I dry off, but the woman doesn’t take me back to my room. Instead she leads me to a room with faux-leather green chairs and electric bulbs surrounding a row of mirrors.
“Let’s do something with this hair,” she says. There’s a cheerful lilt to her voice, but it’s forced, like she’s nervous or something. She eases one of the chairs away from the counter, and her eyes meet mine in the mirror as I take a seat. She tries to smile, but then she gives up and ducks her head. Once she’s combed my hair free of tangles, she rummages through a drawer until she finds a set of sheers.
I tense. “What are you planning to do with those?”
Her brows go up. “I thought I’d neaten the ends. Maybe take off six inches or so. Your hair is way too long.”
“No, you’re not.” I level her with a tight-lipped, empty-eyed stare, but I’m gentle as I push the sheers away. “Is that a hair dryer?”
She presses a hand to her chest and flicks a glance at the door and frowns. “I don’t think they’ll be happy with—”
“Just dry my hair.” I don’t care who’s happy.
The girl’s mouth falls open. She sucks in her lips and flicks another glance at the door.
“What are you looking at? A camera? It’s my hair. I decide, not you.”
To my surprise, she bobs her head and seizes the dryer.
Either they still want something from me, or pedigree still matters. For what reason, I can’t guess. My family is dead and I can’t have kids, so my genes don’t matter.
The girl plugs in the gun-shaped dryer and switches it on. Just like that, it’s off and then it’s on. In my church bunker I’d build a small tent, set up an even smaller fire, and sit in there, smoke and all, until the heat dried my hair. It took hours, and afterward my throat hurt and my eyes itched.
The heat against my scalp feels like blueberry Pop-Tarts, fleece-lined leggings, and the sound of leaves blowing in the wind. That’s the only way I can explain it. My eyes fall shut, and I let the girl toss my hair, rub my scalp, and wave her heat gun over and over my head until my spine tingles and I could easily surrender to sleep. When she pulls out a huge round brush, though, and starts scraping it through my hair, I push her away.
“My hair is wavy,” I tell her.
“I can make it look sleek and shiny.”
I try to smile at her, but she flinches and looks away. It takes me a second before it hits me that my teeth are not straight like someone who’s worn braces. I’m different. I nod at the brush. “That’s not who I am. Hand me the comb and I’ll tame it down.”
“I can’t! I’m supposed to—”
“No.” I hold out my hand. She hesitates before she passes me a loose-toothed brush.
I don’t mean to be a dick. I just don’t want fake Arc hospitality. I’m a survivor, and I’m proud of that. I also don’t want them to think they’re bettering me. At the very least I’m someone to be respected, and the sooner they realize that, the better.
When she opens a closet door and pulls out a red and yellow floral dress with a full gathered skirt, I gape at her.
“Do you really think I’m going to wear that?”
“You don’t like it?”
I do realize she’s following orders. I don’t need to be hostile about it. I sigh. “It’s perfect for a bridal shower or a visit with your fiancé’s grandmother. It’s not me.”
She picks at her lips as she glances from me to the dress and back to me.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Dana.”
“Dana?”
“Dana Couey.”
“You heard my name, Dana, and you think because my dad had fifty six billion dollars, that makes me something special. It doesn’t. I was born in that world, but it failed me and I’m someone else now. I can outrun a hunting party. I can steal your shit without you knowing I’ve ever been in your home. I have no problem killing an attacker, and I can go days without eating and then gladly eat a mouse. I can and have done much worse than that. Now, Dana, no one’s going to put me in that thing. That dress is for the weak. Bring me real clothes.”
Dana’s shoulders sag, and the hem of the dress hits the floor.
“Here’s what you do. I’ve only ever had two pairs of underwear, so if you can find me a brand-new clean pair, I’d be grateful. Grab me a pair of pants you think might fit and get ahold of a really soft top. If you can find me a sweatshirt too, I’ll be set.”
She sighs. “What’s your bra size?”
Bra? “I don’t know. Just guess. I’ve never had one.”
She blinks. The way she looks at me, it’s like I said that part about eating mice again. I feel very small inside.
She returns an hour later with a pair of jeans that stretches and hugs my figure. It emphasizes how skinny I am, and she flinches like my legs make her want to puke.
I grind my teeth and clench my fists behind my back. She has no idea what it’s like to search for days to find something, anything to eat. She probably has to stop herself from eating too much.
I swallow and offer her what I hope is an innocent smile. “I gained about ten pounds. Be honest. Do these make me look fat?”
Her eyes fix on my pelvic bones, which protrude above the low rise of the jeans. She shakes her head, and after that her expression goes somber. Have I made any kind of point? I doubt it.
She’s brought three bras with her, but none of them fit. They’re either fine in the cups but way too big around the rib cage, or they’re right in the rib cage but they squash my boobs.
“Sweetie, you need to gain weight.”
I’m so done with her. “You know what? Just take one of those and tie it in a knot in the back.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to spend a day looking at the survivors that trickle in. She’ll find they’re dirty, their teeth are bad, they have open sores, and their skin is dripping off their bodies. Some of them are so weak they don’t move well. It’s not because they’re not trying. It’s because the world ended and no one made any effort to help them.
I know better, though. She’d look at them the way people in the old days would look at welfare people and say they were just too lazy to work.
She hands me a top, and I pull it over my head. Then she throws me a weird sweater with appliqués of apples and pumpkins on it. I’m positive she did this on purpose. She folds her arms over her chest, rolls her eyes, and looks away, as though I’m going to taint her somehow.
I smile. “I saw my seventh-grade science teacher once. He was in a hunting party that was tracking me. It was two years after the city fell, but he was lean and muscular and boy, was he fast. An hour later I ran into this other girl, Jennifer Nagle? We studied under Patricia McBride at the Ballet Academy here in Charlotte. She didn’t say a word, just ran off in the other direction. I saw her head three days later posted on a streetlamp not far from where I saw Mr. Walberg. So don’t give me that look. You’ve had it good. I didn’t. You wouldn’t last a minute out there, so wipe the snot from your nose and take me wherever it is you’ve been told to take me.”
I’m standing at a large window staring out across an empty courtyard surrounded by identical beige buildings. Several soft-looking chairs invite me to sit, but I’m not tempted. For the first time in years I stand right in front of a window, plain for everyone to see, and no one will take aim at me and shoot, or sneak around to my back and try to capture me, or even alert their companions that prey’s been spotted. I can simply look.
Despite this, I don’t see the gray skies, the charcoal smoke rising from the chimneys, or the dirty snow piled against the sides of the buildings. I see Jackson as I last saw him, lying in his bed and telling me it was over. I see the indifference in his eyes, and at this moment the pain in my chest is enough to bend me until I break if I let it. I ache for him. I still look up every time a door opens, hoping it’s him. I trace my finger across my lip as I try to remember the feel of his mouth on mine, but the feeling is gone. All t
hat is left is me, this room, and a view of freshly shoveled snow.
Behind me a door opens, but it’s a moment or two before I turn. I’m expecting Dana, that Elizabeth woman, even some officer who wants to ask more questions about the locals. I turn and meet a pair of navy-blue eyes heavily fringed in lashes of black.
My jaw sinks, and I grab hold of the windowsill. My head buzzes, and I realize I haven’t taken a breath for several moments.
“Daddy?”
It’s like every dream I’ve ever had, every fantasy I fake believed but knew would never come true just walked through the door. He’s older, of course. Wrinkles crease his eyes and forehead, and here and there a bit of gray peeks through his hair.
If I let go of the sill, I’ll fall.
“Amelia.” He eyes me as though he’s not sure, like I might not be the little girl he read Goodnight Moon to and tucked into bed.
When I let go of the sill, I stumble, and a moment later he’s there, his arms tight around me and his face buried in my hair. Five years of pent-up despair rips through my chest and throat, and all I can do is cling to him and let him comfort me. Arms—not Jackson’s, but still strong, still comforting. He says nothing, and a thought hits me like a punch to the heart.
I’m still shaking when I pull away. “You said you’d come. You promised. You were sending someone for us, but no one came.”
“I know.” His face creases up. “I’m sorry.”
I wait for several moments, but that’s all he says. I back up another step. Two words and that makes it all okay? Six years of isolation, desperation, and screaming in my sleep?
“Sorry? Mom and Matthew died in the shelling because no one ever came.”
His shoulders droop. “That never should have happened.”
A spot of anger inks my chest and slowly fills the cavity. “How did you get back from China? And where were those people you said you were sending?”
He frowns and tugs on his ear. “We can’t change the past, honey. Let’s leave it there and focus on now.”
“No. You’re going to answer my questions.”
“Amelia, it’s not the time for this.”
“Not the time? You were in the Arc that whole time while I fought off cannibals and ate rats! Am I supposed to be happy you finally showed up? Where the fuck were you when I needed you?”
“I thought you were all dead!”
“Dead when, Dad? In the bombing? Because you said you were sending someone to get us right away.”
He spreads his hands. “I did. They returned and said you were dead.”
“They returned? Who exactly are they? Matthew and I were your children. You should have checked yourself.”
“Sweetie, sit down,” he says, pressing gently on my shoulder.
I sit, but not because he’s telling me to. I don’t think my legs will hold me anymore.
He leans forward and folds his hands on his knees. “A bunch of us were able to board a container ship bound for South America. Once we were out to sea, we hijacked it and forced them to take us as far as Cancun. By the time I got to Atlanta, Charlotte lay in ruins and Atlanta was under fire. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
“What do you mean? How was it supposed to happen?”
His lips twist. “I mean I didn’t expect to be overseas when Yellowstone blew. We thought there was time—years even. I was not in control of the sequence of events. I wasn’t in touch with the Arc at all between the time I left China and the day I arrived. I believed you were safe all the way up until I took my place on the council.”
What council? “So why didn’t you send anyone for us then?”
He swallows and gives me this “I’m really sorry” look. “I thought there was no possible way. The towers, the bombings…”
Blood pounds in my ears, and I narrow my eyes. How can he say how glad he is to see me when he never even tried to find me? “You failed me. You fucking failed. Do you know how many times I came close to dying since then? Do you have any idea the things I had to do to survive?”
He heaves a sigh, and his brows draw low over his eyes. “You’re not at all how I remember you. I have to say, Amelia, I’m a little disappointed in you. I never expected my little girl to be so coarse.”
Coarse. It takes a second for that to sink in. My chest hurts, and at the same time my stomach burns. I take him in—his freshly cut hair, his crisply tailored suit, and the cuff links peeking out below his sleeves. Fresh out of the boardroom. It’s like his life hasn’t changed a bit. My hands tremble as I grip the arms of my chair, and I inhale several times to calm myself.
“I was never good enough for you. I used to catch you gazing at me with this look on your face like you couldn’t believe we were even related.”
“That’s crazy. You were my little girl.”
“I was the best dancer at the academy, and I could have been a prima ballerina if I’d wanted. I don’t think you came to a single performance. I had the bad taste to live through the hell that’s out there, and now I’m not the proper little Wester you raised. God, Dad, how can you stand it?”
He rolls his head and sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant. I only mean you’re different now. Amelia, you’re like some kind of street kid. I heard you knifed a guy.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re damn right I did. He’s not the first one, either. Do you have any idea what I had to learn, what kinds of skills I had to master to make it out there? The things I saw, the things I had to do? You don’t, and you know what? I don’t think you’re capable of understanding.”
“Amelia!”
There’s no way I can stop now. “I ate rats. I laid under blankets twelve deep not knowing if I’d wake up the next day. For years the only contact I had was with a cat. You abandoned me,” I spit, getting to my feet. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I use them to fuel my glare. “You hid in a bunker, but I fucking survived. I’m the smart one, Dad, not you. You should be taking notes. You should be bowing down to me. The daughter you thought was never going to amount to anything is the only one that survived the end of the world, and that’s something you never could have done!”
“That’s enough!” His face is so red by now it’s like he’s about to have a stroke. His hands twitch, and it actually looks like he wants to grab me by the neck.
So much for happy reunions. I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. “Nice to see you again, Dad. I’m not sorry for a damned thing.”
The color drains from his face, and his eyes have this dazed look. He takes a step back and nods. “I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect—never thought—”
I felt alone for so long. Now my father is standing here right in front of me and I’m not sure whether I should be happy or if I should punch him and shove his face in the dirt. God, he never even tried to find me. He gave me up for dead and let me… I can’t even process it.
“What’s this council?” I ask because any other topic is just too dangerous.
“It’s the governing body of the Arc. It’s made up of those of us who pooled our money together and designed and built the place.”
“You knew about Yellowstone.”
He nods. “The government chose to suppress the information because they couldn’t agree that it was going to happen. But my people were positive. All the science pointed to it, so I approached some investors. We sank everything we had into the project. This was a major operation, Amelia. Two years of round-the-clock labor, thousands of men, and more equipment than twenty coal mines together. We could have built the Chunnel in a week with what we had. We carved out Davis Mountain and made it a habitable, multilevel city. We used two nearby mountains, one to grow food and supply power, and the other to store and preserve whatever flora and fauna we could.”
“So who’s in there?”
“We knew this was going to be big. We were looking at an extinction-level event, and we wanted to preserve whatever we could. Everyone in there is handpicked,
Amelia. We used a formula based on genetics, mental stability, intelligence, temperament—everything we thought would give humanity the best possible chance at rebuilding the world. Everyone has a job to do. There isn’t a single person in there with an IQ under one-forty.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little elitist?”
“Amelia, I know what you’re saying. Believe me, I agree. A street sweeper has just as much right to survive, but he can’t come up with alternate energy sources or help us maximize the food supply. Do you see? We chose the best of the best. It was the only way.”
“I’ve heard you say that before—the best of the best.”
He shrugs. “Our kind have always married based on good blood and networking connections. We’ve only been matching pairs to achieve the best genetic output for the last hundred years or so, but you have a thousand years of the best Europe and America has to offer behind you. You are the best of the best.”
A shiver spiders up my back. “I don’t understand.”
He rubs his hands and grips them together. “Your mother and I didn’t love each other. We were selected for each other because research suggested a pairing would produce desirable offspring.”
He can’t be serious. “You went along with this?”
He raises his brows and nods. “Your mother was a good woman. I never had reason to complain.”
“So it was all genetics.”
He shrugs. “I made it my life’s study. I was a molecular biologist.”
“Oh, then you’re just going to love this.” I offer him a nasty smile. “I haven’t had a period in years. If you want grandkids, I suggest you find yourself an appropriate woman and produce more offspring.”
He blinks at me. Horror crosses his face before his shoulders slump. He heaves a sigh.
“Sorry, Dad. Apocalypse and all.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
This is weird. Complicated. I should be happy. I should be dancing with joy. I’m not alone. My dad is alive, and I’m almost positive he’s going to take me someplace warm and safe. Someplace with central heat and more food than I could possibly eat.
Five O'Clock Shadow: A Standalone Dark Romance (Snow and Ash) Page 14
