Prep For Doom Read online

  Bull3tBoy: We still going to meet at the bridge?

  Dangerella: I'm going to try to make it as soon as I can.

  Bull3tBoy: Are you still walking?

  Dangerella: Not really. Sort of. Going to find a different way, though.

  Bull3tBoy: I'll wait for you. I kinda like you, and stuff.

  Dangerella: lol. Giggle.

  Did she really just type 'giggle' at the end of her chat? Is that something Dangerella would do? Is it even something Angelica would do?

  * * *

  By the time she got done chatting, Earl had come back to his house, dragging his shopping cart, full of expensive looking liquor bottles. He was smoking a cigar.

  “Gag. That cigar smoke!” she objected.

  He pulled it out of his mouth, looked at it, pulled another draw and blew a smoke ring.

  “These are the best cigars money can buy, if money could still buy things.”

  She motioned for him to sit down on the milk crate. Warily he lowered himself, watching her closely.

  “We need to settle some things, you and I,” she began.

  “You're looking better. You're welcome.” Another puff of smoke drifted up. Earl smiled to himself.

  “Okay, yes, thank you. Thank you for everything. I really can't repay you, not with anything that means anything.”

  “Nope.” He grinned. He was really enjoying his cigar.

  “So, here's my thought. I need to get to Staten Island, and I can't hoof it at the moment.”

  “Nope.”

  “But if I could be driven, it would be much, much faster.”

  He stared down his cigar at her.

  “And you can't drive, I guess.”

  “Never needed to. I don't know the first thing, honestly.” She spread her hands wide, like someone showing they had nothing in their pockets.

  He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, thinking. Smoking.

  “Well, I could drive you. But then, like you said, what's in it for me?”

  “I've been thinking, and I think I came up with something in trade.”

  Earl nearly choked and shook his finger at her.

  “Hey now, you're too young for that sort—”

  “No! Jeez. Ewww.”

  Earl mouthed the word 'ewww' and raised his eyebrow.

  “No, I mean right now, you're living under the sidewalk.”

  “It's not bad.” He looked around, appraisingly.

  “But what if, in exchange for driving me there, I put in a good word, and get you into the haven?”

  The old man got a serious look on his face. He leaned forward and cleared his throat.

  “Okay, I'm gonna tell you a story. A story about Earl. A true story. I did something once. It was supposed to be a good thing. All the lawyers and the DA and the feds, they all acted like I was some kind of hero. Up until then, I was no hero. For some reason, I wanted to be one.”

  “So, they came to me. 'Oh, we'll protect you until the trial,' they said. 'We're going to put the guy behind bars so he can't hurt you,' they promised. Then they said, 'We'll protect your family.'“

  He brushed his fingers across his eyes.

  “I buried my wife and my two sons. Laid them in the earth like they were someone else's family. Like I wasn't me. It was a message from a former employer.”

  “Bandorelli,” she guessed. His face recoiled in horror, or guilt. Earl got up and started pacing.

  “I used to do…enforcing. For Mr. Diamond. I knew everything about his operation. My wife suspected. She was the one who persuaded me to tell the truth, to work with the feds.”

  He stopped, facing away from her in the dark.

  “That's not the point. The point is they promised me safety, the DA, the police, the task force. They had no idea how powerful Mr. Diamond was, how many fingers he had in all the pies. When they took my family, it was proof I couldn't trust anyone. I became Earl, the homeless guy. No one thinks twice about a bum you see on the street. And now, it's happening again. Staten Island is promising you safety.”

  “But I have to try. I have to get there, there are people waiting on me,” she said. “The world has changed. Maybe for the better.”

  “I doubt it, Angelica.”

  He got up and rummaged around in a corner. Finally, he pulled out a long device like it was Excalibur.

  “Here we go. I got this while scrounging. While you was deciding to wake up or not.” Earl handed her a metal rod with a round cuff at the top and a short bar just under the cuff. It was a hi-tech crutch.

  She got up and put the crutch under one arm, took a few wobbly steps around the place. Her leg still hurt, but she could use the brace to get around.

  “Okay, enough practice. You need to come with me,” Earl said, while packing things in his cart.

  “Where?”

  “Hopefully to a place that'll knock some sense into you.”

  * * *

  The view from Mr. Diamond's penthouse was beautiful, encompassing large sections of the city. Earl motioned her over to a telescope mounted on a platform before the large bulletproof windows.

  “Look through this thing. You got to squint one eye and bend down to see anything.”

  Dangerella started to bend, letting her crutch drop to the floor.

  “Make sure it's the eye not looking that you squint.”

  “Really, you think?” she shot back.

  “Hell, I don't know if you used a telescope before. Okay, what do you see? I had it aimed before.”

  “Is that…is that Staten Island?” she asked, almost to herself.

  “Yep, but what else do you see?”

  In the distance she could make out the huge concrete barrier at the end of the bridge leading onto the island.

  Dangerella stared at him. He was waiting for her to put things together. He motioned at her to look again.

  She focused on the streets. She had to take a breath quickly. What she saw shocked her. There was a knot of armed men, patrolling the streets in what looked like a very organized routine. That's what she saw. But what she didn't see worried her more. No children. No families. Nobody out enjoying the day. And it was a really nice day.

  “You know, baby doll, concrete is such a faceless thing. It's grey, a neutral color. It can be used to make a daycare, or a prison,” Earl said.

  “That's true,” she agreed.

  “And this here concrete is not telling us which one it is.” He pointed out the window. “Is it the concrete of a sanctuary, or…”

  “Only one entrance…” she said, holding her hand to her mouth.

  “You gotta ask yourself: Are they keeping people out, or keeping people in? If they were so all-fired, bent on saving mankind, why would they need to do either one?” he added, watching her carefully as she sat down in a large over-padded chair.

  Earl saw her break down, from the inside out. He knew what a shattered dream looked like on someone's face.

  Dangerella's face became animated, “O.M.G. We've got to stop Bull3tBoy!”

  * * *

  The dingy yellow cab bounced along Highway 278, which would become Goethals Bridge, the only entrance to Staten Island. The cab's suspension was shot, so they felt every little bump.

  The sides of the cab were scratched with the paint of various cars, from when they had been forced to squeeze through some tight spaces. The roadways to the island were clogged with unmoving vehicles. Some were abandoned, but most were manned by the dead.

  “This is it, coming up,” Earl said to Dangerella. She had her head buried in her tablet, frustrated by the lack of a Wi-Fi signal.

  “Bull3tBoy is supposed to meet us at the bridge. He said the beginning has concrete posts to stop the cars, and you have to walk on foot from there.”

  “How you gonna know who is Bullethead?”

  “I've seen his picture online.”

  “That could be fake, anyhow.”

  She didn't answer. She'd been thinking of that as a possibility and didn't want
to go there.

  “Got your crutch?”

  “Aye aye, cap'n,” she answered.

  They came upon the bridge. Newly restored, it was designed with what looked like delicate cords that pulled at the towers to keep it structurally sound. It seemed like a graceful futuristic creature lounging across the water.

  Earl dropped any chatter they'd been having. He stopped the cab, hung his hands on the top of the steering wheel and peered out at the bridge.

  Dangerella got out and walked over to the driver's side window as she pulled on the straps of her new backpack, leaning on her walking crutch.

  “Thank you,” she said, and appeared as though she meant it.

  “Just go find your boy,” he said quietly, turning the key to stop the cab from idling. He leaned back in the hot seat and watched her as she hobbled away from him toward the bridge.

  Earl pulled out another fine cigar and chewed on the end a bit. He hoped this wasn't going to take long.

  * * *

  People came to the bridge on foot. They flowed around Earl like a rock in a stream. Every once in a while, he'd nod if someone noticed him sitting in the cab. One or two people eyed him suspiciously.

  “Hurry up, baby doll. Things could get a little tense out here,” he muttered to himself. His cigar was about halfway smoked. He reached down and swigged another drink from his liquor bottle.

  Earl sat up straighter in the cab, keeping an eye out for Dangerella. He'd lost sight of her when she bumped her way into the crowd waiting at the bridge. Some people must have been waiting for others to join them, and Earl figured some were scoping out the situation.

  On his right he saw some bushes move. There crouched a young girl peering at the bridge between the leaves. She wasn't making any moves to head out there herself so Earl kept watching her, intrigued.

  She turned her head in his direction. She didn't see him in the glare off the windshield, but it gave him a chance to recognize her.

  “Well, I'll be…” he said, as he grabbed his cigar and stepped out of the cab. He walked slowly and carefully, because he didn't want to spook the girl. He'd almost gotten within fifteen feet of her before she caught sight of him.

  She looked like a worried rabbit, making ready to jump. Then, she narrowed her eyes and took a good look at him.

  “You,” she said.

  “You back.”

  “You're still alive?”

  Earl patted himself down. “Looks that way.”

  The girl darted her eyes over the scene, making sure no one else approached.

  “You're a long way from the bakery,” Earl finally said.

  “I know. You remem—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember you making me take your day-old bread. I felt sorry for you, so I went ahead and ate it.” Earl smiled.

  “What? That's not how I remember it.” She smiled back. “I seem to recall you didn't want to accept charity.”

  His expression turned hard-edged. “No, you're right, little girl, I don't accept charity. Earl can look out for himself. I told you those rolls and biscuits were going to be just a loan. And Earl always pays back his debts. I'd have gotten around to paying.”

  “Well, you don't owe me anything now, the world has gone crazy. Nothing means anything anymore.”

  Earl drew slowly on his cigar and looked past the bushes to the general area of the bridge. He noticed she couldn't help but flinch when he did.

  “Something bothers you about that wall, ain't that right?”

  She nodded slightly.

  “You should be bothered. Hell, we should all be bothered. Something ain't right about all of this.”

  The girl ran to him and collapsed into his massive chest, tears flowing.

  “Hold on now,” Earl said to the top of her head.

  “And who the heck is this?” said a voice behind them. Earl turned his head, still holding up the distraught girl, to answer Dangerella.

  “Her name's Linnie, or Alex or something like that.”

  A muffled word came through the lapel of Earl's coat, “Lexia. My name is Lexia.”

  Dangerella hobbled over to them and put her hand on Lexia's shoulder. She patted it a couple of times. It seemed like she wanted to comfort someone besides herself, for once.

  “So, where's Bullethead?” Earl asked.

  A pained expression crossed her face. “Either he never showed…” she said, before taking a breath deep into her chest. She let it out heavily and scratched her freckled forehead. “Or he's already in, and it's just too late. Either way, I guess we should head on back.”

  Earl nodded, like he fully expected that to be the situation. He pushed himself apart from Lexia, holding her gently by the shoulders.

  “You. You got a place to crash?” he asked her as he bent down and looked into her eyes.

  “I…don't want to go in there. Not on the island. Something smells wrong about it.”

  “Well,” said Dangerella as she readjusted the straps on her backpack with a bit of struggle, “You ever thought about living in a luxury penthouse apartment in Manhattan? It's safe.”

  Lexia flinched at the word 'safe.' For a moment her shoulders hunched and she looked about to cry. Then she wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing the tears and what little makeup she wore.

  She nodded, making a firm decision, “I do know how to bake.”

  Learn more about John Gregory Hancock

  Roland looked in the mirror at the black skull and crossbones tattoo burned into his skin. Even with everything happening on the streets, that tattoo was still the worst decision in his life. His music career and choice in friends were questionable, but it was the tattoo that still made him cringe. The music, the booze, and the dumb decisions were things of the past though. The news was the only music in Roland’s run-down bungalow now.

  “Why can’t we watch something else?” his mother yelled over the fizzling sound from the television.

  “Oma,” Roland said over his shoulder through his medical mask. “This is important stuff here. We gotta listen—”

  “I’m going to be late for class,” she screamed, knocking her oatmeal to the ground. “Class is starting in fifteen minutes!”

  Roland sighed and picked up the bowl, scooping the oatmeal off the carpet. Without her medication, his mother’s Alzheimer’s worsened with each day. Most of the time, she had no clue where she was. School seemed to be the most important thing to her these days. He emptied the bowl of oatmeal into the garbage and tied up the bag.

  A sigh escaped his mother’s lips followed by a chuckle. He looked back over his shoulder at her, wishing that she would come back to him. The old her, the one who would constantly watch MTV just to make sure she was keeping up with the times. The one who would come to all of Roland’s shows regardless of the venue. The one he saved from going to a nursing home after her house burned down; he still kicked himself for not noticing the symptoms of Alzheimer’s then.

  “What are you doing in there, Rolo?” Oma called from her chair in the living room.

  The nickname made a smile flash across his face. Sometimes the old her would appear out of nowhere. He lived for those moments. But he knew better than to get his hopes up. “I’m taking out the trash Ma,” he said. “I’ll be back. Stay here.”

  “Don’t take too long,” she responded. “I’ve got to be at the school in an—”

  “Yeah, I know,” he responded, pulling the gas mask his brother gave him over his head. He opened the closet door to his right and pulled a pistol from the top shelf.

  The metal object felt foreign in his palm. It was another gift from his brother Paton before he disappeared. It was the kindest gesture his brother had made since getting sober. He hated carrying it when he did mundane things like taking the trash out, but after seeing the looting and mass hysteria on the news, it was the only thing he had to protect what was left of his family.

  “Keep your mask on, Ma. I’ll be right back.”

  “Rolo,�
� she said. “Don’t forget about the school assignment—”

  He shut the door before she could finish. He’d heard enough of her for today.

  The street had been quiet since the Fever spread like wildfire. At first, Roland thought it was great compared to the pre-virus hum of his neighborhood. By pre-virus hum, he meant gunshots and shouting from midnight to five in the morning.

  But the silence eventually grew past its nice stage. Now, the silence meant that death was waiting to knock on each door until there was no one left. A roaring purr of an engine bounced off the siding of the houses around him. He gazed around the corner of his house at a red car with dark windows; skulls floated in bright flames painted down the sides. Without warning, the car took off in a loud roar down the street and squealed around a corner.

  That car had been doing laps around the neighborhood for the past few days. Each time Roland saw it, another stream of smoke would pop up somewhere in the neighborhood. He went to the source of a smoke cloud one day and found the charred remains of an elderly man that lived three houses down. Sometimes he found himself thinking that the person in that car was Death himself.

  Laughter billowed out from inside Roland’s house. He marched across the yard toward the backdoor while the rest of the trash burned. The news on the television filled his ears again along with his mother’s soft laugh. He closed the door behind him and slid the bolt action closed.

  “Rolo, your brother is here,” she responded. “I let him in the front door.”

  My brother? Roland hadn’t spoken to his brother since he gave him the gun and gas masks about a week ago. They fought about their mother. Paton wanted him to move her to his house with his family so that they could all stay safe together until help came, but Roland knew that moving her would only make her more confused. He disappeared back to his wife and kids when they couldn’t come to an agreement. It was hard being his brother at times, but he knew what Oma needed and Paton didn’t.

  Roland flipped around to spot a man with a gas mask and a sweat-filled hairline tearing their kitchen apart. The front door was wide open, letting a cool breeze pass through the house. He looked to Oma’s face and felt his heart stop. His mother’s gas mask sat on the table next to her, along with her backup medical mask. She smiled wide when she saw her son—her lips pulled back over her teeth like they would if this were any other time.