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 attention 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.”

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.

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.”