Pandemic Page 3

  God, he was so confused. Well, it no longer mattered, and it was silly to let it bother him now.

  He turned away and went to the closet where Lync kept his shirts and pants. Laurie chose a brown, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. He’d need a belt, and fortunately Lync had one for special occasions. Like funerals.

  Unhappy he’d forgotten Lync was alone in the world—his father had died of a gunshot wound when Lync was thirteen, and his Uncle Connor had disappeared into the woods five years later—Laurie threaded the belt through the loops and got dressed. Then he transferred everything in the pockets of his work pants to the jeans pockets. He studied his car keys. He might not need them, but then again, he just might.

  What else?

  Socks. Shit, he’d forgotten socks. He went back to the dresser and took a pair of white crew socks, then sat on the bed to put them on. Lync’s feet were bigger than Laurie’s, kind of fitting when he thought of Lync’s big cock. He’d missed the feel of that cock almost splitting him in two. He didn’t need much prep, but Lync always took his time even when Laurie just wanted—

  No, he wasn’t going to think of that, think of how none of his hookups in the time since they’d split up had ever set his world on fire as Lync had. Instead, he reached for his work boots, slid his feet into them, and laced them up.

  Now what else? Lync didn’t have much in his apartment, and Laurie supposed he could fill a trash bag with whatever was available…Abruptly he remembered the backpack Lync kept in a corner of his closet. Lync had chuckled and called it his INCH bag—I’m never coming home. It was a bugout bag, and he’d explained how his dad and uncle, who’d been doomsday preppers, had instructed him on how to put one together. Laurie took it from the closet, almost toppling over backwards. He’d expected it to be much heavier than it was.

  “Well, that’s gonna make it easier to travel.” It was a large backpack that would cover him from the back of his head down to his butt and would be secured across his chest by a sternum strap. A sleeping bag was attached to the bottom, a coil of rope was fastened to a carabiner clip, and there was a hidden sleeve on each side of the backpack to hold stainless steel bottles for water. He filled the bottles from the sink and inserted them into the sleeves, then went looking for one of Lync’s hoodies. He’d tie it around his waist.

  What was he going to do about a face mask, though? Normal people—which included Lync—didn’t have any need for them.

  Laurie rummaged through Lync’s drawers, sagging in relief when he found a black and orange bandana. He folded it into a triangle. Before he left the apartment, he’d tie it around his face.

  It was about noon, and the apartment was becoming even hotter, since no power meant no fan. Lync didn’t even have an air conditioner. Laurie had to get out of here.

  He tucked his phone into the breast pocket of his T-shirt. He’d need something for protection. Lync didn’t have the rifles Pop did—you’d think the son of a hunter and a doomsday prepper would be better prepared. A glance around the kitchen showed him something he could use. On the counter was a wooden knife block. Laurie took the largest knife, a fifteen inch carving knife, and tucked it into his belt.

  Okay…His stomach growled. “Damn you, Lync, for not going shopping.”

  He couldn’t even have a quick cup of coffee. The damned power must have gone out again while he’d been in the shower, because the coffee pot apparently went dead in the middle of a cycle. There’d been barely half a cup in the pot, something he’d been too distracted at the time to notice. To top that off, most of it had spilled onto the floor when he’d dropped the mug.

  Before he headed for home, though, he straightened up the kitchen—his mother had seen no reason for him not to do housework, even if he was a man, and it would only take a couple of minutes.

  Chapter 4

  Like the Spanish Inquisition, no one expected the zombie apocalypse, but that didn’t mean Laurie was going to take any chances. Even if zombies weren’t actually involved, he’d seen enough movies and TV shows to know it wasn’t the undead who were the most dangerous but the living.

  As soon as he’d walked down the steps and around the building to the street, he had known things were worse than the man on the radio had let on. Out of his line of sight from Lync’s window were more bodies, some of them looking as if they’d been beaten to death with a tire iron—not a pretty sight.

  Okay, there were the bodies, but thank God no one alive seemed to be close by. He skulked from doorway to doorway, and then from yard to yard as he got farther from downtown, taking care not to be seen in case anyone was around. He remembered the games of tag he and his sisters and childhood friends would play. It had been fun then, avoiding being caught. Now? Not so much.

  He rounded the corner to the street where he’d grown up, then slowed to a stop. Pop’s truck wasn’t parked in the driveway, as Laurie would have expected given what was happening. Was he too late? Had the family already left?

  He sprinted up the walk to the porch, then skidded to a halt. The front door stood open, and when he entered cautiously, he was greeted by total silence. He tugged down the bandana, drew in a shaky breath, and hurried upstairs.

  “Mom? Pop?” He called softly, but there was no answer, and each bedroom he poked his head into was unoccupied, the beds rumpled as if his family had left in the middle of the night. And given the way Mom was…the fact no one had taken the time to make their beds scared him more than anything else.

  He ran back downstairs and looked through those rooms, but the house was empty—even the dog wasn’t there. The family had left, hadn’t even waited for him.

  He went into the kitchen, shocked at its ransacked appearance. The refrigerator door hung open; all that was in it was a half-empty bottle of Jo’s Coke, and he automatically crossed the room to close the door. There wasn’t even a note stuck to the fridge with one of the magnets he’d given Mom for Christmas. It was a good thing he’d taken the carving knife from Lync’s kitchen, because Mom’s knife block didn’t have a single one in it, not even the paring knife. He rushed around the kitchen, opening cabinets and searching the built-in pantry. They were as empty as Lync’s had been.

  The family must have piled into Pop’s truck. It was big enough to hold the six of them, the dog, and whatever belongings and supplies they’d need for the trip to Indiana. Maybe they’d left the storm supplies Mom kept in the basement. Laurie would check that out.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d had a vague idea of staying here, even if the family was gone, but it didn’t take an ounce of brains to see that wasn’t a good plan. He’d get one of the cars—Mom’s or Meg’s or Jo’s—still in the garage, and he’d fill it with whatever he could find in the basement.

  He’d only taken a couple of steps toward the door that led downstairs when he suddenly heard heavy footsteps coming from the front of the house. He ducked into the alcove beside the pantry and made himself stand as still as he could.

  “I tell you we already got everything from this place,” a rough male voice said.

  “Did you check the bedrooms for money or jewelry?” That voice was even rougher.

  “Well…no. What good would that do us?”

  “Asshole. They always come in handy.”

  “Don’t call me a fucking asshole, asshole.”

  “Why, you stupid son of a bitch. Who’s the boss around here?”

  “It sure as shit ain’t you.”

  “Oh, no?”

  Meaty punches sounded, and Laurie shivered and rested his hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt. He’d chosen the biggest carving knife, and sure it was for defense, but he wasn’t a fighter. He had to get out of there now, before those thieves stopped fighting among themselves and found him. And the hell with whatever supplies might be in the basement. He fastened the bandana around his face again as he bolted silently for the mudroom off the kitchen. The keys for the cars were kept on a rack on the wall.

  The keys were gone
, all of them, and a dash out to the garage confirmed the cars were gone as well.

  “Don’t panic, Parkinson,” he ordered himself as his heart pounded painfully. “For God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t panic!”

  He knew this neighborhood, and he darted through backyards, hopping over fences and keeping low until he’d put some distance between himself and home, taking care all the while not to be seen, because if men like those in his house were around, there sure as shit would be others.

  If he was going to find a safe place to weather this disaster, it wasn’t going to be home. He had to make another plan. That was one thing he was really good at. Even at work, his plans got the job done.

  There was a big wholesale store near the edge of town that sold everything from electronics to bedding to food. Last Chance. It was a fitting name. When the warehouse store first moved to town, management announced a big contest to name it. The winner would get a lifetime membership and free food for a year. Everyone had laughed but they’d all entered. Last Chance became the winning entry.

  He’d get out there, but first, he’d better call his aunt’s house and let her know he was okay but had missed his folks, so he wouldn’t be able to make that journey. His piece of shit car just couldn’t travel that distance even if it was still in Joe’s parking lot.

  He remembered the car that had crashed into the fire hydrant outside Lync’s apartment. That car was useless, but there had to be others. If he could find one, preferably with the key in the ignition…

  He ducked behind a garage, pulled out his phone, and dialed Aunt Ethel, but this time there was dead silence, not even a weird sound. He tried again and again, all with no luck, and finally he hung up—God, he’d never felt so alone—made sure no one was around, and continued making his way toward Last Chance as fast as he could, praying the name wouldn’t be prophetic.

  A few blocks farther along, he came across a kid’s bicycle left on someone’s front lawn. The tires were a little low on air, but they’d do until he could get to his destination. He swung a leg over the top tube—it was a boy’s bike, not that it mattered—settled himself on the seat, then began peddling as fast as he could.

  With a little luck, he wouldn’t run into anyone else.

  Chapter 5

  “What do you have to say for yourself, Morrison?”

  Wheat—he’d gotten the nickname back in kindergarten, when his hair had been wheat-yellow, and only his parents or those who didn’t know him called him by his birth name—stood before his father’s desk with his hands folded behind his back. He didn’t shift from foot to foot, although he did twist his fingers together out of Father’s sight. Being called to this room always made Wheat feel like a schoolboy being summoned to the principal’s office.

  “This is the fifth college you’ve attended.”

  That was true. The first had been Brown, and he’d only gotten into that Ivy League college because it was Father’s alma mater and he was extremely friendly with someone high up in the administration. That couldn’t make up for Wheat failing almost every course—the freedom had gone to his head, and he’d partied when he should have been studying—and Father’s friend had had a private conversation with Father, advising him it would be a waste of money for Wheat to remain at the university.

  Wheat had managed to last at Harvard for two semesters, and had been at Yale and Princeton for the same amount of time, but his grades hadn’t been much better there. Buchanan was the family’s last resort. The university, named after James Buchanan, the bachelor president who reportedly never had a hangover, had a reputation for being a party school, but even they would have turned him down if Father hadn’t endowed one of the departments with five million dollars.

  Why couldn’t he admit his only son simply didn’t have the ambition to follow in his footsteps as president and CEO of Dupuis International? Dupuis International. The name was as pretentious as its mission statement, which was to enlighten the world and share the American dream with inhabitants of third world countries. Did those countries even want that?

  His father beat out a restless tattoo on his desktop with his fingertips, securing Wheat’s attention once again. “Harrison James and I have arranged for you to meet his son.”

  Wheat perked up. He’d always preferred men he could look in the eye and who were closer to his age but…he’d seen Adam James, IV—most recently at the country club’s Christmas ball—and the man was quite good-looking, even though he was eight years older than Wheat and a few inches shorter.

  “If all goes well, you’ll date him with an eye to becoming engaged, and eventually you’ll marry him. A June wedding would be ideal.”

  “This June?”

  Father raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any objections?”

  He shook his head. The one good thing about his parents was they didn’t mind he was gay. At least in this he could please his father.

  And since he wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, he had no objection to seeing what Adam James had in his briefs.

  As for a June wedding…It might be relatively short notice, but he had no objections to that either; if you threw enough money at people, it was remarkable what they could accomplish.

  In addition, it would be nice to get out from under his father’s roof.

  * * * *

  Wheat sat in the corner of the family Rolls, staring resolutely out the window while his mother and father sat stiffly side by side and ignored him. He should have known better. Sometimes there didn’t seem to be anything he could do that would make his parents happy.

  His “relationship” with Adam James, IV had only lasted a few months before he began getting the feeling Adam was looking for an excuse to break things off. Wheat really hadn’t gotten very rough with him. All he’d done was grip Adam’s biceps in order to pull him up so Wheat could kiss him without getting a crick in his neck. He hadn’t meant to split Adam’s lip, he’d just gotten carried away. Adam was hot. From Adam’s reaction, you’d have thought Wheat told him he wanted him to wear a ball gag and a butt plug with a horse’s tail. Although that would have been fun…But a couple of days later Adam began ghosting him, never returning his calls or his texts, and when Wheat actually confronted him, no apology worked, so that was the end of it. And then the deal his father and Mr. James had been planning fell through, and he’d been forced to take the blame.

  He came back to the present when McIntyre, his father’s chauffeur, drew up to the entrance of the opera house, where the gala for the children’s hospital was being held. He got out of the Rolls and opened the door so they could all exit.

  “We’ll see you in a few hours,” Father told McIntyre.

  “Yes, sir.” He touched his cap and closed the door, then got back into the car and drove off. He’d park somewhere in the lot and join the other chauffeurs doing whatever it was they did to kill time until the gala was over.

  Mother took Father’s arm, and he led her toward the elaborate entrance. The doorman bounded forward and opened the door for them. A wall of sound washed over Wheat as he followed his parents inside and to the ballroom. Couples were on the dance floor or seated at the tables around it, having drinks while they waited for the meal to be served.

  They were all rich, people Father considered the family’s equal. Perhaps Wheat would find someone here he liked and his father approved of. That could work, couldn’t it?

  He looked around with enthusiasm that quickly faded. In spite of all the noise, fewer people seemed to be attending the gala than Wheat would have expected. Well, there was that flu or whatever it was that had been going around for the past month or so. Still, there should be enough men…

  Shit. As luck would have it, Adam was there with someone. His new boyfriend? Wheat was about to turn away, determined to show he didn’t give a damn, when Adam approached him.

  “Morrison, I’d like you to meet Lyncoln.” Adam had never called him Wheat, hadn’t even known that was his nickname. Didn’t this Lyncoln pe
rson have a last name? Wheat ran his gaze over the man. He was a green-eyed blond, and dammit, did he have to be so good-looking? Adam slid an arm around Lyncoln and tugged him close. “We’re together now,” he said, almost as if he dared Wheat to object.

  Well, fucking good for you. “How do you do?” Wheat asked, keeping his voice and his expression smooth. He wasn’t going to react in a petty fashion, as much as he wanted to smack Adam. He didn’t have to replace Wheat so fast, did he?

  “Hi.” Lyncoln gave an easy smile, as if he had no idea his boyfriend’s former boyfriend stood before him.

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Not long,” Adam said.

  “Almost a month,” Lyncoln said at the same time. Wait. Had Adam been seeing this person while he and Wheat had been dating? Wheat had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from scowling.

  Adam caught Lyncoln’s hand and looked up at him. The man was taller than Wheat, which meant he pretty much dwarfed Adam, and the tuxedo he wore seemed molded to his fit body. Was he a gym bunny?

  Wheat gave a perfunctory smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “We will.” Adam gave Lyncoln an adoring look, then took his arm and led him to the dance floor

  Wheat stared after them. He could have wept—not because Lyncoln was on Adam’s arm, but because of the way Adam had looked at him. It would have been nice if someone looked at Wheat as if they thought he hung the moon.

  He smoothed all expression from his face. It had been a big deal when he’d started dating Adam, and it wasn’t a good idea to let these sharks think this meeting with his former boyfriend had any kind of effect on him at all. He spotted someone he’d had sex with a few times. They’d had fun and parted with no hard feelings, so Wheat was pretty sure he could approach him safely.