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"Yes."
"So it doesn't mean there's a wet bar in the backseat."
"No."
She sighs. "Darn. I could use a stiff drink."
When I glance at her sideways, I catch her smirking. Is she teasing me? Considering my behavior, I can't believe she would do that. But her statement about needing a drink had sounded almost playful. I don't want her to get comfortable with me. Her fear of what I might do to her assures her compliance.
"Don't get used to riding in a car," I say, making sure to growl the words while I veer the car around a corner. "Once I get what I want, you will be of no further use to me."
"Gee, you sure know how to sweet-talk a girl."
"Why would I bother with that?" I swerve around a pile of debris, and the headlights flash across the ruined facade of a building, revealing several creatures hunkered there. "You would do well to stop harassing me, unless you want me to finish what we started in the tunnel. I won't be nice to you when I take your body. It will be—"
"Mean and nasty, blah-blah-blah. I've memorized your little speech, so you can shut the hell up about it now."
Allison looks annoyed again, and she's hugging herself too.
Maybe I feel uneasy about upsetting her, but I can't let her see that. I force myself to relax into my seat. "Tell me how to find the Kimbell."
Chapter Eight
Allison
We don't speak for the rest of the journey to the museum, except when I give him directions. The streets look so different now, and the darkness doesn't help matters, but I manage to get us there. Dax drives too fast, but I don't bother telling him to slow down. He'll do whatever he wants no matter what I say. Maybe I had, for a brief time, thought he might be turning into a semi-normal person. But then he snapped at me again and said nasty things to me again, and I remembered he's nothing but a brute.
I cannot trust him. Not ever.
The drive to the museum is a bumpy one, and Dax has to zig-zag around small groups of monsters from the Echo, all of whom look far more dangerous than he does. I don't see any normal humans. They can't all be dead, can they? Some must have survived the "first wave," as Dax called it. I don't want to think about what the second wave will be like. Maybe the people who lived in this city have hunkered down to hide from the beasts. Maybe they aren't all dead.
I survived only because Dax captured me and spirited me away from the worst of the madness.
We make a detour when I spot a sign for the street Sefton gave as his address, but he doesn't live there. It's an empty lot. Where did Sefton live? Solving that mystery can wait.
Our journey takes longer than it would have pre-apocalypse, but that's no surprise. We pass by buildings that have been reduced to rubble with no evidence of what they were before the destruction began. Just glimpsing the damage as we rush through the darkened city makes me feel nauseous. My eyes start to burn too, and my throat thickens. I can't help teetering on the verge of tears. Who wouldn't get choked up under these circumstances?
Dax, that's who. He doesn't seem to care about anyone or anything except getting what he wants.
Miraculously, we reach the cultural district. Some of the buildings have survived with moderate damage rather than total devastation, while the Kimbell Art Museum seems to have remained mostly intact. Right across the street, the parking lots have suffered major wounds. Yet the museum has survived with cosmetic injuries, though a small section of the roof has caved in. How is that possible? Dax claims Sefton Stainthorpe created the apocalypse, and he seems to think Sefton did that because of me. Could he have spared the museum because he knows I love it?
No. This can't have anything to do with me.
Dax parks in the driveway of the museum, right next to the huge modern art sculpture that marks the entrance. We head for the glass doors that access the building and find them intact and unlocked, as if everyone fled in such a hurry that they didn't bother to secure the premises. As much as I love art, protecting the collection wouldn't have been my priority either. Getting the hell away from the lightning and fireballs, not to mention the monsters, matters more.
As we make our way into the building, Dax turns on the battery-powered lantern. It provides a surprising amount of light considering how small it is, and we have no trouble navigating through the building. Artworks lie scattered on the floor or hang askew on the walls, as if the place has been looted. But nobody took the paintings or sculptures. Whoever did this rampaged through the building in search of something else. There's a restaurant in here and a gift shop too, so maybe they looted those for supplies.
I trip over a small object on the floor. As I reach down to pick it up, I recognize the item. It's an ancient Mesoamerican statue from the Olmec culture. The six-inch-tall figurine depicts a broad-shouldered man with a large, rounded head and a mouth that curves down in a partial frown. Something about his eyes has always struck me as sad. The whole sculpture feels that way, more today than ever before. This poor little guy survived the end of his civilization thousands of years ago only to experience a genuine apocalypse today. He deserves better than to lie on the floor like a discarded toy. So I gently set him on an empty display pedestal.
"What are you doing?" Dax demands.
"Showing a little respect."
"For what? It's a stone statue." He stalks toward me. The jerk had gone halfway across the room before he noticed I wasn't right behind him.
"Excuse me for wanting to preserve one little thing when the world is ending or transforming or whatever." The start of tears burns in my eyes, but I do not want to cry in front of him. I suck in a breath and will the tears to go away. As if that ever works. "If you want to threaten me some more, go ahead. I don't care. Showing emotion is not a crime."
"Perhaps not, but it will get you killed."
