Lauren: Getting Gas

"—and as the panic-buying continues to spread, authorities urge citizens to remain calm. Several gas stations are running out of gas, but the president just this morning assured the citizens that supply will not be interrupted—"

The newscaster's voice fades into background noise as Dad strides into the living room, briefcase in hand. His eyes narrow at the sight of me, remote clutched tightly.

"What are you doing?"

I lift my chin toward the TV. "Have you seen this? Should we be worried?"

He glances at it, and a derisive snort escapes him. "Don't tell me you're buying into this nonsense. It's just fear-mongering for ratings."

My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek. The memory of his tirade against IT yesterday over his phone is fresh in my mind, but I swallow the words threatening to spill out.

A click of heels on hardwood announces Marian's arrival. She glides in, wrapped in a silk robe that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Unlike some people in this house, I don't get an allowance. I rely on my meager salary.

"Have a wonderful day, darling." She plants an exaggerated kiss on Dad's cheek, then hisses at me. "Stop trying to stress him out. He's a busy CEO."

Dad's hand finds its way to Marian's backside. "You're the only one who takes care of me."

My lips press into a thin line as I fight to keep my expression neutral. The familiar ache of being invisible, unwanted, settles in my chest.

As soon as the front door clicks shut behind Dad, I gather my purse and slide on my heels. A groan from the doorway makes me look up.

Marissa, still in her pajamas, glares at me through sleep-crusted eyes. "Do you have to be so loud every morning?"

I ignore her, along with Marian's snide remarks about my "desperate need to impress Daddy." The door slams behind me, cutting off their voices.

The moment I pull onto the main street near home, my jaw drops. Cars stretch as far as I can see, bumper-to-bumper. Horns blare. People lean out of windows, shouting at the cars ahead of them. The sun's barely cresting the horizon; there's no reason for this level of excitement at this time of morning.

My gas gauge is hovering dangerously close to empty. I was hoping to fill up on my way to work. Now, I'm going to be late for sure.

My eyes scan the road as I drive. Every time I plan on a gas station, there's either a line stretching around the block, or giant "OUT OF GAS" signs.

Now that there's panic over the availability of gas, more people are panicking. We'll really be out until resupply at this rate. This phone virus has everyone on edge.

I spent all day at work yesterday; I didn't get to see this level of chaos unfold. It leaves me uneasy.

There. A station with only a dozen cars in line. I pull in, relief flooding through me until I spot signs on each pump; there's a 5 gallon limit per customer.

Great.

Hopefully we'll all have gas by then. Or the phone's countdown is real and we'll all be dead.

My lips quirk at my humor, even if it's a little morbid.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, willing the line to move faster. My phone sits on the passenger seat, that eerie countdown still ticking away.

[World's End: 01:21:47:12]

A chill runs down my spine when I see the numbers, and I flip my phone over so I can't see the display before turning on the radio.

"—still no word on the origin of this so-called 'doomsday virus.' Tech experts worldwide are baffled by its ability to infiltrate even the most secure systems. Anonymous has declared that they have nothing to do—"

I switch it off, unable to bear another word about the stupid phone. The car in front of me pulls away, and I inch forward.

By the time I finally pull out of the gas station, my hands are shaking. I'm going to be late. Dad's going to be furious and raving about the stupidity of people. And underneath everything, the panic of the people is starting to get to me, too.

What if…

Just what if…

Something horrible is going to happen when this countdown stops?

What if we ignore it, to our detriment?

These other people have gas, food, toiletries. They're stocked for a freaking apocalypse.

Us? We're screwed.

Traffic crawls at a snail's pace. I lean forward, peering through the windshield as if I could will the cars in front of me to move faster. My phone buzzes. Without looking, I know it's work. Probably Dad, demanding to know where I am.

I reach for it, then remember our phones aren't working. It isn't Dad.

Just another random vibration, trying to get me to look at this stupid countdown.

A horn blares behind me. I jolt, realizing the car ahead has moved. Gritting my teeth, I inch forward, leaving my phone untouched.

The familiar skyline of the business district comes into view. Usually, it fills me with a mix of dread and determination. Today, it's almost a relief. At least at work, I'll have something to focus on besides the growing unease in the pit of my stomach.

Tires squeal as I take the turn too fast into the parking garage. As I step out of the car, my heel catches on the door frame. I stumble, barely catching myself on the hood.

"Shit," I mutter, straightening my skirt. A run in my stockings. Perfect.

There's chaos everywhere I look. In the lobby. In the elevator, as people people talk about the stupid virus. I hear more than a few complaints about our company absence policy, meant for my ears, but just low enough that people can say it wasn't them if I tried to confront them.

The office isn't usually bustling at this time of night. That means there's a hell of a lot more fires to put out. My e-mail's going to be full to bursting.

Eventually, I make it to my desk, dropping my purse and booting up my computer. Before I can even log in, a shadow falls over me.

"You're late."

I look up to find Dad looming over me, his face a mask of disapproval.

"I'm sorry," I start to explain. "The traffic was—"

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "I don't want excuses. I need the quarterly reports on my desk in an hour."

"But that's not even my—"

"An hour, Lauren." He turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me staring after him.

I slump in my chair, the weight of the morning pressing down on me. The apocalyptic countdown, the panic in the streets, and now this. Just another day in paradise.

With a deep breath, I straighten my spine and turn to my computer. One crisis at a time.