djinn wars 01 - chosen (17 page)

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 Nine

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.