notice his body begins to tense up as he talks. “Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”

His voice becomes depressing, dark, and he stops talking. I watch his demeanor shift from totally calm to irritated and come to the conclusion that either he’s just prone to mood swings or he’s seen something really bad as a Navy Seal.

Probably a combination of both.

When nighttime comes we have to refill the gas tank again. That leaves us without about two more tanks, but with smaller canisters and an old car, that doesn’t mean we can get all the way to the hills without running out. Thank God Chris knows how to siphon gas from other cars.

Why didn’t my dad ever teach me how to do that?

“Chris,” I say at around nine o’clock. “We should stop and rest. Both of us.”

“We’re making good time.”

“We’re lost.”

And it’s true. We’ve been driving around the back roads all day. Going on an interstate at eighty miles per hour, it only takes about sixty minutes to get through the Grapevine. It’s taken us twelve hours to even get close, because many of the roads we’ve used have been dead ends and we’ve had to backtrack.

“Cassie…”

“It’s insane for us to waste gas driving around in the dark!” I exclaim. “None of my maps have any information about these roads. We need to wait until morning and figure out what’s going on. I can’t even see the North Star, for crying out loud! I have no idea what direction we’re headed.”

Rainclouds have darkened the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. It’s getting colder and windier by the minute. The entire windshield is coated with sleet. The climate control system in the Mustang broke about four months ago, and thanks to my brilliant habit of procrastination, I never got it fixed. Now I have no heater.

 Lovely.

“I don’t want the engine to get frozen,” Chris mutters. “A car this old might have trouble starting up again.”

“I’d rather take that chance and not drive off a cliff in our sleep,” I say.

Chris nods.

“Okay,” he replies. “We’ll stop and rest for a couple of hours. If it’s a full blown winter storm we’ll want to keep moving, though.”

He’s right, of course. Mudslides are pretty common up in the Grapevine during storms. So is flooding and icy roads. It’s not like my Mustang is tricked out for that kind of crazy terrain, so it’d be safer not to push it.

Chris finds a type of hidey-hole off the road, wedged between a wall of bushes and trees. He cuts the engine, plunging us into total darkness. I instinctively check all the locks on the car before reaching for my backpack.

“It couldn’t get any colder, could it?” I mumble. “Stupid weather. Stupid EMP. Stupid crowbar.”

I dig through my pack in the dark. I finally find what I’m looking for, a wool camping blanket. I unroll it and spread it over my body. “Cold?” I ask, offering a corner up to Chris.

He shakes his head, instead shrugging on his leather jacket. Even in the dim lighting I could easily imagine him as a sexy greaser from the 50s. His hair might be a little long, but still…

“How’s your arm?” I ask, feeling guilty all of the sudden for not asking about it since I wrapped it up yesterday.

“Fine,” he shrugs.

“I should check it to make sure it’s not infected.”

“It’s not infected, Cassie,” he grins. “Go to sleep. You’re going to need it.”

I don’t argue. I just yawn and curl up, leaning my head against the window. The temperature is continuing to drop. I just hope I don’t wake up with an icicle on my nose. How embarrassing would that be?

The two of us doze off for a while. I glance at the crank radio to check the time, noting that it’s only midnight. We’ve been asleep for three hours. I glance over at Chris, surprised to find him asleep sitting upright against the seat. He looks a lot more relaxed that way. More chill.

I realize that my hands are so cold that they’ve gone numb. It hurts to flex my fingers. Alarmed, I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders and lean across the seat. I brush my fingers lightly against Chris’s cheek. He snaps awake and grabs my wrist, pinning it against the dashboard. For a split second I can see the pure instinct in his reaction right before he seems to remember where he is and what he’s doing.