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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?”