Holy shit.
What was happening to her?
“Why didn’t you tell me I’m a draugar?” Jocelyn asked Saint Michael from inside her Inner Temple. She was furious at him.
His face betrayed bewilderment; Jocelyn had never seen him look bewildered. “But you are not a draugar. You could not meditate if you were. You would not be here speaking with me. My child, what makes you think you are a draugar?”
“Because of this.” She extended her fisted hands, her wrists on top.
“The suicide attempt. Your healing. It is a puzzle.”
“A puzzle? I would have killed myself!”
“You know I do not possess the power to intervene. You know I can only speak with you on the astral plane, and only when you call on me. Many of my followers perished, Jocelyn. You would not be the first. You would not be the last.”
She did not expect this callousness from Saint Michael. It made her feel betrayed in a way. Wasn’t he supposed to look out for her? “But . . . but you said I was immune? That I was special?”
“I do not recall using those exact words. I said God would forgive you if you found your medication. But, in a manner of speaking, you are indeed special. I—”
He stopped speaking and tilted his head.
“Understand that you are not a draugar, and you need to get medication. Leave at first light. You are prone to a psychotic break at any time.”
“But how do you explain the healing?”
The waterfall in her Inner Temple was too distracting. She shut it off.
“I cannot,” he answered. “It is a puzzle. Perhaps it has to do with your immunity.”
“Does that even make sense?”
“All I can say is you are not a draugar. You are lucid. You are here. You do not have the sores. You do not want to eat brains. Or do you?”
“Ugh!”
“Then you are not a draugar.”
“But draugar do heal, right?” she asked. “George healed as soon as I thrust my sword into him.”
“Yes, there is that.”
“Wait.” A sense of horror came over her. “What if I’m a part draugar? Not fully draugar, but not fully human, either?” She shuddered.
“An interesting idea. This seems to bother you more than being a full draugar.”
That was logical, she wasn’t sure why it bothered her. “It’s creepy, I suppose.”
“Perhaps. But you need to focus on getting properly medicated.”
“So I should ignore this?”
“Of course not,” he answered. “Your chances of surviving until you get medication have increased considerably. But if you dwell on it, if you hesitate or get distracted, then the next time you kill someone due to psychosis, we shall not be very forgiving.”
She nodded. “One more thing. Is there US military in control of Colorado Springs? Some type of air base?”
“I have not heard of this. But, regardless, Jocelyn, I do not want you to distract yourself from retrieving medication that will stop these psychotic breaks. Find your medication, and then we can talk about Colorado Springs.”
He clapped his hands, abruptly ending her meditation.
The road to the highway was unpaved dirt and a little dusty. The hills were lush and green, but the mountains, two thousand feet above narrow valleys, were sparse and brown above the tree line.
About two to three hundred feet from the paved highway crossing, Jocelyn felt a strange tingling on the back of her neck, like the pins and needles that came after numbness, though not uncomfortable. Maybe her lack of discomfort was related to how she could heal?
She didn’t know what to expect. Would she encounter a lot of draugar once she reached civilization? Could she fight off all of them by herself, even with her sword and a shotgun? How many survivors were there? When would she meet any? She couldn’t bear the thought of being in this situation alone for much longer.
Carrying her backpack over her sword and shotgun on her shoulders, it didn’t take long for Jocelyn to reach the highway. It was a beautiful, warm, windy late summer day—not a cloud in the sky. She looked around at the crossroads. It was early afternoon, but not a soul was about. Modest one- and two-story wood buildings were spread apart. Then she spotted the smeared blood on a white SUV parked in a tiny lot across the street. In the same lot as the car, staring her right in the face, her eye caught a sign over a storefront that read AREA MAPS.
She couldn’t believe her luck.
She ran across the road.
The building was actually a realtor that also sold maps of the area. She reached the realty office, and found the door slightly ajar. The door jam was broken off—it had been busted open.
She drew her shotgun in both hands, pushing the door with a nudge of her shoulder.
“I mean no harm,” she called.
No response.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
She shifted her shotgun to one hand, opening the door fully. The place was deserted.
She tested the knob and found the door was still locked. Had the draugar done this? Broken open a locked door? Maybe the zombie apocalypse had hit here during non-business hours. The hours sign said it was closed Mondays. Maybe it had hit on a Monday? How long ago? Monday was the day before the snowfall.
The tingling on the back of her neck continued.
She searched through a rack of maps and took a map of Beaver Park. It was one of those colorful, not-to-scale ones with drawings of buildings with labels on them. On it included a brewery/pub, a liquor store, an arts council building, a well-known coffee-house chain, and a supermarket, among other buildings. But there was no pharmacy marked on the map. She also took maps of: Bitter Creek; Denver area streets; Colorado Springs area streets; and Ella and Deaver area streets (just north of Beaver Park).
After she left the realtor, a sign caught her eye. It read:
THIS FRI.
BINGO at 7
POT LUCK at 6
TOWN HALL.
She wondered what a draugar pot luck
