Armageddon Conspiracy

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STEVE ALBERS HAD NO IDEA it was his day to die. He simply knew his sales meeting had run late, and he needed to run like hell to catch the five-ten train. Another train left at five forty-five, but that wasn’t an option. Today was his daughter’s birthday, her sixteenth, and in addition to a family celebration, Steve had an almost-new bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle hidden in his neighbor’s garage.

He generally disapproved of sixteen-year-olds having cars, but Kate was different—honor roll every semester of her life, state champion gymnast in her age group, and class president. She deserved something special, he thought, as he rushed from the elevator and trotted toward the revolving doors. Out on the crowded sidewalk, he broke into an awkward run.

The sun had set, the cold wind sliced through his muffler and gloves, and slicks of ice glinted from the sidewalk. He stepped around mobs of fellow commuters bundled in heavy coats, steaming warm breath into the air. After a block, his heart pounded, and he slowed to a fast walk, vowing to lose some weight. After another block he came to the throng of people moving down the escalators into the underground warren of Penn Station, and he began to burrow his way through.

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