Prep For Doom Read online

  Harman followed her gaze. “Khul,” he cursed under his breath. Two dogs—shepherd-types—nosed around the sandbox. Three more dogs emerged from the open garage. He shouldered his pack and slowly backed toward the door.

  One of the shepherds stiffened, eyes keen and ears perked. As Harman reached the door, the dog barked, and then growls, baying, and nails scraping asphalt told Harman all he needed to know. He yanked open the shattered door, leaped over broken tables, and reached the play area as the first shepherd got to the restaurant.

  The girl shouted, “Shut it! Shut it! Shut the door!”

  The dog slammed into the inner door as Harman threw its metal lock.

  “Aimee!” the girl cried as she struggled with the lock on a second play area entrance. Harman reached her side and lodged his shoulder against the door as the dogs thudded against it, barking and slobbering on the glass. The lock clicked into its latch.

  “Go home!” the little girl ordered, but the pack circled and snarled, snapped at each other, leaped over tables, and foraged behind the front counter.

  “You sick, mister?”

  It was another child’s voice, and Harman followed the weak sound. A teenage girl lay amid a pile of jackets at the top of a climbing tower. Even at a distance, he knew she was dying. Her bloodshot eyes and nosebleed made it all too obvious.

  “No. I’m immune.” He touched his chest. “My name’s Harman.”

  Beside him, the little girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Sheyna. That’s my sister, Aimee.”

  Harman shook her tiny hand. “Where’s your family?” The girls were around the same age that he and Luca had been when they’d come to the U.S.

  “Dead,” Sheyna answered quietly. “We lived up the street. Momma and Aunt Becca worked here. They died a few days ago, and then some men burned down our house.”

  The smell of the place struck Harman—not fryer grease but urine and feces, vomit, rotting food, death. He looked around. “Anyone else with you?”

  The children had piled their trash in an overflowing bin in a corner. Beside it sat a covered bucket and three industrial-sized rolls of toilet paper—their toilet. Flies buzzed around the area and crawled up the windows. In the main part of the eatery, wrappers, napkins, cups, and trash were strewn everywhere.

  “Nuh-uh,” Sheyna said. “We hid here while the looters smashed up the place and the dogs ate all the food.”

  “Hush, Sheyna,” Aimee muttered. “You don’t havta tell him everything.”

  Harman sat at one of the cleaner booths. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt either of you.”

  With a groan, Aimee sat up. She wiped blood from her nose with her sleeve and stared at him with dull eyes. Blood-red sweat beaded her upper lip and forehead. “I’m gonna die pretty soon. Probably tonight.”

  Sheyna picked at a hole in her sweatshirt. “Don’t say that.”

  Aimee continued, her voice emotionless. “Sheyna isn’t sick. Can you get her to someplace safe?”

  Silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled sounds of the milling dogs, as Harman considered the girls and the request. The animals were giving up on the restaurant. A few had gone back outside.

  A coughing fit—wet and bloody—wracked Aimee’s small body and she slid beneath the pile of jackets. She turned on her side and stared at him.

  Sheyna kicked off her boots then climbed the PlayPlace tower. She tucked the jackets around her sister, held a cup and straw to her lips, and wiped the red sweat from the girl’s face with a white paper napkin.

  Harman moved to the tower’s first platform and leaned back against its yellow, perforated wall. “My brother wrote to me about a safe bunker in Kingston. That’s where I’m heading. I’ll take Sheyna with me.”

  Sheyna’s brow furrowed and her chin jutted forward. “Aimee’s coming, too.”

  Her sister shoved her weakly. “You go. I’m dying, just like Momma and Auntie. You can’t stay here by yourself. I said I’d take care of you. This is how.”

  Sheyna crossed her arms. “Then I’m not leaving.”

  Aimee closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “You are.” Her breathing was fast and shallow. “Don’t argue, Shey,” she muttered. “I hurt too much to fight with you.” A trickle of blood oozed from her nose. Another one squeezed from the corner of her left eye and slid into her hair.

  Sheyna pulled her knees to her chest and hid her face behind them. “Okay. Sorry.” Her answer was muffled.

  The last two dogs—big yellow Labradors—slipped out the side door. They trotted across the parking lot and loped up the road after the rest of the meandering pack.

  Harman asked, “When are the dogs active?” Best to distract Sheyna and make a plan to leave the next day.

  She peered over her knees at him. “Whaddya mean?”

  “When do they come out looking for food? Morning and evening?”

  Sheyna’s face screwed up as she thought, and then she nodded. “Yeah. They sleep in the Wilson’s garage when it’s hot.”

  Harman nodded. That made sense. He opened his backpack and pulled out the white plastic container that held the strawberries. He took three then passed it up to Sheyna. “Save some for Aimee.”

  The little girl nodded. “Thanks,” she said around a mouthful of berry.

  “Sure.” He ate one, even the leaves and stem, and relished its sweetness. He’d found them in a garden box in Ramsey. They’d been an amazing discovery.

  Glancing at the trash, Harman frowned. There were a lot of ketchup and mustard packets, crouton wrappers, barbecue sauce and honey mustard cups but not much else. The sisters had consumed little real nutrition. “What do you have to drink?”

  “I think there’s still ice tea, some Dr. Pepper, and a lotta mango smoothie—that stuff’s gross. No more Coke or chocolate milk or Hi-C.” Sheyna chomped on another strawberry and added, “No white milk, either; someone stole it. One of the employees, Momma said.” She snapped the container shut. “I’ve been giving Aimee water. There’s still a few bottles up here if you want some.”

  “I’m good, but we’ll take them when we go.”

  Sheyna turned to her sister. “You awake? You wanna strawberry? They’re really good.”

  No answer from Aimee.

  Sheyna left the container beside her sister. She picked up a Happy Meal box and crawled into the tube that led into the maze from the tower’s top level. Her bare feet thudded and squeaked against the plastic as she made her way back to the red capsule where Harman had first seen her. Muffled sounds carried down the tube; she was playing some kind of make-believe game.

  There were two other slides beside the steep purple one. Harman inspected both and chose a blue one. Once he’d climbed to the top, he roamed through a curved tunnel and found a dead end, another windowed bubble like the one Sheyna occupied. Aside from a few old hamburger wrappers, it was empty, so he unrolled his sleeping bag and pulled a clean t-shirt and socks from his backpack.

  McDonald’s would be home for the next twelve hours.

  * * *

  “They’ve succeeded in slow genocide, Harman. Slovakia’s wiped out all our kind thanks to forced sterilization, inadequate healthcare, and crappy living conditions.”

  “The EU—”

  “Doesn’t care. They never did anything about the fascists who killed Mámo. And every one of Tsura’s lawsuits on behalf of the sterilized women in Šariš was dismissed.” Luca’s palm smacked his oak dining room table. “But does the U.S. care? Of course not. There’s no money to be had in defending a bunch of ‘filthy gypsies.’”

  Harman sighed. “I’d call the dead and unborn Rom lucky.” He stood and stacked plates. “The rainforests are nearly gone, man. And if you think the last three Ebola outbreaks in Africa—and that other virus, whatever it was—have been bad, wait’ll you see the viruses coming out of Amazonia. They’re nasty bastards, and there’s nothing in place to stop some of them.” Silverware rattled against china. “It’s gotten bad all along
the Orinoco, but will anyone listen to me?”

  “Of course not. You’re just a lazy gypsy who dropped out of school to snort Yopo with the Yanomami.”

  Harman laughed. “Sell it to them, you mean.” He’d ended up in South America to escape the mafia. His habit of skimming funds from the drug money he’d earned for them hadn’t been appreciated. And he took a chance every time he returned to the U.S.

  Karma stuck her black nose over the table and tried to lick the edge of the plates.

  “Ei! Back off, džukel,” Luca said to the dog, and she ducked under the table to hunt for crumbs. “You’re right about the Orinoco viruses, you know.” He stared into his coffee cup. “American and European ambition has doomed this entire planet. All they care about is money.”

  The dishes clattered as Harman put them in the sink. “I wouldn’t say the whole planet. Maybe sixty-five percent of humanity will bite the big one.” He returned to his brother’s dining room, a blue-and-white dishtowel over his shoulder. “But not me.” He shrugged. “My immune system’s built like a Sherman tank.”

  Luca cocked his head as he stood. “How so?”

  “The doctors at Tisch flipped out when they checked my blood. They said I’ve got antibodies for typhoid, yellow fever, malaria,”—he ticked them off on his fingers—“Chagas, Ebola, hepatitis A and B, swine flu, avian flu, smallpox, and a bunch of viruses I’ve never even heard of.” Harman laughed. “Apparently, the Amazon wants me dead.”

  “Huh. That’s interesting.” Luca scratched Karma’s chin. The dog closed her eyes and sighed. “Can I get a blood sample?”

  “I knew you’d ask, weirdo.”

  * * *

  “Harman? You awake?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Harman stretched and groaned. His shoulders and back were stiff from being curled up in the PlayPlace capsule. Gray light heralded the coming dawn. Sheyna was sitting at the end of the tube. “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “I think Aimee’s dead.”

  Khul. He pushed out of his sleeping bag and peered into the gloom at the little girl. “You okay?”

  She shrugged and gave a jerky nod. “Can we go?”

  “Yeah. Well, no. Not until the dogs have hunted. Sorry. We can’t outrun them.”

  “Here.” Sheyna reached out and something small rattled as it slid across the tube toward him. “Momma’s car is in the parking lot. She said it has a full tank.”

  Car keys. Harman pocketed them. “Okay. That changes things.” He rolled up his sleeping bag. “Do you have stuff you want to bring? Clothes? A toothbrush? Some toys?”

  “I got Aimee’s Knicks jacket and some dirty clothes. No toothbrush.” She held up her Happy Meal box. “My toys are packed.”

  Harman shoved his things into his green backpack. “Good. Bring the dirty clothes if Aimee didn’t touch them. We can find someplace to wash them. Get your stuff now, so we can take off before the dogs come out.”

  “Okay.” Sheyna scooted back along the tube and took one of the slides.

  Harman made his way through the colorful maze to the top of the tower. Aimee was cold and not breathing. No pulse. She’d been dead for a few hours, he figured. He did his best to wrap her in the stinking jackets. It seemed so wrong to leave her, but he had no way to bury the girl.

  When he reached the bottom of the play structure, his backpack ready to go, Sheyna was waiting with a shopping bag and her toy box. “Did you check Aimee? What if I’m wrong?”

  Harman touched the top of her head. “I checked. You’re not wrong.” He knelt before her, unsure how much comfort she wanted. “I’m sorry, chajorije.” The word meant little girl in Romani.

  Sheyna nodded. She wiped tears from her eyes and cheeks with the palms of her hands, and then her face crumpled. Her mouth opened but no sound escaped, her grief so great she couldn’t voice it. Harman swallowed a lump. He hugged her bony little body until she stopped sobbing.

  “All right?” he asked, and Sheyna nodded. “Let’s get going. I’ll take your bag.” She gave it up and he said, “Stay close and quiet.”

  Harman got Sheyna and their things in the car before he went back into the McDonald’s. He’d just set the last trash can inside the restaurant on fire when a dog appeared in the doorway of the burned house’s garage. Harman kicked over the can and sprinted to the car, praying to every god he could think of as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  The Accord started on the first crank. “Yes!” Harman threw the car in gear as the dog pack reached the parking lot.

  Sheyna screamed as a tan mutt lunged at her window. Its paws gained purchase on the sill. Its bark fogged the fractured glass. Another dog jumped onto the hood. One hit the front passenger window. Already fragmented, the glass cascaded all over the seat and floorboard, and the dog yelped. But Harman wasn’t losing his life or the little girl’s to a pack of mongrels. He hit the horn and the accelerator. The dog on the hood tumbled off and the others scattered as the car squealed out of the parking lot and fishtailed onto the deserted main road. Looking in the rearview mirror, Harman saw orange flames, black smoke, and dogs half-heartedly giving chase.

  It had been a close call but worth it. Aimee’s body wouldn’t become dog food.

  Once he was back on Route 9W, they sailed along. Sheyna slept in the back, her head on her paper bag. Harman tried to get a radio station but heard only static on FM, and not even the Sunday morning preachers were cajoling and condemning on AM.

  Based on Luca’s directions Harman figured they had about an hour before they reached Kingston.

  * * *

  You should know that this was a terrorist act.

  Luca blames the world’s governments for the out-of-control industrialization that’s destroying our planet. He thinks that the only way to save our world is by murdering eighty percent of you and stopping all industry. He’s convinced that all governments are corrupt.

  * * *

  Harman slowed the car to a stop. A black Blazer had collided with a charter bus where Route 9W and Route 299 crossed. The SUV had disintegrated and the bus had broken in half; one section had barrel-rolled into the trees. Metal, plastic, clothing, and body parts were scattered everywhere. Black, oily smoke and orange flames boiled from the other half of the bus where it rested on its side in the middle of the road.

  Sheyna stirred on the back seat. “Are we there?” she murmured.

  “No. Just stopping at a light. You can sleep.”

  “Okay.” She pulled one of Harman’s sweaters up to her chin. “I’m cold and my head hurts.”

  Damn. “It’s probably because this window’s busted. Sorry, kiddo.” He rolled the car through the intersection, avoiding debris and keeping an eye on the fiery bus. The acrid stench of burning rubber stung his nose. He cleared the intersection and got about twenty feet down the road when he spied movement in the brush just off the side.

  A man, bloody, in the grass, waving for help.

  Harman stopped the car. Double damn. He scanned the area. It could be a trick. He put the Accord in park, turned off the engine, and pulled his pistol from the bottom of his backpack. Sheyna didn’t stir as he opened the car door.

  “Can you walk, sir?” he called.

  “Help me!” Blood matted the man’s silver hair and coated the right side of his face, neck, and shoulder. He grabbed fistfuls of grass and pulled his body forward, leaving a red streak behind. A hatchet-sized chunk of black metal jutted from the man’s lower back. His light blue polo shirt was turning crimson.

  Harman approached, the gun in hand, and his eyes keen for danger. People were predatory and worse than the dog pack he’d left behind. “I asked if you can walk.”

  “No, dammit! Are you an idiot? My back’s broken!”

  “You been tested?”

  “What? Test— Yes! Negative. Everyone on that bus was negative. We were heading for Staten Island.” The man grabbed at the grass. “I’ve got money. My life savings. I’ll pay you to get me there.”

  Harman considered the
man’s offer. Did they have medical facilities at the Kingston bunker? And could they fix him if they did? Unlikely. He stepped back toward the open car door.

  “For godsake, don’t leave me.” The man had stopped moving toward Harman. He pressed his face to the grass. “I left my family for this chance. My boys and my wife; they wouldn’t come, but I had to try.” The man sobbed. “I had to.”

  Harman grimaced. Would he have done the same thing? He glanced over his shoulder to the car. Sheyna still slept. No. He wouldn’t’ve abandoned his loved ones. He took care of his family, no matter what.

  “Your back’s not broken, sir. You’ve got a hunk of SUV in your spine and you’re nearly outta blood. Even if I take you with me, you’ll die before I reach help. And since I’ve got a little girl in the back of my car who lost her sister today, I’m not gonna make her watch you kick the bucket, too.” He stepped forward again and raised the pistol. “So do you want me to put you out of your misery? Or do you want to take your chances on another car rolling through here before you bleed to death?”

  “You bastard. What kind of a choice is that? Get the hell outta here!” The man pulled at the grass and dirt but was too weak to move. “Just go.” His face pressed into the grass, again. He grimaced, stiffened, and his body began to jerk as he had a seizure.

  Harman crouched, the gun resting across his knee, as he watched the man die. It only took a few minutes, maybe three. Sheyna never stirred in the car. Birds flew overhead. The bus fire crackled and popped. Metal groaned as it warped in the heat. Black smoke marred the blue sky.

  * * *

  I knew Luca was pissed off, but I didn’t know he was a psychopath. He created a doomsday group—Prep for Doom—and set them up in a bunker in Kingston, NY. It’s under the old high school on Broadway. But I don’t think any of those people know that my brother released AVHF. So when the bunker is raided, please don’t hurt them. Especially a little girl named Sheyna and my cousin, Tsura Holomek. I promised Sheyna’s dying sister that she’d be safe, and Tsura’s a human rights attorney. She’s only in the bunker because Luca invited her.