Prep For Doom Read online

  “This is Chad. Leave a message.”

  Wendy bit her lip at the sound of his voice.

  “It’s me again. Listen. If you get this message, I’m heading for Rio Rancho. I’m okay, but—” Her voice cut short. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about her family. She exhaled deeply. “I’ll be there in an hour.” A pause. “Chad…please be home.”

  Afterward, she stared at the phone for a full minute. The screen went black, and a teardrop splattered the dark surface. She furiously wiped her eyes.

  She felt the anger creep in. Jaw tense, she clenched her fists against her thighs, fighting the urge to throw something. The world was all wrong. Backward. Her mom was dead; Julie was dead; Billy might be dead. Why not? And Chad?

  With a harsh intake of breath, she stifled her thoughts, and his brown eyes flooded her memory. Living eyes, full of laughter.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. And for peace.

  In her room, she tugged a duffel bag from her closet and packed four changes of clothes, a toothbrush, soap, all the essentials. She yanked every picture off the mirror where she’d taped them through the years. Her mom in Hawaii, sipping a piña colada. Julie dressed for her first school dance. Prom night. Chad’s arm draped around her while he kissed her cheek. She ran a thumb across his face before quickly tucking the pictures into her bag.

  Downstairs, she grabbed a basket from the laundry room and loaded it with every non-perishable thing it could hold. Canned foods, water, items from the medicine cupboard—just in case. She loaded the car and returned to the sunroom.

  She had nowhere to put Julie, so she simply took the quilt, and with a final look at her sister, pulled it over her face. It was covered in blood, and as an afterthought, Wendy lugged the pink-striped comforter down from Julie’s bed and flung it over the entire couch. It was the prettiest coffin she’d ever seen.

  She closed her eyes, and quoted Julie’s favorite Bible verse from Hebrews.

  “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”

  The verse stung, spilling from her lips. Silently she prayed for something left to hope for. Her fingertips brushed the striped fabric.

  “I love you, Julie.”

  They were the last words she ever said to her sister.

  * * *

  She parked her mother’s Ford in Chad’s driveway and cut the engine. The large, adobe-styled villa stretched out before her, intimidating as usual. But today, it felt more ominous than ever as she took the walkway up to the front door.

  She rang the doorbell and cupped her face to peer through the thick, foggy glass panel in the door. Nothing. She knocked, four quick raps.

  “Chad? Annee?”

  She rang the bell again, and then tried the knob. Surprisingly, it turned. She pushed the door open.

  She stood in the doorway, uneasy. It wasn’t like the Montgomerys to leave a door unlocked.

  “Chad?”

  She stepped into the foyer, and she felt it immediately—emptiness. No one was here.

  No one alive, anyway.

  Droplets of blood splattered in a ragged line across the foyer tiles.

  “No,” she whispered. Her hands flew to her mouth.

  Wendy followed the trail, which ended in a messy pool of blood and bile in the kitchen doorway. Gagging, she stepped around the crimson puddle, her eyes searching the kitchen. Smudges of blood smeared the countertop and the floor near the dining room. The blood ended there. She peered into the empty room, bent to see under the table. Nothing. She turned away as desperation flooded her.

  Back in the foyer, she paused at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the railing. The white-carpeted steps were clean, not one stain. She raised her eyes.

  “Chad!”

  She expected no answer, but she called anyway. She rested a foot on the bottom step just as her phone buzzed against her hip, startling her. She quickly tugged it from her back pocket.

  It was Billy.

  “Hello?”

  “Wendy?” Static accompanied his voice.

  “Oh, Billy,” An involuntary sigh escaped her. She spun, plugging her free ear and straining to hear. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

  “Where are you?” His voice cut out. “—at home? I’ve been trying to reach—”

  “No. I’m—”

  She stopped as Billy’s hacking cough filled her ears. Her heartbeat thudded inside her head.

  “Billy, are you sick? Please tell me you aren’t sick.” The phone blanked out, and Wendy panicked. “Hello?”

  She moved into the den, and the connection strengthened. His raspy breathing crackled in her ear.

  “Are you sick?” he asked.

  “No.” Her answer was filled with a stark shame. She should be sick. “Julie and Mom are gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he answered quietly. “You must be immune.”

  She straightened. “What?”

  “It’s what they’re saying.” He coughed again. “Not everyone is sick, and some people get well.”

  She digested his words in disbelief.

  “Wendy, where are you?”

  “Chad’s.”

  “Good. He’ll know where to go.”

  “No, Billy.” She shook her head and slumped against the sofa. “He’s not here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know where they are.” Her eyes scanned the den. “No one is here.”

  Billy began to choke, and Wendy held her breath. She couldn’t take this. She couldn’t witness another death of someone she cared about.

  “Billy?” His name was shaky on her tongue.

  “Listen to me,” he rasped. “Prep for Doom has a safe house in Moriarty. The Sunset Motel. If Chad’s alive, he’ll go there.”

  Wendy’s hope soared. “Okay.”

  “But if he’s not there, those guys won’t just let anybody in, so you need to take something.”

  “Like what?” Her nerves bounced across her skin.

  “You have your I.D?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Find something to prove you know Montgomery. Something they would want or need.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes darted around the den. She spotted the large gun case against the far wall full of rifles. It was open. Three guns were laid side by side on the floor in front of it.

  “There are a lot of guns here.”

  “Guns? How many?”

  “Fifteen or Twenty.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Why?”

  “Montgomery wouldn’t leave behind that much weaponry.”

  Wendy swallowed hard as her hope of finding Chad alive lessened a degree. She dreaded going upstairs, but she couldn’t leave before she checked.

  “Take the guns. Anything else? Something to prove they came from Montgomery’s?”

  She reached into the case and pulled out a small wooden box with the initials CJM carved into its lid. It was filled with bullets.

  “His initials on an ammo box?”

  “That’s a start.”

  She scouted the room. The desk in the corner was cluttered with documents, bills, and a pile of notebooks stacked neatly on the edge. She flipped one open. Slanted handwriting scrawled across the pages. She skimmed them until she began to see a clear pattern of survival tips and “how to” advice. These were Montgomery’s notes.

  “Okay, I found something that should work.”

  Billy wheezed in her ear.

  “Good. Wendy?”

  “Yeah?” She held her breath. Was this goodbye?

  “You’re going to be okay. Just get there.” His words trembled and Wendy heard his tears. “I’ll leave a post on the site about you. So tell them to check it.”

  “Billy…” A sob accompanied his name.

  “Don’t, Wendy.” He tried to sound firm. “I’m going to be okay, too. Live or die, God is with us. No fear, right? You know it just like I do. Hold onto it.”

  She nodded
with another sob. “You—you watch out for Julie up there, okay?”

  “You bet.” She heard his smile in the wheezy response. “See you on the other side.”

  “See you,” she choked out.

  The phone clicked. Wendy sank to her knees.

  * * *

  The sun was setting when Wendy pulled into the motel parking lot off Route 66. It was empty, and the lobby was dark. For a moment, she feared it was the wrong place. Then a light flickered at the entrance, and a shadow exited the building. A boy.

  Wendy gripped the steering wheel as he neared. He wore an oversized short-sleeved white tee, untucked. A bandana graced his forehead, but his most prominent feature almost made her put the car in reverse. An automatic rifle was slung against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger.

  Cautiously, he moved closer. His face was covered with a medical mask. She gawked at him until he tapped the glass with his knuckle, and she jumped.

  “Hey,” he hollered. The sound was muffled. Hesitantly, she cracked the window an inch.

  “Name?” he asked. He peered at a clipboard he carried.

  “Wendy Mitchell.” Her voice sounded small.

  He studied the board, looked up. “You’re not on the list.” His Hispanic accent was thick.

  “I know.” She swallowed. “My friend, Billy Young, left my name on the website.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  Wendy thought a moment. “The Ghost.”

  His brows lifted.

  “Asa and Juan will have to clear you. You can’t park here.” He tipped his head. “Take your car to that gas station.”

  “I have something for you.” She thumbed toward the back.

  He peered through the back window at her basket, then stepped away and motioned for her to get out. She popped the trunk first. At the sound, the boy’s gun swung toward her. She froze.

  “In the trunk,” she said quickly.

  Cautiously, he stepped to the back of the car and peered in. His eyes widened and he shifted his rifle defensively. Wendy held still in her seat.

  “Where’d you get the guns?” His voice was wary.

  “Charles Montgomery.” She used her bargaining chip. “Is he here?”

  She waited for his reaction. He slammed the trunk closed.

  “Come with me.”

  She grabbed her duffel bag and left the car, a silent prayer in her heart. She had no idea what came next, but this boy was the first uninfected person she’d seen in a while.

  The boy stopped at the room closest to the lobby entrance and inserted a key in the door. Wendy studied him uncertainly.

  “This is the holding room. Everybody comes here first.”

  He pushed the door open. The room was sparsely furnished with a double bed, a table, and two chairs. Mask still intact, the boy picked up a walkie-talkie from the table and called someone. A voice crackled in return. He gave Wendy’s full name and mentioned Montgomery’s weapons. She shifted, hugging her duffel bag close to her as he closed the door.

  “You can sit down,” he waved a hand toward the bed. She didn’t move.

  Soon, voices rang out in the parking lot. The boy parted the curtains. A group of armed shadows surrounded Wendy’s car. Someone popped the trunk. Wendy held her breath. The boy let the curtains fall to.

  Fifteen minutes later, another masked figure entered the room. Young, Hispanic, with dark suspicious eyes. He made no introduction.

  “Do you have an I.D. on you?”

  He took a threatening step toward her. Quickly, she produced her license. He took it in a plastic-gloved hand and examined it. He looked at her.

  Behind him, another boy entered. He was tall and broad with muscles bulging under his green t-shirt. His dark, brown hair fell loosely against his collar, and a thin, fuzzy beard crawled along his jawline beneath the mask he wore. He studied her, cast his eyes to the first boy and back to her.

  “Wendy Mitchell,” he said.

  She nodded and clutched the strap of her duffel bag. A large hunting knife hung from his belt.

  “I’m Asa Brown.” He nodded toward the other boy. “This is Juan Montoya. And you’ve met Carlos.”

  He exchanged a glance with Juan, who held up her license with a nod to verify that she was indeed Wendy Mitchell.

  “We checked out your story,” he continued. “The Ghost left a message about you.”

  Juan huffed and gave her the license. “Are you sure about that, Asa? She could be a hacker. Why didn’t The Ghost come with her?”

  “We don’t know who The Ghost is. Maybe it’s her.”

  Her heart thudded. “It’s not,” she confessed. “But I know who he is.”

  That got their attention. Asa dropped his hands to his sides. Carlos slowly lowered his arms until the butt of his rifle thumped against the worn carpet.

  “Ay Dios mio,” he whispered.

  “You know him? Personally?” Asa asked, his brows rising at the question.

  “Yes. He’s one of my best friends.”

  “Where is he?”

  Her heart sank. “He’s…dying.”

  Juan frowned. “She’s lying.”

  Asa crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his head. “I don’t know, Juan. Did you see the stash in her trunk?”

  “I’m not lying,” she said, a hard edge to her voice.

  All three studied her.

  “How do we know those weapons came from Montgomery?” Juan’s voice was just as hard. “You could have gotten them from anywhere.”

  “But I didn’t.” She unzipped her bag and pulled a notebook from it. Asa took it when she offered. “This is his. He’s signed several pages.”

  Asa studied it, looked up in astonishment. “Where did you get this?”

  “At his house. His son is my boyfriend.” Wendy’s voice cracked. “I’m assuming they aren’t here.”

  “No,” Asa replied.

  Wendy’s shoulders slumped.

  “All right.” Asa tucked the notebook under his arm. “Next order of business: making sure you aren’t infected. When was the last time you were near someone with the virus?”

  Wendy raised her eyes, and her heartbeat quickened.

  She could lie—say she hadn’t seen anyone in days. But she had a suspicious feeling they would know, and she needed their trust. She had nowhere else to turn.

  “I left my sister on our couch a few hours ago.”

  Asa straightened, his eyes narrowing. “She’s infected?”

  Wendy shook her head. “Was,” she said quietly.

  The boys stiffened simultaneously. Carlos visibly swallowed and readjusted his mask. Juan edged toward the door, but Asa merely tilted his head.

  “Yet you aren’t sick.” His tone was even. “You were with her the whole time?”

  “Yes. And my mom before that.”

  Asa rubbed at his chin. “I guess you’re immune.” His eyes roamed up and down her arms. He squatted and peered at her bare legs. “No bruising. Eyes aren’t bloodshot. Have you had any nosebleeds?”

  He stood.

  “No,” Wendy answered. She fidgeted. Her duffel bag grew heavier by the minute.

  “Come on, hombre,” Juan interjected. His hand rested over a pistol on his hip. “She’s been with the infected. We need to cut her lose.”

  Cut her loose? They were going to make her leave?

  “We’ve all been with the infected,” Asa replied quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes softened. “She’s not sick. Plus, she’s kind of cute.”

  At this, Wendy’s face turned every shade of red.

  “Asa.” The sharpness in Juan’s voice cut through her. “We don’t need another mouth to feed.”

  Asa characteristically tilted his head. “That’s not who we are, Juan. We’re here to help survivors.”

  “But—”

  Asa held up his hand.

  “They’re saying it takes eight hours for symptoms to show.” He addressed Wendy. “We’re going
to hold you here ‘til midnight—just as a precaution. If you don’t get sick, we’ll get you settled in with a roommate. But understand. If you’re cleared, we each pull our own weight around here. Nobody’s a babysitter.”

  “Okay.” Wings fluttered in her belly with sudden relief.

  “We’re waiting for Montgomery.” Asa paused, weighing whether to say more before he continued. “He’s supposed to airlift us to New York, if he can get to his chopper. Either way, we’re moving out July 31 as planned. Okay?”

  Wendy nodded rapidly as the wings in her belly lifted. They were going to wait for Charles Montgomery. Which meant, by default, they were waiting for Chad. Wendy’s shoulders relaxed.

  Juan left in a huff. Carlos nodded at Wendy as he moved to the door.

  “I hope you don’t get sick,” he said. “I’ll bring in your basket.”

  Asa faced her. “See you at midnight.”

  He extended a plastic-gloved hand, and Wendy took it. It swallowed hers up in size and warmth. Up close, she saw the color of his eyes. They resembled honey.

  * * *

  Wendy ate a can of cold pork and beans for dinner, and the hours inched by like crawling snails. She tried to sleep, but her nerves were on edge. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the puddle of blood in Chad’s kitchen. She’d checked the rest of the house before she’d left. She’d found nothing. So whose blood had it been?

  She sighed and settled back onto the bed. She didn’t want to think. But the waiting was nerve-racking. She pressed a sweaty palm to her forehead. No fever.

  Asa and Juan returned just past midnight. Asa turned on the lamp and Wendy sat up, squinting in the sudden light. He straddled a chair and leaned in scrutinizing her closely. She leaned away.

  “No symptoms,” he said with satisfaction. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine,” Wendy retorted irritably.

  “Okay,” Asa leaned back and tugged the mask down to his chin. His mouth tipped slightly into a half smile. “You’ve passed inspection.”

  He eyed Juan.

  “Get Brooke.”

  Juan removed his mask, scowled, and left.

  “What’s his problem?” Wendy asked.

  Asa shrugged. “He’s afraid. Cautious—as he should be. Worried about the infection. Running out of supplies if we keep taking people in.”

  “But…this is a safe zone.”