His laugh had a pleasant timbre, which only added further insult to him laughing at my expense.
He turned off the main road, making a sharp right before pulling to a stop beside a guard post. Here he dipped the blacked-out driver window to show the guard his face.
“Evening, sir,” the soldier said. The steel gates immediately clattered open to grant access. Beyond the gates stood a high rise building, all cold grey stone and glass. The grounds surrounding it were heavily patrolled by soldiers with dogs, while enough artillery perched on the surrounding walls to deter anything less than an army.
We passed through another mesh gate into the building’s basement where he turned into a parking space. The garage was mostly empty other than a couple of cars and a small truck. Only half the lights worked, casting weak illumination that barely combated the shadows.
He exited the car.
I took a deep breath, heart hammering as a sense of detachment enveloped me. I jumped when my door was flung open, and I stared up at the man who now owned me.
Somehow I got out, and put one foot in front of the other as we headed toward an elevator centering the back wall.
It arrived with a cheery bong that insulted my fraught state. The magnitude of my situation became a debilitating pressure.
What am I doing?
When I remained rooted, he took my arm and drew me inside with him. Pressing his thumb to a print recognition plate, he selected a floor. The elevator creaked as we rose. I hadn’t been in one for years and the experience of being enclosed in a metal box combined with his looming presence beside me threatened to induce a panic attack.
The elevator stopped before my hysteria could peak, two floors from the top. Sensor lights flickered on, revealing a corridor with plush, carpeted flooring, and polished wooden doors that stretched both directions. We went right, stopping at an indistinctive door where he used his thumbprint again to give access to an apartment.
Diffused lighting cast over a spacious open plan living area, making a reflection in the soaring window-walls. The layout reminded me of my parents’ penthouse in Manhattan, but the similarity ended there. My mother’s preference for soft neutral tones was overwritten by strong dark tones and opulence that felt obscene when the state of the world at large was considered.
Abandoning me at the entry, Blaine stalked deeper inside.
Who was this man?
Discarding his duster over a low couch, another thumbprint plate revealed a drawer in the paneled wall. Here he systematically off-loaded and stored his weapons. Far more than I had previously noticed, slid, slipped, and slotted from his person into the hidden space. Task complete, the panel silently closed.
“You want something to eat?” As he turned to face me again, my stomach flipped over. “The answer you’re looking for is—yes, Blaine, I do.”
I didn’t feel hungry. Shock had me in a stranglehold of confusion, hanging somewhere between full-blown panic and exhaustion.
“Yes, Blaine, I do.” His name felt odd on my tongue, but he no longer felt like a stranger, as though speaking that single word could shift us between one state and the next.
“And your name would be?” He started walking back to me, slow, unhurried steps until he was once more directly before me.
“Ava.”
He nudged his head to me. “That your real name?”
“It’s the name I assumed—after I left a bad situation. It’s who I am now.”
He nodded. “Blaine is the name my parents gave me, but I guess we don’t all take the same path through the apocalypse.”
His strength meant his journey through the war should have been easier, but as I looked at his face and the evidence of violence written in cuts and bruises, I thought none of us had had an easy path.
He held out a hand, and I placed mine in his, watching as it was swallowed by his larger one and steeling myself against the strange lightness that invaded me. “Pleased to meet you, Ava. Come in and take a seat.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nora
I’D NEVER SEEN a medical facility like the one at Guilder City. Even those fleeting childhood memories offered no point of reference. It seemed incredible that such a thing could exist when you considered how much destruction had taken place.
Adam and I had been placed in a large open ward. They’d pulled the screen across so I couldn’t see much of the other beds, but I could hear the occasional moan, and ten minutes ago the old lady in the next bed had been noisily puking her guts out.
Adam was lying in a clear plastic cot to the right of my chair with so many cables and monitors attached that my poor boy better resembled a machine than a baby. They’d resolved his medical condition, a simple procedure, I was told. It was a lot to take in, and nothing short of miraculous that his dependency on medication had been erased. That they would help us without demanding something made no sense to my abused perspective of the world.
I was bracing for the demands and fully expected I was about to face a life of servitude.
When I glanced up from my silent study of my baby boy, it was to see the doctor striding toward the nurses’ station. His name was Carter. Surname or first name, I didn’t know. He looked too young to be a doctor. I seemed to recall doctors being older with steel grey hair and glasses. Still, the man did seem competent, and he had cured my son.
Allegedly.
My focus returned to Adam. No, he was cured; I could sense it. When he needed an injection, his skin took on a sickly tinge, and he cried all the time.
Remembering what had happened made my heart flip a distressed beat. If the attack hadn’t happened, and if Sanctuary hadn’t fallen, then my son would still be gravely ill. I’d been hysterical with my demands by the time they’d ordered us to exit the building. Jodi tried her best to keep me civil, fearing I was about to get a bullet in my head. But I’d marched up to the nearest soldier, poked him in the chest, and ordered him to get the person in charge because my baby was ill.
I’d been brought to the medical center in a small military SUV. Hardly caring that I was being separated from everyone I’d known for the last year.
I didn’t believe in fate; I didn’t believe in God either, but forces more powerful than my human comprehension were behind this.
When I turned back, I realized the doctor was heading directly toward me. There was no threat to be found in the floppy-haired doctor with his startling green eyes. But he was a man, and saving my son would buy him no charity.
“He’s doing exceptionally well,” the doctor stated as he checked the machine my son’s cables were attached to. Carter had a mild, even tone that instilled calm until I remembered—how could I even forget—that he was a man.
A man with ridiculously floppy brown hair that made him appear younger than any credible doctor ought to be.
My relief in hearing this confirmation of Adam’s recovery combated against a determination that Doctor Carter couldn’t possibly know what he was talking about.
“How old are you?” I demanded. I was renowned for my blunt-talking, as Jodi would attest. But this was rude, even for me.
The doctor’s eyes widened before a low, warm, and entirely masculine chuckle escaped him. He was so self-assured and relaxed.
“I’m twenty-six,” he stated evenly, lips tugging up in a smile. “Don’t worry. I assure you my qualifications are in order.”