I spent the next few days really getting myself accustomed to the property and everything on it — the greenhouse, the solar farm, even the garage, which was hiding a Polaris ATV in the farthest bay. When I found that, it somehow made me miss my father even more. He’d always wanted one, but a vehicle intended solely for off-roading was a luxury that just hadn’t been in the family budget.

As the voice had told me, there was a good deal of food stored in the basement. Scratch that; there was enough food down there to satisfy the most rabid prepper, shelf after shelf of canned goods and staples such as flour and sugar and cooking oil, and enough spices that I could probably bake something different every day for the next year and still not use everything up. In fact, the basement was so extensive that I got the impression it was actually bigger than the house itself, spreading beyond the walls of the structure directly above it.

The greenhouse was set up on a drip system, one supplied by the same well that gave the house its water. I found a good deal of produce that was at its peak or even just past it, so I harvested that as best I could, eating what needed to be consumed right away and putting the rest in the refrigerator. On the bookshelves in the office, there were a number of reference books on all sorts of topics of interest to the homesteader or survivalist — home canning, sewing, weaving, butchering…even how to make your own bullets. In fact, I found the molds for that very activity down in the basement, along with a quantity of black powder and other supplies. I had to hope none of it would explode and send Dutchie and me sky-high one day.

Although having every conceivable supply on hand should have made me feel better, in truth it only depressed me. I thought of being here so long that I would have to start canning food or sewing my own clothes, of having to go out in the ATV to hunt deer or elk. Even though my father had taken me hunting a few times, I’d never had the heart to pull the trigger. Maybe if I were starving I’d feel differently about the whole thing, but until then I couldn’t conceive of killing something so beautiful.

The one thing the compound didn’t have was dog food. I wasn’t sure what to make of that; maybe Mr. Real Estate Developer wasn’t a dog person, although you’d think he would’ve factored dogs into his survival plan, just because they were good to have around in case things got dicey. Whatever the reason, I was down to about a day’s worth of dry food left for Dutchie, which meant I needed to go foraging.

For some reason, the voice had been fairly scarce the past couple of days. I wondered at its absence, thinking that maybe it believed its work was done, since it had gotten me here safely. All the same, I thought I’d better telegraph my plans, let it know I was leaving the compound for a few hours.

“Dutchie’s almost out of food,” I said as I got the shotgun out of the gun safe. I already wore a gleaming Ruger in a holster on my hip, said armament courtesy of the trove I’d found within that safe. Possibly it would have made better sense to take along a gun I was more familiar with, but I couldn’t resist the chrome-plated allure of that Ruger. My father would have known how much it cost, but I didn’t have a clue. A lot, that’s for sure.

Silence met my announcement, so I went on, “I’m going down into Santa Fe for a few hours. Can I assume the coast is clear?”

Nothing again, and I frowned. But since I’d seen more clouds massing up to the northeast, I didn’t want to dilly-dally. Maybe twenty minutes in and twenty minutes out; I’d actually seen a PetSmart down a side street as I was making my way along Cerrillo Road when I came into town, so at least I wouldn’t have to waste a lot of time looking for a pet store. Having no cell service and no way to look anything up on the Internet definitely made what should have been easy tasks a lot more difficult.

With a shrug, I closed the safe and locked it, then headed out to the kitchen. I really didn’t need anything else in the way of supplies, although the chilliness of the nights even now, in early October, told me that the cold-weather gear I’d brought along might not be sufficient for a full-blown Santa Fe winter. Well, if I had time to poke around, I’d see if I could find something.

As I was getting ready, I debated whether to bring Dutchie along, and then decided against it. She was safe here, and I knew I’d move faster if I didn’t have her along. Besides, I needed someplace to stow the shotgun. I wasn’t sure if she’d take kindly to being relegated to the back seat so the shotgun could…ride shotgun.

I patted her head, got her some fresh water, and then told her I’d be going out but would be back soon. Since she’d gotten used to me coming and going between the house and the garage or the kitchen and the greenhouse, she took this announcement in stride, lapping up some of the water I’d just poured before she settled down on the rug in front of the oven. That was one of her new favorite spots, which made things sort of difficult when I was trying to cook.

Smiling, I went out the back door and made my way along the flagstone walk to the garage. In my explorations, I’d found the remotes for the garage and the front gate, so technically I didn’t need the voice to let me in and out. Still, I couldn’t help wondering where he’d gotten to.

With a shrug, I opened the garage door, then climbed into the Cherokee. I leaned the shotgun against the passenger seat, checked the fuel gauge, and backed out, glad that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting more gas anytime soon. This place felt like it was out in the middle of nowhere — and it was — but I doubted it was more than five miles one way from here to the city center. I could go back and forth at least twenty more times before I had to bother with fueling up.

The dirt track hadn’t improved any since the last time I’d driven over it, and I gritted my teeth as I bounced and jounced along at a steady twenty miles an hour. It was a relief to hit the actual road, even though it wasn’t in the greatest shape, either. But at least here I could increase my speed to thirty, slowing occasionally to go around an abandoned truck or car.

Nothing had changed. I wasn’t sure why I’d expected it to, except I supposed that was a normal, human thing to think — the world around us had never been static, people and cars coming and going, shifting their positions. Here, though, there were no more people left to change anything. Or rather, so few of them probably remained that it would take some doing to run into any of them. I was a little hazy on the population of Santa Fe before the Heat laid everything waste, but I had a feeling there couldn’t be more than a hundred or so people left in the general area, if even that much.

Eventually, I backtracked my way to Cerrillo, then drove some distance down the street before I spotted the PetSmart off to my left. I turned — going wide to avoid a Ford Explorer sitting right in the middle of the intersection — and pulled into the store parking lot. There weren’t that many vehicles here, most likely because people had been thinking about other things than feeding their pets when the doomsday disease swept through town.

When I went inside, my father’s heavy police-issue flashlight in one hand, I was relieved to see that all the live small animals — the rats and mice and gerbils, the birds and lizards and snakes — had apparently flown the coop. How they’d gotten out, I had no idea, unless this was another example of “being taken care of,” as the voice had assured me back in Albuquerque. There was evidence of the food being tampered with, but although anything within reach of a large dog’s muzzle seemed to be either gone or half-eaten, there were still bags and bags on the upper shelves. I got a shopping cart and loaded it up, took it to the Cherokee, and dumped the bags there, then repeated the process until my arms ached and I wouldn’t be able to see out the back window if I kept it up any longer. That would be enough to see Dutchie through the winter, and after that — well, I’d just come foraging again.

I also grabbed a miscellany of dog treats and dog toys from the displays at the front of the store, and wedged those in and around the big twenty-pound bags of dog food. Dutchie was definitely going to be one spoiled doggie, but I thought she deserved it.

During this whole process, which I estimated took me about twenty minutes or so, I didn’t see any evidence of anyone else being around. True, a pet store probably wasn’t the sort of place where survivors hung out, but I felt myself relax a little. Maybe this was why the voice had let me alone — it had known I had nothing to fear on this particular trip.

Humming to myself, I got back in the SUV and pointed it northward, back along the way I’d come. When I got to the intersection where I should have turned on Alameda to head back up into the hills, though, I found myself slowing down, and then cutting left so I could drive up Don Gaspar.

Almost at once, I heard the voice in my head. Jessica, what are you doing?

Relief flooded through me. So I hadn’t been completely abandoned. “I want to see.”

See what?

“The center of town. I want to see if it’s all right.”

Why should that matter?

“Because it matters,” I said, an edge of irritation in my voice. “It was a cultural center. Lots of museums, historical sites. What can it hurt to look?”

Silence for a few seconds. You may not like what you see.

Ice etched its way down my spine, but I attempted to ignore it, instead asking, “So where the hell have you been, anyway? The Bahamas?”

He didn’t answer directly, but said, You missed me?

Did I want to admit that I had? Probably not. Hedging, I replied, “Well, I love Dutchie, but she’s not the world’s greatest conversationalist.”

I heard one of those low chuckles. You may be right in that.

Despite what he’d just said about my not liking what I would see, I couldn’t help smiling. That smile faded abruptly, though, as I came around the corner to Santa Fe’s famous plaza. In good weather — and even not-so-good weather — the plaza was usually full of people, whether tourists, musicians, vendors, or locals out to get some air. I’d expected it to be empty. What I hadn’t expected to see were the obvious signs of looting, of storefronts smashed in, merchandise scattered across the sidewalk.

Mouth grim, I parked the Cherokee in a place that would have been heinously illegal a few days earlier, straddling the curb at the intersection of Palace Avenue and San Francisco Street. There really wasn’t anyplace else, as cars still lined the streets, their meters run out long ago. I didn’t bother to look and see if there were piles of gray dust inside those cars. If their owners had died outside, the wind would’ve blown their remains away days earlier.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would people loot here? Food or medical supplies I can understand, but expensive jewelry and art?”

I don’t know for certain. Perhaps they were attempting to assert some control over their environment as everything was falling apart.

That was one way of looking at it. My hiking boot hit something that clinked against the sidewalk, and I looked down to see that it was a heavy gold cuff bracelet studded with sapphires and diamonds. I thought I even knew which store it had come from, because it was a place where Elena and Tori and I had pressed our noses to the window and gawked at the wares inside, trying to figure out how anyone would pay almost fifty grand for a pair of earrings, even if said earrings were huge drops of tanzanite and diamond that looked as if they should be at the Academy Awards, not a shop window in Santa Fe.

Without thinking, I bent down and picked up the bracelet, then slid it onto my wrist. It was cold against my skin; the day had turned cloudy and dark, the temperature dropping with it. I even thought I felt the first spatter of a raindrop or two against my face.

Or maybe those were tears.

I saw other items scattered around — a lone earring, a trinket box of carved stone. For some reason, I began to pick them up, gathering everything I could find and then taking it into the nearest store, a shop that seemed to have specialized in high-end western gear. It had been hit, too, but not as badly as the jewelry stores.

Again the voice asked, Jessica, what are you doing?

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I asked angrily. “I’m cleaning this up.”

A long pause. Why?

“Because — because someone loved these things once. Someone made them, and someone chose them to sell in their store, and I don’t want them lying all over the place like garbage. They deserve better than that.” As I spoke, I realized that tears were running down my cheeks, dripping bitter salt into my mouth.

When it spoke again, the voice was very gentle. My dear, they are just things.

“I know that!” I raged. “But I also know they’re the only things left! So I’m not going to leave them here!”

Silence again. Then, Jessica, do not distress yourself so. I will take care of it.

I don’t even know how to describe what happened next. A wind came swirling out of nowhere, seeming to come in and pick up all the detritus in the square — baskets and rugs and loose bits of jewelry and hats and paintings and pots, everything that had been scattered on the ground during the looting. It coalesced into a cloud of debris, snaking through the air and rushing into the open door of a shop, then slamming it shut.

Blinking, I stared at the streets around me, saw how they were clear of everything except a few scattered leaves, all evidence of chaos gone as if it had never existed. Somehow, I managed to find my voice. “That — that was you?”

Yes.

“But…why?”

I do not like seeing you in distress.

What could I possibly say to that? I swallowed, my throat dry. The air around me was still once more, heavy and cold. Again I felt the stinging touch of rain sharp against my face.

“Thank you,” I managed at last.

Go home, beloved.

I nodded, then made myself turn around and go back to the Cherokee, to climb behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. Perhaps there was more damage beyond the plaza, but I didn’t want to look. I’d seen enough for one day.

The trip home was uneventful, though, and in a way it felt good to busy myself with hauling all those bags of dog food out of the back of the SUV and storing them in the basement, save for one that I shoved into a corner of the pantry. I also got out a chewy treat and gave it to Dutchie, who wagged her tail ecstatically and settled down on her rug to start masticating.

It wasn’t until later, when I’d put away the Ruger I hadn’t needed and similarly stowed the shotgun, then sat down to catch my breath, that I stared down at the heavy gold bracelet on my wrist. How much was it worth?

Wrong question, in this time when a pound of beef was probably worth a lot more than a pound of gold. The more accurate question to ask would be, What did this cost?

I didn’t know. I’d had a small collection of costume jewelry and a few pieces of Native American work, mostly turquoise. When I packed my belongings and left Albuquerque, I hadn’t brought any of it along, save the small silver hoops I was already wearing. Just hadn’t seen the point.

But this thing, which should have been adorning the wrist of some movie star on the red carpet? Who knows. Probably as much as the Grand Cherokee had cost my father when he bought it brand new.

I twisted the bracelet around and around, and then became aware of something sharp sticking into my left hip bone. Puzzled, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, thinking that maybe I’d stuck something in there earlier and forgotten about it.

My fingers closed around two cool, heavy objects. I drew them out, then opened my hand to see what the hell they were.

For a second or two, I just stared down at them. Then, because I couldn’t think of what else to do, I began to laugh.

In my hand were the tanzanite and diamond earrings Elena and Tori and I had admired on our last trip to Santa Fe.

I didn’t bring up the subject of the earrings. How could I? That would mean I’d have to ask how the voice knew I’d seen those earrings and fallen partly in love with them, even though I’d known I would never in a million years be able to afford something like that.

No, I’d stowed them in the drawer of my nightstand and tried to put the incident out of my mind. And since in the days that followed, I didn’t need to leave the compound, I didn’t hear from the voice much. If I was trying to find a certain item, like a screwdriver, I’d ask where it might be located, and the voice would always answer. Otherwise, though, it seemed to be leaving me alone again, allowing me to find some equilibrium in my new life here.

There was, surprisingly, enough to keep me busy. As I’d promised my father, I wrote down as much as I could about the way the Heat had come to Albuquerque, and what the city had looked like when I left. That was a spare and painful narrative, though, and so I also wrote down random memories, just so I wouldn’t forget them — the surprise party my father had thrown my mother for her fiftieth birthday. Devin’s touchdown at the homecoming game last year. The crazy artist who’d approached me on one of our girls’ Santa Fe trips and told me I had an amazing face and that he wanted to paint me. Things like that…bright pieces of a world now gone forever.

In addition to all that, I tended the plants in the greenhouse and puttered around the house and took Dutchie for long walks, which also helped me inspect the perimeter of the property. The wall was in perfect condition, as far as I could tell, and a good barrier against wild animals, of which there were plenty in the area. I could hear the coyotes calling at night sometimes, and one time the snarl of a cougar or bobcat. Needless to say, I hadn’t ventured out to investigate, although Dutchie had gone nuts, growling and barking as she moved from window to window, presumably following along as the wild cat moved along the wall that bordered the property.

But none of those animals had gotten close enough to trigger the security system, which was why I almost had a heart attack one afternoon, about ten days after I’d come to Santa Fe, when all of a sudden the house was filled with a shrill alarm. I’d been sitting in the breakfast nook in the kitchen, keeping one eye on the book I was reading and another on the loaf of bread I had in the oven. Bread-making was a new venture for me, but really, what else did I have to do with my time?

I shot a quick glance at the timer and saw the loaf still had around a half hour to go, then bolted from the kitchen so I could bring up the security feed on the computer in the office. After I jiggled the mouse to wake up the iMac, I saw the grid with its images from all nine security cameras, including the one at the front gate.

Someone was standing there, staring up at the house. From the way his mouth was moving, it sounded as if he was calling out, but the security system didn’t have audio, only video. And because it was a chilly day, threatening rain just like the time I’d had my meltdown in the plaza, all the windows were shut.

Should I ignore him? Wait it out and hope he would go away? If he’d meant to sneak in and wreak havoc, he probably wouldn’t have been shouting for attention at the front gate. Still….

This was the first living soul I’d seen in two weeks. The camera didn’t show a huge amount of detail, because the sun was at his back and all I could see was his silhouette, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of a gun or any other weapon. Not that that meant much.

Deciding to compromise, I got the shotgun out of the gun safe and then headed out the front door, Dutchie tagging along at my heels. She hadn’t barked yet, but maybe that was only because she hadn’t yet caught a whiff of the stranger.

I walked down the driveway and paused about six feet from the gate. Because the drive sloped up the hill toward the house and the garage, I had something of a vantage point, could see that this unwelcome visitor was a young man probably around my age or maybe a few years older. Black hair pulled back into a ponytail, warm brown skin, black almond-shaped eyes. Definitely Native American.

And…gorgeous. Like, the kind of gorgeous I would’ve had a hard time not staring at if I’d been in a club or out with my friends at a restaurant or the movies or the mall. Having someone who looked like that turn up on my doorstep, when I hadn’t seen anyone since the man I’d shot outside Walgreens?

Well, let’s just say it was a little overwhelming.

But not so much I forgot that I was here alone, sitting on top of a stockpile of supplies that were a damn good incentive for murder, as far as I was concerned. I hefted the shotgun so he could see it, but didn’t bring it up to eye level.

“Who are you?” I demanded, while Dutchie sat beside me, wagging her tail. So much for looking intimidating.

“Jason Little River,” he said, eyeing the shotgun but clearly attempting to keep a pleasant expression on his face. “My friends call me Jace.”

“So, Jason,” I said, emphasizing his full name, “how did you find this place?”

He paused, clearly a little disconcerted by the hostility in my tone. “The tire tracks,” he replied, pointing at the rutted road that led to the compound. Since it had started raining on the way back from my last trip into town, the tracks I’d left were fairly defined. Damn. I hadn’t even thought of that.

But those obvious tire tracks didn’t explain everything. “You still had to get a good way out of town to even see where this road started.”

“True. I had a friend who lived on Upper Canyon. I came here to Santa Fe — well, I came here hoping he might still be okay. Stupid, I know.” Jason paused, gaze lingering on the shotgun before returning to my face. “And when I went to his house….” Under the heavy backpack he wore, the kind of metal-framed thing serious hikers used, his shoulders lifted. “No one there, of course. I was sort of walking around, trying to figure out what to do next, and I saw the tracks on the road going up the hill past his property. I figured I might as well check it out. The tracks seemed too fresh to have been made before…well, before.”

I didn’t bother to ask him what he meant by “before.” For all of us survivors, our lives would forever be divided between “before” and “after.” “You say you came here to Santa Fe. Where from?”

“Taos. I lived on the pueblo there.” A disarming grin, one that under different circumstances might have made my knees melt. “Well, part-time. I also had an apartment in town. You?”

It was on my lips to say I was the one asking the questions here, but that sounded awfully rude, even under the current circumstances. “Albuquerque.”

His eyebrows went up. “How’d you manage to get here, of all places?”

I hefted the shotgun. “I don’t think that matters. I’m here now.”

He didn’t miss the way I’d shifted the gun, just enough to show I wasn’t thrilled by his questions. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just — I haven’t seen anyone for almost two weeks. I’m probably a little off.”

You and me both, honey. Relenting a little, I asked, “So no one was left in Taos?”

A shadow seemed to pass over his face, but his voice was level as he replied, “No one in the pueblo. When I went into town, I didn’t see anyone, except one woman lurking around one of the hotels. She took one look at me and ran off screaming.” He shrugged. “Since I could tell she wasn’t open to conversation, I didn’t bother to go after her. She could have been armed.”

“And you weren’t?”

Again I saw his eyes flicker toward the gun I held. “No. Well, not besides this.” His hand went to his hip, where I could see he wore some kind of leather scabbard, about the size to conceal a hunting knife.

“Let me see it.”

From this distance, I couldn’t really hear him sigh, but I could tell his patience was starting to run thin. Holding my gaze, he undid the snap that kept the knife in place, then pulled it out of its sheath. As I’d thought, it was a big piece clearly designed for hunting, with a serrated edge. My father had owned one not unlike it.

“And that’s all?” I asked.

He nodded, then went on, “Hey, I have a peace offering.”

“What?” Saying my tone was guarded would have been an understatement.

“I’m going to get something out of my backpack,” he said, laying the knife down in the dirt in front of him. “Okay?”

“Depends what it is,” I told him.

A grin, one that showed off a dazzling set of white teeth. I had a feeling he’d used that smile to good effect a number of times in the past, but I had to make it seem as if it wasn’t affecting me, even though I could feel a not-unpleasant shiver go through me at the way the smile lit up his dark eyes.

“I think you’ll like this.”

He unslung the backpack, setting it on the ground before unzipping it and spending a few seconds going through its contents. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. Almost at once, though, he turned around. In each hand he held a wine bottle.

“Very nice, but I’ve got a pretty stocked cellar up there,” I said, jerking my chin back toward the house.

“Ah, but this is La Chiripada cabernet sauvignon. New Mexico wine. You have any of that?”

I really didn’t have any idea. Besides the wine refrigerator in the kitchen, I’d discovered another trove in the basement, cases and cases of wine, most of it from California and France, from what I could tell, and some odd bits from South America and Arizona. I hadn’t noticed anything from New Mexico, but then again, I hadn’t exactly been looking for it, either.

As I hesitated, not sure how to respond, I heard the voice in my head.

He is safe.

“What?” I murmured under my breath, hoping the stranger wouldn’t notice me muttering to myself.

He is safe. There is no reason to keep him out.

“Wait…you actually want me to let him in?”

Yes.

To say I was flummoxed would be an understatement. Here it seemed the voice had done everything to keep me safe, to have me avoid other survivors because of the dangers involved, and now he wanted me to allow a strange man to simply walk into my sanctuary here?

“What happens if he isn’t safe?”

He is safe. I promise you.

Even with the voice stating his opinion so flatly, I couldn’t help hesitating. True, he had always protected me, argued with me when I wanted to do things he found too dangerous. So I supposed I should be trusting his judgment here.

I sent a sidelong glance in the stranger’s direction. He was still standing there, a bottle in each hand, a half hopeful, half anxious expression on his face. There was something so goofy about the combination, so oddly adorable, that I found myself relenting.

“All right,” I muttered to the voice. “You’d just better not be playing supernatural matchmaker here or something, or we’ll be discussing this further.”

No answer to that. I hadn’t really expected one.

Not quite allowing myself to sigh, I transferred the shotgun to my left hand and began walking to the gate. There was a manual release there, since obviously I hadn’t brought the remote with me.

“Okay,” I told Jason. “I’ve never had La Chiripada.”

The look of relief that passed over his face was also adorable, and erased some of the strain I’d seen in his features. “Great. Thanks. I appreciate this. Really.” He began stuffing the wine bottles into his backpack, then hefted it onto his shoulders. After that, he shot me a questioning look. “And your name is?”

“Jessica,” I told him as I pushed the button to open the gate. “Jessica Monroe.”

Another one