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  Prep For Doom

  Band of Dystopian

  Authors & Fans

  Copyrights

  Prep For Doom

  Copyright © 2015 Band of Dystopian Authors and Fans

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © Cover Design

  A.M. Spence | Your Elemental Solutions

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Band of Dystopian does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of Band of Dystopian and the authors is illegal and punishable by law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized copies.

  Managing Editor: ER Arroyo

  Story Development: Sara Benedict, Jon Messenger, Cheer Papworth

  Content Editing: Sara Benedict

  Copy Editing: Maia Driver

  “The Gift” © 2015 Caroline A. Gill

  “Lethal Inception” © 2015 TK Carter

  “Siren” © 2015 Megan White

  “Unsafe Haven” © 2015 Casey L. Bond

  “HAZMAT” © 2015 Jon Messenger

  “Existing” © 2015 Cameo Renae

  “Trust” © 2015 John Gregory Hancock

  “Roland” © 2015 Kelsey D. Garmendia

  “Second Chances” © 2015 Amy Bartelloni

  “Nan Tapper” © 2015 Laura Albins

  “CDC” © 2015 Jon Messenger

  “Lucky” © 2015 Hilary Thompson

  “Proof Falls Down” © 2015 Brea Behn

  “Escape to Orange Blossom” © 2015 Yvonne Ventresca

  “As The Pieces Fell” © 2015 DelSheree Gladden

  “Edge of a Promise” © 2015 Casey Hays

  “Where You Hang Your Hat” © 2015 Harlow C. Fallon

  “Survival Mode” © 2015 Kate Corcino

  “Don’t Look Back” © 2015 Kate L. Mary

  “Blood Brother” © 2015 Monica Enderle Pierce

  “Martial Law” © 2015 ER Arroyo

  Table of Contents

  Copyrights

  Prologue: The Gift

  Chapter One: Lethal Inception

  Chapter Two: Siren

  Chapter Three: Unsafe Haven

  Chapter Four: HAZMAT

  Chapter Five: Existing

  Chapter Six: Trust

  Chapter Seven: Roland

  Chapter Eight: Second Chances

  Chapter Nine: Nan Tapper

  Chapter Ten: CDC

  Chapter Eleven: Lucky

  Chapter Twelve: Proof Falls Down

  Chapter Thirteen: Escape to Orange Blossom

  Chapter Fourteen: As The Pieces Fell

  Chapter Fifteen: Edge of a Promise

  Chapter Sixteen: Where You Hang Your Hat

  Chapter Seventeen: Survival Mode

  Chapter Eighteen: Don’t Look Back

  Chapter Nineteen: Blood Brother

  Chapter Twenty: Martial Law

  Acknowledgements

  About Band of Dystopian Authors and Fans

  About the Authors

  Bursting open, the thin, wooden door slammed against the wall and cracked in half.

  “Get down!” a man yelled.

  Chaos erupted in the large classroom. Five armed rebels ran in, sweeping chairs to the side, looking for any resistance.

  One jumped onto the teacher's desk. The intruders were masked with black scarves across their noses. They stunk like burnt food and blood.

  “What's happening? Who are you? What's going on?” Questions filled the air. Most of the girls were screaming. Three students jumped out the only window, falling to the ground outside like dung from an elephant.

  Dede Afi John held her ground and her breath. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew exactly who these men were. Nigeria was not far enough away for any girl to be safe. Fresh out of nightmares, straight from the newspaper headlines: these were the rebel warriors of Wayo Wahala. Dede knew why they had come.

  “Quiet! All of you, quiet now!” one of the men yelled. “We are soldiers. Nothing bad will happen to you.” He looked hard at the school girls, hugging each other tight, and tried to persuade them. “You have nothing to fear. We are here to help you.” His red shirt said otherwise. Red was the color of death. His voice was not kind.

  A feeling of foreboding fell across her heart. Dede gulped but kept silent. Her wide, brown eyes knew the truth, though, and she couldn't hide that.

  “You, there,” one of the men called to her, returning her stare. “What's your name, girl?” In the time it took for her to blink, he aimed his rifle at her head. In shock, she watched his face, every fear in her gone wild. I am nothing to this man, she thought. Nothing. Stunned, the tall, high cheek-boned girl stood still as death.

  “D—Dede Afi, my name. That's my name,” she spit out finally.

  “You will follow us in a straight march, you and your friends. No talking or I use this.” He fondly stroked his gun barrel like a pet snake.

  Dede wanted to refuse and spit in his face. She wished she had been one of the girls who had jumped out the window and ran. A classmate behind her started crying. Two men moved through the crowd. Within seconds they reached the howling girl, throwing her onto the floor, forcing her mouth shut. Harsh hands wound thick tape around the girl's bleeding lips. Then the two men hauled the bound girl upright like prey ready to be gutted. Dede had a choice to make.

  Bowing her head slightly, she stumbled at first. These men spoke of peace and aimed weapons of war. Dede knew only one thing mattered now. Resolutely, she set herself one simple task: I have to keep Yaa, Afua, and Ato safe. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around her friends and they hurried out the broken door.

  “There will be an opportunity to run. And I will take it,” she vowed in a whisper. “Be ready.”

  “Who are they, Dede?” Ato mumbled. The four of them held hands, shuffling with the thirty other girls into the courtyard. “Who are these soldiers? Are they our Black Stars?”

  Dede said nothing as one of the guards glared at her group. There were no black star patches on any of the men. These men were not soldiers of Ghana. There was no honor in these men, only fear and guns. And they would not keep their word—there was no protection for Dede or any of the girls at Bawku Technical Institute. “No, we are alone. No one in Bawku knows we are in danger,” Dede murmured.

  Huddling closer, Yaa began to cry. It hit them all. They were in bad trouble. Guns were everywhere. Men were yelling. Behind them, shots rang out. Dede jumped. That was the side of the school where the boys from her class had been taken. Worse, no one stopped or hid at the terrible sound. The rebels who pushed her friends down the hallway didn't flinch.

  Outside, orange dirt was everywhere, clay in the buildings, in the courtyard, in the walls, and on their cheeks. One by one, the girls were forced to lay in the dust. One by one, their heads were covered in coarse burlap yam bags. The harsh fabric scratched their f
aces. Thankfully, there were little gaps in the weave which Dede could see through. It was almost bearable. Then, wide and heavy, the boot of a man pushed on Dede's back, cracking her spine. She cried out in pain as breath left her lungs.

  The man yelled out, “You will be silent.” A hush fell across their panic. The entire courtyard smelled of fear and piss. “When I tell you, line up by the front gate and board the waiting buses. You will not alert anyone or this gun and the guns of my friends will finish what we have started. You need none of this education. We are here to help you find your true place. We will take care of you from now on.”

  Tears fell sideways across Dede's nose and down to the hot ground. “My life is over,” she whispered. And she knew it was true.

  All Dede had ever wanted was to be an engineer. She had always known how the world fit together. Even as a child she could find the swiftest answer to any puzzle. As her bare feet touched the hot rubber of the first bus step, Dede knew the puzzle she had understood her whole life was broken into pieces forever. There was no escape.

  Near the back of the old bus, Yaa and Afua sat together. They clung to each other like mona monkeys in the dark of night. Dede found a seat right behind them.

  At the front of the bus, there was a sudden commotion as some girls tried to run away. Gunshots rang out. The red-orange sand became redder.

  Dede gasped at the callous men, at their indifference to pain and murder. After that—after they killed a girl for trying to escape—the bus loaded past capacity very quickly. Because of the harmattan dry heat wave, it was terribly hot already in February. Soon, the interior of the vehicle already stank with fear and sweat.

  Dede held Ato's hand. Fearful, she chewed on her bottom lip. The windows were sealed shut and covered in black fabric. The heat was awful.

  “Hush,” Dede whispered as Ato sobbed, in spite of her own tears. “Hush, dear. Our parents will find us.” She spoke the words without believing them.

  Three buses had been loaded with girls in Bawku, Ghana. By the time they reached Dapaong, there was one.

  Scared as they all were, there was nothing to be done as the gunmen lined them up in the shadow of the large vehicle.

  Forced to pee by the side of the road, they were pushed and jeered at like cattle. Dede's generous heart went numb. Boarding the cursed bus again, it was all she could do to gulp the cooler desert air before she was shoved back inside. The girls were again imprisoned.

  Ato sniffled and cried. Dede nudged her friend. “Stop. Ato, stop,” she whispered over and over. Finally, as the bus turned northward and the sun began to lower, the interior cooled down bit by bit. All the girls collapsed into a troubled slumber, scared out of their minds, adrift in the desert on their way to the hands of terrible men.

  The bus stopped later that evening for the men to gather in a circle outside, singing their traditional songs, clapping and rejoicing in their victory. Shouts of congratulations filled the desert sky. Howling boasts and jokes sounded like the yelping of hyenas to each crying child.

  One girl, Abigail Adwoa, tried to sneak out the back of the bus while their captors celebrated. She was caught. The man who had abducted Dede and her friends took his gun and hit Abigail in the forehead. She fell, bleeding from her ears and nose. Then he shot her. Straight in the head. He didn't even flinch at the blood and brain that splattered the side of the bus.

  “He shot her!” Yaa cried.

  “Shush!” Ato said, “At least it wasn't us.”

  Afua did not even react. Instead, she shut down, turned her gaze away, and closed her eyes.

  Dede understood. She too had run out of tears. Constant fear had drained her. It was the same man who had said that he would not harm them. That he was there to help. Dede felt an anger rush through her, and then despair. “Our lives are worthless.” Dede let that hard truth sink in.

  The bus continued on in silence. Dede's head kept wobbling as she leaned on Ato's shoulder, until finally she slept.

  In her dream, the sun was rising, brand new, orange as a boiled cassava. Momma and Da were laughing in the kitchen. Little Kaakyire ate toasted sorghum cereal and threw some of the mash at the wall. Anan and Num fought over a blue head scarf. That last morning had been loud and noisy. More chaos than Dede ever wanted. In her dream though, the ruckus became the sounds of angels playing.

  I miss you so much, she thought.

  Then, Dede remembered that Manu and Mensa had stormed through the room, grabbing some dried bananas and a bit of water. Her brothers laughed and joked. Manu kept spinning his basketball around like one of those fancy professional players from America, the Harlem Globetrotters. He swore daily he was going to join them. “I am gonna be famous with the ladies!” he would boast and then swagger about like a cock rooster until the whole family laughed.

  An unmarked package sat on their kitchen table, taking up almost a quarter of the space. Da had remarked when he found it on the doorstep, “Who would have sent us such a large present?” As the Honorable Chief Executive of Bawku Municipal, village leader of the Black Stars, Da sometimes got gifts, but this was enormous.

  After everyone had eaten, Anan eagerly tore it open. Inside was a beautiful gift, fit for a king! Hundreds of chocolate bars, enough for the whole village! Ghana grew most of the cocoa for the whole world's supply, but no one had actually tasted a real piece of candy. It cost almost a week's salary to purchase one.

  “What? Who would send us such a treasure?” Da looked mystified.

  Num didn't wait one second. She dove straight at the box and took a bar. Tearing open the wrapper, her face melted in bliss faster than the chocolate could ever have dissolved on her tongue. “Oh my!” Dede's little sister purred. “It's so very lovely.” Eagerly, everyone grabbed two bars.

  “We will save some for our neighbors,” Da said with a grin. “I will give these treats out to everyone I meet. Today is a good day!”

  Dede had replied, “It is the water that loves you that enters your pot. Such a beautiful present!”

  They all giggled.

  In her dream, Dede remembered how she had looked at the chocolates that morning. Dede really wanted to eat one right then, but she wanted to share them as well. So, happily, she stuffed two in her school sweater pocket to share with her friends at lunchtime.

  The Afi John family was always generous. The surprise box of sweets would be no exception. The delicious candy would be gone before sunset.

  With a wave, Da took the box and most of the chocolates with him as he left for work. First, he hustled her older brothers off to paint the interior of the Bawku Episcopal Church. It was good money. It would mean school for Anan and Num, better opportunities for all. Dede watched her father walk out the door, watched her mother turn to make some agbeli cake. While still dreaming, Dede could have sworn her mother looked right at her, eye to eye, before resuming cooking in the kitchen.

  “Momma? Momma, I love you,” the stolen girl murmured in her sleep. Dede wanted to rush into her mother's arms. But they were gone, like everything else.

  Abruptly, the terrible bus that carried her away from family and home slammed to a stop.

  Dede was thrown forward, hitting her head on the seat in front of her. It was pitch black outside, well past midnight.

  “Where are we?” Ato asked, yawning and clinging to Dede's hand.

  Their brutal kidnappers forced all the girls off the bus. Afua and Yaa were ahead of Dede and Ato. One of the gunmen gestured to the left. Dede and Ato went to where he pointed. When you stand in hell, does it matter where? Ato's hand felt slippery and weak.

  At least we have each other, Dede thought gratefully. Really, Dede had little hope that anyone would be able to find them. She didn't even know where they were. Everything she could see was foreign, even some of the plants. The sun was rising to her left, so they were heading east. East to Nigeria, Dede thought but didn't say the words out loud, straight into the terrible unknown.

  A rough hand lifted her chin. Fierce, dea
d eyes peered into hers, examining her face, ears, and hands. A man wearing jeans and a gold chain inspected her mouth and feet, as well. He examined the students like they were yearling cows at auction. His prying hands moved on to Ato, who whimpered at his touch. Ten strangers gathered near the bus, all men. They spoke loudly in an unfamiliar dialect, their voices haggling, “Twelve dollars!” And then, “No! Fourteen dollars!”

  None of the men looked at the line of sweaty, scared, barefoot girls. Dede leaned back in line so she could see Yaa. Afua just stood there looking at the red sand, her gaze as empty as the dull clay that surrounded them. Yaa's wide eyes were full of life as she returned Dede's gaze. There was nothing to be done there, in the desert, surrounded by armed men. Dede shook her head. Yaa turned away. They would have to wait for a better opportunity.

  With no warning, five students were separated from the main group. Gun barrels forced the rest of the girls back on the bus, the only shelter they had left. Dede knew one of the five miserable captives left behind. “Godspeed, Leelah. Godspeed you home,” Dede whispered. No one would ever find Leelah.

  Again, the bus filled with the militants and their worn prisoners. Opening his front shirt pocket, the man who had stood in their Bawku classroom yesterday and promised them all that he would take care of them, that same devil, now had a grin on his face and a wad of cash between his fingers. Dede was reminded of her mother's saying: A child breaks the shell of a snail, not the shell of a tortoise. It was easy for a bully to destroy a weak person. I must grow strong. Fear cannot rule me. That man, these Wayo Wahala, they will pay for their arrogance! Dede swore it to herself, to her ancestors, and to every star in the sky.

  Carelessly, the gloating leader stuffed the money in his shirt while ordering the driver onward. “Go,” the smiling man commanded. “Hurry, my brother.”

  Trundling along, the vehicle blew heavy diesel fumes that choked most of the rear passengers. The captives didn't even have the energy to vomit from the thick exhaust. On they went, grateful for relief from the heat of the hard February sun. Dede began to count the jolts of the bus.