17. Christopher #2
“Hey, I turned on the daylight crystals when we needed them.”
“The what?”
“Daylight crystals. When I turn them on, they make the truck invisible.”
“Completely?”
“Well…”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Okay, it doesn’t work as well on freeways. The faster we go, the more pronounced the prism effect becomes. From the outside, we look like a rainbow blur.” I glance over at her. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”
She sighs. Loudly. “Why are you so good with Zinnia at mealtime and bedtime, but then you lose your temper when she does something a five-year-old naturally does?”
I feel like an idiot. “I’m not good at this. I told you already.”
“Because you’ve never tried.”
“Because I’d be a failure, just like my dad.”
“Okay, I get that you had a terrible dad—and, I’m guessing, a mother who only had time to nurture you with food and when she put you to bed.”
I can’t believe my 1940s childhood is being analyzed so accurately by a woman who grew up in a postapocalyptic world.
“I didn’t have only two parents,” she continues.
“I had a whole community of adults. Our community was small, but my grandparents’ generation emphasized group survival over everything else.
And irrational anger could destroy our community.
So they talked out everything. Calmly. They compromised on everything.
Group meetings were held every night. Grudges were brought to the surface.
” She shakes her head. “How do I explain it to someone who hasn’t lived it? ”
I grip the steering wheel tightly, keeping us from bouncing around on the chewed-up road. “Look, I know I lose my temper occasionally.”
“More than occasionally.”
Yeah, she’s right. “It’s been worse since the Collapse turned my life upside down. With everything going on, I’m wound up too tight. Like my father was all the time.”
“Just because you had a bad childhood doesn’t give you an excuse to yell at Zinnia. She doesn’t understand. Yelling scares her. And now you have a chance to prove you aren’t like your father.”
I gulp. “I’ll try to do better.”
“I guess that’s all I can ask. Thanks.”
“Still mad?”
She squeezes my leg. “Less mad.”
“Um, we have another five minutes before we get to the houses we’re going to scavenge. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
“Since we’re alone, now would be a good time to go over what being a vampire means. You’ve explained some of it—anything else I should know?”
There’s a lot about being a vampire that Maria has yet to learn, so I explain what fang serum is and how to restrain her fangs from deploying so she doesn’t scare Zinnia.
After she peppers me with questions, I dive into why we sleep during the day and how daylight burns us but assure her the invisibility crystals on the truck protect us from daylight.
When we reach the target house—a two-story ranch style—Maria sounds relaxed and happy with me again.
I put the truck in reverse and park on the sand-covered driveway.
Then I show her how to put on and activate an individual daylight bracelet.
Just like the crystals on the truck, the bracelet serves two functions and, with a tap, makes us invisible.
Ever since she shot me with an arrow, I’ve started wearing one whenever I go out.
So long as our invisibility bubbles overlap, we can see each other.
She follows me to the front door, and I demonstrate how to pick a lock.
Once we’re inside the house, I find the connecting door to the garage then pull the manual handle to disconnect the garage door opener, counting our good fortune—the garage isn’t full of junk.
I don’t like leaving the truck out in the open, so I back up slowly until we’re inside and facing out.
Then I manually close the garage door and turn off the daylight crystals on the truck and our wrist bracelets to save battery power.
The workbench on one side is full of tools.
I trigger the automatic tonneau cover to give us open access to the truck bed, the lift arms whispering a light whoosh as they raise the hard-shell lid, followed by a squeaky click-clunk.
My truck is on the older side, and the working parts sometimes grumble as they work. “Grab a crate and start filling it.”
“Everything?”
I pack a crate with electric drills, screwdrivers, nuts and bolts. “Yup. Domed mortals are desperate to get their hands on all this stuff.”
“I was too when I lived in the silo.”
I pause my work to look at her. “From everything I saw at the silo, you were doing an incredible job.”
Her smile falls, sadness overtaking her expression, but she nods. “Thank you.”
After we load the tools onto the truck’s bed, I grab my backpack from the front seat and lead the way inside the house.
Leaving Maria in the kitchen, I conduct a quick sweep of both floors and confirm the two-story house is unoccupied.
None of the rooms bear any fresh scent of mortals or vampires.
I assumed as much from the layers of dust in the garage, but it never hurts to double-check.
Sand covers the floor on the first level. Someone broke open a sliding glass door, and over time, the wind wreaked havoc in the great room. A strong, hot breeze still blows through. I need to find Maria a pair of goggles to protect her eyes from the sand and wind.
She stops in the middle of the chaos, glancing around, shielding her eyes.
“Here, take mine.” I reach into the backpack and hand her my goggles.
She puts them on. “Why is there so much trash?”
“In the desert, people survived longer and moved from one home to another looking for food. They weren’t particular about the detritus they left behind. Let me clean off these counters before we start.”
I find a broom in the typical tall closet where one would expect to find floor-care items and brush the bristles over the kitchen island and counters to clear the dust and sand. The air fills with small particles that fall to the floor.
Maria steps away and, covering her nose with her hands, squints her covered eyes shut.
“You know, you don’t have to breathe, except to talk.”
“What do you mean?” she mumbles, still covering her mouth and nose.
Shit. I didn’t address that topic during our drive here. What else do I need to teach her? I don’t even know where to start.
“Just trust me—you don’t need to breathe like you used to.”
Her brow furrows, but she nods.
I scan the kitchen—pots and pans are metal and frequently requested, so I’ll pile them on the counter.
“When we get back to the ark, I’ll show you the lists of items frequently requested by the inners, so you’ll know what to look for when we scavenge.
In the meantime, china is popular, as is silverware, especially if it’s made of genuine silver.
Just don’t touch it. You’ll burn yourself. ”
She swings around to face me. “How can silver burn me?”
I snort. At least I can explain this one. “Remember when I mentioned all the things that can hurt a vampire?”
“Vaguely.”
“Silver is one of them. Most people pre-Collapse packed their silver in tarnish-resistant storage bags or lined boxes to keep it from turning black, so those containers should protect you.”
Someone or something toppled the china cabinet.
I stride over to the demolished mess, pull wood fragments away, and paw through the remnants to reveal a faded royal-blue velvet bag.
When I lift it, metal objects inside clink against each other.
I untie the knot and open the drawstring pouch, revealing candlesticks.
“Don’t touch them. Just run your hand above them about an inch away. ”
She does, then squeaks. “That feels…weird.”
“That’s the telltale sign you’ve found silver. You can feel it through the bag, but I wanted you to see what it looked like.”
I retie the bag and add the candlesticks to the pile on the kitchen counter, then return to rummage methodically through the cabinets.
Maria doesn’t need any coaxing. She immediately gets to work tearing apart the china cabinet, looking for treasure. When she finishes, she stacks her finds on the kitchen island. “Most of the china was broken.”
I pile more pots on the counter. “I’m not surprised.”
“What’s next?”
Maria’s thrown herself into scavenging even though she didn’t want to come in the first place.
She could’ve been stubbornly unhelpful out of spite, but she’s been the opposite.
I count my good fortune, but really, it’s probably her Titan Community I should thank, for teaching her cooperation and survival as values.
If I had to make a child, I’m glad it was someone like her.
“Try the double-door pantry over there.”
She disappears inside of it, reappearing a moment later.
“What about this?” She holds out a can, the lid bulging.
“Leave it for now. I can’t give the cans to the insiders—I’d have to clean out each one.
They won’t know the lid bulge means the food inside is spoiled and they might eat the”—I tilt the can to read the faded label—“green beans and make themselves sick. We have enough sources of raw metal that we can skip cleaning out a bunch of tin cans.”
“Okay.” She moves on to another cupboard and sets dusty plates onto the counter. One is a small plate, like for a toddler, and she holds it up for me to see the circus theme on it.
My throat tightens. A child younger than Zinnia probably used that plate and died in the Collapse. I don’t enjoy thinking about those deadly days. “Put it on the counter. If you want Zinnia to have it, we can put it through decon.”