Prep For Doom Page 12

  “What about you?” she asked with a raised brow.

  “Don’t worry about me. I can manage,” he affirmed. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “The sooner, the better,” she agreed.

  They quickly weaved their way through more side streets, passing a few pedestrians wearing medical masks. But they didn’t give them the time of day.

  Then, out of nowhere, gunfire began to explode somewhere in their vicinity, along with agonizing screams and shortly followed by screeching tires.

  Neil grabbed his daughter and dragged her into another small alleyway.

  “Dammit,” he cursed, realizing there was no way out.

  “Those men!” Kiana exclaimed. Her heart hammered against her chest.

  Engines roared down the streets.

  “Keep moving!” Neil grabbed her arm and pulled her with him.

  As they ran, two familiar vehicles sped right by them. The driver of the white lowrider glanced back and slammed on his breaks. After a brief pause, he threw it in reverse.

  “Run!”

  He and Kiana sprinted down the street, but the lowrider was too fast. As it swerved toward them, Neil shoved Kiana out of the way.

  “Nooo—” she screamed.

  In an instant, Kiana’s world came to a crashing halt. The horrific event played in slow motion. Terror-stricken, she watched the lowrider collide with her dad. His body flew through the air and tumbled across the pavement like a rag doll until he lay still. His gas mask was a few yards away, cracked in half.

  “Dad. Dad!” she wailed, rushing toward him. She dropped at his side. “Dad, please!” Terror and despair encompassed her, making her unaware of the driver who had stepped out of his car, heading toward them.

  A firm hand suddenly clasped tightly around Kiana’s arm. She screamed, struggling to release the grip, but the long fingers squeezed even tighter. She kicked and punched, but he wouldn’t budge. He was much too strong. Then, he paused, his tinted mask faced hers.

  Frantic, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her hand around the grip of her revolver. As the man jerked her toward him, she panicked. Raising the gun, she pulled the trigger.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Three shots fired directly into the middle of his chest. He glanced down at his wounds.

  “Oma,” he exhaled.

  His grip released as he dropped to his knees, then fell backward to the ground.

  Kiana froze. Her mind and body went numb; the mask felt asphyxiating. The gun fell from her trembling fingers.

  Through her blood spattered mask, she stared at the man lying on the ground. But before she could process what had happened, another set of tires screeched to a halt behind her. The two men in the red car jumped out. One pulled a shotgun and lifted it at her.

  As she turned to run, gunfire erupted. Screaming, she dropped to the ground, covering her head and ears.

  Shortly after, everything went silent.

  When Kiana raised her head, she saw her dad sitting up with his gun aimed behind her. As she twisted back, two bodies lay motionless on the ground with blood seeping from fatal wounds.

  “Dad!” Kiana bellowed. She ran over and fell at his side, wrapping him in a hug. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I did too,” he moaned. Blood trickled from a wound on his forehead.

  Trying to pull himself up, he immediately fell back down, gasping for air.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I think I cracked a rib and I can’t move my leg.” His right leg was bent at an abnormal angle.

  “I think it’s broken,” she noted, trying not to faint.

  “Yeah.” He cringed in pain.

  “You’re unprotected,” Kiana gasped.

  She shot up and ran over to the man she shot and lifted his mask. Underneath was a white man. His head was shaven and he had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones directly in the middle of his forehead. His wide-open eyes were blood red.

  “Oh my God. He’s infected,” she gasped, releasing the mask and quickly scooting away.

  Not risking a chance with the other two, she pulled a medical mask from her pack and handed it to her dad. “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Thank you,” he breathed. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” she wept. Tears pooled in her big brown eyes. “How are we going to make it to the bunker now?”

  “We’ve acquired transportation,” he noted, nodding toward the cars. “You’ve gotta drive us.”

  “That, I can do,” she willingly responded.

  Kiana pulled the red car closer and helped lift her dad into the back seat. It was hard and painful, but they managed. Neil suppressed the pain as best he could, but it was nearly unbearable and he found himself blacking out.

  “Which way, navigator?” she asked, turning back to him.

  Neil had become pale and was fading in and out of consciousness. He raised his phone. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re in charge now.”

  “Don’t worry, dad. I’ll get us there,” she said confidently, but inside she was terrified.

  As she checked the map, another message popped up.

  PFD 117: Where are you?

  Kiana texted back, her fingers were trembling.

  10 minutes away. Ran into trouble. Need medical assistance.

  PFD 117: I’ll have a team waiting. Have you been exposed?

  No. But not sure about my dad.

  PFD 117: Kiana?

  Yes.

  PFD 117: Just get here. We’ll take care of you.

  On our way.

  Kiana studied the route and knew exactly where to go. Glancing back, she noticed her dad’s eyes getting heavier. “Hold on,” she begged.

  Instead of swerving past the man she shot, she ran directly over him.

  “Bastard,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  He hit her dad. Plus, the infected asshole was senselessly murdering others like him. Hypocrite. He deserved to get run over.

  As she turned onto the highway a police car passed by, heading in the opposite direction. Her stomach twisted in knots as she watched him turn around, flash his lights and blare his siren.

  “Dammit,” she exclaimed, slamming her hand on the steering wheel. She wondered if the car was tagged. “Dad. Dad?” she called, but he was unresponsive.

  Kiana pulled to the curb and stopped, but the cop flew right past them.

  Exhaling in relief, she put the car back into drive. As she glanced into the rearview mirror, fear overcame her. Her dad looked on the brink of death.

  “We’re almost there,” she said out loud, hoping he could hear.

  When they finally arrived at their destination, a man in a white moon suit with a clipboard greeted her. He waved her over and then held his hand up for her to stop.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Kiana and Neil Reed,” she answered. “My dad is injured. He needs help.”

  “Pull ahead and take a left around the building.”

  Kiana did what he said, and as she pulled around the corner, three more men in moon suits were standing with a gurney. She stopped the car directly in front of them.

  One of the men approached her. “Kiana?”

  “Yes. My dad. He’s hurt,” she pointed to the back seat.

  The man motioned and the others went to retrieve him.

  “Was he exposed?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t have a mask on for a few minutes. He was hit by a car. I…I don’t know,” her voice wavered and tears began to spill down her cheeks.

  Once Neil was on the gurney, they lifted a plastic covering around him.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Kiana asked, standing beside him. His skin was nearly colorless, and his breathing was labored.

  “Let’s hope so. He will remain under close observation for the next twenty-four hours. If he’s clear of the virus, we will be able to concentrate on his injuries.”

  “What happens if he’s not clear?”
she cried. “What if I’m not able to say goodbye?” Speaking those words made her heart feel as if it would shatter into a million pieces.

  “If he is infected, he will have the best care until the end.”

  “He’s the only person I have. He can’t die,” she sobbed.

  “Most of the residents inside have lost loved ones. Your father risked his life so you could live. Bringing you here was his top priority,” he said. “But let’s not put a death sentence on him yet.”

  “Do you think he’ll live?”

  “I have hope. There are people who have formed natural immunities to the virus. There’s a small chance he’s one of them or that he hasn’t been infected.”

  As they began to wheel Neil away, Kiana yelled, “Wait!”

  She ran over to the gurney where her dad lay unresponsive and leaned close to his ear. “Be strong. I need you,” she pleaded.

  Everything inside of her ached. They were supposed to be safe, together. He was supposed to take care of her.

  A gentle hand lay on her shoulder. “You just have to believe you’ll see him again. For now, you need to go through decontamination, and will be placed in a holding room for twenty-four hours, just so we know you aren’t infected. Then, we’ll introduce you to the rest of the residents.”

  Kiana glanced up at the man, blinking her tears away so she could see his face through the transparent mask. Sincere green eyes met hers.

  “Are you PFD 117?” she questioned.

  “Yes, but I prefer Andrew,” he grinned.

  “Thanks, Andrew. For helping us.”

  “Of course. We’re part of your new family,” he replied. “You’re safe now. Come.” He held out his hand to her.

  Kiana paused for a moment, then placed her hand in his, letting Andrew lead her through a large steel door where she would finally be safe from the outside world and the virus. Existing only because of her father.

  “I love you, Dad,” she whispered under her breath. “Thank you.”

  She needed to hold on to hope. It was all she had left, and she would tuck it in her heart until she saw him again.

  Learn more about Cameo Renae

  Dangerella used the flat of her hand to shade the screen of her tablet computer. The hot sun picked up so many greasy fingerprints and half-arcs from swiping the touchscreen it created a glare.

  She used to be such a clean freak about her electronic devices. Those days were in the past. Nothing to be done about it now. The future she could change. Would change.

  Her plan found her here, at the southern end of Manhattan, threading her way around cars abandoned on the sidewalk, the small mountains of rotting bags split open from overflowing garbage, and things she'd rather not think about. A large city like New York seemed odd without traffic or the bustle of people going to and fro. She grew up on the Upper East Side, near 77th and Lex, where the only obstacles to dodge were the occasional wino or crack dealer setting up shop on the corner. But the police always came and then they’d magically melt away into alleys, stores, and unlocked apartments. They came with the city. A package deal.

  She was slight of build, a freckle-cheeked redheaded girl. Ripe for the picking from nearly everyone, including the creeps that hit on little girls from their long black cars. Her parents couldn't be with her everywhere. And even if they were, it offered no guarantee of safety. Her dad was easily distracted while he read his stock reports and prattled into the mechanical cockroach-looking thing that was always in his ear. He called it his “tooth.” Facing the perils of the city on her own was why she came up with “Dangerella,” a persona she jacketed herself in to enable her to walk the streets without fear.

  Her dad had pet names for lots of things, but never a pet name for her. She wasn't a thing. She was his little princess. He treasured her more than his things and his money. Almost. She was born half him. He recognized himself in the set of her eyes and the shape of her jaw. He loved himself completely and therefore loved her half as much as that.

  None of that prevented him from using her as a bargaining chip against her mother. He established his dominance, controlling the days of visitation, of who presided over holiday celebrations and birthdays. He even coerced easy sex from her mother post-divorce.

  Oh, she knew. They tried to use discretion, but Dangerella knew everything that happened in her house. Dangerella was an accomplished spy. It wasn't even a challenge. Her mother's weaknesses were writ large for all to see. Her father exploited them as pressure points to get what he wanted.

  For one thing, her mother was openly addicted to his money. She married him for it, and eventually divorced him to get more.

  Dangerella vowed never to be that stupid. Her mother deluded herself into thinking she held the upper hand in the relationship, but there was no contest. She was a rank amateur. Her dad brokered million dollar transactions every day. He could easily attract or arrange to rent younger and better looking women than her mother, a fact her mother never seemed to figure out. She was oblivious enough to the world around her to let him manipulate her. The contempt she held for her mother was the whetstone that she sharpened herself against.

  But all that family angst was ancient history, her former dismal existence. Before the Prep for Doom website. When she signed up, she was afraid the screen name ‘Dangerella' would already be taken. She was grateful to find it available.

  Her whole life was survival of one kind or another. A website that connected followers to prepare to survive any impending apocalypse was a social group she could get behind.

  * * *

  The rotten smells from the street assaulted her nose, breaking through the menthol cream barrier she wore on her upper lip. It was a hot summer, and the authorities had stopped gathering up dead bodies long ago. Eventually, even the androgynous people in HAZMAT suits started dropping, and there was no one left to come and collect bodies. People often just fell where they were. Sometimes they crawled a foot or two before their grisly deaths. The roads and sidewalks became their final resting place. Carcasses littered the streets or rotted in cars like overripe melons in the heat. No burial, no markers. No dignity.

  The dwindling number of survivors piled the bodies on the sidewalk until they resembled forgotten mounds of brightly colored trash. A trash collector's strike organized by the grim reaper. The common color among them being the streamers of bright red, dingy brick red, and brown. The fatal colors of spent blood and fluids.

  Clouds of flies rose up if she stepped too close. The insects seeded the cadavers, laid their eggs. There would be an unholy plague of flies soon.

  Sweat dripped down the back of her neck as she swiped a finger across the tablet.

  Dangerella: I'm somewhere around 8th street now. Can you see my blip on the GPS?

  Bull3tBoy: nope. But no surprise there. Tall buildings and whatnot.

  Dangerella: Where are you?

  Bull3tBoy: Jersey still. In a sporting goods store.

  Dangerella: oooh! Can you pick me up some more throwing knives? I only got 5

  Bull3tBoy: *sigh* What are we? Married or something? Aren't there any places there in the big rotten apple?

  Dangerella: C'mon, dude, you're already in a place. I'd have to find one. Puhleeze?

  Bull3tBoy: It's gonna

  She lost the end of his message. For the first nanosecond she thought she'd maybe tripped over something. But she kept falling, down into darkness. A powerful jerk yanked on her backpack straps and they dug painfully into her underarms. Her tablet jostled from her hands and hit something hard below, with the gut-wrenching sound of breaking glass. So lost was she in the throes of mourning for her tablet, for a minute she didn't register her own pain. Her tablet was the only link to the other preppers. To Bull3tBoy.

  Then the pain rose up and demanded her full attention. Her right leg was burning. She felt hot blood dripping into her shoe. She looked around, but there was no light, except for the angled shaft from the surface above, and it only pushed so far. The re
st was nothing but darkness to her unadjusted eyes.

  Her movement was sharply restricted from her own weight pulling against straps. She was awkwardly suspended, her feet dangling in nothingness. Every move she made increased the pressure under her arms and added to the wave of pain radiating up her leg. She forced herself to remain calm.

  Dangerella tilted her head up toward the opening in the sidewalk, to the open square of light. Shiny metal hung down behind her head from the hole and she realized that she was hung up on the grate, still attached to one edge. She had no idea how securely the grate was connected. She didn't want to end up like her tablet, broken somewhere below.

  How far it was to solid ground, she had no idea. She was getting light-headed.

  Dangerella closed her eyes; the only clear thought in her head was to first get free.

  While she was trying to come up with a step two, the humid heat and thickened air made her drowsy.

  * * *

  “Well, what do we got here?” A voice sounded, waking her up. “Somebody throw a broken doll into my house? Ha!” It was hard to tell if that was a friendly laugh.

  Dangerella squinted and made out a silhouette directly below her.

  “Please, can you get me down?” she said through gritted teeth. Her leg felt soaked. The pain had moved from sharp edge to dull ache. It almost seemed worse to be on the verge of rescue, but have it delayed.

  “Why you asking me? I don't know. Maybe. You're up kinda high, little girl.”

  She made a mental inventory of exactly where her throwing knives were hidden. She played out different scenarios, figuring out which knife afforded the quickest access.

  She could sense him moving around below. Metal screeched painfully against concrete as the man scooted a large trunk underneath her.

  “Hmm. Not quite high enough, no sir,” he muttered to himself. He shuffled away and was gone for a long time.

  “Okay, this oughta do it.” He came back into view and kicked over a small number of sturdy plastic milk crates. From these and the trunk he fashioned a homemade staircase, two block steps up to the large trunk, and one step on top of it. His actions were deliberate and maddeningly slow.