Prep For Doom Page 31

At the mention of leaving, Sidney honed in on what he was saying. “Escape? But I thought…”

  The older man shook his head. “What we told you about the beacons is true. This person, he somehow managed to pose as a survivor to get in, but then disappeared before they could give him any injections.”

  “Why did he sneak in just to leave again?” Sidney asked.

  “His goal wasn’t to find safety. It was to gain information,” the man said. “He was trying to find out about PFD’s defenses, and how to get around them.”

  Maybe Sidney was just too tired to follow the logic of that. “Why?”

  “Those preppers you mentioned, they’re hardly the biggest threat to us right now.” The older man pressed his hand to his chin as he studied Sidney. “We questioned the man we caught, extensively. He never told us the name of the group he worked for, but we were able to discover that whoever this group is, they know the truth about PFD.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Sidney asked hopefully.

  “Not if they believe PFD has no hope of coming up with a cure and blames them for destroying the world,” the older man said. “Add in the fact that they’re hell-bent on revenge and will stop at nothing to keep PFD from gaining control of what’s left of the world. So no…this group is not a good thing.”

  Sidney’s last straggling hope of getting her sister to safety died a short death. More concerned with the impending war, the older man seemed unaffected by her dashed dreams. He squatted down next to her and met her eyes. “You and your sister will either die at the hands of the monsters who helped create this hell, or the lunatics intent on destroying what’s left. Those are your options if you choose not to help us.”

  Sidney swallowed hard, glancing over at her sleeping sister before turning back to the man. “And if I agree to help you?”

  “We’ll do everything we can to protect you both,” he said. “We can’t promise this will end the way we want it to, but we can promise that you’ll be doing something right, something good, with whatever time we all have left.”

  She and Vivi had escaped experimentation and prison only to find themselves stuck in the same situation all over again. They wanted Vivi’s blood. They would be locked up more tightly than they had been with PFD. They could die in this bunker without ever seeing the light of day again.

  Or they may save the world. What was left of it.

  Vivi had never been given a choice in any of this, but now it was up to Sidney to decide. Pushing up from the ground, she looked at the man. “If we’re going to be working together, maybe you should tell me your name.”

  “Abraham,” he said as he extended his hand.

  The relief on his face was echoed throughout the room. Even Sidney felt the tension release from her shoulders as they shook hands. She had no guarantee that she was making the right decision, but at least it had been her choice this time. She wasn’t being pushed blindly along a path set by someone else who had their own interests at heart. Fear and anger had driven her father away. Desperation caused her mother to do terrible things, and eventually led to her own death.

  The need to protect her sister had been the fuel behind everything Sidney had done lately. That certainly hadn’t changed, but Sidney was done being driven by circumstance and terror. Hiding and running away would accomplish nothing. She was ready to take a stand and protect her sister, and just maybe do something that would matter, that would help others and not tear apart what little was left of humanity. Sidney was taking control.

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  The shovel point cracked against the hard dirt and a thin layer of topsoil spun into the air. Wendy paused, rubbed her blistering hands together rapidly, and tried again. The impact vibrated up her arms, but the shovel bit no deeper. It was pointless; the dirt was like rock. With a choking sob, she crumpled to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  The breeze kicked up slightly and rattled the chamisa bushes lining the back fence. It’s where Wendy had hoped to bury her mother. In her mind, the empty spot in the middle was the perfect choice. But she’d never buried anything in her life, and contemplating it any further was a waste of time.

  Yesterday, her world had been a different place. Yesterday—even though her mother’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep due to a terrible headache—she’d made pancakes for breakfast. Yesterday, as usual, the wind had blown hot over the valley. And despite the horrific stories of death that poured from the television hourly, yesterday had been a relatively good day.

  Then, late afternoon, her mother had vomited up a lunch laced with traces of blood. Wendy, and her younger sister Julie, had stared in shock as she’d bent over the sink—blood smatter spotting her chin. She’d collapsed with aching fatigue, and she could hide the cause of the headache no longer. The virus had arrived at their doorstep.

  Wendy fiercely wiped her tears, stood, and gripped the shovel. She stabbed it at the ground again and again, a rage bubbling up inside. The shovel never hit the same mark twice. Another jab, and she flung it as hard as she could across the yard and into the barbed wire fence that divided the two properties.

  It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be the one disposing of her mother’s body. But there was no one else. No neighbors, no emergency responders, no one. Everyone had fled the city…or died.

  Her sweat-drenched hair clung to her forehead, and she pushed it away in frustration. She eyed the navy-blue sleeping bag at her feet.

  Three weeks ago, they’d gone camping at Ute Lake. Rain had been scarce all season, and that night had been extremely hot and dry. Her mom had smiled from across the campfire, her short, dark curls still wet from her swim. Wendy hadn’t told her how beautiful she’d looked. It was not cool for a sixteen year old to tell her mom she was beautiful, so she’d kept the thought to herself. They’d climbed into their sleeping bags without another word.

  She wished she’d said something. But on that night, she’d never dreamed her mother’s sleeping bag would one day be a coffin.

  Yesterday, her mom had climbed into it for the last time.

  “When, I’m gone,” she’d wheezed, her lungs caving under the last, gruesome symptoms, “you zip me up in here, and take me out of this house. Do you understand?”

  Wendy had simply nodded, tears threatening, and pressed a cool cloth to her mother’s forehead.

  Now, the sun beat heavy in the windy, dry heat; the sleeping bag beckoned to her, and she cursed the hard ground. She had no choice but to concede to option two. She loathed option two, but she had to lay her mother’s body to rest somehow. The necessity ate at her.

  Hesitantly, she took a fistful of the sleeping bag in each hand and lugged her precious load across the yard and through the side gate to the garage. This wasn’t her mom any more. No. Her mom was singing in the heavenly choir.

  Her mom had sung like an angel—another unspoken compliment that Wendy regretted. Every week, her mom was the first member of the choir to arrive at the large church in the Heights—an hour early. It was a drive for them, and every week, Wendy complained.

  “Why do we have to go so early, Mom? I mean, we could sleep another forty-five minutes if you weren’t so anal.”

  “Hush,” her mom would say. “You need to get your priorities straight, Wendy. It’s one day out of the week. Can you not devote one day to God without complaint?”

  Wendy didn’t remember the scolding now. Only the sweet sound of the voice she would never hear again.

  She pulled the sleeping bag to a stop and straightened. She didn’t mind church. But many times, she would have rather been somewhere else. Sleeping, listening to music, making out with her boyfriend. Her chest tightened.

  She hadn’t heard from Chad. Three days since the virus struck Albuquerque, and no call. No text. She was beginning to worry. He lived north, in Rio Rancho, but they talked every day. Every day. She sighed. There had to be a logical explanation for why he hadn’t called. The alternative was not acceptable.

>   Her life had changed dramatically since she’d met Chad two years earlier. He made her feel safe and loved. He was her prince. Her singing, guitar-strumming knight in shining armor. Even in her grief, this made her smile.

  They’d grown closer this year—close enough that he’d finally let her meet his father. A pilot with the National Guard, he cared about two things: flying and “prepping” for the end of the world. One consisted of a search and rescue helicopter; the other involved much more, including a very popular apocalyptic website that even her friend, Billy, had been sucked into. Wendy didn’t understand the obsession, but Charles Montgomery was always nice to her. Chad didn’t talk about it, and they spent very little time at his house. Wendy knew he was embarrassed, so she didn’t pry. In truth, Mr. Montgomery was kind of a fanatic.

  But now, she wondered if he’d had the right idea. Not that it could have stopped the storm that had swept in so quickly to take them out one by one.

  She squeezed back the tears. Chad would survive. She needed him to with every bit of her heart. Everyone else had slipped out of her grip. Her dad had died of cancer five years ago, even though Wendy had prayed every day that he’d beat it. And now her mom…

  Wendy bit her trembling lip. Julie waited inside. She was all Wendy had left. Sweet Julie, who never complained about anything. Never argued. Always did what she was told. So accepting. And she was brave. Wendy wasn’t. She didn’t feel one ounce of bravery, and she wrangled with their mother as the garage door ascended. Get up! I can’t do this without you! She wanted to scream it. The answer was silence.

  She sighed, and the hollow sound magnified her grief.

  Inside the garage, the deep freezer chest squatted against the wall. Wendy left the sleeping bag, moved to the freezer, and lifted the lid. It was half-filled with sirloins, ground beef, chicken breasts. Still, there was plenty of room. She cringed. Her mother’s body would be laid to rest alongside the frozen remains of potential dinner foods that would never be eaten. The image was ugly, but it had to be done.

  She tugged the sleeping bag across the smooth floor, sliding past her mother’s black Ford Escort. She didn’t think, she simply scooped her hands beneath her mother’s body and lifted. It bent in the crook of her arms and Wendy shuddered in revulsion, straining against the weight. Her mom had been gone two hours; she still felt so lifelike. But she was dead, and this sent Wendy into a nervous panic until she managed to jostle her mother’s small frame into place.

  She didn’t know how long it would take for her mom to decompose, but she hoped this would hold it off. She pressed the fabric down and slammed the lid with a resounding thud. With the sound, her heart cracked. She spread her palm flat atop the freezer for a brief moment, sniffled once, and turned on her heels. She entered the house through the screened door. It fell shut with an angry smack.

  * * *

  “Here Julie. Try to eat something.”

  Julie lay on the couch under a heavy multi-patterned quilt, her legs draped across Wendy’s lap. She’d refused to stay in her bed. The sunroom—her favorite place in the house—this is where she wanted to die. Wendy hadn’t argued with her. Instead, she’d helped her to the room full of sunlight.

  She raised her little sister’s head, tipped the cup of soup toward her lips, and Julie truly did try to comply. Her lips worked weakly against the edge of the cup. She slurped, swallowed, slurped again. Still, the soup was barely disturbed. Julie fell back against the pillows with a tiny, aching sigh.

  “It hurts to breathe,” she whispered.

  She pried her lids open and Wendy fought the urge to turn away. The whites of Julie’s eyes were gone. Every blood vessel had exploded; it was painful to see. Wendy set the soup aside and tightly clamped Julie’s hand.

  “Just take shallow breaths, okay?”

  Julie nodded, her eyes drooping, and Wendy brushed a strand of sandy-colored hair away from her sister’s eyes. Her fingertips grazed Julie’s forehead, and she was astonished by the heat. Julie grimaced, coughed once, and a trickle of blood oozed from of the corner of her mouth. Wendy dabbed at the blood with a wadded napkin.

  Julie was severely dehydrated. After spending hours rotating between diarrhea and vomiting, she had nothing left. No energy, no strength, nothing but purple bruises and hemorrhaging lungs. The virus proved its ruthless determination to kill her with every cough.

  “Did you bury Mom?” Julie whispered, and Wendy froze. She could not tell Julie about the deep freezer. It was too morbid.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Wendy nodded.

  “Did you pray? And say her favorite scripture?”

  Wendy bit her lip. Of course, Julie would have remembered to do those two simple things. And so why hadn’t she? Say a prayer; recite a verse. It was that easy. She took a breath, ready to lie again, but Julie saved her from it.

  In a coughing fit she bolted upright. Her eyes widened in a panic, and before Wendy could react, blood spewed in a river of crimson. It splattered over the quilt, sprayed Wendy’s face, her chest. Julie raised her hands to her own face in horrified shock.

  “I’m sorry,” she wheezed. She dragged the back of one hand across her mouth. “Wendy…”

  Wendy didn’t move, stunned. Their eyes locked. Julie’s fingers grappled for Wendy’s hand as her lungs rattled.

  “Pray with me,” she whispered, tears in her voice. Her fingers tightened weakly. Wendy simply stared. She had no clue what to pray at a time like this. And so Julie began.

  “Dear God,” her voice was a mere whisper. “Thank you for the life you gave me. For my parents. For my sister.” She dragged in a choking breath and forced out the words. “I’m ready to come home to you, but it means I’ll leave her to face this all alone. Please be with her, God. And please, please don’t let her get sick. She won’t have anyone to take care of her. That’s all I ask, in Jesus’ name.”

  Tears edged the corners of Wendy’s eyes. “In Jesus’ name,” she whispered.

  Julie blinked, and Wendy saw the end in the motion. Another fit of coughing. Blood gurgled from Julie’s mouth; she fell back, her body stiffening as she gasped for air.

  “Julie?” Wendy leaned in. “Julie? Julie! No, no, no…”

  She leapt to her feet. Her hands hovered frantically, but she could do nothing.

  Julie, her face smeared with blood, released one final wheezing breath—and she was gone.

  Like a statue, Wendy stood over the lifeless form. She forgot about the blood; she forgot about the fear of infection. She fell to her knees, gathered up her baby sister, and wept.

  * * *

  She wept as the shower washed away the last evidence of her sister’s life. Pink-tinged and mocking, the water swirled around her feet and fled down the drain. She scrubbed her skin with a pedicure brush until it was raw and aching—like her heart.

  She would be next; she would die alone. The thought wrenched her gut. She pressed her back against the cold tile and slid down its surface to the shower floor. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked as the water, mingled with her tears, pummeled her.

  She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t just wait to die. As far as she knew, everyone in her small town of Tijeras Canyon was dead. By all rights, she should be dead, too. Both her mother and her sister had succumbed to the infection virtually overnight.

  So why had it overlooked her?

  She rested her chin on her knee. Dwelling on that question would send her to the edge of insanity. And she didn’t need that right now. She needed a human touch.

  She wanted Chad.

  The shower began to cool, and she shivered. She didn’t know what she might find out there on the streets of the city. The thought of leaving the house terrified her as much as staying put, but she had no choice. So she settled her mind; she would go to Rio Rancho.

  She stood and shut off the water. It was overwhelmingly possible that Chad was dead. And if not, he still may not be home. It was probable that his dad had taken him and his sister Annee out of the city.
And if he had, what then?

  She shook her head and reached for a towel. She’d go to Chad’s anyway. What would it hurt? And if he was gone, then she’d find Billy.

  Billy Young was undoubtedly one of her more eccentric friends. She’d known him since middle school. He had an overly-active imagination due to far too much online gaming, and his membership on Montgomery’s website only strengthened his eccentricity. But mostly, Billy was a computer wizard. He knew the infrastructure of this city because he’d climbed inside the system more than once while sitting at his own desk. Last summer, he’d hacked into the city’s power grid and turned every single stoplight red. Mass confusion had erupted, along with not a few angry commuters, until he’d switched it back after an hour. A month later, he’d managed to weasel into the online security system at the Metropolitan Detention Center and unlock all the inside prison cells in the female ward.

  He never did get caught, but he did share his high-tech escapades with Wendy and Chad, who told his father. Charles Montgomery was impressed, and Billy’s feat earned him high clearance status on the website—and a nickname. The Ghost. He was beyond proud of his new title.

  Yes, if she couldn’t find Chad, Billy would know what to do.

  Wendy scrambled into her clothes, and rummaged through a drawer for a comb. Lately, Billy had become as obsessed with prepping as Montgomery, talking about it every time Wendy saw him at church. Once, when Chad had been with them, he’d mentioned a stocked bunker in New York. Chad had had very little to say in response, so Wendy had only half-listened. And Chad’s fingers, tangled with her own, had tightened.

  Wendy scooped up her cell phone from the bathroom counter and checked her messages. Still nothing. The tears came again, and the screen blurred out of her vision. She blinked the tears away and punched her outgoing calls tab. Chad’s number was at the top of the list. She pressed his name and waited. It rang…and rang.

  “Please pick up.” She hated how desperate she felt. “Please pick up.”

  After the twelfth ring, the line clicked.