At last, she reached the broken window. Pebbles of tempered glass littered the inside of the van and Mika used her sleeve to knock the few remaining pieces off the window frame. Wincing, she stretched her arms out in front of her, grabbed a piece of the bush crushed by the vehicle, and yanked herself free.

  As soon as her thighs cleared the van, Mika began to slide through the branches and down what she rapidly discovered was the side of the mountain. She gasped, dirt and a stray leaf peppering her tongue, as she sought purchase.

  With her whole body slipping out of the van like a limp rag doll, she scrabbled in the bushes, searching for something solid to hold on to. Bits of broken twigs escaped her arms as her fingers wrapped around a branch, thick and anchored to the ground. Her body bounced, once, twice, as her full weight stretched her arm. But she stilled.

  She exhaled in relief, head resting in the thicket, until her arm grew numb from effort. Digging her toes into the dry earth beneath the bush, Mika managed to inch forward and find enough stability to rise up onto her knees. The van hung precariously, back end up in the air, tires slashed and sunning themselves. How had they not fallen even more?

  She marveled at the relative luck. Of course she wished her fellow Girl Scouts and troop leaders were alive, but she’d survived. She was alive.

  But Hampton?

  Mika twisted in slow motion, one hand blocking the sun’s haze, as she scanned the area. There! The hint of a bright yellow hoodie peeked out from behind the massive, muddy roots of an uprooted tree.

  Mika barreled through the underbrush, slip sliding with feet weighed down as if clad in concrete shoes. Her thighs ached in protest, skin pricked with cuts and tears from ignored branches. But sheer determination banished the dizziness from her head wound, and for the first time since waking on the ceiling of the upside-down van, her mind cleared.

  Hampton’s alive. She must be.

  The upended tree loomed, all mud and fibrous roots, and Mika eased around it. Hampton. She sprawled across the ground, arms flung wide, dirt and leaves collecting in her curls. Mika collapsed to her knees beside her best friend and searched for the tender spot beneath her jaw. With two fingers, Mika pressed and waited. Please be alive. Please.

  Yes! A faint pulse, weak, but steady. She cried out in relief. “Hampton! Hamp, wake up.” Hampton didn’t stir.

  Tears clogged Mika’s throat, but she tried again. Hampton had to wake up. She needed her. “Hampton. It’s me, Mika.” She choked out the words, her voice breaking at the end. “If you can hear me, please, twitch your fingers, blink, do something, anything.”

  She gave her a gentle shove and at last, a small groan slipped from Hampton’s parted lips. “M-Mika?”

  She fought the urge to scoop Hampton into her arms. What if she was injured? Broken ribs or worse. She thought about the classmate who survived a car crash the year before. The boy suffered a collapsed lung and a spiral fracture of his leg. He’d been in a wheelchair for weeks.

  “Wh-What happened?” Hampton’s voice came out scratchy and raw. She blinked, eyes cloudy and unfocused, brow knitting before she reached up with timid fingers to press her temple.

  “You’re alive,” Mika cried, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “It’s me, Mika. You are alive, and so am I.”

  Hampton groaned again as she tried to raise herself to her elbows.

  Mika gently helped her. “Be careful. Don’t move too fast. Does anything hurt?”

  Hampton shook her head but when she did, she yelped in pain.

  “What is it?” Mika clutched her arm.

  “My neck hurts. I feel like I was in a car accident.”

  “You were in a car accident. A van accident, actually.”

  Hampton’s eyes wandered over Mika as if trying to focus. Her pupils were over-dilated for the amount of sun.

  “Where are we?” Hampton blinked. “Where is everyone?”

  Mika swallowed hard. How could she tell her friend everyone else was dead?

  “Can you sit up?” She changed the subject.

  Hampton palmed the back of her head, brows dipping in confusion. “I—I think so.”

  “Easy does it.” Mika leaned over and helped Hampton sit.

  “Everything is spinning. I feel sick.” Hampton frowned into the dirt and blinked once, twice, three times. “I can’t remember what happened.”

  Were those symptoms of a concussion? Mika didn’t know, but Hampton definitely wasn’t herself. She tried to keep it brief. “We were in an accident on our way up the mountain. On the Girl Scout camping trip, remember?”

  “I told you this was a terrible idea.” Hampton lifted her chin and squinted at Mika. “Where are we?”

  Mika smiled despite the horror of the situation. Hampton might have a concussion, but at least she still had her humor. She fought the urge to wrap her in a hug. “On the mountain. There was an earthquake.”

  Hampton blinked in slow motion. “I think… I remember. The van wobbled, right? A few times. You… held my hand, told me it would be all right.”

  Mika managed a rueful smile. “I guess I was wrong.”

  Hampton sat still, brain seemingly working in slow motion like it was buried in a vat of Jell-O. Mika would have to take it slow. “Can you walk?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  Mika stood and helped Hampton to stand, pulling her up an inch at a time until they stood side-by-side. Hampton swayed on her feet and Mika slipped an arm around her waist. “Is this okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  Hampton began to shake her head but froze as pain washed across her face. “No. It’s fine.”

  With agonizingly slow steps, Mika led Hampton out of the undergrowth and to a relatively flat portion of ground dotted with ferns. She eased Hampton down onto a patch of dirt before standing back up. “I need to go back to the van to find the bag of phones.”

  “Where is it?” Hampton squinted against the sun, bringing a shaky arm up to shield her eyes.

  “Past the tree roots about twenty feet. It got stuck in some thick bushes. I think that’s what helped it finally stop rolling.”

  Hampton’s face turned the color of dried paste. “It rolled?”

  Mika nodded.

  For the first time, Hampton looked around her, head swiveling in slow motion. “Where’s everyone else? That girl with the paperback and the troop leaders?”

  Mika’s mouth opened but no words came out. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared past Hampton toward the wreckage. Grief tangled itself in her throat and she shook her head. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and she wiped at it, hard.

  Hampton’s face fell, and her chin trembled. “All of them?”

  Mika nodded. “We’re on our own. But it’s okay. We just have to get down off this mountain and everything will be fine.”

  “How? We have no ride, and half the world is split apart. Look at it. It’s all craters and cracks.”

  “I know, but we can’t stay here forever.” Mika hoped some of her resolve would rub off on Hampton. “If we can find the bag of cell phones, hopefully we can get a signal to dial out.”

  “What good will that do? A car or an ambulance can’t make it up here. I don’t even see the road.”

  Mika straightened her shoulders. “We’ll call my dad. He’ll find a way to come rescue us, Hampton. I swear it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DAPHNE

  Daphne didn’t know how long it had been since the building stopped shaking. She’d slid into a near-fugue state, repeating a handful of words in a simple prayer over and over. Asking for someone, anyone, to look after her husband and daughter. The two most important people in her world. The two she’d left behind.

  Blood pounded in her eardrums, a steady whoosh-whoosh as she managed to suck in a decent breath. Was there even anything left of the building apart from the stairwell? She hadn’t a clue. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if there were cracks running the lengths of the walls or if half the stairwell had collapsed two floors below.

  With no emergency lighting, the stairwell might as well be space. No light, no difference in shading between the air one inch in front of her face and the wall ten feet away. Daphne longed for her phone. Not to endlessly scroll like so many nights alone on her couch, but to beat back the cloying darkness.

  After another few minutes of waiting, she forced her legs to unbend and support her weight. Her muscles ached in protest, knees knocking together. But she dug her fingernails into her palms and wobbled toward what she thought must be the door.

  Her knuckles brushed something hard and unforgiving. The concrete wall. She uncurled her fingers and stretched them out, trailing fingertips across the wall, feeling the cracks running this way and that like veining in her favorite Gorgonzola.

  The texture changed, trading dusted concrete for smooth metal, and Daphne wrapped her fingers around the door handle and pulled. Nothing. She pulled again, adding her other hand before lowering into a shallow squat and adding her legs for effort. It wouldn’t budge.

  Panic crawled up her throat at the thought of being trapped. How long would it take someone to find her? A day? Two? A sob escaped her throat and her grip slackened, but only for a moment.

  Come on, Daphne. You’re a fighter, not a quitter. She sucked in a deep breath and yanked on the handle again and the door shifted, bottom scraping open a fraction of an inch. Had the whole building shifted? Thrown the door frame out of whack?

  She tried again, tugging and yanking, putting real effort in with her legs until the bottom of the door warped enough to catch a glimpse of light.

  It streamed in, illuminating dancing motes of dust in a shaft of light no wider than an inch. But the sight made Daphne gasp. She bent down to a low squat and gripped the bottom of the door with both hands and pulled. It gave way with a creak and a groan, propelling her backward as it swung. She landed hard on her backside before rolling back and almost over.

  Not the most graceful of escape attempts, but it didn’t matter. Light bathed the stairwell and Daphne sobbed in relief. There was still something left of the building, at least.

  She stuck her head into the hall as a broken ceiling tile wobbled and fell, just a hair’s breadth away from her nose. Dust plumed into the air, and she covered her mouth with her elbow against the worst of the debris.

  “Hello?” Her voice came out raw and squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  She scurried forward, dodging broken hunks of ceiling and wall, darting past exposed wires and bulging drywall. To her right, what looked like a half desk sliced the hall in half, exposing an empty conference room, shattered windows gaping in the sun.

  “Hello?” She called out again.

  More silence. Panic still pulsed through her body, but not like before. Instead of sharp and insistent, it lingered in the background like a nagging to do list or bland office music. She reached the large conference room where the deposition had ceased only minutes before.

  “Hello?”

  One glimpse inside and her knees buckled, refusing to cooperate. She clutched the door frame to stay upright.

  Underneath the conference table, Don’s mangled body stretched from one side to the other, bent and twisted beyond the possible. She knelt near him, reaching to check for a pulse. His arms were twisted behind him, broken. As she leaned over, his face came into view, eyes wide open, unblinking and lifeless. He stared at the ceiling, mouth open in an exaggerated O, still terrified even in death.

  The sight sent Daphne scurrying back on all fours, crawling like a crab away from him. She bumped into the back of a broken chair, its wooden shards poking into her scalp. She cried out and pushed away, tucking herself against the only undamaged portion of wall.

  Another body lay face down, impaled by a twisted piece of metal. A chair leg, maybe? Tears slid down her cheeks, free, and unstoppable. Was she the only one to survive?

  A faint noise rose from across the room and Daphne turned. Tucked against the far wall was the stenographer, blue shirt billowing over the conference table. Her head lolled to the side, but as Daphne stared, she swore she saw movement. “Hello? Are you alive?”

  One of the woman’s hands flapped and hope surged in Daphne’s chest. She crawled across the floor, avoiding Don’s dead, mangled body, and the worst of the debris. The stenographer was pinned, the table pressed tight against her midsection.

  “It’s okay,” Daphne stammered in a weak voice as she rose up to find the woman conscious. “I’m here. I’ll help you. Do you think you can move?”

  “I think my ankle’s busted.” A violent cough shook the woman’s body. “And this table is too heavy to move. I called out before. When I didn’t hear anyone—”

  “Same.” Daphne stood on shaky legs. “But we’re alive.” She gave the woman a tight smile. “I’m Daphne.”

  “Pamela.” She coughed again. “You think you can help me move this table?”

  “Of course.” Daphne took a step back, bare foot narrowly missing a jagged piece of broken chair. “How about we try to tip it over? I don’t think I can slide it. Not with all the debris.”

  Pamela nodded as she set her full lips in a line. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

  “It’s okay. Just watch out—maybe cover your face or lean back against the wall. I don’t want to hit you as I tip it.”

  The stenographer did as Daphne suggested, bringing one arm up to shield her face as she pulled back as tight as possible against the wall.

  With a deep breath, Daphne reached for the table, gripping the edge in both hands. She used her legs, pushing up from the bottom. The table lifted from the ground and Pamela cried out. Daphne ignored it, staggering forward under the weight and pushing up and up until at last, she reached the tipping point. Momentum carried the table over and it landed with a crash against the destroyed windows.

  The stenographer sucked in loud, desperate breaths as she patted her midsection all over.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Because we need to leave.”

  “What?” Pamela jerked her head up in alarm.

  “The building might not be stable. It could collapse from the damage or an aftershock could crumble the remaining supports. We need to head outside, assess the damage, see where to go.”

  Pamela’s round cheeks swelled as she trapped a breath inside her mouth and held it. “I’m no good on stairs. Even before my ankle. I’ve got a bad hip. Partial disability.” She reached around on the carpet beside her, fingers swiping across the floor.

  “What are you doing?

  “Looking for my purse. We should call for help.”

  Daphne spun around, doing the same. Her purse should be there, somewhere.

  “I’m not getting a signal.”

  She turned back around. Pamela held her phone in the air, waving left, then right. “There’s nothing. Not even one bar.”

  “At least you have a phone.” Daphne palmed her hips as she stared out at the debris. “I don’t see my bag anywhere.”

  She eased over to the window, skirting past a collection of wrecked chairs conspiratorially gathered in the corner. The blinds were torn and hanging haphazardly across the open window and Daphne reached up with both hands and yanked them down. They fell in a crash and Pamela exclaimed behind her.

  “Sorry.” Daphne didn’t turn as she apologized, focused instead on the sheer devastation now taking center stage in the bare window. The street undulated like a ribbon in the breeze, asphalt rising and falling more than ten feet up and down. The doggy daycare next door was flattened, warehouse nothing more than a heap of concrete blocks and crumpled metal roof.

  Destroyed cars littered the street—some upside down, some on their side, one on fire. The six-story building across the street listed hard to the right, top two floors sliding into the parking deck and splattering the brick facade across the top. Destruction as far as she could see. Apart from their building, she didn’t see a single one standing on its own.

  She leaned out, scanning the street below, but retreated in an instant. She’d seen enough dead bodies for one day.

  Daphne forced a swallow and turned around. “I don’t think anyone is coming.” The words hollowed her out from the inside, each one dumping the last of her hope on the floor between them.

  Pamela held up a set of keys. “Found my purse. I was sitting on it. If the parking deck’s intact, I’ve got a Jeep.”

  Daphne risked a glance behind her to the window. The deck was on the other side. “I took an Uber.”

  “If you can help me out of here, I’ll give you a ride anywhere you want to go.”

  “Can you drive with that ankle?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Daphne chewed on her lip. Pamela outweighed her by what, a hundred pounds? Would she even be able to help the woman stand? All the same, a ride was a ride. Where else was she going to find a way out of this destruction?

  She plastered a thankful smile on her face and nodded. “Sounds good. I’ll help you up.” With one arm roped around Pamela’s waist, Daphne steeled herself. On the count of three, she lifted, straining against the other woman’s weight. They wobbled, half-fell, and almost toppled over, but after a few agonizing moments, they managed to stand.

  Pamela shifted, testing her ankle. As soon as she put weight on it, she cried out. “Don’t think I’ll be driving after all.”

  Daphne nodded. “We make it to your car and I’ll drive.”

  Pamela agreed, and together they set off on the agonizing journey to the parking deck.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CLINT

  Clint ran, waving his arms in a blind panic. No one noticed until he began to shout. “We've got to move! Now!”

  He skidded to a stop, shoes sliding across the cracked parking lot, and he sucked in a lungful of air. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He grabbed his pants in fists above the knees as he bent over, out of breath.