7. Christopher
Chapter seven
Christopher
The Preservation Ark—Later that night
Vampires aren’t supposed to feel fatigue. But upon my arriving home, my situation has become all too real. I press the trigger to open the ark’s entrance, which is hidden beneath an old freeway bridge, and my shoulders slump under the weight of too many unwanted responsibilities.
After driving down a long underground tunnel, we reach the garage, and I park the truck inside, then shut the roll-down steel doors behind me.
Those doors are the only opening to the outside from my ark’s dome.
A 220-volt socket is on the garage wall, and I plug the truck into the solar charger.
By tomorrow’s nightfall, both batteries will be full again.
Dealing with Zinnia and the bunnies is the first order of business. I help her down from the truck cab and grab the backpack, taking a quick peek inside.
The bunnies are fine. Two lovely pairs of rabbits. One win for the night.
I lead Zinnia through the decon process, letting her shower first, then wrap a towel around her as I shoo her into the clean room, pointing at the cabinets.
“T-shirts are in the lower drawer.” She’s so tiny, the hem of my shirt will probably drag on the floor.
“Later I’ll dig up some PJs that’ll fit you. ”
“PJs?”
“Pajamas. Nightgown. Whatever you wear to bed.”
“Oh.” She reaches for the drawer’s knob. “What about you?”
“I gotta take care of your mom and the bunnies. They have to go through decon, too.”
“Why?”
“To make sure we don’t contaminate the ark with mutated bacteria and mold.”
“Huh?”
“Bad germs.”
“Oh.”
Which reminds me. Mortals carry bad germs inside them as well.
Vampires don’t, which is one reason we have this job.
I rifle through the bathroom storage cupboard, searching for the emergency bottle.
I’ve never had a mortal guest here before.
When I find the prophylactic medication, I pour her half the adult dose and lean through the connecting doorway, offering the opaque pink liquid. “Drink this.”
She doesn’t question me, just takes the small cup and sips. “It tastes yucky.”
“Can’t be helped. Finish it.”
With her nose wrinkled, she does.
“Now dry off and get dressed, then go down that hallway and wait for me on the couch.”
“You’ll get Mommy now? Give her the medicine?” She holds out the cup.
“Sure. In a little bit.”
Zinnia gives a wise nod, as if all that makes perfect sense to her, including my small white lie. In truth, Maria won’t need the medication any more than I do.
I take the cup and rinse it out in the bathroom sink, then return it to the cupboard. “Once I get you and the bunnies settled, I’ll carry in your mommy. Go on. Get dressed.”
I rub a hand across my injured shoulder. How the hell did I get myself into this? I look over at the little girl, her dark eyes still fixed on me, a sense of trust in them.
Yeah, that’s how I got into this mess.
I close the connecting doorway between the decon bathroom and the clean room to give Zinnia privacy. Now I have to figure a way to keep my Lux supervisor from finding out too soon.
Just a temporary delay.
I need time to get Maria through the turn and thriving before the three councils point an accusing finger at me. I need time to devise a plan to save both of us. And if I can’t save us both, I need time to come to terms with sacrificing my immortality.
I shower with the bunnies to decontaminate all of us. They hop around, jumping erratically, kicking their back legs into the air, trying to avoid the water, but the shower door keeps them at my feet with nowhere to go.
Afterward, I dry each with a towel until they’re fluffy, then I catch one between my knees, use an oral syringe to pry open the corner of its jaws, and squirt down its throat the liquid specifically designed to decon an animal’s digestive tract.
Freed, the dosed rabbit races around the small room, its nose twitching, working its tongue over and over again to rid itself of the nasty taste.
I repeat the process on the others. They resist the medication more than the shower.
Despite those preventative measures, I’ll still quarantine them from my other bunnies as a precaution.
By the time I finish dosing the fourth disgruntled rabbit, no brilliant brainstorm hits me to solve my dilemma, and I groan, pushing the Maria problem to the back of my mind for the moment.
I leave the backpack and my clothes in the autocleaner, grab a t-shirt and sweatpants in the clean room, then catch and sequester the bunnies in two sterile bags.
When I exit the decon area, Wolfie is in the hallway waiting for me and lets out a loud, elongated meow—almost a howl.
Not only am I late serving his dinner, but he considers a closed door an affront to his royal personage.
“Let me get our visitors settled, and I’ll take care of you, okay?”
He meows again, this time closer to his I’ll forgive you but you better serve my dinner quickly meow.
“I’ll feed you in a moment.”
Meow. Chirp.
Maine Coons are chatty cats, and Wolfie is no exception. Don’t ask me why cats accustomed to the cold of Maine are in an Arizona preserve. The ways of the Lux are mysterious.
Wolfie trots regally down the hallway to his bowl in the kitchen and sits by it, his head tilted, the long tufts of ear fur sticking straight up. He’s a gorgeous blue-gray, and he knows it.
Zinnia is sitting on the couch, looking small and a little overwhelmed in a concert t-shirt from my 1974 tour. Silk-screening four colors was expensive back then, so this is a two-color design.
She points at Wolfie. “Is that a cat?”
“Sure is.”
“The cats we saw in the neighborhoods would run away.”
“He’s friendly, once he’s fed. But how about we get your bunnies settled now?
” Luck has been with me, and none of them peed in the sterile bags, but that won’t last long.
I need to get a litter box set up for them, and fast. “Here. Keep the bunnies with you. I don’t know how Wolfie will react to them, okay? ”
“Okay.”
Best to take care of my shoulder before I carry anything heavy again. I find what I need in the refrigerator. A donation of vampire blood—my teammates in the other nearby arks and I swap blood vials regularly, so we have the healing elixir on hand in case something happens.
I shoot it down and shudder. Not only didn’t I take time to heat it, rapid healing isn’t pleasant. I swing my arm around, stretching the shoulder, and pain-free mobility returns. Now, to take care of the bunnies’ living arrangements.
When the Lux designed the ark, they included a ten-story warehouse to store pre-Collapse products the ark keepers scavenge. Someday, after the world heals, those products will help jump-start the new civilization.
I whoosh to the warehouse to locate suitable materials to build two pens to keep the rabbits separated and prevent them from crossbreeding.
The elevator takes forever to reach the warehouse’s third floor, where I find two portable pools, the kind that are ridged and made from formed plastic.
Bunny claws would rip right through an inflatable pool.
I’ll add an extension made of wood framing and chicken wire along the rim so they won’t be able to jump out.
Plastic dishpans will serve as litter boxes for now.
I carry everything down in the elevator—which is designed for transporting large items—and whoosh the two pools and other supplies to the living room.
Relieved to see everyone is where I left them, I set up the bunny pens and litter boxes, construct the extensions, get them a bowl of water, and transfer the four to their new homes, all to the music of Wolfie meowing and chittering because he can’t understand why I didn’t take care of his needs first.
Zinnia comes over and pets the rabbits.
“Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
I whoosh through the automatic glass doorway and down a corridor to the dome where I keep hay bales for the cattle. After filling a bucket, I run to the fruit trees, grab ripe apples and plums, figuring Zinnia wouldn’t know what to do with a pomegranate, and return to the living area.
I set the fruit aside and dump the green alfalfa into the two enclosures. I must have picked well, as they dive right in, chewing on the hay.
Perfect.
Zinnia leans against the pool’s wood-framed extension, watching the little buggers munch away.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She swivels to look up at me. “Yep.”
“Sit at the table, and I’ll make you a plate.”
What do small children eat besides fruit? I figured fruit was safe. But it can’t just be fruit, right?
Is there anything I shouldn’t give her?
I have no recent experience, being a hundred and eighty-eight years old if I include my mortal years.
I scratch my head. People made a big deal about peanut allergies back in the day, so I’ll skip nuts of any kind.
Opening the refrigerator, I stare at what I cooked for Wolfie and the other cats.
A roast turkey, only a day old. Would that and the fruit make an adequate meal?
Zinnia sits patiently at the dining table, waiting for me to feed her.
I carve turkey meat from the carcass onto a plate and heat the slices in the microwave.
Then I cut the fruit into bite-sized chunks and place the food in front of her with a fork.
She isn’t sure what to do with the fork but picks up the meat with her unwashed fingers.
Hmm, we’ll work on hygiene later. One thing at a time. At least she’s been through decon.
Wolfie makes one of his signature sounds, a combination chirp-bark-meow—meaning I’m losing patience quickly—and I pile turkey meat into his bowl until he shuts up.
Now that those entrusted to my care are eating, my hunger gnaws at me, strong enough to get my attention. I didn’t drink enough from Maria before feeding her my blood, and I’m famished.