Another explosion rocks the ground beneath me, and my elbow slams into the side-view mirror, knocking it askew. Woodsmoke and natural gas prick at my nostrils.

It’s too dark to see well, and when I hit the unlock button on Paul’s key, I get my first flare of real hope, for the headlights flash and the dome light pops on. So normal.

I open the door and fling the Monstrosity into the passenger seat, and Emmaline follows after.

The garage door is automatic, powered by electricity. Should I barrel through it in the RAV4? No, the door is segmented with steel beams.

The earth shakes continually now as I stumble toward the door, hoping for a latch, some way to lift it manually. I feel along the metal edges in the semidarkness. There! A lever. I crank it and heave. The door rolls upward. Light and air and bugs pour inside.

I run to the driver’s side door and swing myself inside. Please let there be gas in the tank. Please.

I crank the ignition, but the engine sputters. The car hasn’t been started in days. I try again. It roars to life. I jerk it into reverse and squeal out of the garage.

The air outside is hazy with smoke, bright with flame. The fire is too close. Another explosion sends the wheels bumping over the sidewalk, and I tug the steering wheel left to compensate. I speed toward the nearest cross street. I just need to get a few blocks south. Then I can head west on Henderson, across the river and to safety.

Something as bright as the sun flashes in my rearview mirror. My home. Bursting into flame. My diaphragm heaves, like I’ve been gut punched. Now I’ve lost everything. Absolutely everything.

I lay on the gas pedal. My vision is blurred with tears and I’m going way too fast for safety, but I don’t care. Explosions continue to rock the air, and even though they become more distant as I near the bridge, it doesn’t matter because each one pounds the dreaded word into my head: Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.

I don’t even realize where I’m going until I take a sharp turn, missing the bridge and heading instead toward Shawntelle’s house a couple of miles away. Normally it’s only a six-minute drive, but nothing is normal about this drive. I go slowly, looking for signs of other survivors, keeping my eyes sharp for soldiers enforcing martial law, even watching for wolflike dogs hunting the streets. Clusters of wrecked and abandoned cars interrupt the pavement, but nothing moves. I weave my way through the obstacles. A cloud of flies swarms around a dark shape on the sidewalk.

My eyes sting, and at first I think I’m crying again, and maybe I am a little, but the stinging gets worse. Smoke. The scent reaches me a split second later.