Doomed by Tracy Deebs Page B

That’s what I’ll be talking about after these messages.”
    The question hangs in the air for one second, two, before the airwaves are taken over by a commercial for a local oil-change place. I barely hear the cheerful jingle as it plays—I’m too busy straining to comprehend everything the commentator said. But I can’t. My brain is on the verge of a total meltdown.
    I think of my mother, in Alaska. Wonder what she’s thinking—and if she’s worried about me. Realize that I’m worried about her—how is she going to get home from Alaska if the worm has taken out air traffic control? It’s already started to snow up there. How can she drive inthose conditions? And where will she get a car? How will she pay for it?
    Just that easily, panic sets back in.
    Aren’t there fail-safes for this kind of stuff? Government security that stops things from getting this bad? And if even that security has failed, what are we going to do? How are we going to live if there are no communications? No money. The others are talking, but I can’t follow what they are saying. I can’t think, can’t breathe.
    My whole body is tense, shaky, like I’m in the middle of a major caffeine rush, and I’m having a difficult time seeing. I blink my eyes a few times and eventually my vision clears. That’s when it hits me. I’m crying.
    But I never cry. I gave up the habit right after my dad left and my mom told me tears wouldn’t change anything. At first, it didn’t matter; I couldn’t stop. But weeks passed, and once I realized she was right—that no amount of tears were going to bring back my dad—I simply dried up.
    I’m not dry now. I lift a trembling hand to my face, feel the water slowly rolling down my cheek.
    What are we supposed to do now?
I wonder.
What
can
we do?
    The tears continue to spill over as Theo negotiates the streets. I try to be quiet about it, take shallow breaths from my mouth and don’t sniff at all, but somehow Theo knows. He reaches over, rubs my knee in a way that I know is meant to be comforting, but it’s not. It’s just more proof that things are so not what they seem. What they should be. Because in the real world, there’s no way brilliant, moody Theo would ever have anything to do with me. Or me with him.
    The thought depresses me further, and I pull my leg away. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves his hand back to his thigh, where he’s tapping out a rhythm only he knows.
    It’s dark out, and I stare straight ahead at the green light shining like a beacon directly in front of us. The trick is to concentrate on the small stuff, I tell myself. On the things that are right in front of me.
    Electricity is still working for the most part. That’s good, right? And I’m no longer alone. Homeland Security is on this thing, and so are some of the best computer-security people in the country—people like Emily’s dad, who—
    A huge delivery truck comes barreling toward us. Theo brakes, but it’s too late. It plows straight into us—directly into the right front quarter of the Range Rover.

9
     
    Emily screams and I try to answer her, but all the air has been knocked out of my lungs at the impact. Then we’re spinning, and I can’t even think let alone speak as the Range Rover turns in circles again and again.
    I reach out and try to grab on to something, to brace myself, but the giant white air bag is in the way. Besides, everything is happening too fast. The world outside is one huge, spiraling blur of lights and colors I can’t quite focus on. Like I’m looking at a Kandinsky painting through a lens that has grown foggy with age. Or into the sun after I’ve been swimming underwater with my eyes open for a long time.
    My seat belt cuts into my body as my arms flop uselessly around me. I turn my head, see blood coating Theo’s face and the air bag in front of him as we continue to spin. Somehow that’s even more surreal than the lights outside the shattered windshield.
    I close my