The first yellow light of dawn came creeping in through the broken windows of the room where Jim Hilton and his daughter had spent the night.
The ceiling was stained and cracked plaster, decorated with a variety of graffiti. Some had been done with spray cans, but most of them showed the peculiar smeared effect of writing with a candle.
Heather stretched, the T-shirt tight across her shoulders. “Dad?”
“What is it, love?”
“I dreamed about Mom last night.”
“I dreamed about her during the time I was coming home. And you and Andrea.”
“It was just Mom and me.”
He sat up, rubbing the stubble around the jaw-line. “Tell me, Heather.”
She stood up, kicking her way out of the sleeping bag. “We were in a big art gallery. Like an old bus station, with lots of rooms. Metal galleries and walkways. Nobody else around. Pictures of saints and stuff. Lots of gold and reds and blues. Sort of nice.”
Jim rubbed sleep from his eyes, remembering that he’d helped to slaughter seven men only a few hours ago.
“Go on.”
“Mom was laughing at some of the pictures. Said that the infant Jesus had a fat ass in one of them. Made me laugh a lot.”
“Your mother was good at making people laugh,” he said.
“Sure. Then I was looking at this picture that had some real triple-ape demons, with pincers and gallows. Looked up and she’d vanished, Dad. I was there all alone.”
He nodded. “Then what?”
Heather shook her head, and he could see unshed tears glistening in her blue-gray eyes. “That was it! Just that. I turned round, and Mom was gone. Just like she really went and…”
The girl’s hand went to her mouth, and she scampered outside, bare feet padding in the soft California desert dust.
Jim followed her out, but respected her need for privacy. He moved toward Kyle Lynch and Steve Romero, who had got a fire going with the help of Sly. There was some instant soup bubbling away, its steam rising into the cool morning air.
Jim checked his wrist chron. “Coming up to seven,” he said. “Good to have a quiet night. I thought I heard coyotes.”
Jeff Thomas was carrying a pile of wood he’d collected around the backs of the surviving buildings in Calico. “Yeah. I heard them, too. Sounded like they were fighting.”
Nanci Simms was walking just in front of him, looking like a fashion ad for outdoor casual wear for the older woman. The pants of her khaki pantsuit were tucked into the tops of the polished boots. She’d left the Port Royale behind, but the matched pair of automatics were elegantly holstered.
“They were fighting, Jefferson, dear. Fighting over the meat we so generously left out for their suppers last night.”
“Supper?” said Carrie Princip, closing her eyes. “Oh, I get it. You don’t think we should have maybe buried them? Not just allowed them to be torn by scavengers?”
Jim answered her. “No. Short and simple, Carrie. No.”
Heather appeared, already dressed, her short blond hair brushed flat. She managed a small smile for her father as she squatted cross-legged on the ground by his side. Her eyes looked a little swollen.
Jim felt one of those inexplicable waves of overwhelming affection for his daughter and thanked the gods that he hadn’t lost all of his loved ones. He reached out and took her small hand in his, getting a squeeze in return.
Kyle ladled out the soup into everyone’s bowl, then helped himself.
There was silence in the circle as they spooned down their breakfast.
Jim was one of the first to finish, and he carefully took what seemed to be about one-eighth of what was left for his second helping.
“Decision time,” he said.
Jeff jumped in first, wanting to know when they were going to get started on tracking down this mysterious Aurora place.
“Just head north, and we’ll find it,” he said, his right hand unconsciously stroking his badly broken nose. “Can’t be that difficult.”
“I was navigator on the old Aquila,” said Kyle Lynch. “Means I know a little about maps. You should get that pea-size brain of yours into gear, Jeff, before you operate your mouth.”