by Lane, Summer
State of Emergency
Summer Lane
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
No part of this work may be reproduced, except to quote on reviews or blogs, without the express permission of the author. Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Any parallel to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.
For Mom & Dad.
Thanks for believing that writing is a “real” job.
Prologue
I don’t know how it happened. Nobody does. There are only theories, empty rhetoric and doomsday prophecies. None of them are right, but none of them are completely wrong, either. They all have a grain of truth. All I know is where I was and what I was doing when it happened.
The day had started out like every other day of my life. I hit the snooze button on my alarm about five times before dragging myself out of bed. I combed back my unruly red hair, threw on some clothes, and went into the kitchen. As usual, my dad hadn’t gone to the grocery store, so breakfast consisted of burnt toast and a teaspoon of olive oil.
Because fatty acids are supposed to be healthy for you.
And because there’s nothing else to eat in my house except a can of string beans from 1999.
Being nineteen, graduated from high school and unemployed, I didn’t have much to do besides surf the internet looking for interesting stories and reading my stack of books from the library. Lately I had applied for a multitude of different jobs, including a flight attendant, car washer and hotel manager. Needless to say, none of those positions panned out for me.
I’m more of the independent type, getting paid by my dad to help him out with his job as a Los Angeles detective. He’s been letting me poke around in his cases since I was a freshman in high school. I’m good at it, too. Criminal justice, that is. I even wanted a degree in it, but since I’m flat busted broke and stuck in a two-bedroom home with an empty refrigerator, my options are kind of slim.
Anyway, after I looked for a few jobs online, I closed my laptop and started cleaning the house systematically. My dad and I lived in a small house in the middle of the outer suburbs of Los Angeles. Culver City, to be exact. It’s about ten minutes away from Hollywood. The land of spray-on tans and yoga classes.
It’s a nice place to live as long as you don’t drive about five miles in the opposite direction. In that case you’ll end up in the middle of a ghetto. A visit to the grocery store might end up becoming a drive-by shooting.
Unsurprisingly, I’m an introvert.
So that day, that regular, average day, turned out to be a day that not only changed my life – but everybody else’s.
It was the day technology turned on us.
It was the beginning of a major pain in the butt.
Chapter One
It’s exactly 6:32 p.m. on December 10th. I know, because I’m texting my dad, telling him that I’m going to bring home Chinese takeout for dinner when the screen goes dead.
I’m talking died.
The battery gets hot in my hand and the digital clock in my car disappears. I am idling on the side of a busy curb in Culver City. I pop the battery out of my phone and put it back in, getting zero results.
And that’s when I notice that the car is silent. Off. Nada.
I turn the key a few times in the ignition but I can’t get anything from the engine. It won’t even try to turn over. Freaked, I look out my window. Unfortunately for me, that doesn’t do anything to ease my conscience. Every streetlight, lamp, apartment window and neon bar sign shuts off simultaneously.
I watch as an entire boulevard of cars die. Headlights disappear, engines cut out and there are vehicles crashing and smashing against everything in sight. Somebody screams. It’s probably me, but I’m not cool with admitting something like that.
I crawl out of my car and stand on the sidewalk. Everybody is reaching for their cellphones, looking to call 9-1-1. But it’s a no-go. Everybody else’s phones are dead, too.
That isn’t the worst of it.
I turn. Los Angeles is clearly visible in the distance, its signature round skyscraper lit up like a Christmas tree. I have a brief feeling of comfort knowing that the electricity is still on over there. Emphasis on brief. The tower goes black, as does the rest of the city, and just like that the entire region is plummeted into complete, utter darkness.
People are relatively calm at first. I mean, power outages do happen. But cars dying? Cell phones melting? Digital watches flickering out?
What kind of a freak thing is that?
I have an idea, but I didn’t want to voice it out loud. I’m smart enough to know that a panicked crowd can turn into a mob pretty quickly so I keep my big mouth shut and remain on the sidewalk. Motionless. Cautious. Wondering how I’m going to get home when a sea of unmoving cars stretches from here to the city limits – if not farther. It’s been a good twenty minutes since everything died and I’m getting worried. Any cop or ambulance should have been here in ten minutes.
Are their cars dead, too?
What about traffic helicopters? Those babies are always hovering over LA, doing regular traffic checkups. Instead it’s like everything is silent. Like a graveyard of cars and the unlit buildings are headstones.
I’ve got to stop reading horror novels, I think.
As confusion rises, people get out of their cars and start walking around. One lady starts crying, unable to get her cellphone to work or her car to start.
Welcome to the club, sister.
I don’t notice anybody injured but…suddenly I hear a distant humming sound. I strain to tell what it is, wondering if it’s the cavalry finally on its way. It’s about time. But it doesn’t get any louder, just closer. Like wind whistling through an empty tunnel. I search the skies for a helicopter or something, coming up short.
Everybody else is doing the same thing, some of them wigging out a little more than necessary. That is, until it hits. I feel the ground shake underneath me as a hulking mass streaks above our heads, barely visible against the night sky.
I am so shocked, so terrified, that I can’t even move. I just watch in horror as a plane descends like a missile a few miles past the city, hitting the ground. The impact is unbelievable. It’s like having a meteor or a bomb hit the guy standing next to you. I am thrown off my feet and yes, my eardrums start to ring.
A mammoth volley of flames erupts in the distance.
It lights up the dark city like a bonfire. I can feel the heat on my face all the way from here. People start screaming. Los Angeles International Airport isn’t too far away. If the airplanes are dying, it could be a long night of falling stars.
I scramble to my feet, my terror palpable, turning my mouth cotton dry. I don’t know what’s happening but I do know this: I have to get off the streets.
I wrap the strap of my body purse around my wrist a few times and stumble forward several steps, my head still ringing from the distant explosion. People are doing the same thing everywhere, shuffling around like a bunch of zombies. It’s kind of creepy, actually. Everything is bathed in a dull orange light. People arestarting to look more than a little terrified at this point. Panicked.
To keep myself from losing it, I count to one hundred over and over as I walk down the streets, moving with purpose. I move as fast as I can, breaking into a sprint as I round the corner. The street here goes underneath the 405, LA’s busiest freeway. There are people standing on the edges of the overpass, pointing and yelling, looking at the airplane in the distance.
By now I’m breathing hard. I keep moving under the freeway, running along the sidewalk. People are climbing out of their cars. Some guy
wearing baggy pants and a backwards baseball cap steps onto the road.
“What’s going on, man?” he asks somebody next to him.
“I don’t know. I don’t understand…” the stranger replies, fear in his eyes.
I concentrate on walking, avoiding eye contact, just one thing on my mind: Get home. Get home and find dad.
Home is about three miles from here. I can make it if I move quickly. When emergency vehicles get here the streets will be blocked and locked for hours. I need to squeeze through now.
“Oh, my god!” A woman in a beanie exclaims. “It’s another one!”
I turn around, watching as another airplane descends dangerously low over the city. The same screeching, ripping sound fills the air. Despite my ringing eardrums I can feel it. I break out into a dead run.
A few beats later another airplane strikes the ground. The impact isn’t as intense as the first one because it’s further away. It still shakes the ground and sends a shockwave across the city. I stagger a little bit, feeling like a seasick sailor stumbling around on the deck of a ship.
“Come on…” I mutter, looking at my cell phone again. It’s still dead, and every Google-ready solution to turning on a dead phone isn’t working. I stuff it back in my pocket, delving onto a side street off the main boulevard. People are coming out of their apartments, restaurants and nail salons. The air is crisp and cold, burning my throat with every breath.
And every block it’s the same. Lights are off, cars are frozen on the streets, people are forming into crowds, looking to the skies as another plane passes over the city. Streets are becoming gridlocked, panicked people who don’t know how to escape whatever’s happening.
I just avoid them. Avoid the busier streets, the gridlocks, the people starting to panic. I manage to turn over a three-mile walk in less than an hour despite the crowds.
By the time I reach my neighborhood the entire city is bathed in white noise: The sound of people yelling, calling for help and things blowing up. My street is totally dark. Usually I can see the cheery facades of the old houses lit up from the inside by residents that have been here since the 1950s. Not tonight. Tonight everything is dark.
I start jogging until I reach our house. It’s blue and white with a little garden of flowers in the front yard. I take the keys out of my purse with shaking hands, jam it into the lock and open the front door. I slam it shut behind me.
“Candles, candles,” I say aloud, feeling my way into the kitchen. I open the cupboard under the sink and pull out some emergency candles. I light the wicks with some matches hidden the utensil drawer, illuminating the dull yellow paint on the walls. I flick the light switches, try the TV, mess with the radio. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Okay, what do I do? The power is out. The cellphones are dead. The cars are busted. The airplanes are falling out of the sky. Things aren’t exactly looking rosy.
I stop and sit on the couch, holding my head in my hands in the dark.
“Breathe in, breathe out,” I say. “Don’t panic.”
I think about all the conversations I’ve had with my dad about emergency protocol. As a cop, he’s seen plenty of people in high-stress situations. It always pays to be ready, he told me. Most people are unprepared for an emergency, so they get scared and start raiding grocery stores for food and water when a crisis hits. They’ll start breaking into houses and acting like wild savages.
One minute, civilized. The next? A bunch of psycho rioters.
I get up, common sense hitting me in the head like a hammer. I take a candle to my bedroom and open up the closet. I have a go-bag inside, compliments of my father’s insistence that I have an emergency plan in the event of a nuclear attack. Or in this case, a random power outage and malfunctioning technology.
I grab the backpack and run around the room like hyper dog, grabbing things like a photo album, a stuffed animal from when I was nine, and a warmer coat. I drag the stuff into the living room and throw open the hall closet.
Boom.
A powerful impact shakes the house. I grab the wall to keep from falling over, horrified as a blast of orange light ignites about three miles away from my house. Another airplane. They’re falling faster, now.
I can’t stay here. I can’t wait for dad. I have to get out.
Calm, calm, calm, I repeat internally. Don’t panic. I got this.
I pull a smaller bag from the closet and throw it on the couch, unzipping it as fast as I can. There are two weapons inside. A semi-automatic and my grandpa’s cowboy pistol. I take the semi-auto and strap the holster around my waist, hiding it under my jacket. I know my father is already armed wherever he is, so I put Grandpa’s pistol into my backpack and dump all of the ammo into the side pocket.
Don’t panic, don’t panic.
That’s my mantra.
I zip everything up, toss in some candles and lace up my combat-style boots. I bought them this year because I thought they’d look trendy. Now I’m glad I have them because they’re going to be practical.
The radio!
I suddenly remember our emergency radio. I slide into the kitchen and open one of the shallow drawers. In the back there is a small, metallic box. I pop it open and take the radio out. A satisfied smile crosses my face for a brief moment. The box is made out of ferrite, a type of metal resistant to technological attacks, or as my dad would say, “e-bombs.”
I wind up the radio for a few minutes and turn it on. At first there is no sound, only static. And then I turn it to another station, and another, and another. Because every single one is all saying the same thing.
“If you can hear this, this is not a drill. Stay inside and seek shelter. If you are not in your homes, find shelter immediately…”
My blood runs ice cold as I shut the stupid thing off and shove it into my coat pocket. The only piece of technology is the house that’s working is the radio: The one thing that was protected in the ferrite case. I grab the backpack, take one last look at the house and head towards the back door.
Once outside, I pause and listen. Usually right now is about the time you would hear sirens or helicopters or bullhorns telling people to shut up and let the emergency workers do their job.
Instead I’m still just hearing the sound of unorganized panic.
Shuddering, I head to towards the alley, where my dad and I built a little garage. I open it up and step inside, using the flashlight to navigate through the piles of tools and machinery.
And I look at my escape vehicle.
It’s a 78 Mustang dad and I worked on together. While I’m not an automobile expert by any stretch, I do know that this baby should run as long as I have gasoline in the tank. My dad and I installed ferrite cores, a protective cage made out of the same metal that was keeping the radio safe in the kitchen drawer. Its main purpose is to guard a piece of technology from an electromagnetic pulse – which is what I think just wiped out every piece of computer-based technology in Los Angeles. Because that’s what an EMP does. It kills computers.My Mustang doesn’t use a computer chip to start up, unlike most of the cars on the road. It should be unaffected.
To think that my dad’s casual hobby of emergency prepping would come in handy. How did that happen?
I throw my backpack in the passenger seat and check the trunk. There are a few sealed canisters of gasoline, a box of tools with replacement parts for the truck and three cases of bottled water.
Always be prepared, my dad used to say.
Why do parents always have to know everything?
I slam the trunk shut and get in the driver’s seat.
“Please start,” I pray. “Please, please, please…”
I turn the key in the ignition. It feels like a million years go by before the engine turns over and it rumbles to life, smelling like gas.
I never thought I’d think gas smelled wonderful, but I do right now.
I open the garage door and back up, coasting into the alley. I keep my headlights off, not wanting to draw attenti
on to the fact that I’m probably the only person in the city with a working car. That could be seriously dangerous.
I hit the road and step on the gas, doing sixty on the boulevard. As I get closer to the more populated areas I have to avoid stopped cars on the road. People perk up and start pointing and yelling when my car roars by. It makes me nervous. Way nervous. I’ve seen War of the Worlds before.
“Okay, dad,” I say, holding the steering wheel with a death grip. “I know where to find you. You’d better know where to find me.”
Chapter Two
I had a pretty normal family. My mom was the manager of a chain hotel in Culver City, which meant her work was about five minutes from our house. She would spend all her time there, only coming home to eat, drink and sleep.
Oh, and occasionally speak to me.
I didn’t see her very much. My dad was a Los Angeles cop, so he kept weird hours, too. He worked at night and slept during the day, which meant that the curtains in our house were pretty much closed all the time.
As for myself? My mom wanted to send me to some fancy boarding school in Europe, but of course my parents couldn’t afford that, so her dream of dumping me off in a foreign country was canned. My dad was more old fashioned in his thinking. He wanted me to be at home more often, so he enrolled me in a charter school program. I only had to go to a class three times a week, while all my other homework was done at home.
I loved that setup. I was a shy kid. Terrified of my own shadow, as my dad would always tell me. I hung out at home most of the time, seeing my parents only in glimpses. I didn’t have any friends. It just wasn’t my thing.
When I was eight years old, my parents divorced. It didn’t affect me in the way you would think it would. I never saw my parents together anyway, so it was just like having one of them permanently gone. Big whoop. Fortunately, my boarding-home-crazed mother didn’t win custody of me. I got to stay with my dad.
