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Prep For Doom Page 19


  Owen took a carton of milk from one of the panniers and held it out. “There’s plenty more inside.”

  She accepted the milk, but it was clear she wanted more than food. “Can’t I come with you?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” He nodded his head back up toward the hill. “Town’s that way. You’ll find help there.” His gut twisted. Guilt.

  He turned, cursing under his breath at the sight of the hill up ahead. No chance of a quick getaway, not with the heavy backpack and the panniers. He set off anyway, sensing without looking that she would follow.

  “Please,” she called. “Wait.”

  Owen pushed on and her voice faded as his mind zoned out, retreated into nothingness. A place where he was numb, where nothing or no one could reach him.

  Finally he reached the brow of the hill. Without looking back he threw his leg over the saddle and pedalled like the very devil was behind him.

  He arrived back at the farm just before sundown. The gate into the long driveway was kept locked against strangers but on impulse he tugged at the faded sign, turning it round until the neat stencilled letters spelling ‘Hollow Tree Farm’ faced backward. On the blank side he scrawled with his spray can ‘FEVER HERE.’ Nan Tapper wouldn’t make it down the drive in her wheelchair, at least not without his help, in which case he’d be able to sneak the sign back around before she saw it.

  “You’re late,” said Nan as he arrived at the porch steps. Her beady eyes took in the backpack and the panniers. “Did you see your mum today?” she added when Owen didn’t answer.

  He shook his head. “She’s too sick for visitors right now. I told you that.”

  “Hm.” She didn’t look satisfied, but with Nan Tapper that wasn’t unusual.

  Owen dumped his pack on the bottom step and unstrapped the panniers. “Nana, you’re meant to stay inside when I’m not here. Remember?”

  The old lady huffed. “You’d have me roasted like a chicken…”

  “Nana…”

  “Oh, I know,” she grumbled, releasing the brake on her chair and wheeling herself indoors.

  “Just give us a sec and I’ll make dinner,” he called, wheeling his bike round the back and up the rickety wheelchair ramp.

  “I can make dinner. I’m not totally incapable,” she replied, amidst a loud clattering from the kitchen.

  Owen wiped sweat from his eyes and walked back to the front, scanning the yard, the driveway, the woods, looking for any sign of strangers. The farm was secluded, surrounded by thick forest at the front and the river out back, but Owen felt sure that someone would remember the old farm at the end of the lane. One day, probably soon, someone would come.

  What he would do then, he didn’t know.

  “You coming in then, or you just gonna stand out there all evenin’?”

  With one last glance, Owen turned and headed inside.

  Hollow Tree wasn’t really a farm anymore. As his grandparents got older they’d been able to do less and less and when Grandpa Tapper passed, Nan stopped the working side completely. But the farmhouse was still home and she would never leave without a fight.

  “Something happen today?” she asked, ladling pasta onto his plate.

  Owen fingered the knife on the table. He knew he should be hungry but the sudden knot in his stomach wouldn’t let him enjoy the food. “I went to Sunnydale.”

  “And?”

  “There’s a lot of stuff there.” He forked up some food and put it in his mouth, made himself chew and swallow.

  “See anybody?”

  He shook his head and concentrated on his plate—chew and swallow, chew and swallow—but he could feel her eyes on him. As though she knew what he’d done, leaving that girl and the baby… Was it the right thing? The wrong thing? He still hadn’t decided.

  After a few moments of silence she finished her last mouthful and wiped her lips with a napkin. “You’ll go and see your mum tomorrow?”

  Owen stopped, the fork an inch from his mouth. “I’ll try.”

  Unbidden, unwanted, a memory sneaked through the wall he’d built in his mind.

  Sunlight and sweat, white fingertips pressed against glass…

  “She needs you more than I do. And there’s your sister to think of…”

  “I know.”

  “You can take them some of my applesauce,” she added, putting the plates and the cutlery together. “See how they’re getting along. Then you can come back here and tell me all about it.”

  * * *

  The next day he went to Sunnydale again. Owen didn’t need more food right away but the more they could stockpile, the better.

  That’s what he told himself.

  He found himself heading for the same place behind the bushes, waiting there awhile before heading into another apartment. Then when he was done collecting supplies he waited again, longer this time. But there was no sign of the girl.

  Perhaps she’d headed into town like he’d told her, found help after all. Or perhaps…

  He stopped himself, determined not to think about it anymore, but before he left he took Nan’s jars of applesauce from his backpack and set them on the ground. Then he set off up the hill back toward the woods.

  The man came out of nowhere.

  One moment Owen was pedalling along the path, the next something big and heavy crashed into him, knocking him into the dirt. He grunted in pain as gravel scraped down his whole left side and before he could even recover his bike was ripped away. “What the hell?” Looking up he saw a skinny man in overalls hovering over him, Owen’s bike in his grasp.

  “Stay down, kid.” The man talked tough but his eyes were nervous, darting around like he didn’t know what to do next—or maybe, Owen thought with a stab of fear, he was waiting for back-up. Back when he’d still dared to head into the centre, when there had still been a chance of finding his dad there, he’d seen a lot of survivors. At first they’d been disoriented, stunned into a state of co-operation. But soon enough they’d started forming groups, some good, some bad… Owen had quickly decided to avoid them all.

  “Give me back my bike,” he said, getting to his feet.

  The skinny guy shook his head and gestured to Owen’s backpack. “What else you got?”

  “Give it back!”

  “Or what?”

  The man didn’t look that strong, but that didn’t stop Owen feeling scared. He wasn’t used to fighting. He didn’t want to get hurt. But he really, really needed his bike. Before he could think about it he lunged.

  They struggled over the bike in a surreal tug of war, as intense as it was brief. The man was taller but Owen’s backpack lent him momentum and he managed to wrench the bike away, swinging it round like a weapon until it smashed into his opponent, knocking him to the ground. Both of them were panting hard, the man’s disbelief turning to anger as he fingered the blood pouring from a deep gash on his head. “You little shit,” he said.

  His anger shook Owen into action. He mounted the battered bike and took off.

  The man started yelling, his voice following Owen all the way down the street. “I know you—Owen Tapper!” he said. “I know you!”

  When Owen reached the woods, he dismounted, almost falling down in his haste to get under cover of the trees. He stumbled over the uneven ground, pushing his bike like a battering ram. His nerves were singing from the fight, stomach churning at the thought of all that blood. He hadn’t meant to hurt the guy, but it had been instinctual. A visceral reaction to protect what was his. To escape.

  The woods were quiet but he kept looking back, scared that the man had followed him. But that was impossible; he’d left him way behind. Still, Owen couldn’t forget the man’s words:

  I know you! Owen Tapper!

  He knew Owen’s name. Did he know where he lived? Where his nana lived?

  Owen tried to calm down, but it was no use—and when a figure stepped out from behind a bush he jumped a foot in the air. “Jesus! Dammit!”

  “You,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” The girl looked guilty. “You followed me?”

  She looked even dirtier than before. And scared. “I didn’t know what else to do. I went into town like you said but…it’s bad there. They’re stealing, fighting…and worse.” She swallowed. “I couldn’t…”

  “Quiet!” His head whipped round, listening. For a second there was silence, then he heard it again. The unmistakable sound of bodies moving through the forest…and men’s voices. “You followed me. And they followed you,” he added. “You led them right here!”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry…”

  “Shh.” The men were close. Owen knew that running was hopeless. He scanned the trees for a hiding place. “Over there.”

  They crammed themselves into the half decayed trunk. A few paces away, Owen’s bike lay hidden underneath a heap of ferns. The girl pressed closer and his nose stung with the smell of dirt and sweat, while in its sling the baby whimpered. “Can’t you keep it quiet?” he whispered.

  “It is a she. And no, I can’t. She’s five months old.” Still, she adjusted the sling to angle the child into her chest and the whimpering subsided.

  Finally they were quiet. For a precious few moments the sounds subsided and Owen began to hope…but within seconds the rustling and snapping started up again. Closer. The men had ceased their chatter, concentrating on finding their prey, but Owen could hear them all the same. Heavy, laden with weapons and supplies, swaggering through the new world like they owned it.

  When they reached the area by the tree, Owen held his breath, hoping they wouldn’t look too closely. The trees were full and lush, heavy with midsummer, but if any of the men poked around too much they’d find the hollow trunk. He sensed them moving outside, pacing like sniffer dogs.

  “She’s not here,” said one, sounding bored.

  “Oh and where’d she go then, smart ass?”

  “I’m beat,” said another, younger voice. Owen gave a start as he recognised the lazy drawl. Cam Starling. Beloved quarterback and supposed all-round nice guy. Maybe not anymore. “Let’s just go back.” Cam came closer, until he was only yards from their hideout.

  “Kid’s right,” said the first speaker. “There’s other girls back at Pete’s.” At that moment Cam came into view and Owen’s heart leapt into his mouth. Another step and he’d be right on top of the bike. Seconds slowed, dripping like treacle as Owen fixed his eyes on the boy’s feet, praying he wouldn’t come any closer.

  “Yeah but she was real pretty…” said the second man. He cursed. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Owen let out a shuddering breath as their footsteps receded, though it was a few minutes before he dared set foot out of hiding. Even after they were sure the men had gone, the girl clung onto his arm, as though fear had frozen her to him. Angry, Owen shook her off and strode over to snatch his bike from underneath the ferns.

  “Don’t follow me again,” he said.

  * * *

  Back at the farm Owen let Nan help clean up his cuts and grazes from the fall, too exhausted to protest. It was only when they’d finished, sitting on the back porch with comforting tea, that she asked him what happened.

  “I fell off my bike.”

  Nan didn’t ask any more questions. She just stared at the river until darkness slid over the sky. When the light was gone, Owen wheeled her inside and helped her get ready for bed. All the time he was distracted, thinking about the girl with the baby, the men in the forest…the man who tried to take his bike.

  I know you!

  There was still a world out there and he couldn’t avoid it forever.

  It was a long time before he could sleep. He thought about Nan, about how he could protect her if the men came to the farm. The short answer was, he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he would do.

  His father would have known. His mother would have smoothed Owen’s brow and told him it was going to be all right. But the Fever had come and nothing was ever going to be all right again.

  The next morning when he came down for breakfast, Nan was already up. On the table lay a glass of tea, a bowl of oatmeal…and a 9mm brushed steel Luger pistol.

  * * *

  Owen knew how to use a gun. As a cop, his dad had wanted Owen to know how to handle one should the need arise, but Owen’s mother had drawn the line at keeping a gun in the house. Grandpa Tapper kept a shotgun, rifles for hunting…and apparently a 9mm Luger, which now sat snug in the front pocket of Owen’s backpack.

  Even with the pistol for protection, he decided to take a day off from foraging. There was plenty to do around the farm, sections of fence to mend, ground to be cleared.

  In the woods it was peaceful. He could forget the day before—the weeks before—and remember how life used to be. Him and his sister playing hide and seek, sent off for the day with a picnic and their swimsuits. Long summer evenings lying in bed, his parents downstairs—the soft tones of their conversation lulling them to sleep. Before he knew it, the day was almost gone.

  When he got back to the house, it was quiet, the front porch empty. He headed round the back, pleased that his nana had finally listened and stayed indoors. Until he saw the blood on the ramp.

  Owen scrabbled in his pack for the pistol, thanking the Lord he’d loaded it already, as a man’s voice sounded inside the house. His heart pounded as he crept up to the back door, ears straining to make out the words. The voice sounded strange and the words ran on in a constant stream, without pause. Owen took a deep breath and swung the door open wide.

  There was a crash as the pot Nan was holding slipped from her hands. “Owen! What the heck? You scared the bejeesus out of me!”

  He stopped and stared, taking in the empty room. “There’s blood outside,” he said. “On the ramp.”

  “I know.” Nan reached up to lower the volume on the radio perched atop the sideboard. “Been waiting for you to get back and clean it up for me. We got a visitor, well two…” She considered. “Maybe one and a half.”

  Owen stood in the doorway, speechless. Visitors… the radio… He didn’t know where to start. “How long have you been listening to that?” he asked finally.

  Nan hoisted a pan of water onto the stove and lit the gas. “Every day since 1978.” She wheeled the chair around to face him. “I know what you’ve been doing, babe. And I appreciate your trying to protect me, but I’m eighty three. There’s not much gets past me anymore. Now why don’t you go and clean up outside while I make us a nice cup of tea.” A cry came from upstairs. “Looks like we woke baby,” she said, looking up as the girl appeared at the top of the stairs, feet sporting one purple spotted sock and one tight, white bandage. “How’s your foot, love?”

  “It’s better. Thank you.”

  “Ester, this is Owen.” The girl stared at him. “Owen, this is Ester.” Owen stared back. “And Jojo,” said Nana, smiling at the baby who stared at everyone and everything.

  Dinner was tense, Nana acting like they entertained visitors every day, Owen avoiding the girl’s gaze while she eyed him as though she thought he’d chase her out of the house given half a chance. Which right now he had to admit he felt like doing. Only the baby seemed to be enjoying herself, kicking her legs in the air.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” Owen asked Nana later, once the girl had gone to bed. “About the Fever?”

  “I figured you’d tell me, when you were ready.”

  “Mom…and Hope…” Owen tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go down. “I don’t know where Dad is…”

  They were silent, the ticking of the clock the only sound. Owen felt like he was holding his breath, but the truth was he’d been holding in a whole lot more, for the longest time. He couldn’t do it anymore.

  Nan didn’t say anything. She just took his hands between hers, like she had when he was a child, and let him cry it out.

  In the morning when he woke the world felt different—like a page had been turned or a line crossed over.

  Th
e baby had been up most of the night and by the time he got down for breakfast Ester was upstairs asleep again. Nana watched him eat, like a dog waiting for the leftovers, and the second he’d finished she gestured to the back door. “We need to talk,” she said.

  They settled themselves on the back porch. In front of them the water drifted by, calm, meandering. Hard to believe that their gentle river wound along into the Hudson, the current taking it all the way down to New York City, to the Atlantic…gateway to the world. Owen had often dreamed he might go there someday. But like a schooner in a storm, the world had been sunk, taking his dreams down with it.

  “That girl’s been telling me about the gangs in town,” said Nan. “How they’re stealing stuff, hurting people. Not enough police left to stop them taking what they want.” She paused. “They’re going to want what we’ve got, Owen—and we’re not going to be able to stop them from taking it. You know that, don’t you? It’s time to think about getting out, before they come.”

  Owen was silent. He thought she was right, but leaving was a scary prospect. He’d felt safe at the farm. No bodies, no looting or fighting, no emergency broadcasts on the TV. At Hollow Tree Farm he’d almost been able to pretend that none of it was real.

  “But where would we go? The Fever’s everywhere. Even if I could drive we don’t have a car—and most of the roads are blocked.”

  Nan folded her hands in her lap. “Back when we were younger, before I got sick, your grandpa built us a boat. Took him all his spare time for most of the nineties, beautiful little thing she is—big enough to live on for a while, until things get better. It’s down in the boathouse. You take it; take yourself and Ester and the baby.”

  “And you,” Owen added.

  Nan smiled and gestured to her useless legs. “Reckon my cruising days are over don’t you?”

  “I won’t go without you.”

  Her smile faded. She looked out at the river drifting by. “I’m dying, Owen. Not like that,” she added, seeing panic in his eyes. “Seems maybe I’m immune to this Fever thing—don’t that just take the biscuit?” With that she shook her head. “What I got’s slower, but just as deadly. And it’s going to get worse—a lot worse—before the end. I don’t want that. Not for me. Not for you.”