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.

It’s exactly 6:32 p.m. on December 10^th. 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.