Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (12 page)

“It could be months – years even – before they restore any sort of power,” Gemma said.

“That's just ridiculous,” the man huffed. “How long could it take to fix a few circuits or whatever it is they have to fix.”

“You don't understand,” Gemma said. “
Everything
got fried. Including the circuits. And it wouldn't have just been the electrical components. The strength of the surge would have damaged other parts too.”

“But – surely they have spare parts?” The man was clearly flustered.

“They don't just keep that stuff on hand you know. Not nearly enough for every power plant in the country. Which means ordering parts in from overseas that could take years to make,” Gemma said. “Besides, they'll need everything they can get just to restore the most basic critical infrastructure at first. And then there's all the power lines – millions and billions of miles of it. That will all have to be replaced.”

“Replaced?” The man visibly paled.

“It would have fused together.”

Christopher had no idea how Gemma knew all this. It hadn't crossed his mind that it would take so long to get everything back to normal. He'd assumed they just had to survive the next few weeks, or maybe a few months at most.

The long road ahead of them seemed to stretch even further. What sort of world would they be living in by then?

A movement near the bus caught their attention, and a dark look passed between Christopher and Gemma. Some of the passengers were beginning to stir.

It was time to be on their way. They barely had enough supplies for themselves, let alone a bus full of hungry, thirsty passengers.

Gemma took Christopher's cue, and was already ten yards ahead of him by the time he turned the bike around.

“What am I supposed to do?” The driver's plaintive wail, full of fear and helplessness, rang through the air behind them, and Christopher resisted the urge to look back.

14

“They didn't really understand the full implications of an EMP until the sixties,” Gemma said as they carefully pushed the bikes across the grass, wary of punctures.

They were headed for a group of trees about a hundred yards from the highway, neither of them comfortable with the idea of camping by the side of the road where they would be exposed.

Gemma stifled a yawn. She had no idea if Christopher was listening or not, but she kept talking. It was the only thing keeping her focused. “The test was called Operation Fishbowl. The first nuke – Starfish Prime – was 1.44 megatons.

“They detonated it two hundred and fifty miles above the mid-Pacific Ocean. The electromagnetic pulse knocked out streetlights and set off burglar alarms over eight hundred miles away in Hawaii.”

“How do you know all this anyway?” Christopher asked as they reached the trees.

“One of my old students has an interest in EMPs. In fact he has an interest in any
end of the world
scenario. Actually, obsession would be more accurate. He has Asperger's. It started after nine eleven when his uncle was killed. It's – I think it's how he deals with his fear.”

Gemma stretched her arms, yawning loudly as Christopher pulled the sleeping mats out of the trailer and dumped them on the ground.

“Wouldn't obsessing about it just make the world a scarier place?” Christopher asked.

Gemma rolled out the mats as she put her thoughts together. She'd always had a soft spot for young Matty.

Leaving a generous expanse of grass between the two mats, Gemma fell to her knees on the closest mat as she answered.

“For him – knowing – it makes it less scary. His mother took him to a psychiatrist – she thought his obsession was unhealthy. But she was told it wasn't an unusual reaction and that by learning more about the things he was afraid of it gave him some sort of order – or control – over his fear.”

Gemma lay on her back, staring up at the sky through the trees. There was still a light haze filtering the stars. As her body unwound, her limbs felt heavy and tingly. She also felt the first tendrils of cold begin to reach her now they'd stopped moving.

“I guess that makes sense,” Christopher said as something thumped to the ground beside her.

Gemma turned her head and saw the sleeping bag, but the effort needed to reach for it was beyond her.

Her eyes drooped closed as she heard the sound of a zipper, but she didn't open them again until a shadow passed over her, blocking out the moonlight seeping through her eyelids.

Christopher was reaching over her for the backpack, his face close to hers. His smell was strong – earthy and musky – tugging at her belly.

Gemma lifted her arm lazily, hardly aware she was doing it, and ran her fingers down the side of his face.

His skin was a mix of scratchy-smooth – her fingertips sensitive to the light layer of stubble coming through.

The heat of his skin seemed to sear her, traveling along her arm and igniting fires in her belly long since forgotten.

Christopher froze at her touch, and looked down, his expression unreadable.

Gemma swallowed hard, unable to look away. She was trapped by the depths of his dark, mesmerizing eyes as she remembered how he'd made her feel the first time she gave herself to him.

An overwhelming wave of need and desire surged in her, its power taking her breath away as her loins stirred and heat soared through her.

There were so many conflicting emotions in Christopher's eyes as his head slowly lowered toward her. His pupils dilated, reflecting her sudden desire. As he searched her face she saw so much of the past – their past – and everything that had been left unspoken. This confused her.

A small, tired sigh escaped her lips, more a moan than a true sigh, making Christopher's eyes widen and move down to her mouth. His lips parted, his tongue flickering out to moisten them, and she gasped as she realized what he was about to do.

Gemma quickly pulled her hand back and turned her head. The strength of what she was feeling completely threw her. It would be so easy to let it take her over, but she didn't need this sort of complication right now. And especially not with him.

She closed her eyes, but she could still hear him breathing above her.

A moment later his body nudged hers as he reached over and grabbed the backpack. She felt another flare of heat rush through her that made her want to grab him and pull him closer. Then his shadow was gone and she felt strangely hollow as the moment passed.

There was a dull ache in her centre as she heard Christopher rummaging around in the backpack, and her eyes flew open as she remembered the gun in the front pocket.

Christopher pulled out the sandwiches, his jaw tight as he offered her one.

Gemma shook her head. Food was the last thing she wanted right now, and the one thing she
did
want she couldn't have.

It would be foolish to go there with him, and the very fact he could still affect her this way set all sorts of alarms zinging through her. But for the life of her, at that moment, she couldn't think of one good reason not to.

She drew her thoughts back to CJ, and told herself sternly that the past belonged to the past. There was no point drudging up old memories, and going down that path with Christopher would open up old wounds and fears; she would have to relive what they'd done – what she'd done – all over again. There would be no escaping it. It would fester between the two of them, driving the same wedge between them it had done the first time.

And she would begin to dream
his
face again – even now he still haunted her, and many times she'd been tempted to come forward with the truth. To try and make peace with it.

Even if it meant ending up in jail.

Now her mother was gone there were only two people who knew the truth of it. Her and Christopher. For CJ's sake it was imperative she kept it that way.

“You need to eat,” Christopher said.

Gemma was exhausted. Her eyes were all gritty as though filled with sand, and kept drooping shut.

A chill swept down her spine, though she suspected it was more to do with the direction her thoughts had taken than the cool air.

“I need to sleep.” Gemma's elbow dug into the mat as she fumbled with the string on the sleeping bag. She glanced at the trailer, wondering if it was worth the effort of crawling over for the pillow.

“The rule of every endurance sport is to eat before you're hungry and drink before you're thirsty,” Christopher growled.

“I'm not thirsty either.” Gemma jammed her legs into the sleeping bag, and lifted her bum, wriggling as she pulled it up over her shoulders. She needed the escape sleep would bring.

“EMPs might be your thing right now – but I know enough about long distance cycling to know you need carbohydrates to refuel your muscles for tomorrow,” Christopher said stiffly.

“You mean today?” Gemma yawned. She didn't remember Christopher being this uptight.

“Just eat the damn sandwich.”

Or bossy.

“Only if you pass me my pillow,” Gemma countered, pulling the sleeping bag up so that she could watch him through the safety of its folds and shadows.

Christopher's jaw shifted back and forth as he grinded his teeth, his frustration growing.

Gemma's eyes drooped shut, and through the screen of her lashes she saw him thump the ground.

A moment later she felt something thwack her. When she opened her eyes she saw the pillow.

She reached out gratefully, but Christopher pulled it back, holding out the sandwich.

Grudgingly, she rolled onto her side and crooked her elbow, resting her head on her hand. “You're
really
going to make me eat that?”

“You
really
want the pillow?” Christopher raised an eyebrow.

Gemma ate the sandwich. She knew she'd feel better for it when they were on the road again, but that didn't make it any easier to force it down. Her body had already shut down for the night.

When Christopher tried to push another one on her, she found it hard to believe that in a few weeks they might be scrambling just to find enough food to survive.

She managed to get half of it down, her head nodding against her chest as she chewed.

She didn't realize she'd drifted off until she felt Christopher remove the rest of the sandwich from her hand. His warm fingers closed around her arm as he carefully lowered her elbow until her head was resting on the blissful softness of the pillow.

“Thanks,” Gemma murmured.

The rustle of Christopher wriggling into the sleeping bag behind her made Gemma's heart stutter, and she realized he'd moved his mat closer.

A moment later she felt his hand come to her waist, his touch light and hesitant. When she didn't react – her foggy brain insisting it was only because she was too tired to bother – his hand slid across the sleeping bag until he was curled around her, his body spooning hers.

Her lack of objection had absolutely nothing to do with how good it felt to be held again. Or the sense of security his familiar smell made her feel as he held her close.

It also didn't escape her attention that despite his earlier objections, she felt the pillow shift as he rested his head behind hers.

15

They'd only planned to sleep for a few hours, trusting the light of the sun would wake them. Instead, it was the distant murmur of voices Gemma first became aware of.

She stretched her legs, vaguely noting that her body was stiff, and covered in a thin layer of sweat. But when she felt the weight of Christopher's arm on her belly as she rolled over, she was instantly alert.

Her eyes popped open. The patches of sky through the branches above her were already a deep blue. It had to be eleven at least.

As their situation reasserted itself in her mind, Gemma turned her head toward the highway. She could hear voices, and what sounded like the honk of a child's novelty horn.

Small clusters of people were moving north. Walking, riding, pushing strollers and grocery carts.

A larger group moved alongside a caged trailer that had some sort of wheel rigged to the front of it. There were three or four men pushing it from behind, and others guiding the sides. Alongside the trailer, and trailing behind, was a colorful stream of men, women and children.

The mood of the group was festive.

The people ahead of them moved out of the way as what appeared to be a child sitting on top of the trailer honked a horn.

Hardly believing what she was seeing, Gemma reached back and thumped Christopher without taking her eyes off the group.

“What time is it?” Christopher murmured sleepily.

“I don't know. You're the one with the watch.” Gemma grabbed the binoculars out of the pocket of her backpack, her hand coming into contact with the cold steel of the gun.

“Gemma?” Christopher suddenly sat up, rubbing his face. “I hoped it was just a bad dream.”

Gemma trained the binoculars on the trailer. These people obviously knew what they were doing. The contents were covered with a dull khaki tarp on the inside of the cage. The girl on the trailer had red hair and pigtails, a huge grin on her freckled face as she honked the horn. She was strapped to the chair, and the chair was strapped to the trailer, the legs pushed through the cage.

The festive air she'd sensed was all show – most likely for the sake of the children; behind the laughter and talk of the adults as the children ran amongst them were tight faces and heavy shoulders.

“Most of them are probably heading for the dam at Peak Mountain,” Christopher said as he rolled his sleeping bag up.

“So we can get more water on the way?” Gemma stuffed one end of her sleeping bag into the matching cover.

“It's too far from the exit.” Christopher slotted his sleeping bag neatly into its cover. “But there's plenty of streams as we get closer to home.”

Gemma glared at her sleeping bag. It just didn't seem to want to fit. “Why do they make these things so small, anyway?” Gemma held up the scrap of material she'd been trying to force it into.

“So they don't take up much room,” Christopher said, smirking as she continued to struggle. “You have to squeeze the air out first.”

“Why don't you take that smirk and get us something to drink,” Gemma scowled, shaking out the sleeping bag and starting over.

“Do you want me to do it?”

Gemma ignored him, her efforts focused on the slippery material.

He was still smirking as he rolled up his sleeping mat and fastened the strap around it.

Ugh. She'd forgotten how smug and superior he could be. There was no way she was going to give in and let him do it.

Gemma slid around on her bottom, turning her back to him as she rammed it in. She pushed the air out as she went and managed to stuff half of it in before running out of room.

“How's that drink coming?” Gemma said when she felt his eyes boring into her.

“Better than that sleeping bag,” Christopher said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

“I'm glad you find me so entertaining.” Gemma stood, her back facing him as she wedged it between her legs. Leaning over, she managed to force another chunk in. Just a little bit more and she'd be done. How hard could it be?

“Nice view,” Christopher said, and Gemma spun around, ready with a sharp retort.

Christopher was looking off to the north, a slight smile on his face.

Gemma closed her mouth – he was deliberately baiting her and there was no way she was going to give him that sort of satisfaction.

*
 
*
 
*

Christopher knew he was making Gemma angry, but he couldn't help himself.

The woman had no idea how sexy she was, those beautiful green eyes flashing dangerously at him like that. And he was still feeling a little sorry for himself – she was getting under his skin. It had taken a particularly long time to fall asleep thanks to her close proximity.

Keeping the sleeping bag wedged firmly between her knees, Gemma bent over – facing him this time – and rolled up the sleeping mat.

He didn't understand why she was being so stubborn.

Glaring at him, she put them in the trailer, a good proportion of the sleeping bag spilling onto the ground. She rammed the rifle in with such force he was glad it wasn't loaded, then started tugging at the trailer cover.

Christopher started to tell her not to close it yet, breaking off when she turned on him.

Gemma did not wear mornings well at all; some things never changed. Though admittedly this wasn't any ordinary old morning. And if she was feeling half as stiff as he was, that wouldn't be helping her mood at all.

“Why are you so chirpy, anyway?” Gemma scowled as she stuffed the sleeping bag into the trailer and finished zipping it up.

“I guess I'm more of a morning person than you.” Christopher shrugged, not about to admit she was the cause of his good mood.

“So now you're calling me a grouch?”

“I could think of better adjectives.”

“Do you have any idea how infuriating you are?”

Christopher chuckled. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Gemma stopped in her tracks, her full, red lips opening and closing as a hand moved self-consciously to her hair.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not nice to tease,” she finally said as she reached into the backpack. “Where are the sandwiches?”

“We finished them.” Christopher walked over to the trailer. “And who says I'm teasing?”

“We did?” Gemma glowered at him as he undid the zipper.

The sleeping bag fell to the grass at his feet with a soft rustle.

“What are you doing? I just packed that.”

“Is that what you call it?” Christopher asked, then seeing the look on her face, he held up his hands. “The rest of the food is in here.”

“You could have said so before.”

Christopher didn't bother to justify her response with a reply. Instead he dug into the side of the trailer until he found what he wanted.

“We're having cookies for breakfast?” Gemma said, clearly horrified. “Can't we have baked beans?” She shuddered. “I can't believe I just said that – I hate beans.”

“The cookies have more carb–”

“I don't need an explanation.” Gemma swiped the bag from his hand. “I need food.”

Christopher collected the empty water bottles, half-filling them with orange juice before topping them up with water.

“At least they're chocolate chip,” Gemma sighed.

Even in the morning with her mussed up hair and attitude she was something, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as her tongue darted out to catch a stray crumb.

He sighed deeply as he poured a small measure of salt into the drink bottles.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting salt in our drinks.”

“Explain.”

“I thought you didn't want explanations.”

Gemma chewed quickly, her eyes narrowing in on him as she swallowed.

It was going to be a very long day if they kept up like this, especially if he couldn't keep his mouth shut. He was going to have to make peace with her.

Before he had a chance to, a strange sort of snorting sound came out of Gemma's throat, and a slow smile quirked the corner of her lip.

“I guess I asked for that, didn't I?” she said.

Christopher screwed the lids on, giving the bottles a good shake. “Do you really want to know?”

“What a bitch I've been?” She looked at him, her eyes shining. “I already know. Besides, I was being rhetorical.”

“I meant the salt.”

“Of course you did.” Gemma flushed, locking her hands together as she stretched her arms above her head, teasing out the kinks in her body.

Her small, firm breasts thrust forward as she arched her back, giving him a tasty glimpse of her flat stomach.

Gemma tugged the shirt down, completely unaware of the effect she had on him. Or maybe not, he worried, as her eyebrows shot up.

“The salt?” she said.

“Er – right. Well – it's important to keep your sodium levels up. That's why sports drinks have become so popular.”

“Everyone knows too much salt is bad for you,” Gemma snorted.

“And not enough is deadly,” Christopher said bluntly. “It can cause hyponatremia.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You're the science teacher.”

“Exactly. Science. I only cover the most basic biology.”

“Would you like a list of side effects? Or would that be too much of an explanation for you?”

Gemma just nodded her head, urging him to go on.

“Nausea. Muscle cramps. Swelling–”

“Is that what that is?”

“What?”

“Sometimes my calf swells.”

Christopher shrugged, his eyes narrowing. He had no idea, but it made him worry. What if Gemma was already low in sodium? Should he put more in just in case.

“Anything else?” Gemma said, interest in her voice. Maybe he'd scared her enough to make her listen.

Good.

“Disorientation. Confusion. Worst case – seizures, coma. Death.”

“Surely that's an exaggeration. I would have heard of it if it was so dangerous.”

“Anyone who does any sort of endurance sport is aware of it. Most people get enough salt in their food for general exercise. But you lose it when you sweat–”

“I know that.”

“–and there'll be a lot of sweating over the next few days,” Christopher finished, his eyes trailing down her body again as he thought of a more satisfying way to work up a sweat.

“Fine. So we need extra salt. I get it. I'll leave the specifics to you since you're the expert. You can tell me when and what to eat and I'll drink your stupid drink.”

“I'm hardly an expert,” Christopher said, exasperated.

“I'm sorry – I just – all this.” Gemma raised her arms helplessly in the air. “I try not to think about it. What it means. But I can't help it. The plane – all those people. How many are already dead? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? A million?”

Christopher sucked in his breath as Gemma's eyes brimmed with tears. He was having the same problem. The harder he tried
not
to think about it, the more he
did
.

“The – the people in hospitals,” Gemma's breath hitched, a tear spilling over, “and the – the nursing homes. Who's going to look after them when the workers go? And there's the people who need dialysis and chemo and – and who-the-fuck-knows what else. And I could name a dozen students, without even
trying
, that will die without their medication.”

Christopher crossed the distance between them in an instant, crushing Gemma tightly against his chest.

He wasn't just doing it for her comfort. He was doing it for his own; he was scared. Terrified.

“We just have to worry about our own,” he said gruffly. “The rest of it – it's just too big.”

Gemma nodded into his chest, then pulled back, tilting her head.

Her eyes were large and vulnerable, and a tear trailed down her cheek.

Christopher cupped her face, his eyes boring into hers, his tone intensifying. “We worry about our own.”

He swiped her tears away with his thumb, his heart aching to see her so miserable.

“Does that include CJ?” Gemma asked softly as she pulled away.

Christopher let go with more force than he intended, his body tensing.

“I never thought I'd see the day when a Daley ran away from their responsibilities,” Gemma said, clearly disgusted.

She just didn't know when to stop; she had no idea what he'd gone through with Melinda. All the false promises and negative pregnancy tests. All the times Melinda was convinced she was carrying his child, only to collapse into a deep depression when she found out she was wrong. All the times she'd convinced him he was going to be a father.

The first time, they chose the color scheme for the nursery. The second time he'd bought a pair of knitted booties from a stall on a whim, thinking to surprise her, only to find her sobbing on the bathroom floor when he got home.