If this is indeed a widespread thing.

We’ll just have to find out how far the pulse reached, I guess.

I’ve seen ghost towns that looked friendlier than this.  It’s hard for me to believe that just fifteen hours ago Los Angeles and every freeway running in and out of the city was moving with 80 mile an hour traffic.

Santa Clarita, a little stretch of travel stops on the other side of the Magic Mountain rollercoaster park, is deserted. There are cars all over the interstate, many of them overturned or smashed together in giant piles. It looks a little like a junkyard. But there aren’t any people in sight. Not ambulances, helicopters or police cars.

Just an abandoned McDonald’s and a gas station.

Chris eases the Mustang down the road, keeping the window rolled down a few inches, listening. His face is pensive, his eyebrows drawn together.

“This is not normal,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. We just coast down the street, dodging a car that is crashed into a lamppost. I can see dark, thick skid marks all over the road. Some of them reach the sidewalk.

“At least we know that Santa Clarita was hit with the pulse, too,” I muse aloud. “We’re at least thirty-five miles out of L.A.”

This only makes Chris frown more.

“We’ll try the gas station,” he says. “But don’t count on finding any fuel.”

“I’m not.”

Chris drives up to the pumps and cuts the engine. We both get out. The sky is starting to darken around with rainclouds. Gusts of cold air are blowing through the abandoned rest area. “These are all dead,” I say, disappointed. But really, what had I been expecting? Of course the pumps would be dead if all the cars were.

“They might have some gas canisters inside,” Chris says, tapping the blank pump screen. “Stay here. Keep your eyes open.”

He reaches into the backseat and pulls out his backpack. He removes a semiautomatic that’s a lot newer — and cooler looking — than mine and tucks it into his belt.

“What? You think there’s going to be somebody in there to shoot?” I ask, alarmed. “And I didn’t know you had a gun.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says, completely serious. “Stay here.”

“I’m not moving. Geez. A little trust would be nice.”

Chris snorts and walks towards the building. I pull my jacket tighter and lean against the pump, overlooking the spooky scene before me. It’s like everybody just disappeared all at once. But where did they go? How did they get out so quickly?

Spooked, I grab my crank radio from the front seat. After a few hundred windups I shake my arm out and turn up the volume. I can only hear a crackling static at first before it’s interrupted by a short burst of dialogue.

“Citizens should take care to remain where they are and stay inside,” it says. A man’s voice. Pre-recorded. “For those that are unable to reach shelter, there are emergency camps in California for refugees. The following is a list of camp locations: Santee, San Bernardino, Bakersfield, Stockton, Elk Grove, Dublin, Yreka, San Jose and Fresno. Again, do not leave your homes unless necessary. Seek shelter at a relief camp or indoors. This is not a drill. The President has declared a state of emergency. Help is coming.”

The audio loops and starts over. I turn from station to station. Every broadcasting center is spouting out the same thing. My hand hovers over the off button just as I hear those words again: State of emergency. Apparently the whole state has gone dark. But what about the rest of the country?

God. I hope not.

“Chris!” I yell. “I got the radio to work!”

No answer. I roll my eyes and toss the radio back in the car. Down the street the road dips right underneath the freeway overpass. It’s completely stacked with cars. A virtual parking lot.

I’d hate to be the cleanup crew that has to take care of that.

Bored, I walk around the Mustang a few times and check for dents. There’s a scratch on the rear fender. I bend to inspect it, my reflection peeking out at me in the shiny chrome. This is what I get for letting him drive, I think.

And then I see a flicker of movement in the chrome. At first I think it’s just my hair blowing around my face. Then I think that it’s Chris returning from the building with a gas canister.

That’s before I realize it’s another person.

I stand straight up and turn around. On the other end of the McDonald’s parking lot, a guy dressed in gangster garb is standing there with his hat on backwards. He’s wearing all black, some kind of metal stick in his hand. A crowbar?

Not exactly a positive sign.

He’s staring straight at me. Both of us, motionless in the middle of this deserted rest stop. My heart drops to my stomach, not because I’m afraid of people per se, but because I’m afraid that a guy dressed like a gangster holding a crowbar in the middle of Armageddon doesn’t have sparkling intentions.

As expected, he starts moving toward me. I immediately reach for my gun, keeping my hand on the holster in case he tries anything.

“Chris!” I say, trying to keep my voice from echoing. “Get out here!”

No answer.

As gangster boy gets closer I notice the creepy tattoos covering his arms. Some of them even reach onto his face. It’s both fascinating and gross.

Well, mostly gross, but still...

“What do you want?” I demand.

He takes a step onto the gas station driveway. The metal object he’s carrying is a crowbar, and there seems to be something crusted over on his leg. Blood? I swallow, fear sending a shiver through my body.

“You alone?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I reply. “What are you doing with a ten pound metal stick in the middle of nowhere?”

“This ain’t nowhere,” he says. “This was a rest stop.”

“Was. Now what do you want?”

“I want a ride.”

“No can do. I don’t drive strangers.”

“I didn’t ask you if you were going to give me one,” he says, flashing a dangerous expression. “I said I wanted a ride.”

The reality of his words sinks in.

Ah. I get it.

“Get out of here,” I order, taking out my gun. I’ve never actually shot anything before so I try to make it look like I know what I’m doing. “Or I’ll shoot you…” I pause. “Right between the eyes.”

He raises his hands up.

“Easy,” he says, backing up. “I was just asking. I’m going, I’m going…”

“Good. Go a little faster. Your tattoos are making me dizzy.”

Feeling triumphant, I allow myself a smug smile. It’s only then that I remember my dad telling me in the fourth grade that pride always goes before fall. Seriously. Why is that always so true?

Somebody grabs my arms from behind and twists the gun out of my grip. It happens so fast that I have no time to stop it. One minute I’m standing with an idiotic smile on my face. The next my cheek is shoved up against the pavement and my hands are shoved into the small of my back.

Somebody’s got a knee crammed on top of my spine.

“Get…off…” I grunt weakly.

My adrenaline is spiking at record rates, causing my heart rate to skyrocket and my emotions to freak out. All I can think about is gangster boy’s bloody crowbar.

“Nice and easy, little girl,” he says, leaning down to peek at my face. “You keep quiet and I might be a nice guy and let you live.”

I bite back a stinging retort.

“Keep her there, Ray,” gangster boy says to the guy keeping my down. I can’t see his face but he’s got the same tattoos on his hands that his friend does.

“Yeah, there’s gas in the trunk!” gangster boy hoots. “She’s got food and water, too. Damn. She’s even got a radio.” He kicks my foot. “What’d you do? Raid a grocery store?”

“I like to stay prepared,” I spit, “so I don’t have to steal other people’s stuff.”