Prep For Doom Page 34

  Brewer looked at him with questioning eyes from his spot on the floor.

  “Want to go for a hike, boy?”

  Brewer’s tail thumped. He got up and walked over to Luke, pressing against his leg, waiting for a reassuring scratch behind the ears. Luke obliged.

  In the kitchen, Luke loaded a backpack with items he’d need for the hike. Shouldering the pack, he grabbed the shotgun and headed out.

  It was a warm and humid July morning. Brewer ran ahead, sniffing a dozen important smells, and once, flushing out a rabbit, which skittered away into the bushes. “Stay, Brew,” Luke said, and the dog reluctantly obeyed.

  The hike up Hawk Hill proved uneventful, and as he walked, Luke’s mind wandered back to the day his father called to tell him Ivy had died. She was two years younger but they shared the same birthday. In three weeks he would turn eighteen and Ivy sixteen. She’d always been the outgoing one—pretty, with long dark hair and dark eyes, catching the attention of their wide circle of friends. She never knew a stranger. Luke envied her in that way. He was too quiet, too reserved. They had their share of fights, but a love of the land, animals, and growing things—which their parents had cultivated in them from day one—kept them united. They were a tight unit, their family.

  His parents had rushed Ivy to the hospital, but the virus had taken her like it had millions of others. He’d received one phone call from his dad telling him his sister was dead and his mother had fallen ill, then not another word. Were they still alive? Was anyone still alive? Anyone he knew?

  Why was he still alive? He pondered that. He’d never been sick his whole life, except for a mild case of chickenpox when he was four. When his sister and parents dealt with colds and the occasional flu, Luke sailed right through it all, unaffected. His dad had jokingly called him Super Boy. Maybe he was.

  He raked a hand through his long dark hair. Today he needed some answers. He’d been reluctant to go into town, but maybe from the top of Hawk Hill, with the binoculars, he could see if there was any activity in Anchorton. Maybe things were fine there. If so, he’d take the car and drive down into town, stock up on supplies. There’d probably be news about the pandemic; maybe he’d see some of his friends.

  Luke followed a well-worn deer path through the trees, one he’d used countless times. He veered off the path twice to check two cabins—the Perrault’s place, and a half-mile away, the Ackroyd’s. Normally they’d be occupied, being the height of the summer season, but neither of them showed signs of occupation. Maybe those folks were dead too.

  By early afternoon they’d made it to the overlook. He took a long drink from his water bottle, then poured some in a bowl for Brewer, who lapped it noisily.

  Ahead, the foothills of the Adirondacks spread out like a rumpled green blanket. To the north they swept up to majestic mountains. Little Coin Lake nestled below like a shiny dime on a glittering chain, and next to it lay Anchorton. Luke pulled out his binoculars and searched. Anchorton was a ghost town.

  Despair washed over him. He couldn’t be the only person left in the world, but it felt that way.

  Behind him a twig snapped. Brewer growled. Luke swung around and aimed the shotgun in the direction of the sound. He waited, realizing with dread that he’d left himself in a bad spot, his back to the overlook with no escape, gripping a weapon he had no idea how to use. He prayed it was only a deer.

  A man stepped out of the trees, hands raised. He was tall, dark-skinned, with short black hair. He smiled and took a couple steps closer. Brewer lowered his head and growled deep in his throat, hackles raised.

  “Hey there,” the man said, eyeing the dog. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Luke didn’t move. His hands shook. He gripped the gun tighter so it wouldn’t show.

  “Name’s Phil. Phil Janus. You live around here?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Phil took a tentative step but stopped when Brewer growled again. “Hey, I can see you’re on the defense.” He nodded slowly. “Which is good. You don’t know me from Adam. But I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, you’ve got the gun.”

  Luke had no idea what to say or do.

  Phil stepped closer, his eyes on the shotgun. “You know how to use that thing?”

  “Of course I do.” Luke’s gut twisted in a knot. His finger moved to the trigger.

  Phil smiled. “So you can talk.”

  “Where are you from?” Luke asked warily.

  “Albany by way of Staten Island.”

  “You’ve come a long way, then,” Luke said. He scanned the trees, in case Phil wasn’t alone, but saw nothing.

  Phil nodded. “Yes, I have.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a place to settle,” Phil said with a slight shrug. “Someplace I can be useful.”

  “No, I mean what are you doing here?”

  Phil looked around. “Same as you,” he said. “I wanted to scope out the area. And, truth be told, I heard you and your dog.”

  Luke gave him a long look as he pondered the situation. Phil wasn’t out for an afternoon stroll, that much he could tell. If he was scoping out the area, maybe it meant he was hiding from someone, or on the run. How long had he been following?

  “Why’d you end up here?” Luke asked. “Out in the middle of nowhere?”

  Phil’s palms turned up and he tilted his head to the side in a quizzical manner. “Surely you know what’s going on everywhere.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you probably know that it’s safer away from the cities and populated areas.”

  Luke’s eyes narrowed as an alarming thought came to him. “Are you infected?”

  “If I was, I doubt I’d be standing here,” Phil said with a half-grin.

  Luke could kick himself for forgetting a bandana to cover his mouth and nose, even though he had no clue if it would help.

  “I’m not sick,” Phil said, and then gave him a pointed look. “Are you?”

  “As fast as it comes on, I don’t think so.” His mind flashed to his sister, her face pale, her breathing shallow as she lay half-conscious on the couch while he held her hand. The sting of grief made his chest tight and he swallowed hard. “I was exposed…my sister got it…but I didn’t.”

  Phil’s eyes softened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s tough.”

  Luke didn’t know if he was trustworthy, but his response seemed genuine. The thought of being alone indefinitely hit him like a fist to the gut. He wanted company, someone he could talk to, who could help him with the chores, who wouldn’t make the house feel so empty.

  Phil appeared to be in his late forties. He looked strong and fit. His clothes—jeans, t-shirt, and over-shirt with the sleeves rolled up—seemed fairly clean, not worn and dirty like someone who’d been traveling on foot. That bothered him a little.

  “Can you work on a farm?” Luke asked.

  “I can do just about anything,” Phil said with a grin.

  He was still wary, but he had to take a chance. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m Luke.”

  “Nice to meet you, Luke. It’d be great if you’d kindly stop pointing the weapon at me.”

  He hesitated, then lowered the shotgun. “Have you been to Anchorton?”

  “Worked my way past there, yeah.” Phil eyed Brewer nervously when the dog stepped closer to sniff his boots.

  Luke snapped his fingers, and Brewer returned to his side. Phil seemed relieved. “Anybody left?” Luke asked him.

  “Not that I could see. I didn’t get too close, though. Is that where you’re from?”

  Luke shook his head. “I live down the hill.”

  “The rest of your family okay?”

  Luke hesitated a beat. “No.”

  Phil sighed. “Sorry to hear that. I really am. Anybody need burying?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then,” Phil said with a nod. “I’m ready to be put to work.”

  As they made their way down t
he hill, Luke staying safely behind Phil, he started thinking about all the projects Phil could help with. By the look of him, he could handle hard work. Then Luke noticed the bulge at Phil’s back under his shirt. Luke raised his shotgun. “Hold up.”

  Phil stopped and turned. His expression remained blank, but Luke could see that he knew.

  “You have a gun,” Luke said.

  Their eyes held for a long, tense moment. Then Phil said, “Yes. I do.”

  “But you said—”

  Phil opened his hands. “Did you really think I’d be unarmed? Or did it occur to you at all?”

  Luke remained silent.

  “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead,” Phil said. “The fact that I haven’t pulled my gun should tell you something. And for future reference, it helps if you release the safety before you fire.”

  Luke’s face heated. He hated that his ignorance was so obvious. He lowered the shotgun. “Let’s get going.”

  There was no more conversation until they made it back to the farm.

  As they walked past the barn and garden to the house, Phil whistled. “Nice little place. How long you lived here?”

  “All my life.” Luke climbed the steps to the porch and opened the door, stepping aside so Phil could enter.

  “Well, Luke, I work better with food in my stomach,” he said as he took in his surroundings. “Got anything to eat?”

  * * *

  After a meal of sandwiches and fruit, Luke directed Phil outside to the garden, and together they picked beans, cucumbers, squash and tomatoes, what was left of the broccoli, and a half-dozen peppers. Phil talked while they worked, sharing about living on Staten Island before the outbreak. How everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, as he put it, and how the dead lay in the streets, on the sidewalks, in their cars, everywhere. Men had shown up in HAZMAT suits and began collecting the corpses, but when they started rounding up survivors and rumors spread that they were locking down the Island, Phil decided to get out.

  “How’d you know where to go?” Luke asked.

  “I knew my way around. I slipped out, managed to get across the bridge before it closed and kept going.” He shook his head and sighed. “Chaos everywhere. I knew my best bet was to head away from the city. So that’s what I did.”

  “You didn’t have family?”

  Phil’s face was brooding as he dropped a handful of green beans into the basket. “My wife died four years ago. Cancer. Never had any kids.”

  Luke could see that it was a sensitive subject, so he asked a different question. “What were the roads like?”

  “Choked. At least near the city. Couldn’t navigate at all. I hoofed it when I could. Took a car when roads opened up. When I got stuck, I started walking again. Finally somewhere around Spring Valley things cleared out more and I was able to drive to Albany.”

  “All that exposure and you never once caught the virus.”

  Phil glanced up from his work and gave Luke a measuring gaze, as if looking for some hidden intent in his question. “Some are naturally immune. I figure I’m one of them. Maybe you are too.”

  He’d suspected it, after what had happened to Ivy. “Was it bad in Albany too?”

  Phil nodded and tossed another handful of beans into the basket. “Just like everywhere.”

  Luke turned his face away and set to work on the weeds. He was glad for the fading light, and hoped Phil didn’t notice as he blinked to clear his eyes. It was too much, the thought of so many people dead. How could something like this have happened? And so fast?

  “You haven’t talked much about your situation,” Phil said. “What happened to your family?”

  Luke stared at his hands for a long moment. “My sister got sick. It was so quick. One minute she was fine, and the next…” He swallowed and took a breath. “My folks rushed her to the hospital. I waited all night to hear something. The next day my dad called to tell me she’d died. My mom was sick too and they were under quarantine. He said they’d be home as soon as they could. But that was three weeks ago.”

  Phil remained quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  Luke stood up and brushed the dirt from his jeans. “It’s getting dark. We should take this stuff inside.”

  In the kitchen, Phil set to work washing the vegetables and snapping the beans. Luke bagged them and put them in the fridge.

  “You seem to know your way around a garden,” Luke said.

  Phil smiled. “That I do. I grew up on a farm in Texas, then moved to New York. Got married. We always had a little garden. Nothing better than fresh vegetables. These would make great vegetable beef soup.”

  “We don’t eat meat,” Luke said.

  Phil quirked a brow. “No? Vegetarian? Or vegan?”

  “Vegetarian,” Luke said. “We eat eggs. Sometimes cheese.” He grinned. “I like cheese.”

  Phil washed the broccoli and handed it to Luke. “Well, you look healthy,” he said. “How old are you? Twenty?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Phil’s eyes widened. “Now, that’s a surprise.”

  They finished the vegetables and Luke heated water on the stove for tea. “What did you do on Staten Island?” he asked.

  “I worked for a home improvement store. Just a jack-of-all-trades. Before that I worked for the government. Took early retirement when my wife got sick.”

  Luke pulled two mugs from the cupboard. “Sorry about your wife,” he said as he poured the tea.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” Phil replied.

  He set a mug in front of Phil and sat down at the table. “What sort of government work?”

  Phil grinned. “If I told ya, I’d have to kill ya.”

  Luke frowned and looked away.

  “That was a bad joke,” Phil said. “I apologize.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled around them. Luke sipped his tea and for a moment wished he was still alone.

  “So where did you go to school?” Phil asked. “Anchorton?”

  “Homeschooled.”

  “Really?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Your folks religious?”

  Luke shrugged. “Not really. I mean, they believe in God and all, but they just didn’t believe in religion. My dad says he and my mom are Latter-Day Hippies. We live off the land as much as possible. We believe the land is a gift and we should use it wisely, take from it only what we need and give back to it to keep it healthy.”

  “That’s good,” Phil said, nodding. “I like that.” He eyed the gun propped next to the door. “So if you’re vegetarians, that means your dad doesn’t hunt. Why the shotgun?”

  “I don’t know.” He lowered his eyes, feeling the sting of loss, remembering the day he found the weapon, wishing he had his dad here now to finally ask him about it. “I guess it was for emergencies. He never told me he had it. I found it by accident.”

  “So he never taught you about guns.”

  Luke figured Phil knew that already. “No,” he said quietly.

  “You want to learn?”

  He looked up, feeling a pulse of excitement, and nodded.

  “All right, then,” Phil said, “first thing tomorrow morning, we’re gonna have school.” He looked at Luke and smiled. “Then a little target practice.”

  * * *

  Luke woke to something nudging his shoulder. “Too early, Brew,” he mumbled.

  “Brew wants you to get up and learn how to shoot.”

  Luke opened one eye.

  Phil stood over him with his arms crossed. “Day’s half over.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five.”

  Luke groaned. “It’s still dark outside.”

  “Lesson starts inside. By the time we’re done, it’ll be light enough.”

  Two hours later, Luke knew he possessed a Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun, and after steady drilling by Phil, he understood how the gun worked as well as how to load and fire it. They had a quick breakfast of eggs and toast an
d then headed outside as the first pink streaks of sunrise brightened the sky.

  Shooting at targets turned out to be both exhilarating and terrifying. He stood nervously eyeing the empty canning jars perched on fence posts. Currents of fear and thrill charged through him as he raised the shotgun to his shoulder. The first shot knocked him back and sent the chickens into a squawking frenzy in the coop. Even with cotton wedged in his ears, they still rang. Phil helped him adjust his stance and grip. The second shot shattered the glass jar. Luke let out a whoop and grinned.

  “You’re getting it,” Phil said. “Keep at it.”

  “I don’t have that much ammo left,” Luke said.

  “Shoot,” Phil commanded. “Ammo won’t make any difference if you can’t shoot the damn weapon, right? We’ll find more ammo.”

  Luke squinted and lined up the sights. “Right.” He squeezed the trigger. The jar splintered into the air.

  They spent the following week catching up on neglected farm chores, and twice they made trips into town to stock up on supplies. The shock of so many bodies left rotting in cars and on sidewalks forced them to keep the trips short, but they managed to pile the back seat of the Honda Civic with ammo and a few guns from the local gun supply shop. It was important they be well-armed, Phil said, but Luke wondered why they needed so much.

  “You never know who might come along,” Phil said. “Good or bad—it’s a toss-up. Best to be prepared.”

  Phil insisted on putting Luke through hours of target practice. Every morning after breakfast, they’d head out to the pasture and shoot empty tin cans or bottles.

  “I don’t see the reason I have to keep doing this,” Luke said one morning. “I can shoot now. But there’s nobody around. You’re the only person I’ve seen in the past month. So why keep wasting ammo?”

  Phil rubbed his face as if Luke’s question made him weary. “Things are different now, Luke. The world is different. You’ve heard the reports. Most of the population is gone and that means those who are left just want to survive at any cost. It means the rules have changed. Priorities have changed. It means you have to change.”

  Luke glared at Phil. “So you’re saying I need to shoot people to survive?”