Chapter 7
1078 Words
The New Santa Fe Sanctuary is located at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the Rio Grande Valley. When the original Santa Fe fell, the remaining inhabitants and refugees rebuilt closer to the mountain range, creating a natural fortress. The wall held for fifty years, until the second fall of the Santa Fe Sanctuary, one year ago.
It's gut wrenching to be home again... or the place I used to call home. Regrowth and rebuild is happening along the wall. From what I can tell, it's being built stronger than ever, able to withstand entire armies of Primitives. I shudder as the thought enters my brain. Armies. That's what we've come to. Primitives have organized themselves. They've always travelled in packs, but the groupings used to be smaller, more easily managed. Now, they travel in hordes. Great big massive hordes.
As we approach the main gates, I tip my head back to stare up at the wall, a wall just as high as the Tucson Sanctuary wall. I frown and wrinkle my nose in disgust. "Are those... are those bodies up there?"
Displayed across much of the face of the wall is what looks like rotting corpses. My stomach heaves in protest and I look away.
"They're a deterrence to the enemy," Wolfe explains. "Primitives don't like coming across their dead any more than we do."
I stare at him. "How can you tell?"
He doesn't speak right away and I wonder if he won't answer me. This is Wolfe. He speaks sparingly and in his own time. He never explains himself, definitely not to me. Not even to the Warlord, when Silas was still alive.
Finally, he answers, "Noticed after I left the Tucson Sanctuary. I hammered one of them to the hood of my car, a statement to the others. f**k with me and die."
"And it worked?" I ask skeptically.
His eyes remain on the gates as they swing open and we're both distracted for a moment as he drives through. The last time I was here we were rushing in the opposite direction through the gates, taking as many vehicles and refugees as we could manage. Out of the 70,000 people residing in Santa Fe at the time, we'd only been able to take a few hundred. And out of that few hundred only a few dozen, including Wolfe and myself, made it to the Tucson Sanctuary alive.
But now, I see a bustling city, people moving through the streets with purpose. As we drive, I realize that there are far more than the handful that should have survived being left behind to survive a zombie attack.
I say as much to Wolfe.
"Some survived the initial attack; managed to hide and wait out the Primitives. Others are refugees from the eastern Sanctuaries. They heard we were rebuilding here in Santa Fe and asked for asylum."
I see an older woman making her way slowly across the road, a cane clutched in her hand for balance. She's well past childbearing age and at first glance doesn't appear to be in the best of health. This woman would never have been given Sanctuary under Silas's regime, or in most other Sanctuaries. How has she managed to get into Santa Fe?
Following my gaze, Wolfe understands my silent question and explains, "We accept anyone who begs for Sanctuary. The only exceptions are those that were turned away from the city for crimes."
I'm surprised. Both at this amendment to the old law and at the way Wolfe is making it sound like he's a decision-maker for the city. In his old role as head of security and right hand to the Warlord, he'd helped make decisions, but he mostly kept to himself. Perhaps he's taken up his old position again. I know I'm wrong, though. My gut is trying to tell me he's something more to the Santa Fe Sanctuary.
Finally, I ask the question that's been burning from the moment I found out I would be coming here. "Who... who is Warlord now?" I need to know who took my husband's position.
This time, though, Wolfe doesn't answer. He maneuvers the vehicle through the city, driving it into the underground garage beneath what used to be the palace. I get a quick glimpse of the tall building before we drive into the underground. I'm blinded by darkness for a moment until my eyes can adjust. By the time I'm ready, Wolfe has parked the vehicle.
We get out and I join him as he strides toward the stairs leading up. I'm reminded of the effort it takes to climb the stairs as we go up and up and up at a dizzying pace. Wolfe is clearly in top physical condition, not that he ever wasn't. The man's body is made out of rock, probably the same rock as his heart.
I'm huffing and puffing by the time we arrive at our destination: the Warlord's throne room.
As we enter, I see that not much has changed and a stab of pain takes my breath away as I picture Silas in his role as Warlord, sitting in his big ornate chair on a dais, elevated above the rest of the room. Now, of course, it's empty of his frail dying body.
I'm about to insist once more that Wolfe tell me who the new Warlord is. I have my suspicions, but I want him to confirm. Before I can ask, though, several soldiers come through the door, lining up next to Wolfe. In unison, they bow their heads, a habit left over from Silas's days. He loved his pomp and ceremony. These men must've belonged to him. Must've somehow survived the attack.
"Warlord," one of them begins. "We're situating your guests."
"Good," Wolfe acknowledges. "Leave us now."
Without another word the soldiers file out, their eyes anywhere but on me. The averted gaze of the soldiers is reminiscent of my time in the harem. They weren't allowed to look directly at me or any of the harem women. Only Wolfe had repeatedly broken that rule, looking at me often. The Warlord hadn't cared though; he believed that Wolfe's coldness toward me indicated his lack of interest. I'd believed the same thing.
I have trouble keeping the edge of bitterness from my voice. "Warlord Wolfe. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
He says nothing, but his one-eyed stare says it all.
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