I’ll pack up everything I can carry. I’ll find a meaningful way to say good-bye to my family. And I’ll take to the road, looking for others like me, martial law be damned. Because if I don’t, I’m dead anyway.

My heart is heavy as a rock as I scoot down the roof toward the ladder. Emmaline’s whimper sifts up to me through the hazy air. I swing my leg onto the first rung, glad to have a living creature waiting for me at the bottom.

The sky blackens with crows—a blanket of them, several feet thick, lifting off all at once. They fly south, skimming the rooftops, and I duck as they screech and flap just overhead. When I sense that the sky is clear, I warily raise my gaze.

The earth rumbles. The ladder shifts, and I grab for the gutter. The metal edges dig into my palms as I steady myself. I take a deep breath, my heart kicking at my ribs. Close call.

A fireball shoots into the sky, high above the buildings, several miles north. A metal disc flips through the air beside it. It looks like a Frisbee.

Emmaline’s whining turns to frenzied barks. Another rumble, another desperate clutching at the gutter, as a bigger, brighter fireball launches skyward. Closer. This time I recognize the metal disc as a manhole cover.

It’s an explosion in the sewer. No, a series of explosions. Making its way down High Street.

I scurry down the ladder as fast as I can. The earth shakes again, and the ladder slides to the side. My instinct is to cling to the rungs, to ride it to safety, but I recognize this as the wrong play just as the edge slips off the roof into open air. I leap away from the ladder and land hard, stumbling backward, my injured heel screaming agony.

I start to get up, but another explosion knocks me down. Emmaline grabs the hem of my jeans in her mouth and tugs hard. I clamber to my feet and run into the house, the dog at my heels.

I have one minute, tops. What do I absolutely need? Car keys. Something to drink. Everything else can wait.

I search the living room frantically. Where did I put Mom’s keys? Maybe they’re in the kitchen. I run to the island. Nothing.

I swing the pantry open and grab a couple of bottles of Gatorade. There are more drinks in there somewhere, but I don’t dare take the time. I spy Paul’s spare key to the RAV4 hanging by the calendar and yank it from its hook.

At the last second, I grab the bulging Monstrosity from the kitchen island and hitch it under one arm. “Emmy, let’s go.” Together we dash through the laundry room and into the garage.