“Good question, Dutchie,” I said, but I tucked it into my jeans anyway. “You stay here.”
She wagged her tail and didn’t try to get out of the car as I exited the vehicle. That was one damn good dog.
After looking around quickly and not seeing anyone, I went up to the front door of Elena’s house. Ringing the doorbell was no use, since the power was out all over town. Instead, I knocked, then waited.
No answer, but I hadn’t really been expecting one. I put my hand on the latch, and, to my surprise, the door swung inward. It seemed logical enough that the last person to come home had been so ill they hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind them, but it unnerved me nonetheless. Swallowing hard, I made myself enter the house.
It was a big Santa Fe–style faux adobe, with tile floors and wood-beamed ceilings. My footsteps echoed through the two-story foyer as I moved toward the center of the building. Something sweet and smoky tickled at my nose. Incense. Elena’s mother was a devout Catholic. Maybe she’d burned the incense as she prayed to God to save her, save her family.
Unfortunately, God didn’t seem to be listening lately.
The house had built-in art niches, one of which held a shrine to the Madonna. I saw a pile of gray dust immediately in front of it and knew it must be Gabriella Cruz. Limbs trembling, I made myself walk past it, go through the rest of the ground floor: the great room with the kitchen and family room combined, the formal dining room, the living room. No sign of Elena or her father. Which didn’t mean all that much. There was still the upstairs.
Pulse pounding painfully in my throat, I mounted the steps. The house had four bedrooms, one of which was an office. In there I found another pile of gray dust, which I guessed must be Eduardo Cruz, Elena’s father.
Her bedroom was on the opposite side of the upstairs hallway, two doors down. Truth be told, I’d always envied her that room, with its own bathroom and the little sitting area off the balcony. It felt like a room for a princess, compared to the boxy twelve-by-twelve space that had been mine all through childhood and high school. No wonder Elena had never been too worried about moving out. “I’ll go from here to my husband’s house,” she used to say with a laugh, and the rest of us had pretty much believed her. No one could really imagine Elena trying to scrape by in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, just for a spurious sense of independence.
And it was on the wrought-iron bed, with its filmy topping of mosquito net and matching white embroidered comforter, that I found the third pile of gray dust. For the longest moment, I just stood there, staring down at it, remembering my friend’s quick, flashing smile, the annoying way she absolutely could not get through a movie without offering her own running commentary on it. How she’d quietly slipped a wad of money into my hand one day during our senior year so I could get the prom dress I really wanted and not the bargain gown my mother was pushing me into, because “in five years you’re just not going to care what you wore.”
But I still did care…although mainly because of what Elena had done to help me out, and not the dress itself.
You see? the voice said, its tone quiet and sad. There’s no point in you doing this. You can’t save them. They’re already gone. Mourn them if you must, but your path lies northward.
I wished then that the voice were real, that it was attached to a real body, so I could grab it by the shoulders and shake it for being so thoughtless. “That’s not the point,” I said, my own voice trembling. “I need to know…and I need to say goodbye.”
It remained silent then…wisely so. I reached out and touched the twisted wrought iron of one of the bedposts, and whispered, “Sleep well.” Then I turned away and walked down the hall, descended the steps, and went out the front door, shutting it quietly behind me.
Dutchie’s tail thumped happily as I got back in the Cherokee, but I didn’t say anything, only reached out to pet her, to feel her silky fur beneath my cold, cold fingers. For a long moment, I just sat there, the key still in my hand, the gun digging uncomfortably into my waistband. Finally, I reached back and pulled it out, returning it to the glove compartment.
Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Susan next. Could I do it? Could I go to the house where I’d spent Thanksgiving and Christmas — Susan was my mother’s sister, and they traded holidays so no one family would have to do all the work — and walk in to see my uncle and aunt reduced to dust, and my cousins as well? Well, two of them, anyway. My cousin Shane was in college in California, at Stanford, to be exact, and so he wouldn’t be around. He would have died far away from his family.
If he died, I reminded myself fiercely. He could be immune, too. You don’t know.
No, I didn’t know. I just wasn’t sure how I would ever find out.
Even so, I put the key in the ignition, then turned it, pointing the vehicle north and east, toward Sandia Heights. It was a longer jog than the one from my house to Elena’s, but up here the streets didn’t feel quite as crammed with abandoned vehicles. There was plenty of evidence of unexpected death — cars crashed into walls, into trees, into one another. And as I gained some height, I could now see that the smoke I had smelled earlier seemed to be coming from the city center. Downtown itself, maybe, or the university. I couldn’t tell for sure from this distance, and it didn’t really matter. That was miles from where I was now, miles from my house. It might spread that far, but I had a feeling I’d be long gone by then.
As I drove along Academy Road, I passed a PetSmart and saw the strangest sight. All kinds of dogs were converging on the store, and right out in front I saw several of them tearing into big bags of dog food, then beginning to feast. More dogs came to join them, but there was no fighting over the food. In fact, I even saw a big pit bull mix move to one side to let a fluffy little dog — a Maltese, I guessed — come in next to him and start eating.
“What the — ” I said aloud, and Dutchie swiveled her head in my direction.
The animals will be taken care of, the voice told me.
I’d been so caught up in my own losses, and so relieved to have Dutchie by my side, that I hadn’t even stopped to think what would happen to all those thousands of ownerless pets left with no resources, no one to watch over them.
“They’ll be taken care of?” I demanded. “By whom?”
They will not suffer. They are innocents.
This whole situation was getting stranger by the minute. The way all the bodies of the dead had dissolved into dust seemed to tell me something greater than a single rampaging strain of microbe was at work here, and now, seeing the way the animals were all cooperating, hearing the voice reassure me they would be fine — well, I didn’t know what to think.
“Is this a judgment?” I asked. “Some sort of punishment?”
Silence.
“Who’s doing the punishing?” I demanded, voice shaking. “And why wasn’t I punished along with everyone else?”
Again no answer.
I drove on, knowing I would receive no reply to my questions.
Chapter 6
My aunt and uncle’s house looked intact, Uncle Jeremy’s Beemer in the driveway, a little garden flag with an autumn leaf design flapping in the breeze as I got out of the Cherokee. The rest of the neighborhood looked similarly peaceful, but I knew better than to trust that outward appearance of tranquility. I knew what it hid.
Unlike Elena’s house, the front door here was locked. I wished I could take that as a sign to turn around and go, but that would be the cowardly way out. Instead, I headed toward the back, to the entrance that opened on the patio. Their backyard wasn’t landscaped with grass and trees like ours, but was completely paved over except for some plantings along the edges, with a pergola to protect the area to one side where they had the patio furniture and the barbecue. My hiking boots seemed overly loud as I walked across the flagstones and tested the back door.
Locked. I knocked, then waited. Nothing.
I knocked again, calling out, half in a whisper, “Uncle Jeremy? Aunt Susan?”
I tried peeking inside, but the blinds were closed almost all the way, and so I couldn’t really see anything. The planter next to me was bordered with large rocks; I wondered if I should pick one up and smash a window in. Even if by some miracle someone was alive inside, I didn’t think they’d get too angry about me breaking a window to check on them. At least, I hoped they wouldn’t.
Bending down, I wrapped my fingers around one of the rocks. At the same time, the voice thundered in my head, Behind you!
I whirled, rock still in one hand. Standing a few paces away was probably the last person I’d expected to see — Chris Bowman, who lived next door to my aunt and uncle, and who I had always found extremely creepy. He was a few years older than I but still lived at home, and more than once I’d heard my aunt say “what a shame” it was that his parents had to deal with him, but I never was able to find out exactly what she meant by that. I’d always assumed Chris maybe had a substance abuse problem, or possibly mental health issues. Frankly, I didn’t want to get close enough to him to find out, as it seemed that every time my family came to visit, he’d have some excuse to be outside, watering the flower border or getting the mail — anything so he could stand there and watch me with his pale eyes until I disappeared inside my aunt and uncle’s house.
Back then, his behavior hadn’t worried me too much, because I knew if he actually tried anything, my father would have made sure it never happened again. But now, with the whole world dead except for me and Albuquerque’s biggest creep?
My fingers tightened around the rock I held, but I kept it behind me and hoped he hadn’t noticed as I picked it up. Hard to say, because I hadn’t even heard him approach. He was wearing his typical costume of baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt — this one emblazoned with a Captain America shield — and his high-topped Converse apparently hadn’t made any sound as he crossed the flagstones of the patio.
“Chris?” I finally managed, because one of us had to say something, and it seemed he was content to just stand there and stare at me with those weird pale blue eyes of his.
Finally, his mouth curved in a smile. His teeth were slightly yellowish, as was his skin and hair. Everything about him seemed vaguely yellow, except his eyes. “You’re immune,” he said, and made the oddest sound, like a choked little giggle.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Maybe,” I replied. “Or maybe I just haven’t gotten sick yet.”
“No, you’re immune.” His pale gaze raked me up and down, and I tensed. The clothes I wore were anything but revealing, and yet the way he was looking at me made me feel as if I wasn’t wearing anything at all…that he’d spent way too much time imagining what I looked like naked. “Just like me.”
I wanted to retort, I am nothing like you, but something held me back. Yes, I had that rock in my hand. Belatedly, I realized that was all I had, since in my haste to get out of the car and up to my aunt and uncle’s front door, I’d left the gun in the glove compartment of the Cherokee. Shit.
“This is perfect,” he went on, his tone almost dreamy. “Everyone gone except you and me. Just the way I always wanted it.”
Jesus Christ. I could feel the sharp edges of the rock biting into my fingers and palm. If I threw it, would it be enough to knock him out, or at least put him off balance enough for me to bolt to the car? I had no idea. Normally, I’d say I was pretty strong…but was I strong enough?
“Um, Chris,” I said, figuring that ignoring his comment seemed safest in that moment, “what about your parents? Your neighbors on the other side?”
An expression of annoyance crossed his lumpy features. “I told you. They’re all gone. Everyone on the whole street. I checked.” A pause, and then he added, “Your aunt and uncle, too, and your cousins. I went in and looked, then locked the door when I came back out. I figured no one else would be going in there.” The annoyed look morphed into one of sly knowing. “So you won’t need that rock to break in. Why don’t you give it to me?”
I didn’t reply. He frowned, taking a step toward me, eyes fixed on my face, greedy, hungry. A pale pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and I felt my stomach heave.
Now, Jessica!
Without stopping to think, I whipped my arm around and hurled the rock at Chris’s head with all the strength I possessed. It hit him square in the temple, and he let out a shocked cry, eyes wide and disbelieving, then backed away from me as blood began to pour through the fingers he put up against the wound.
That was the only opening I would get, I knew. I tore out of there, bolting as if someone had just shot off a starter pistol at a track meet. Behind me, I could hear Chris cursing, calling me a bitch and worse — but he was also coming after me. And though he was soft-looking and most likely out of shape, he was also almost a foot taller than I, which meant his legs could cover the ground a lot more quickly.
If I looked back, I’d be lost. I could only continue to pound my way toward the Cherokee, one hand scrabbling in my pants pocket for the key as I ran. My fingers closed around the fob, and I hit the “unlock” button while I was still a good twenty feet away. The lights flashed, and from the passenger seat I could hear Dutchie bark — not a friendly bark of greeting, but a sharp, strained one, as if warning me.
A cold, clammy hand caught hold of my bicep and spun me around. Chris’s washed-out blue eyes, even more blindingly pale now that they were circled by bright red blood flowing down from the gash in his head, bored into me.
“You’re going to regret that.”
“Chris, please — ” I thought I’d been scared before, watching my family die, wondering when the fever would rise up to consume me as well, but that was an entirely different species of fear from what I was experiencing now. This was far more personal, in a way, because I knew all too well what Chris Bowman wanted from me.
“Shut up.” His fingers tightened on my arm, and he began to pull me toward him. Overcome by panic, I struggled against him, tasting the sourness of bile in my mouth, knowing if he touched me in a way that was any more intimate than this, I would be sick. I drove my knee upward the way my father had taught me, and I hoped I could catch Chris in the groin, but he seemed to guess what I had planned and kicked out at me, catching me in the shin and sending me flying to the ground, where I hit the sidewalk with a jolt, pain lancing up through my wrists as I jammed down into them with almost all my weight.
Tears of pain and fury leaped to my eyes, but I couldn’t lose it now. I started to crawl toward the SUV, only to feel Chris’s hands on me again, this time around my waist. I kicked back at him, but he let go of me with one hand so he could catch my ankle and flip me over.
Then he was looming over me, his horrific bloodstained face getting closer and closer. I knew what he was going to do, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop him — he was bigger and stronger, and just plain crazy, and I now had at least one, if not two, sprained wrists.
And then…then it was as if a pair of invisible hands caught hold of him, pulling him away from me, flinging him backward as if he weighed nothing, was only a child’s toy someone had left out on the lawn. He hit the trunk of the palm tree in my aunt and uncle’s yard with a sickening crunch, then slid down, his head hanging at a strange angle. Was his neck broken? No way was I going to get close enough to find out.
I didn’t even realize I was saying the words out loud until I heard them coming from my mouth. “What the — ”
The voice sounded stern and sad. Do you see now why I did not want you to come here?
“Point taken,” I panted, and got shakily to my feet. Both my wrists were aching, and I hoped I’d be able to get the Cherokee home. Not that I had much choice. It was the only safe haven I knew.
Wincing, I dug the key out of my pocket and climbed into the SUV, trying to maneuver with my elbows so I wo
uldn’t have to bend my wrists any more than was strictly necessary. Dutchie whined and tried to lick my face.
“I’m okay, sweetie,” I told her, more for her sake than because I really believed what I was saying.
Trying to put on the seatbelt would have been excruciating. Besides, with all the wrecks littering the roads, I wouldn’t be driving much above twenty-five miles an hour anyway. Somehow I managed to get the car started, then bit my lip in pain as I put the Cherokee in gear. At least I’d been parked at the curb and not in the driveway, so I didn’t have to worry about backing out or anything.
The throbbing ache in my wrists prevented me from thinking about anything except getting back to the house. I drove slowly, grinding my teeth whenever I had to maneuver around abandoned cars by going up on the curb. Every jolt and jounce felt magnified a hundredfold.
Finally, though, I made it back to my street and eased the car into the driveway, then turned off the engine. I knew there was no way I could reach across and open the passenger door from the inside, so I slid out and went around the front of the SUV. Dutchie bounded out the second she was free to do so, and I retrieved the gun from the glove compartment before shutting the door behind her and clicking the lock button on the remote.
Limping, since I’d realized in that moment just how much my right knee hurt as well, I went in through the back door and locked it behind me. Then I headed to the front of the house to test the lock there as well. All was as it should be, but I couldn’t stop shaking.
Dutchie sat in the living room and watched as I secured the house. Then she tilted her head toward the clock over the fireplace, as if to say, It’s lunchtime, you know.
Despite everything, I couldn’t help giving a rusty chuckle. “Soon, Dutchie. I need to take care of me first.”
We had a very well-stocked first aid kit in one of the cupboards in the service porch. It hurt just to reach up and get it down, but I made myself do it. First I attended to the superficial scratches on the palms of my hands, gritting my teeth as I swabbed them with alcohol pads, and then I wrapped both wrists with Ace bandages. They still ached, but not as badly. My knee was banged up, but I hadn’t torn my jeans, so I figured any bruises I’d gotten would heal on their own.
Demons & Djinn: Nine Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Novels Featuring Demons, Djinn, and other Bad Boys of the Underworld Page 8
