Awoken

Chapter One Jordan Wells came to the crossroads at Highway 84 and Highway 17 in Chama, New Mexico, and paused for a moment to rest her weary feet, her worried gaze — as always — scanning the area for any sign of djinn activity. She probably shouldn’t even be standing out in the open like this, but in all the empty miles between here and Pagosa Springs near the southern border of Colorado, she hadn’t seen a single soul, human or djinn. The fingers of Jordan’s left hand tightened around the strap of the backpack she wore, even while her right hand rested lightly on the revolver at her hip. Yes, djinn were supposedly immortal, but Jordan and her fellow survivors had discovered they could be wounded. And even though she’d never touched a gun before the Dying happened and the world she’d known had ended forever, Jordan now reckoned herself a good enough shot that she could empty the shiny Ruger into any otherworldly adversaries, thus buying herself enough time to get away and hide. At the moment, however, she had to decide whether to take a brief detour into Chama to look for supplies, or whether to keep heading south toward her ultimate destination, Los Alamos. It was the only sanctuary for mortals that remained — or at least, she had to pray that outpost of humankind still existed, even though more than eighteen months had passed since her group’s last contact with the survivors in the mountain town. Jordan shifted the backpack, feeling its weight. During her journey here, she’d been able to scrounge some food, and water was plentiful enough, thanks to the various rivers and streams in the region, but even so, supplies were getting light. According to the map she carried with her, she still had almost a hundred miles to go, and she hadn’t managed to average more than twelve or fifteen miles a day at best, simply because she had to expend so much energy zigging and zagging, hiding in stands of trees when she could, using the cover of abandoned homesteads and ranches when there wasn’t anything else available, flat out running in the open areas between houses…and praying a djinn wouldn’t see her during those horribly vulnerable moments. But still, to head into Chama meant she’d be going out of her way. Maybe she’d be lucky enough to find a few places on her way to Los Alamos where she could pick up more supplies. There were several settlements called out on her map — Tierra Amarilla, Cebolla, to name a few — but she had no way of knowing whether they would have anything useful to offer, or whether they were basically wide spots in the road. She’d never had the chance to travel to this part of New Mexico and was basically flying blind. There probably won’t be much to scavenge, she thought, except in Española, and that’s almost to your destination. Once again she scanned the landscape around her. Far off in the distance, a hawk circled, but the bird of prey was the only visible sign of life. For all she knew, there were no djinn at all in this part of the world. It was beautiful here, true, with the rolling hills and their crowns of ponderosa pine and aspen, just now beginning to turn gold, and the far-off peaks of mountain ranges she couldn’t even name, but was the beauty of the landscape enough to attract one of those vengeful immortal beings? Jordan didn’t know. There was so much about the djinn she didn’t know. She did know one thing, however. They were very good at killing humans. The thought brought back unwanted memories, of her group’s first flight from Colorado Springs nearly two years ago now, of everyone who had died at the hands of the djinn. And then the much smaller group who had survived that attack, and had taken refuge in the small resort town of Pagosa Springs in the southwestern region of Colorado, not too far from the New Mexico border. They’d kept a low profile there, so much so that they’d managed to live in Pagosa for the last year and a half without any kind of djinn interference. That had all come crashing to a halt five days ago, when the little colony was set upon by a group of djinn intent on making sure none of Pagosa Springs’ current residents survived. As far as Jordan knew, none of them had. Except her. She’d never allowed herself to relax the entire time she’d lived there. Not really. She had various escape routes planned out of town, and a “bug-out” bag stashed in the utility room of the house where she’d been living. As soon as the attack began, she ran to get her things. Cowardly? Maybe. But you couldn’t fight djinn. About all you could do was wound them badly enough to give yourself a chance to escape. She swallowed, and did her best to shove those memories back in the depths of her mind. There wasn’t anything she could do about that now, except try to survive. If even one person lived to tell the story of the survivors from Colorado Springs, then they wouldn’t be entirely lost. Someone would remain to let other survivors — if there even were any — know that the Colorado Springs group had persisted, had managed to live on when so many others had perished. Jordan’s stomach growled. It had been many hours since the protein bar she’d consumed when she woke up that morning; the sun was now midway down the western sky. She had maybe three hours until darkness came. Yes, she could walk pretty far in that space of time, but what if she walked and walked and didn’t encounter anyplace that would be suitable to shelter her for the night? In a pinch she could sleep in the forest, using a carpet of fallen pine needles as her mattress and her pack as a pillow — it wouldn’t be the first time, but she vastly preferred a bed or couch in an empty house or ranch. There would be far more places like that in Chama. And more chances to find some food, even if it was just freeze-dried camping stuff from one of the area’s outdoor supply stores, or canned goods that hopefully hadn’t yet expired. She repressed a grimace at the thought of eating yet another prefab meal like that, but it was better than starving. The possibility of adding to her dwindling food supply seemed to decide things. She glanced around once again and determined that the coast was still clear, then veered left and took Highway 17, moving toward the heart of Chama. Abandoned vehicles were scattered along the roadway, some on its edges, and some right in the middle of the road, as if their drivers had succumbed to the Heat while trying to get out of town. Jordan was used to such sights, and threaded her way among the discarded metal hulks without paying much attention to them. Actually, she was glad of those forsaken cars and SUVs and pickup trucks, just because they provided some shelter, and allowed her to follow the road rather than being forced to veer far off the asphalt ribbon that made its way along the valley, just in order to have adequate cover. Two restaurants faced one another across the highway, but Jordan would rather get her supplies someplace else. Anything that had been in those restaurants’ freezers would have long since spoiled, and canned goods — especially the industrial-size versions used for food service — were far too heavy to make for good road food. No, what she really needed was a camping store, or, failing that, a house that looked as if it might still have some beef jerky or diet bars lying around. Anything that would fit in her backpack and keep her alive. A crunch of a twig made her start, but when she whirled around, hand going to the Ruger at her hip, she saw that the noise had been made by a pair of medium-sized goats — one white, the other brindle, like a swirl of caramel and cream — who were wandering along the edge of the road, pausing now and then to nibble at the weeds growing there. Her heart, which felt as if it had lodged somewhere midway up her throat, resumed a somewhat normal rhythm. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. The goats gave her an incurious glance and continued along their way, apparently unruffled by the presence of a human in a place that should have been utterly abandoned. She paused so she could get her canteen out of the backpack, and took a long drink. The canteen had been full that morning, but now was half empty. That was something else she’d need to take care of. Not that big a deal, since the Rio Chama wound its way through town, running more or less parallel to the highway until it crossed under the 17 and continued its way north into Colorado. After she stowed the canteen, Jordan kept walking along the edge of the road, making sure to stop every once in a while to get a good look around. The landscape remained empty; even the goats had disappeared. Toward the north end of town, near the depot for the Cumbres and Toltec Railroad — a popular tourist attraction she’d always meant to try, but had never gotten around to — she did spot a fishing gear store. Good. She could load up there, and then find a likely house to hole up in for the night. After that, she’d cut back to the 84 and keep going toward Los Alamos. This little detour would cost her an evening, but it wasn’t as if anyone in the mountain town was expecting her. For all she knew, Los Alamos would be just as empty and dead as every other town she’d passed through. Jordan pushed that thought aside and tested the door to the fishing store — “Angler’s Alley,” said the wooden sign above the entrance. Luckily, the door was unlocked, and she went inside. And stopped abruptly in dismay. Whatever might have once been here, it looked as if it had been looted long ago. The shelves were bare, packages of lures and fishing line knocked to the floor. The section of the store that must have once contained the camping gear was now completely empty, the only things remaining a couple of cans of Sterno. “Well, s**t,” Jordan muttered. She’d come across scenes like this before — sometimes in the most unlikely places — but she really hadn’t been expecting it in sleepy little Chama. The notion of getting some more camping food had apparently been shot down the tubes, which meant she now had to go with plan B, scrounging from one or more of the houses in the area. It wasn’t as much of a sure thing, but if nothing else, she could maybe find some canned beans or tuna or something. If she ate the canned stuff here, at least she could save the freeze-dried food in her bag for the days when she found herself someplace that didn’t even have an abandoned ranch nearby. She poked her head outside and looked around. The coast was clear. Of course it was. There were no djinn around here. Jordan didn’t know where they holed up when they weren’t murdering the world’s last few survivors, but clearly, that place wasn’t anywhere near Chama, New Mexico. The murmur of the river drew her. She crossed the highway and went through the gravel-paved parking lot of the railway depot, using the cars and SUVs left behind by dead tourists as cover — and then the abandoned railway cars themselves — until she could get to the trees. Here the cottonwoods grew thick and tall, nurtured by the water from the Rio Chama. Once she passed into their shade, Jordan allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She always felt better when she was among the trees, surrounded by their sheltering greenery. That cover didn’t last forever, of course. After a few minutes, she came out to the river bank. At this time of year, it wasn’t running too high, since it was far too early for snow melt — or late, depending on how you looked at it — and the monsoon rains that came on schedule every summer were almost gone, with October now here. Jordan didn’t really want to think about it being October. For now, the days were still mild, perfect walking or hiking weather, actually, but the nights had grown chilly. Snow usually didn’t arrive until around Thanksgiving, but you couldn’t count on that. True, she’d grown up in Colorado Springs, not northern New Mexico, but the climates weren’t all that different. You could still get hit with snow as early as Halloween if you were unlucky.