I knew the combination. He’d trusted me with that, just as he trusted me to be responsible when we went shooting and to clean the guns I used and follow all the safety rules he’d taught me. I wasn’t sure if Devin had known the combination, although I somehow doubted it; my father hadn’t given me that information until I turned twenty-one. And even though I might be the only person left alive in Albuquerque, no way was I sitting alone in this house without some means to protect myself.
The lock turned easily, of course. My father took as good care of the safe as he did the guns inside. There were a lot, too — in addition to his service Glock, he owned an AR-15 rifle, two shotguns, a small .22-caliber hunting rifle, a Ruger, a Beretta, and my favorite, the Smith & Wesson .357. Sort of an old-fashioned gun, but my accuracy had always been good with it. Besides, with a revolver, you didn’t have to worry about the gun jamming.
I set the candle I’d brought with me down on my mother’s desk, then opened the safe. Hanging from one of the sleeves on the door was the .357, and on the shelf directly opposite the gun, boxes of spare ammo. My father wasn’t exactly what you’d call a survivalist type, but he did believe in maintaining his supplies. If necessary, I could waste a lot of bad guys before I ran out. Not that there were probably any bad guys left. This was more for my own peace of mind than anything else.
After lifting the S&W from where it rested, I pushed the latch forward to release the barrel, then moved the latch outward. As I’d suspected, the chambers were empty — my father didn’t believe in leaving loaded handguns lying around, even in the safe. One by one, I dropped the bullets into the chambers, then closed the gun back up.
Habit made me shut the door to the gun safe as well, and make sure the lock was fully engaged. Maybe I was the only person left alive in Albuquerque…and maybe not. No matter what the reality of the situation might turn out to be, I didn’t think it was a very good idea to leave a fully stocked gun safe accessible to just anyone.
Picking up the candle with my free hand, I went back out to the living room. My toast was stone cold by then, but I made myself eat it, and then drank some more water. I set the gun down on the coffee table, within easy reach should I need it.
And then I leaned against the back of the couch and shut my eyes, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do next. My entire family was gone — I had two grandparents still living, but I had no reason to believe they hadn’t suffered the same fate as my parents and brother. Three cousins and an aunt and uncle, all on my mother’s side; my father was an only child. Could this strange immunity that seemed to be protecting me have somehow sheltered any of them? Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Susan also lived here in Albuquerque, so it wouldn’t be that hard to try checking on them tomorrow, after the sun came up. No way was I venturing outside in the dark.
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea — a fool’s errand, as my father might have said. But it was the only thing I could think of to try. There were my friends, too…Tori and Brittany and Elena. I had no reason to believe they hadn’t suffered the same fate as everyone else, but again, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try to find out what had happened to them.
There is no point. They’re all gone.
“Oh, really?” I snapped into the candlelit darkness. “How are you so sure of that?”
Because they weren’t immune.
“But I am.”
Yes.
“Why?”
No answer — not that I’d really expected one. It seemed as soon as I asked the hard questions, the voice quickly decamped. Only my subconscious, trying to convince me not to put myself in harm’s way? I wouldn’t be surprised. Nevertheless, I knew what I had to do the next day.
The next day, a bright sun rose on an empty world. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep upstairs, not even in the untouched guest bedroom. Too much death up there, too many reminders of everything I’d lost. Instead, I’d fetched some spare blankets from the linen closet and spread them over me so I could sleep on the living room couch. That, more than anything else, was a sure sign of the apocalypse, since my mother would never have allowed her new sofa to be sullied by someone sleeping on it when she was alive. But the living room faced out on the street, and I reasoned I’d better be able to listen for any signs of life or activity on the road by sleeping there, rather than back in the family room, which was toward the rear of the house.
I got up off the couch, rubbed the kink in my neck, then cautiously pushed the curtains aside so I could get a glimpse of what was going on in the neighborhood. Not much; the sprinklers were on at the D’Ambrosios’ house on the corner opposite ours, but I knew that didn’t mean anything, since they were on an automatic timer. As I watched, they seemed to shut themselves off, the bright green grass of the yard glinting in the morning sun. Otherwise, everything was completely still.
No, scratch that — I saw the Munozes’ shepherd mix nosing around in the grass in front of their house across the street. She was a wily critter and got out at least once a week, but now I guessed it was because she was hungry. Luckily, she was a sweet dog and knew me. The power was out, and we had some leftovers in the fridge that might as well get eaten before they spoiled.
I let the curtain drop and went to open the front door. The morning air was cool, but carried with it the smell of smoke. Something in the city was burning. Here, though, we seemed to be safe enough, at least for the moment. I’d worry about the fire later.
Crouching down slightly, I called out, “Dutchie! Dutchie!” Hector Munoz had been a professor of Spanish literature at UNM, and I think Dutchie’s original name had been Dulcinea. The Munozes’ little girl, Jaclyn, couldn’t pronounce the name, though, and so Dulcinea had sort of degenerated into “Dutchie.” A sharp, knifing pain went through me, though, as I thought of little Jaclyn and her big brown eyes and her endlessly asking “Why?”
I had a feeling she wouldn’t be asking any more questions.
The dog lifted her head and looked over at me, one ear cocked slightly. No one was completely sure of Dutchie’s heritage. Best guess was part German shepherd, part border collie, and part Lord knows what, but she was a beautiful dog, with a silky black and tan coat, and one blue eye and one brown eye. The blue eye seemed to focus on me particularly.
She gave a little shake and then trotted obediently over to me, pushing her head against my knee and giving the faintest of whines. Poor thing had to be hungry.
“You want some breakfast?” I asked her, and both her ears went up. Just like our old dog Sadie, who’d passed last winter. Debates had still been raging at my house as to when would be a good time to get another dog…not that it mattered now.
But Sadie had had an extensive vocabulary when it came to anything food-related, and it seemed as if Dutchie was the same way. She padded after me as I tucked the revolver into my waistband, then went into the kitchen, got a bowl from one of the cupboards, and poured her some water.
At least, that was what I intended to do. When I turned the tap, however, nothing happened. A few drops sputtered from the faucet, but that was it. So the water was gone, too.
That fluttery feeling of panic returned, and I forced it down. When we were at home, we got our water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, but we always kept a couple pallets of bottled water in the pantry for road trips or even just running around town. I wasn’t going to die of thirst anytime soon.
I fetched one of the water bottles and poured its contents into the bowl. Dutchie began slurping it up greedily, so while she was occupied, I got out a plate and then retrieved one of the covered storage bowls in the fridge, the one with the leftover roasted chicken from the weekend. Taking out one of the chicken legs and shredding it onto the plate relaxed me a little, made me focus on something other than the dry tap. If I attempted to turn on one of the burners on the stove, would it light? Or was the gas out, too?
Most likely. Which meant there would be no heat. Yesterday had been warmer than normal, but I’d heard that temperat
ures were supposed to start dipping toward the end of the week. Conditions might become downright uncomfortable.
Oh, like they’re so wonderful right now, my brain mocked me as I bent down to give Dutchie the plate of chicken. She immediately abandoned the water and wolfed down the bits of chicken leg, then looked up at me with pleading eyes when she was done.
“There’s no more, you little pig,” I said with some affection, reaching to scratch her behind the ears. Her fur was soft and silky, and infinitely reassuring. Somehow everything didn’t seem quite so bad if I could have Dutchie with me.
She whined, and I remembered we still had some dog treats up on the highest shelf in the pantry, left over after Sadie died. I got out the step stool, then climbed up and retrieved them. Dutchie watched the entire procedure, tail wagging, and I gave her one of the biscuits.
“Better?” I asked.
No reply, of course, but I figured the way she was hunkered down on the kitchen rug, munching on the biscuit, tail wagging, told me everything I needed to know.
All right. So I had some companionship. Now I had to take care of myself. My appetite was still nowhere in evidence, but I helped myself to some of the leftover chicken as well, then had a piece of bread and butter, washed down with water from another bottle I took from the pallet. Obviously, a shower was out of the question, but I took some of the water and splashed it on my face. It helped a little.
Carrying the half-full bottle of water, I went out the back door, Dutchie following me, and headed up to my apartment. Everything looked so normal there, so unchanged, and I realized I hadn’t been there since my parents — since Devin — well, since. It was no sanctuary, though, no place where I could hide from what had happened.
That wasn’t my reason for being here, though. I set the gun down on the coffee table, got out of my clothes from the day before and stuffed them into the hamper, and then pulled on fresh jeans and socks, and a waffle-weave henley shirt I wore sometimes when I went hiking. My hiking boots were tucked into the far corner of the closet, and I got them out as well and laced them on. I had no idea what I might encounter today, so it seemed smart to be wearing comfortable, serviceable clothes, the kinds of things that wouldn’t get in my way.
Speaking of which —
I headed into the bathroom, brushed my hair, and pulled it back with an elastic band. Afterward, I brushed my teeth, being as sparing with the bottled water as I could. No point in wearing any makeup, but I put on some colored lip balm because the weather was dry, and they felt parched.
During all this, Dutchie sat in the middle of my tiny living room and watched me. After I had extracted my wallet from my purse and slipped it into my pocket, then tucked the S&W back into my waistband, I paused and asked her, “Am I crazy for doing this?”
She cocked her head to one side, mismatched eyes shining. Apparently, she didn’t have an opinion on my preparations, but was probably hoping for another dog biscuit when we got back to the kitchen.
“Okay,” I told her. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Tail wagging, she ran out the door as soon as I opened it, then practically galloped down the stairs. From what I could tell, she wasn’t exactly pining for her former masters. Or maybe she was just so happy to see someone — anyone — that she was willing to be their new best friend, no matter what.
Once we were back in the kitchen, I gave her another dog biscuit, then hesitated at the key rack by the back door. If I was really going to venture out into deserted Albuquerque, I didn’t think my little Honda was the best choice in vehicles. My mother’s Escape had all-wheel drive, but I knew my father’s Grand Cherokee was the sturdiest car we owned.
My hand shook as I took the key with its leather fob from the rack. My father loved that SUV — washed it every week, changed the oil regularly, conditioned the leather seats, the whole thing. He’d never let me or Devin drive it, and even my mother was only allowed behind the wheel if her own car was in the shop for something. But my father was far past caring about the Cherokee, and I knew it was my best bet for getting where I needed to go.
There is no point, the voice in my head said sadly.
“There is a point,” I retorted. “I need to know if they’re alive or dead.”
You already know the answer to that.
“No, I don’t. Not for sure.”
Your heart does.
I didn’t want to believe him. In fact, I refused to believe him. Voice tight, I asked, “All right — where do you think I should go?”
The answer was immediate. North.
“North?” I repeated in some incredulity. “You do know that winter is coming, right? If I have to get out of Albuquerque, it would make a lot more sense to go south, to Alamogordo or Las Cruces.” Or Roswell, I added mentally. Maybe I can go there and stick my thumb out, see if the aliens might give me a ride right out of here.
North. The voice sounded implacable.
“Well, I’ll take that under advisement,” I said lightly. “For now, though, I have some friends and family to check on.”
It is a mistake.
“Then it’ll be my mistake. Come on, Dutchie.”
Had I already descended to arguing with the voices in my head? It sure looked that way.
The dog trotted after me as I went out the back door and over to the driveway. Good thing I’d decided on the Cherokee, as it was blocking my mother’s car anyway. I went around to the passenger side and opened the door. Dutchie didn’t even need an invitation — she jumped right inside, eyes shining, ears up. Her claws slipped a little on the leather seat, and I winced. I had to hope that my father really had gone on to a better place, one where he couldn’t see his prized SUV getting scratches on the seats and, no doubt, dog hair everywhere.
I walked slowly around the back of the vehicle, watching, listening. Since the D’Ambrosios’ sprinklers had shut off — or, more likely, run out of water — besides the cawing of a few crows as they circled overhead, the neighborhood was completely still. Again, that silence made the skin on the back of my neck prickle, and I hastened to the driver-side door, then got in.
The sound of the engine turning over seemed ear-piercingly loud after all that quiet. At the same time, the radio turned on in a burst of static, and I quickly shut it off, knowing that there wouldn’t be anything useful on the radio, any more than there had been on the television. My father had probably been scanning the bands as he came home, looking for a report that would tell him what was going on. Something. Anything.
I paused to slide the gun out of my waistband and into the glove compartment before backing the Cherokee out into the street. On the seat beside me, Dutchie had her head up and was sniffing the air, even though the windows were all the way up. I rolled down the one next to her so she could stick her nose out, then slowed before we’d gone even halfway down the block. I knew what I would find, but I had to check.
The front door to the Munozes’ house was locked, but when I went around back, I discovered that the side door which led to their service porch was halfway open. The reason why presented itself soon enough — there was a pile of gray dust just inside, right in front of the dryer. I had a feeling, though, that whoever had gone out there had been looking for more ice, as the Munozes had an upright freezer tucked into one corner, away from the other appliances.
Grimacing, I stepped over the little pile of dust, glad that I’d left Dutchie inside the car. “Professor Munoz?” I called out. “Jaclyn? Maria?”
No answer, of course. In the living room, I saw the reason why — a pile of dust on the sofa, a smaller one next to it. I couldn’t know for sure whether it was Maria Munoz or her husband who had expired in the laundry room, or who had been sitting on the couch next to their daughter. I supposed it really didn’t matter. They were gone. No wonder Dutchie had started wandering the neighborhood, looking for someone to take care of her.
When I got back inside the Cherokee, I leaned over and gave the dog a fierce hug. “I’m here, Dutch
ie,” I said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She licked my cheek and let out a whine, but a questioning one, as if asking whether I was okay.
No, I really was not okay, but I couldn’t let myself start to lose it now. I straightened, gave her ears a quick scratch, and then started up the SUV, moving down the street so I could get out onto Rio Grand Boulevard and head over to my friend Elena’s house, as she was the one who lived closest to me. After that it would be Tori’s, and then my Aunt Susan and Uncle Jeremy’s house. And after that….
Well, I’d see how much more I could take after that.
It was slower going than I’d expected, mainly because a lot more abandoned cars choked the streets than I’d thought there would be. In my mind, I’d imagined more people would have made it home before they expired, but that didn’t seem to be the case. I had to weave in and out of the stopped vehicles, several times being forced up on the curb to make my way around the blockage. And everything so silent, so still, save for the ceaseless cawing of crows overhead.
No carrion for you to eat, you bastards, I thought as I eased the Cherokee off yet another curb.
And in a way, I had to be thankful for that. The Heat might not have killed me to start, but if there had been millions of corpses left behind once the disease had done its work, typhoid fever or cholera surely would have finished the job.
I turned into the residential section where Elena lived, glad to see there were fewer vehicles blocking the streets here. But still I saw no sign of life anywhere, not one person stepping out of a house to flag me down, to let me know at least one other soul had survived the plague that had swept over the world.
Unlike my house, which always had a full driveway and my car parked at the curb, Elena’s looked pristine. Then again, her family had more money — her father was a lawyer — and their house had a three-car garage. It wasn’t unusual to see no real evidence of anyone being home.
I stopped the Cherokee, then reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the revolver. Dutchie looked at me, wide-eyed, as if wondering what in the world I needed with a gun.
Demons & Djinn: Nine Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Novels Featuring Demons, Djinn, and other Bad Boys of the Underworld Page 7
