Urban Mythic: Thirteen Novels of Adventure and Romance, featuring Norse and Greek Gods, Demons and Djinn, Angels, Fairies, Vampires, and Werewolves in the Modern World

by C. Gockel

  Even up here there were scattered home sites, and I wondered if I would be told to turn off at one of them. But then the voice said, This road, indicating a dirt track that branched off from Upper Canyon, heading even farther into the hills.

  I slowed down a little bit more, jolting and bouncing along the unpaved surface, which now was only wide enough to allow a single car through. Good thing I probably didn’t have to worry about someone coming this way from the other direction.

  Dutchie, who’d been dozing for the past hour or more, blinked and got to her feet, pressing her nose to the window. She left quite a smudge, and I winced. Even though I knew my father was far past caring about what happened to the Cherokee, I still couldn’t help experiencing some discomfort at knowing the SUV wouldn’t exactly be in showroom condition by the time I got to my destination…whatever the hell that might be, out here in the middle of nowhere.

  The track kept snaking farther and farther back into the hills. At least I’d had some experience driving off-road, so the rocky, rutted surface beneath the car didn’t bother me too much. What did bother me was how far away from civilization this place must be. Had the voice lured me out here to….

  To what? I asked myself with some scorn. If he wanted to kill you or do anything else, he could have done it already. What would be the point in sending you out to the back of beyond like this?

  No point at all that I could tell.

  Which didn’t mean much.

  At least the voice couldn’t seem to hear my interior monologue. A minute or so later, it said, Here.

  Another dirt track, even narrower than this one. It split off from the main road — if you could call it that — and wound up the side of a hill. Around the crest of that hill, I thought I spied a flash of shimmering gold leaves. Aspen trees?

  I turned where the voice had directed, crawling along. Nothing about this hill seemed all that different from all the others I had passed. It was studded with juniper trees and yucca, with dry yellow grass in between. Yes, there was something of a road, but leading to what?

  A few minutes later, I had my answer. Almost hidden until you came upon it, a compound of some sort was built just below the top of the hill. From what I could see, there was a main building and several smaller structures clumped around it. A high adobe wall appeared to circle the entire property. There was a metal gate with, of all things, the same Zia sun symbols as seen on the New Mexico flag adorning its four quadrants. At the moment, that gate stood wide open.

  I brought the Cherokee to a stop. The voice said, It is all right. There is no one here.

  “Why is the gate open?”

  I opened it for you.

  Not sure what I should do about that particular statement, I swallowed, then nudged the gas. The SUV moved forward slowly, and in a few more seconds, I was inside the compound. Almost as soon as the rear bumper had cleared the gate, it closed behind me.

  “You again?” I asked, hoping I’d kept most of the worry out of my voice.

  Yes.

  Since there was nothing else to do, I took a quick survey of my surroundings. There seemed to be a large house, built in the typical Santa Fe style with sheer walls of thick adobe and a flat roof. Aspen trees surrounded it, their golden leaves fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Just past the house was an outbuilding that appeared to be a large garage with four bays, and beyond that something that looked like an extensive greenhouse.

  Everything was very tidy, very neat, except for some fallen aspen leaves on the ground. Here, the driveway was crushed gravel, which crunched under the wheels of the Cherokee as I slowly inched it toward the garage. When I approached, the door to the bay farthest on the left rolled up and out of the way.

  This time it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but I still felt the skin along the back of my neck prickle as I pulled into the garage. The bay was quite wide, almost big enough for two cars, so I had plenty of room to park and then climb out. It was scrupulously clean, the walls finished. Overhead, a light bulb glowed.

  I blinked at it, wondering if I was imagining things. Or maybe that was just more of the voice flexing its power. “Is that you?” I asked.

  No. Look out, past the house.

  I did as instructed, ignoring Dutchie’s whines to be let out. She could hang on a minute longer. As I paused at the entrance to the garage, I saw that the property was very large, probably at least four or five acres, all enclosed within that high adobe wall. The other structure I’d glimpsed was in fact a greenhouse, but beyond that was a small solar farm, and beyond that still I spied a windmill whirling away.

  “There’s power here?” I had to fight the words past the lump in my throat; crazy how the mere thought of having electricity could get me so worked up.

  That, and so much more. Come — let me show you.

  I nodded, but then hurried over to open the passenger door. Dutchie sprang out, tail wagging, and promptly christened the place by squatting down on a patch of grass next to the garage. Despite everything, I couldn’t help grinning and shaking my head.

  But then I turned away from her so I could follow the flagstone path that led from the garage to the front door of the house. It was painted blue, and shaded by a long colonnaded façade, with heavy wood beams supporting the roof. Again, typical New Mexico architecture, but it looked heavy and solid. Safe.

  I put my hand on the latch. The door was unlocked, and swung inward.

  It was all I could do not to let out a gasp. The house was, as Elena might have put it, amazeballs.

  Red tiled floors. Wooden viga ceilings overhead. A kiva fireplace in one corner. Big, heavy ranch-style furniture. Navajo rugs.

  I stepped inside, Dutchie on my heels, then carefully closed the door behind me. My footsteps echoed off the shining floor as I moved farther into the house. It was the sort of place I might have seen in a magazine, with doorways of sculpted adobe, Mexican star lights made of pierced tin hanging in the entry, every piece seemingly selected for one particular spot and that spot only, unique and beautiful.

  “What is this place?” I breathed, after I’d recovered myself enough to move from the living room into the dining room, which was dominated by a copper-topped table big enough for twelve and sturdy chairs of dark wood with leather seats and nail-head accents. Landscapes of the area around Santa Fe hung on the walls.

  It was built by a real estate developer from Phoenix who wanted to make sure he would survive the end of the world in comfort. Unfortunately, his plans did not take disease into account, only war and civil unrest.

  What was I supposed to say to that?

  Shaking my head, I went into the kitchen, which was roughly twice the size of my little over-the-garage apartment. I heard a faint humming noise and wondered what it might be, then realized it was the refrigerator. Strange how only a few days without those sorts of background noises could render them unfamiliar, alien.

  I had to know. I walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. Inside, it was stocked with items that wouldn’t spoil easily — cheese, sausage, lunch meats. A six-pack of Kilt Lifter ale sat on the bottom shelf. When I peeked inside the freezer section, it seemed as if it was full of other similar “guy food” sorts of items: frozen pizza, tamales, taquitos. A box of Hot Pockets. A couple of bags of frozen chicken breasts from Trader Joe’s.

  Dutchie cocked her head, tongue lolling out. I wondered if she’d gotten a whiff of the cheese or sausages in the deli section of the fridge.

  “It looks like the owner just stepped out,” I said, my tone only partly accusing. “Are you sure no one’s been here?”

  Quite sure. The developer died two days ago, and the man he hired to watch over this place passed away yesterday, only three days after the last time he checked in here. You’ll find more food in the pantry, and a storeroom in the basement with canned goods, flour, sugar…that sort of thing. The greenhouse has tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, strawberries, and more.

  Basically, pretty much anything I would need
to keep on living for a good deal longer. And while doing it basically in the lap of luxury.

  “How did you find this place?” I asked. I sort of doubted it was the kind of property that popped up on Trulia.

  I knew you would need a sanctuary. So I…looked around.

  A sanctuary. Yes, that was what this place felt like. More questions bubbled to my mind, but I wasn’t sure the voice would answer any of them.

  And in the end, what did it matter? I was here, and I was safe. No one left alive even knew this place existed, and I could hide here for…months. Years, probably. Never mind that I didn’t really want to contemplate what it would be like to be out here for years and years with only a disembodied voice and a dog for company.

  Well, I didn’t have to think about that now. I had other things to do.

  “Come on, Dutchie,” I said. “Time to unpack the car.

  “We’re home.”

  Chapter 9

  In the kitchen cupboards, I found brightly colored Fiesta ware, and heavy blown-glass tumblers and goblets that I thought must have come from Mexico. I poured water — yes, the taps worked, thanks to a well out back that was powered by the windmill — into a bowl for Dutchie, and then tipped some of the Blue Buffalo dry food I’d brought from home into another bowl. She set to, lapping at the water greedily, crunching away at the dog food. I could tell she thought she was home, too. At some point I’d have to see about replenishing her food supply, but that could wait a while. Based on the amount of kibble left in the bag, she’d need some more in about a week. In a pinch, I could defrost some of those frozen chicken breasts and cook them up for her, but it would probably be smarter to head into Santa Fe and go foraging there for some real dog food.

  For the moment, though, I was content to explore the rest of the house. It was very large, probably at least four thousand square feet, although I’d be the first to admit that I wasn’t very good at judging those sorts of things. But there were three bedrooms, as well as an office, a sitting room, and a family room, in addition to the living room and kitchen. Off the back of the house was another covered patio, and surprisingly lush plantings of various native trees. In a secluded corner, a solar-powered fountain bubbled away. It felt tranquil, sheltered, so far removed from the horrors I’d seen in Albuquerque that I might as well have been on another planet.

  Here, I thought I might be able to heal.

  After I’d taken care of Dutchie and put all my things away, stowing the guns on a shelf in the master bedroom closet, I treated myself to a long, hot shower. And it was hot, thanks to the solar water heater. The storms I’d feared might be moving in had never materialized, and the day was sun and shadow, but with enough sunlight to keep everything in the house running. I soaked in that shower, letting the water run over me, allowing it to wash away the terror and fear and tragedy I’d left in a place I could no longer think of as home. I would never be able to forget any of it, but now, for the first time, I thought I might be able to focus on what lay ahead, instead of what was behind me.

  The softest rugs in the world had been laid down over the tile in the bathroom, and I got out and dried myself off, using the equally soft towels hanging from the rack. If the owner of this place truly had been a real estate developer, it was obvious that he’d spared no expense in outfitting his survival getaway. I had to wonder if he’d actually ever been here, or merely hired people to build and decorate the place to his specifications. Something about it did feel…well, not exactly soulless, because it was too warm and inviting for that, but staged, maybe, as if an interior designer had done all the heavy lifting in making the decorating decisions. And had the developer intended to bring someone with him to share the world after the apocalypse, or had he planned to live in all this luxury alone?

  Whatever the case, it was certainly far, far more than I ever could have expected might be awaiting me at the end of my journey. I blotted my hair, found a hair dryer in one of the drawers in the vanity area, and experienced the luxury of actually being able to blow-dry my hair, something I’d thought I’d never be able to do again. I put on clean clothes and my flats, since I wasn’t planning to go hiking anytime soon. The next day, I’d roam around and explore the property thoroughly, but for now I was content to cocoon indoors.

  When I emerged into the family room, the voice asked, Are you feeling better now?

  “Much,” I replied, although I couldn’t help wondering how much it could see. Had it been spying on me in the shower?

  No, that was ridiculous. And it had been polite enough to wait to address me until I was in one of the more public areas of the house.

  “I’m going to make some dinner,” I added. “You want anything?”

  Another one of those sounds that might have been a chuckle. No, thank you. But do enjoy exploring the kitchen.

  In that moment, it seemed as if the voice had gone again…if it could ever be said to actually be here in the corporeal sense of the word.

  I went on into the kitchen, where Dutchie greeted me with a thumping tail. Had she been here the whole time, waiting to see if I would come back and make some people food?

  Apparently so, because the second I opened one package of sausages, her tail began wagging even more fiercely.

  “This is not for dogs,” I told her in the severest tones I could muster, but she only smiled up at me and cocked her head. Well, that had never worked on my old dog Sadie, either.

  I could have nuked the sausages, but for some reason it felt better to rustle out a skillet and cook them the old-fashioned way. The savory smell filled the kitchen, and my stomach rumbled. After digging around in the freezer, I located some frozen home-style potatoes and added them to the mix. Yes, I really needed some fresh fruit or vegetables, but right then I was suddenly too tired to bother with going out to the greenhouse. It could wait another day.

  What I did find, tucked under one of the counters, was a wine refrigerator. “Thank you, Mr. Real Estate Developer,” I breathed, looking at the gleaming bottles, all chilled to a perfect fifty-four degrees. Not that I knew the first thing about wine, but I did know about needing a drink, and boy, did I need one.

  I selected a Black Mesa Montepulciano. I had no idea what a Montepulciano even was, but it sounded exotic. Probably far too exotic for my prosy meal of sausages and potatoes, which were still happily sizzling away on the stove top, but I doubted anyone from Wine Spectator magazine was going to drop in and grade me on my wine pairings.

  There was a drawer seemingly dedicated only to wine openers and related gadgets — stoppers, little metal collars with padding inside to keep wine from dripping down the side of a bottle after it had been opened. I’d never been able to manage a waiter-style corkscrew, but there was also one of those “jumping jack”–style openers, and I selected that and went to work on the wine bottle, keeping an eye on the potatoes and sausages the whole time.

  The sound of a cork coming out a wine bottle has to be one of the happiest sounds in the world, and I thought I could use a little happiness right then. I pulled one of the heavy blown-glass goblets out of the cupboard and filled it approximately halfway. Everything I’d read and heard said you were supposed to let wine breathe, but I wasn’t going to bother with that. I took a sip and closed my eyes. No, I hadn’t been much of a wine drinker, had always ordered mixed drinks or tequila shots when I was out with my friends. Now, though, I started to understand the appeal of wine, the smooth darkness of it on my lips, the gentle warmth it seemed to spread through my limbs.

  I allowed myself another sip, then went back to the stove so I could turn over the sausages and stir the potatoes around a little. They were basically done, so I scrounged in the cupboard for a plate and dumped everything onto it. Dutchie’s tail began to wag frantically, and I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Okay, we’ll see if there’s anything left over,” I told her, then got out a knife and fork, picked up my goblet of wine, and went into the family room. No way was I going to be the only pers
on sitting down at that massive copper dining room table.

  But the family room was a much cozier space, and I settled myself on the couch and placed the plate of food and my wine glass on the coffee table. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, although it wasn’t going to do me much good unless the real estate developer had a stash of DVDs hidden somewhere. He probably did, but in that moment I was too hungry to worry about it. As with so many other things, I’d go exploring later.

  There was also a kiva-style fireplace in one corner, with a nice stack of wood in a basket next to it. After I was done eating, I thought I might light a fire and allow myself to simply sit here for a while, quiet, letting my food digest. Hell, maybe I’d even drink that whole bottle of wine. After everything I’d been through, getting drunk sounded like it might not be a half-bad idea.

  But no…I knew I wouldn’t do that. Just the glass, and maybe half of one afterward. The voice had reassured me I was safe here, and had closed the gate to the compound behind me, but until I’d slept a few nights unmolested, I wasn’t about to let my guard down like that. Dutchie had proven to be a good watchdog, and I had a feeling a place like this had some decent built-in security, but even so, being careless seemed like a good way to get myself killed.

  Instead, I drank the wine slowly, taking small sips in between bites of my food, until my glass was empty and my plate almost so. There were a few potatoes and the end of one sausage left, and I put the plate down on the floor so Dutchie could have the rest of it. Who cared if that wasn’t the most hygienic thing in the world to do? She was deliriously happy about getting some table scraps, and as far as I was concerned, she’d earned them.

  Once she’d polished the plate clean, I picked it up, as well as my wine glass, and went back to the kitchen. The plate went in the dishwasher, and I poured enough wine into my goblet to get it to a little below the halfway mark. In the drawer with all the other wine accoutrements, I found a stopper, so I jammed that into the open bottle, figuring I’d finish it off the next day.