If they were both dead, I wondered what would happen to their massive guard dog, Tooth. I pictured the huge, black hound and shook my head. It wasn’t likely another prepper would adopt him.
Although Tooth appeared as intimidating as one of the hounds of Hell, the poor pooch was all bark and no bite. In fact, when visitors came, Garth had to put Tooth in a cage—not to keep the dog from attacking, but so he wouldn’t pee all over the floor from sheer fright. Not that it would matter. Their place would make a pig cry for his sty.
“Not much longer,” Grayson said, interrupting my thoughts. He turned off the main road. “We should be there in a few minutes.”
“Right.” I unhooked my seatbelt and climbed out of the passenger seat.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“I gotta pee.”
“We’re almost there. Can’t you wait?”
“And use their bathroom? Are you kidding?”
“You’re right,” Grayson said. “Good thinking. We wouldn’t want to disturb any evidence.”
“Yeah.” I smirked. “My thought process exactly.”
AS I SCURRIED BACK to the passenger seat, Grayson turned onto a narrow, asphalt lane. I recognized it as one bisecting the rural suburb Jimmy and Garth called home.
The brothers’ compound was one of a dozen or so prepper-type properties that dotted the otherwise undeveloped stretch of native palmetto-and-pine woodlands. Most of these rural homesteads featured modest single- or doublewide trailers situated on four or five acres. All were tucked safely behind chain-link security fences that probably cost more than their aluminum-clad homes.
As we drew near the brothers’ property, I rolled down the passenger window and stuck my head out for a better view.
At first glance, everything seemed in order at the Wells’ country establishment. The algae-covered double-wide trailer was still standing where it always had—partially hidden by trees, overgrown bushes, and an assortment of rusty household appliances. Next to the trailer sat a satellite dish so huge I suspected it probably once belonged to a TV station.
“Anything seem out of place?” Grayson asked, eyeing the compound himself.
My nose crinkled. “If it were, how could we tell?”
“By that,” Grayson said, and nodded toward the front gate.
To the left of the dirt driveway, a metal flagpole displayed a black flag flying at half-mast, sagging sadly in the anemic breeze.
It took me a few seconds to make out the neon-green form flowing from its dark background. It was a skull and crossbones—only the skull was elongated, and its empty eye sockets were double the normal size.
I grimaced. “Don’t tell me E.T. died, too.”
Ignoring me, Grayson maneuvered the RV up to the gate. It was the only entry point in the eight-foot-tall, chain-link fence surrounding the compound. He rolled down the window and reached out to mash a button on the intercom mounted on a thick, metal post.
There was no response.
“That’s odd. Garth usually answers right away,” I said.
“Hmm,” Grayson grunted, and mashed the intercom button again.
From somewhere inside the compound, I thought I heard the faint sound of a dog barking.
Tooth!
I chewed my bottom lip. “What do we do now?”
Grayson locked eyes with me. “The only logical thing left to do.”
I grimaced. “Call the cops?”
“Crash the gate.”
“But—”
Grayson shifted the RV into reverse.
I grabbed his arm. “Wait! Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” he said, jerking his arm free. “Garth’s in trouble. It’s our duty to come to his aid.”
“Who goes there?” a raspy voice crackled over the intercom. It sounded like the ghost of Garth.
Grayson scrambled to mash the intercom button again. “Gray here. Pandora, too.”
“Mister Gray!” the voice hacked. “Thank God you came!”
Chapter Six
When Garth opened the front door to his trailer, it became clear to me that the impending apocalypse he’d been prepping for had finally come to pass. Not only did he sound like his own ghost, he looked the part as well.
“Come in,” he croaked, waving us inside with a pale, boney hand.
He shuffled a few hobbling steps backward to let us enter, then blinked at us through crusty, bloodshot eyes magnified three times their size by the thick lenses of his Poindexter-brand glasses.
Garth’s normally frizzy blond mullet was a tan-colored oil slick. His sweatpants and T-shirt appeared to have come straight from the laundry hamper—and I didn’t mean the clean one. Worst yet, he looked like he’d aged fifty years since I last saw him.
I cringed. My breath suddenly froze inside my lungs—not from the temperature, but from fear. I glanced around his hoarder hovel, images of The Andromeda Strain dancing inside my head.
Where’s a damned hazmat suit when you need one?
Grayson seemed to be thinking the same thing. He took a step back and asked, “What’s going on here? Biological warfare?”
“No,” Garth said, then proceeded to have a coughing fit. “I think it’s just a bad cold. Maybe the flu. Can’t hold anything down. But never mind about me. It’s Jimmy I’m worried about.”
Garth hacked up a lung like a seasoned chain-smoker, making me double down on my wish for a hazmat suit. “Ginger tea?” Garth asked, then coughed again into a tissue.
I glanced around at the kitchen. It was obvious the two brothers lived alone without adult supervision. I hadn’t seen a place so beyond repair since the Times did that full-color spread on Chernobyl.
“Uh, no thanks,” I said. I clasped my hands together to avoid touching anything.
“How about a donut, then?” Garth proffered an oil-stained bag. Through the smudged cellophane window, deep-fried clumps of dough languished greasily.
I smiled, and shook my head.
Not a chance on this Earth.
“We just ate,” Grayson lied. “But I’ll take some coffee if you have it.”
Garth coughed into his hand. “Coming right up.”
I shot Grayson a horrified stare.
“I’ll do it,” Grayson said, getting the message. “Sit down, Operative Garth. Save your strength and tell us what’s going on.”
Garth’s shoulders slumped with relief. He flopped onto the sofa like a dirty dishrag.
I sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. On the coffee table between us, amid empty tissue boxes and heaps of soiled Kleenex, I noticed
