So. There's, um, some stuff going on.
I wasn't going to do this; I mean, keeping a diary is for kids, right? But if Mrs. Rasmussen's history class taught me anything, it's that when shit goes down, it's important for future generations that there's some sort of record of exactly what kind of shit went down. 
And shit has gone down.
So, here we are; me, Cara Adams, a 18-year-old high school student from Missouri, and Nathaniel Burke, my 17-year-old classmate who I've never heard speak a word since he walked into my Freshman bio class nearly four years ago. 
Here we are, taking shelter in an abandoned farm about five miles from the ruins of our school. 
Yes, shelter. 
Yes, ruins. 
Maybe I should back up a bit.

So, there I was: minding my own business, not paying attention to anything my Calculus teacher was saying, when Sarah Gregory's water bottle exploded. 
Of course everyone laughed; it was such a random thing, it scared the shit out of Mr. Brady, and everyone knew that Sarah was such an addict that the shattered glass probably had something to do with the vodka she most likely had put in it. 
When the same thing happened to the coffee thermos on class president Michael Walsh's desk, however, people began to realize that Sarah Gregory's drunk habit weren't to blame.
Foley Marsh, the idiot that he is, immediately began screaming that we were being shot at despite our classroom not having any windows, and Wendy Taylor began sobbing that she "didn't deserve to die". Although, let's be honest; if this was the rapture, she'd be punished for sure for what she did with Michael Allen in the bathroom at his party last weekend. 
But then it stopped. Two beverage containers in shards on the classroom floor, a bunch of students freaking out, and no explanation. Nothing else happened, so Mr. Brady called a custodian and went on with the lesson.
Then one of the office ladies -the slutty one- came to our classroom and announced that I had a phone call in the front office and needed to come right away. I didn't need to be told twice, so I picked up my bag and left the room without a word, pushing past Ms. Slut and leaving her behind me.
The phone call, surprisingly, was from my 11-year-old brother Samson. Sammy lives in New Mexico with Dad, our step-monster Lucy, and her daughter Rachel, and I missed him like crazy.
"Sammy? Why aren't you at school?" I asked him. Then I realized he was crying, and my protective-big-sister-mode switched on. "What's wrong?"
"Dad and Lucy," he sobbed. "There was an earthquake... Rachel can't reach them...."
"What? Sammy, are you okay?" I asked, and then the line went dead. 
I have to get to New Mexico. That's the only thought that ran through my head. 
"Excuse me," I said to one of the office ladies, the one who thought she was the slutty one, "I suddenly feel ill. Can I go home?" I was using my best 'feel bad for me, I'm so very nice' voice, and the dumbass bought it. Dumbass.
She let me sign myself out, and as I began walking out of the building, someone grabbed my arm from behind and began dragging me outside. 
"Hey!" I protested, because I was not getting kidnapped today, "Let me go!" I wrenched myself free from his grasp once we were outside of the school and found myself face-to-face with silent nerd Nathaniel Burke. 
"No time," he mumbled, taking me aback; those were the first words I had heard him say in four years. "Come on!" 
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" I had begun, but I was cut off by the ground shaking. 
"Run!" Nathaniel shouted, and I pushed aside my usual stubbornness in place of common sense and ran with him towards the parking lot. 
He pulled me down behind an ugly yellow pickup truck while we waited for the shaking to pass, and the ear-splitting sound of crumbling and shattering made me blackout.