State of Emergency c-1 Read online

  There are books everywhere, and pictures, too. The old man locks the door behind us, takes a deep breath and says, “Now we can talk.” He offers his hand. “The name’s Walter Lewis.”

  Chris shakes his hand.

  “Chris,” he replies, leaving out his last name. “And this is Cassidy.”

  Walter turns to look at me.

  “You together?” he asks.

  I feel my cheeks turn red while Chris flashes a self-satisfied smile.

  “Technically,” he replies. “But I think you owe us an explanation first. Who are you and why did you bring us here?”

  Walter wipes his hands on his pants.

  “You were out past curfew,” he says. “You could have been shot on sight.”

  He walks past me and disappears through a door, popping up on the other side of a short wall. I take a step back and realize he’s standing over the kitchen sink, looking into the living room. The curtains are pulled tight — nailed, actually.

  “What’s curfew?” I ask. “What’s happening? Do you know anything about these camps? Where are those soldiers from? They were speaking all these languages…” I trail off.

  Walter sighs and I hear him pouring water into something metal. When he comes back into the living room, he’s holding a coffeepot and some mugs. “They — meaning Omega - arrived here the day after the EMP destroyed everything,” he says, setting the mugs on a coffee table crowded with magazines. “Started rounding people up, sending them to the Emergency Relief Camp — that’s what they called it at the beginning.” His eyes become hooded, sad. “Most people went willingly.”

  He pours some coffee into the mugs and offers a cup to each of us. I mutter thanks and close my hands around the hot glass. “Why are they killing people? And who’s Omega? I’ve never heard of them.”

  Walter looks long and hard at me.

  “Truthfully, I’m not really sure,” he says at last. “It’s just what these troops call themselves. Omega.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Chris replies, looking dumbfounded. And here I thought he knew everything. “What the hell’s going on?”

  I look back at Walter for a deeper analysis.

  “Your name was Cassidy, wasn’t it?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

  I nod.

  He strokes his chin, setting the coffeepot down and rifling through a stack of books near an empty fireplace. He pulls one out. “Here, Cassidy,” he says. “What’s the title of this book?”

  I wrinkle my nose, disliked being talked to like I’m a toddler.

  “World War Two,” I say, reading the red letters.

  “Correct.” He sits down on the coffee table, so I join Chris on the sofa. Walter flips through a few pages and adjusts his glasses. “Ah. Now what’s this, Cassidy?”

  I peer at the book, trying to make out the black and white images in the candlelight: candid shots of Japanese Americans staring at the camera behind a wire fence. “Internment camps,” I say, looking up.

  “Yes.” Walter gets up and walks to another bookshelf. “During the 1940s, Japanese Americans were imprisoned in internment camps during the war. In Germany, Hitler sent millions of Germans and Jews alike to concentration camps where they were either worked to death or executed in a gas chamber.” He stops to take slow breath. “Around the world, periodically, the populace is overtaken by a superior power and either enslaved, killed or freed. What we have in Omega is a force that is doing the first two as fast as they can.”

  I blink, all of this sinking in slowly.

  “Why? Where did they come from? What country do they represent?” I say slowly.

  “No country,” Walter shrugs. “You look around town and you’ll see posters advertising their presence.” I take the poster I peeled off the wall out of my pocket and smooth it out over my knee. He’s right. “They represent not one country, but all,” he goes on. “They seem to be some sort of emergency response force at first glance, but then again, their soldiers range in nationality from American to Russian. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “So who do they answer to?” I ask. “The US? The U.N.? South America? Who?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Walter replies. “It’s possible that they’re some kind of branch of the United Nations...but that would come as a surprise to me. I’ve never seen an insignia like theirs before.” He reaches out and studies the poster that’s sitting in my lap. The O in Omega is four times as big as the rest of the letters, and once again, I’m left to look at all the continents of the earth that are crammed inside the O.

  “So we don’t know where they’re from,” I say. “What’s they’re purpose?”

  “Who gives a damn?” Chris spits. “They’re killing innocent people. Where’s our military?”

  “I heard rumors that some of our men were engaged in combat on the East Coast,” Walter admits. “It’s possible that this is an invasion of some sort. Then again, all I know is what I see.”

  “How big is Omega? Do we know?”

  “Does it matter?” Walter answers, taking his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. “They are here, and that’s all that’s important. They are killing us. I do not need to why they’re doing it — just that they are.”

  “Why aren’t we fighting them? Is anybody even trying?” Chris says, every muscle in his body tense. He looks ready to kill somebody.

  “I’m sure someone is trying, boy. But at the moment our country is very weak, isn’t it? We just got hit with an EMP. Everybody’s panicking. Our own government is completely dissolved without a way to communicate with its branches. It has little to no power right now. What can they do to protect us? I’m sure there are military forces on the front lines — wherever that is - right now, but they can’t be everywhere at once. We were taken by surprise.”

  Chris leans forward.

  “Sounds like these Omega pukes were ready to roll in before this thing even hit,” he states. “They were pretty well prepared for this. We saw more executions about forty miles from here. You think Omega’s responsible for the EMP?”

  “We may never know who was behind the EMP,” Walter replies. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t dedicate your time to figuring out why or how. I would worry about staying alive now.”

  “But shouldn’t we know why some random army we’ve never heard of before is trying to kill all of us?” I point out.

  “No.” Walter narrows his gaze. “Your life has one purpose, now. And that is to stay alive.”

  “You were in the military,” Chris says suddenly, leaning forward.

  “Yes,” Walter sighs, setting the book down abruptly. “I was a Pilot…a long time ago.”

  “During World War Two,” I add, putting the pieces together.

  “I was a history teacher for thirty years,” he sighs. “I thought I’d seen it all, too. But this…this is a takeover. They’re killing off anyone they think might get in their way. I saw this once, more than sixty years ago. Never thought I’d see it here. And who knows how far it’s spread?”

  I stare at my coffee, suddenly feeling sick.

  “You saw this before inGermany,” I say, bringing my eyes up to his.

  He says nothing.

  “I’m only alive right now because I wasn’t stupid enough to run into the streets when everything went to hell,” he replies, standing up again. “But I’ll run out of food eventually. Not that I’m upset about that. I’m old enough to die, don’t you think?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Self pity much?” I say before I can stop myself.

  Walter rubs his hands on his pants again — a nervous habit, I’m guessing.

  “Do you live here alone?” Chris asks, his voice low.

  “Now I do.” Walter paces to the window, the one nailed over with curtains. “They took my wife. First day. She went downstairs…haven’t seen her since.”

  My throat seizes up.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  H
e waves me off.

  “It was her decision, not mine,” he answers, but his voice is shaky.

  “Thank you for letting us stay here,” I tell him.

  “You’re not staying here,” he corrects, turning around. His eyes are bright with tears from speaking about his wife. My heart breaks just looking at him. “I brought you here so you wouldn’t be shot on the streets. If you try to get out by just walking through the town, you’re dead. They’ve got guards posted on every block that leads out of the city.”

  “We got into the city fine,” I point out.

  “They’re not trying to stop people from coming in,” Walter says, picking up the coffeepot. Pouring a cup. “They’re keeping people from coming out.”

  Chris rests his arm against the back of the sofa.

  “What are you saying, old man?”

  Walter breaks into a wide smile.

  “I know a safe way out of the city,” he grins.

  “And?”

  “And to be honest, I just wanted to see if somebody could really pull it off.”

  Chris stands up, drinking the entire contents of the coffee cup in one gulp.

  “Details?” he asks.

  “There are tunnels under the city,” Walter explains. “My wife…” he clears his throat, “was an architect. She helped build them. They were abandoned about fifteen years ago. I know how to get in, and all you have to do is follow them until you come to the end, which is well outside the city limits.”

  “Are you serious?” I exclaim. “Tunnels under the city?”

  “All cities have secrets,” Walter shrugs.

  “How do we get to these tunnels?” Chris asks, not nearly as impressed as me.

  “I’ll show you,” Walter says, “but we can’t do it until it gets dark. It’s too easy to be caught otherwise.”

  “Why haven’t you gotten out of the city through the tunnels?” I demand, looking for a trap. “If they’re such a good escape route, why are you still here?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m over eighty-seven years old,” he replies, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “I’m not in any condition to be making a daring escape.”

  I blush, embarrassed that he even had to point that out.

  “Ah, right,” I cough.

  “Are you hungry?” Walter asks.

  “Starved,” I reply.

  “I’ll get some food for you.”

  “We can’t take your food,” Chris says, being uncharacteristically kind to our host.

  “Boy, I’m dying either way,” he laughs. “No use worrying about me.”

  I sigh. Cheery.

  Chapter Eight

  So if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the United States of America has generally been a pretty cool place to live. I mean, sure, it’s not perfect by any stretch, but at least I have the freedom to snag a caramel macchiato every once in a while. Or watch a soap opera instead of doing homework.

  Yeah, my idea of the land of the free and home of the brave is pretty basic. Until now.Because my caramel macchiato and soap operas seem to be in permanent jeopardy.

  Chris and I take turns sleeping on the sofa in Walter’s apartment, neither of us really feeling comfortable enough to be asleep at the same time. Before we know it, the rest of the day has passed, and Walter is walking up and down the length of the living room, excited.

  “What’s eating you, old man?” Chris asks, stretching his tall, lean frame over the couch. “You’re not the one who’s going to escape.”

  “But you’re more than welcome to come with us,” I add, shooting Chris a look.

  Walter shakes his head.

  “No, no,” he says. “There’s nothing in it for me. This better work, though.”

  He pulls out a thin sheet of white, almost transparent paper. He shoves all the magazines off the coffee table and brings some of the candles closer. “What is it?” I ask, spreading the paper out.

  “The tunnels,” he says. “These belonged to my wife. The whole construction meant to be a sort of a drainage system that would dump into a basin outside the city. Never did work right.” His eyes mist over. “So as far as I know, they’re completely empty.”

  “Are you sure?” I press.

  “I said as far as I know.” He traces his finger along the route that we should take. Chris listens intently, studying the map from every angle. Me? The whole thing just looks like a bunch of squares and circles, and I hardly understand a word they’re saying. How are we supposed to know what direction we’re headed when we’re traveling underground, anyway? What good does a map do when we’ll have no light to read it with?

  “What about light?” I ask. “Do you have any flashlights?”

  “Sorry, no,” Walter says. “Mine were electric. Dead.”

  I sigh.

  “So we’re going to go underground in the dark,” I state. “We’re going to die.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Chris replies. “You’re not claustrophobic, though, are you?”

  I run my fingers through my hair.

  “Who isn’t?” I mutter.

  Chris pats me on the back, capturing one of my frizzy locks of hair around his finger. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there to keep you company.” He smiles devilishly, sending blood straight into my cheeks.

  “Stop teasing,” I say, slapping his hand away. “This is serious.”

  “I know.” Chris looks at the map one more time. “It looks easy enough. We just follow the tunnel until it drops off at the basin.”

  “That’s all there is to it,” Walter nods. “It’s a piece of cake.”

  “Get your stuff, Cassidy,” Chris says. “It’s time.”

  I stand up from my cross-legged position on the floor and check my pack. I shrug my jacket on, twist my hair into a messy bun, and pull my boots back on.

  “Ready,” I say. “Tah-dah.”

  Chris rolls of the couch and grabs his gear, pausing only to flick a non-existent piece of dust off the collar of my coat. I scowl, wishing he’d stop flirting with me. It’s only making things awkward.

  Isn’t it?

  I shake myself. I can’t think about that right now. It’s escape time.

  Walter puts on an old wool jacket and pulls a crochet beanie over his head. I almost burst into tears when I watch him adjust the hat, recognizing the fact that it’s homemade — probably made lovingly by his wife.

  Walter turns to us, smiling.

  “Let’s go, shall we?”

  Chris squeezes my shoulders.

  “Stick close,” he whispers.

  “Do as I do,” Walter warns, opening the apartment door. I suddenly feel anxious, seeing the dark hallway, realizing that whatever tunnel we plan to drop into will be fifty times darker.

  Chris nudges me out the door, lacing his fingers through mine. I exhale, charged with energy from that one simple gesture. I could get used to life-threatening situations.

  Walter locks the apartment door behind us, walking down the stairs. He’s incredibly spry for an eighty-seven year-old man. When we reach the bottom level, he takes a long time opening the door and security bars. He exits first. Chris pauses at the door, waiting for the go-ahead.

  “It’s safe,” Walter whispers.

  Chris and I walk outside. It’s dark on this side of town. No floodlights, no guards as far as I can see. There is light in the distance, though, probably coming from the Relief Camps on the other side of the city.

  Walter ducks into an alleyway.

  “It’s about a quarter of a mile from here,” he whispers.

  “What is?” I ask.

  “Weren’t you paying attention to everything we said inside?”

  “No. It made no sense.”

  Chris releases a deep, soft laugh beside me.

  “We’re looking for the entrance to the tunnels,” he explains.

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’ll see,” Walter snaps, obviously irritated that I didn’t pay attention to his tunnel strategy/lect
ure upstairs. That’s a teacher for you.

  We take several left and right hand turns, Walter avoiding lighted areas. He stops at the corner of an abandoned Starbucks. “There’s a guard at the end of this block,” he says.

  Chris nods as I peek around the corner, spotting a blue-uniformed trooper ambling across the street with a flashlight. He does a sweep of the area and takes off to another part of the city.

  “What’s he even looking for?” I wonder.

  “Escapees,” Walter says, chuckling.

  I swallow a huge lump in my throat. Walter starts moving across the street, leaving Starbucks behind. We walk up to the sidewalk, Walter staring at a metal gutter opening.

  “A gutter?” I say, deadpan. “How am I supposed to fit in there?”

  “It’s a lot bigger than it looks,” he replies. “Trust me.”

  Chris kneels down and wraps his fingers around the gutter grill, popping it out without any trouble. Well, either that or he’s just freakishly strong. I’m willing to go with the latter assumption.

  Chris bends down.

  “It is a lot bigger than it looks,” he confirms. “Down you go.”

  “What? No. You go first.”

  He smirks. “You’re scared.”

  “Um, yeah. A big dark hole in the ground has the potential to scare me quite a bit,” I point out.

  Chris stands up, amused.

  “Well, you can take it from here,” Walter says.

  We immediately turn our attention back to the old man with the crochet beanie on his head.

  “Thank you for your help,” Chris says, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  “This is my home,” Walter replies. “I intend to keep it that way.”

  Walter looks at me.

  “You keep your eye on him, alright?” he smiles.

  “Whatever you say.” I stand there fiddling with my jacket buttons, overcome with the urge to hug him. So I do. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a warm embrace. “Everything will be okay,” I say. “This isn’t Nazi Germany. Not yet.”