Chosen - Christine Pope (mobile ebook reader .TXT) 📗

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, Dutchie,” 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.

“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.