by Lane, Summer
I only visited my mother three times a year, despite the fact that she worked only five minutes away from our house. I think it was because I was angry with her for trying to get rid of me for so many years. I just didn’t want to see her.
My dad, Frank Hart, had been in the military for a few years before he decided to become a cop. He entered the academy when he was twenty-five. He was on the Los Angeles force for thirty years before he decided to become a private detective. Now he helps sniff out terrorists in buildings and give advice to young guys who don’t know one end of their guns from the other.
I loved my dad. I love him now.
I didn’t get to see him very much, but the difference between his love and my mother’s love for me was worlds apart. Mom wanted to dump my butt in France. Dad wanted me to stay home because he said he’d miss me.
My dad was also one of those people that believed a national emergency could happen at any second. He’d dealt with the Los Angeles riots during the 90s and seen all kinds of crazy crap as a cop. Murders, abuse, suicides. He was the kind of person that hoped for the best but expected the worst. His belief that bad things could happen at any moment turned into a hobby that I was more than happy to humor him about – anything to make him forget to make me do my algebra homework.
Which is why we have go-bags in every room of the house and a pre-planned rendezvous point. It’s all suddenly becoming an outstanding idea, given the fact that my dad’s paranoid prophecy about Los Angeles becoming the immediate site of Armageddon is coming true. I can’t believe it’s even happening.
I am racing down a little-known back road in Los Angeles, curving around the city and away from the freeway.
“If there’s ever a crisis in Los Angeles, like a natural disaster or a terrorist attack,” my dad had told me, “we need to count on the fact that the Internet and cell towers will go down. There won’t be any electricity, so if we get separated we have to know where to rendezvous.”
In retrospect, my dad is a genius. The two of us own a little cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains, not too far away from Kings Canyon National Park. It’s beautiful, secluded and supplied with emergency goodies. Our plan was that if we ever got separated for some reason, we would meet at the cabin. And now, with the entire city swarming like ants escaping a flooded anthill, it was the wisest decision we ever made.
As I drive I keep my headlights on only when I am far enough away from heavily populated areas. This road is windy. Definitely the long way out of the city, but I don’t want to risk getting stuck in a panicked mob.
“Give me something,” I say out loud, turning the crank radio up to full volume. Only bits and pieces of an emergency broadcast will come through. All I can catch are words, like “electromagnetic pulse,” “seek shelter,” and “terrorist attack.” Those words send a chill up my spine, making me wonder who and what is behind such a devastating attack on Los Angeles. And were we the only ones that were hit?
I take a few calming breaths. An anxiety attack behind the wheel of a moving vehicle would probably be detrimental to my health, so I concentrate on navigating the winding, empty road. I keep looking out my windows, paranoid that an airplane is going to drop on my head and turn me into a barbeque appetizer.
I scream.
Somebody is standing in the middle of the two-lane highway. It’s a man. He’s perfectly still, looking directly into my headlights like I’m an oncoming mosquito rather than a moving mass of metal going eighty miles per hour.
I slam on the brakes and my car screeches, smelling like burning rubber. I turn the steering wheel in an attempt to swerve out of the lane, barely missing him by a foot or two. My car starts to skid, then drift, then turn in a full circle. I take my foot off the brake and I’m thrown forward against my airbag-lacking steering wheel. The car screeches to a halt, throwing puffs of smoke into the air.
Panting for breath, trying to get my senses together, I look out the window. The man is moving towards my car. Quickly. I panic throw the car in reverse, hitting the gas. But, because I suck at backwards navigation, I shift back to drive. The man starts waving his hands back and forth.
“Wait!” he says. “I’m a soldier!”
At the word soldier I hesitate for a moment. He’s wearing jeans, but no uniform. Just a green tee shirt. I can’t see his face, but his hair is overgrown, drawn back in a ponytail. There’s no way he’s active duty military.
And then I see the blood.
His shirt is stained with it, crusting over on the sleeve. I suck in my breath, horrified, and open the door without thinking. See, I’m a pansy when it comes to helping people. When I was little I used to run up to stray cats and put them in a box to take to the animal shelter. When I was in high school I used to run up to stray people and give them money or clothes or shoes. Whatever they needed.
It’s my weakness as much as it is my strength.
“What happened?” I ask, stepping out, keeping the engine running. It’s freezing outside, 11:30 p.m. We’re alone on the back roads of some lesser-known Hollywood hills. “Oh, god…how bad are you hurt?”
Wary, I keep my distance, sliding my hand underneath my coat for the semi-automatic. I have no desire to use it – and don’t ever plan on it – but it gives me some confidence that I have something to defend myself with.
“Easy,” he says, lifting up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Prove it.”
He wiggles his fingers, which are covered in blood, too.
“I just need a ride,” he says. “If you’re headed north.”
“I didn’t stop to give you a ride,” I reply, opening the door to the backseat. “I stopped to see if I could help you with all that blood.”
I rifle through my backpack and pull out a first aid kit. He watches me without moving, still halfway encased in the glare and shadows of the headlights.
“You got a name or what?” I ask.
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”
I smirk. “Clever.” I wave him over, keeping my fingers ready to grab my weapon at any moment. So I can, like, wave it in his face to seem intimidating. “What happened to you?”
He walks over. His body is tensed up, but from pain or stress I can’t tell. Closer to me I inhale, noting how tall he is. He’s also very ripped. Not that I care, but facts are facts. His face is handsome, lined with a thin beard that would accentuate his long hair nicely if it weren’t smudged with sweat and grease.
“Long story,” he grunts. “I can do this.”
“It’s my stuff. I’ll do it,” I snap. “Where?”
He pulls the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a muscular arm with a painful injury. It’s crusted over with dried blood.
“What is that?” I ask, feeling squeamish.
“Glass.”
“How…?”
“Car accident. Five miles back.” He sighs heavily. “Whenever everything went out. I got slammed into a pickup.”
“You might have a concussion.” I have to stand on my tiptoes to flush the wound out with a bottle of water It’s not bleeding too badly – nothing that will kill him, anyway. A rush of heat bolts up my arm when our hands accidentally touch. I draw back instantly, embarrassed. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Have you seen the city?” I ask.
“Part of it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You?”
“I was there.” I swallow, getting shaky thinking about the crap that went down. “There were airplanes falling out of the sky. Everything died at the same time. People were everywhere…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m a complete nervous wreck. “They’re evacuating everybody.”
“Yeah, but without cars people won’t be going anywhere.”
I bite my lip.
“I know.”
I take tweezers and start pulling little shards of glass out of his skin. It’s seriously the grossest thing I’ve ever done. Plus, the fact that my hands are shaking doesn’t help matters.
The man
gently takes my wrist and holds it for a second, shifting his position. He looks right at my face, giving me the once-over from head to toe. I blush, flustered, but don’t move.
“How old are you?” he asks. “Where’s your family?”
“I’m old enough,” I reply, slipping out of his grasp. “Let me wrap that for you.”
I take out my medical tape, dry the wound and wrap it up.
He stands there, silent.
“You’re alone,” he states gravely.
“What’s it to you?” My hand inches back towards my gun.
Noticing my anxiety, he makes an effort to relax his stance.
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “I’m a Navy Seal. I’m not a bad guy.”
“Sounds like something a bad guy would say,” I snort.
“I’m going to be straight with you. I need a ride.”
“My dad told me never to talk to strangers, much less give them rides.” I shut the back door. “I shouldn’t have even stopped.”
“But you did.” The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Thank you.”
I pause, sitting down on the driver’s seat. One leg in, one leg out.
“You’re welcome.” I place my hand on the door. “And you’re not an active duty Navy Seal. Your hair is way too long.”
“I’m a former Seal,” he shrugs.
“So you lied,” I mutter.
“No, I didn’t. Listen, I can pay you for a ride, if that’s what you want,” he says.
“I don’t want money.”
“Look,” he says. “I just need to get to Squaw Valley. It’s just outside of Sequoia National Park.”
I close my eyes, ticked.
Of course.
Squaw Valley is in the foothills, about forty miles below our emergency cabin.
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
“Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.”
I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes.
“I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.”
He almost smiles.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I nod. “Get in. I’m wasting gas.”
“Let me get my gear.” He walks over to the side of the road and grabs a backpack and jacket, coming around to the passenger side. It’s a military-issue backpack, his jacket is leather, though.
“What are you, a biker?” I ask.
“Was,” he says.
“The pulse got your bike?”
“Totaled it.”
“You’re lucky you’re alive, you know that?”
He flashes a brilliant smile.
“I know.”
I clear my throat and press down on the accelerator, eager to get the heck out of here. Chris’s presence in my car puts me on edge, reminding me for the millionth time that my dad has warned me repeatedly over the course of my young life never to talk to strangers and never get in a car with one.
Well, guess what? The world has turned into a freaking Armageddon and I’m going to do what I want. Besides, Chris might come in handy. He’s a military guy. Tough, by the looks of it. This could be a positive thing.
“So what’s your name?” he asks, totally relaxed against the seat.
His voice is deep. Just the hint of a southern accent. “Or are you going to tell me?”
“Cassidy,” I say. “You can call me Cassie, though.”
“Alright, Cassie,” he replies, serious. “What’s a kid like you doing with a vintage piece of work like this?”
“You mean my car?”
“No, I mean your boots.”
“Shut up.” I find myself smiling. “It’s my dad’s. I mean, it’s both of ours.”
Silence.
I turn up the radio, discouraged when nothing but static comes through yet again. “Where are you from?” I ask at last.
“San Diego.”
“What were you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Weekend bike ride.” He looks sideways at me. “And you?”
“I live in Culver City,” I shrug.
“Where are your parents?”
“Seriously? Do I really look that young?” I press down on the accelerator a little more, giving into my unconscious habit of flooring it when I’m irritated.
“Yeah,” Chris says. “You do.”
I press my lips together, wondering how much I should tell a complete stranger. “I got separated from my dad. I’m going to meet him somewhere.”
“How far are you driving?”
“Towards Squaw Valley,” I reply, vague.
“You’re going to keep it a secret?” He smiles. “You’re what…sixteen?”
“I’m nineteen,” I snap. “Come on. At least try to guess accurately.”
He chuckles.
“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“You’re doing a lousy job.” I keep my eyes trained on the road, taking the curves slow and the straightaways like a racecar driver on steroids. “I don’t trust you yet, by the way. Keep that in mind.”
“Duly noted.” His voice is heavy with amusement. “I’ll try not to tick you off.”
I snort.
“Good luck with that.”
“Look.” Chris points to a spot of light ahead on the road. “Turn off the headlights.”
I open my mouth to make a smart comment but decide to save it for later. I snap the headlights off and we peer into the darkness as I slow the car down. There seems to be a group of people on the road, almost invisible at night.
“They’re blocking the road,” Chris says. “Turn the car around.”
“I can’t! I’m doing sixty!”
“Then slow down and make a U-turn.”
His words are quick, totally casual. I take my foot off the gas but we’re moving too quickly towards the group. I lay on the brake and stop just in time, Chris looking out the window as the people start running towards us.
“Keep the doors locked,” he says calmly. “Just drive.”
The people, who are mostly bathed in shadow, are yelling angrily and running up to the car. They bang their fists against the windows. Even though I can’t make out one single discernable statement, it sounds to me like they’re saying, “We’re taking your car and we’re not giving it back.”
Just a guess.
“Alright, punch it!” Chris commands. “Right now.”
“I am!” I yell, coiled tight. I hit the accelerator and flip a U-turn, startled out when one of the people in the mob grabs onto the door handle and holds on as we gain speed. His shoes are scraping against the pavement.
“Don’t stop,” Chris warns. “That’s what he wants you to do.”
I look over my left shoulder and see a flash of a young man wearing a beanie in the window. His eyes are wild, desperate. And then he lets go. I hear something smack against the road. I feel bile rising in the back of my throat and urge to to stop, go back, and help him is overwhelming.
“Don’t do it,” Chris says, moving closer. There is no center console so he is right beside me. “That’s a mob out there. People are going to act like this for a long time until the power comes back on. They’ll take what you have if they can and leave you to die.”
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Tears spring up in my eyes. Stupid, stupid tears. “Why?” I manage to get out.
Chris studies my profile in the dark cab. Thinking.
“Because civilization as we know it is gone,” he says at last.
Chapter Three
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’m a realist. Most people would say that’s the same thing as being a pessimist, but it’s not. Really. I just look at something and don’t expect anything great to come of it. I’m just that way. If you hope for something good, you’re going to be disappointed. I side with reality and most of the time we get along just fine.
So naturally the end of th
e world as we know it doesn’t come as a complete shock to me, although it does put a serious question mark on whether or not I’ll be able to go bowling next Tuesday.
“So who do you think is behind this?” I ask Chris.
It’s about four in the morning. We have tried five different roads that lead out of Los Angeles. All of them have been blocked with mobs waiting to hijack working cars. Right now we’re trying the sixth route, and pretty soon I’m going to have to refill the gas tank.
“I heard something about the Chinese on the radio before we lost the signal,” I continue, yawning. “I bet they did it.”
“I don’t know.” Chris props his boot up on the dashboard. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why? Is there a secret love fest between China and America I don’t know about?”
“Look, I was in the military for nine years,” he replies. “I’ve seen a lot of different enemies of the United States around the world. I don’t think China is behind this.”
“Then who is?” I say, exasperated. “What if it’s not an attack? What if it’s just an accident?”
“You seriously think an electromagnetic pulse is an accident?” Chris chuckles. “Yeah, it could have been caused by a solar flare, but I doubt it.”
I snort.
“You don’t know any more than I do,” I say. “You’re just spit balling.”
“Who isn’t?” He looks out the window, staring into the distance. “This could be more widespread than we think. What if LA wasn’t the only city hit with this thing?”
I shiver.
“Then there’s no place to escape to.”
“Nah.” Chris turns back towards me. “This is the last route out of here. If it’s blocked…” He lets the sentence hang in the air between us. People are starting to act like maniacal psychopaths on the streets. It’s not safe to go back into the city. If there were any working cars, the freeways would be jammed to full capacity.
“Then what?” I ask, voicing our twin concerns.
“Then we find another way.”
I yawn again, feeling exhausted. This road is a two-lane highway that was probably built during the Babylonian Empire. It’s that outdated. It winds throughout the little hills that define Hollywood, dodging the freeways and dipping close to residential areas. Off in the distance there are sparks of orange light, signifying fires, explosions and the like.
