I use up the last of the first aid supplies to patch up his wounds. His skin is like silk-covered steel. I'm a little rougher than I need to be because it helps keep my hands steady.
“Try not to move around too much so you don't bleed again. The bandages aren't that thick and blood will soak through pretty quickly.”
“No problem,” he says. “Shouldn't be too hard not to move around as we run for our lives.”
“I’m serious. That's the last of our bandages. You'll have to make them last.”
“Any chance we can find more?”
“Maybe.” Our best chance is from first aid kits in houses, since the stores are either cleaned out or claimed by gangs.
We fill up my water bottle. I didn’t have much time to pack supplies from the office. The supplies I carried with me are a random assortment. I sigh, wishing I’d had time to pack more food. Other than the single dried noodle cup, we’re out except for the handful of fun-sized chocolates I’m saving for Paige. We share the noodles, which is about two bites per person. By the time we leave the cottage, it is mid-morning. The first place we hit is the main house.
I have high hopes of a stocked kitchen, but one glance at the gaping cupboards in the sea of granite and stainless steel tells me we'll have to scrounge for leftovers. Rich people may have lived here, but even the rich didn’t have enough currency to buy food once things got bad. Either they ate all the food they could before packing up and hitting the road, or they took it with them. Drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, there is nothing but crumbs.
“Is this edible?” Raffe stands at the kitchen entrance, framed by the Mediterranean archway. He could easily be at home in a place like this. He stands with the fluid grace of an aristocrat who's used to rich surroundings. Although the quarter-bag of cat food he’s holding up does mess with the image a little.
I dip my hand into the bag and bring out a few pieces of red and yellow kibbles. I pop them in my mouth. Crunchy, with a vaguely fishy taste. I pretend they're crackers as I chew and swallow. “Not exactly gourmet, but it probably won't kill us.”
That's the best we can do in the food department, but we do find supplies in the garage. A backpack that doubles as a duffle bag, which is great since he can't carry a backpack right now but might be able to later. A couple of boys' sleeping bags all rolled and ready to go. No tent, but there are flashlights with extra batteries. A slick camp knife that's more expensive than any I've ever managed to buy. I give mine to Raffe and keep this one for myself.
Since my clothes are dirty, I simply trade them in for clean ones from the closets. We also liberate some extra clothes and jackets. I find a sweatshirt that comes close to fitting Raffe. I also make him change from his tell-tale black pants and laced boots to jeans and ordinary hiking boots.
Luckily, there are three bedrooms stocked with various sizes of men's clothing. There must have been a family with two teen boys here once, but the only sign of them now is what's in the closets and garage. The fit of Raffe's hiking boots are what concern me the most. His blisters are already healed from yesterday, but even with his super-healing, we can't have him tearing up his feet every day.
I tell myself I care because I can't have him holding me back by limping and refuse to think further than that.
“You look almost human dressed like that,” I say.
Actually, he looks exactly like a gorgeous Olympian champion. It's more than a little disturbing just how much he looks like a supreme example of a human being. I mean, shouldn't an angel that's part of a legion to eradicate humanity look, well, evil and alien?
“So long as you don't bleed in the shape of wing joints, you should pass for human. Oh, and don't let anyone pick you up. They'll know you're not right as soon as they feel how light you are.”
“I'll be sure not to let anyone but you carry me in her arms.” He turns and leaves the kitchen before I can figure out what to make of his comment. A sense of humor is one more thing I don’t think angels should have. The fact that his sense of humor is corny makes it even more wrong.
~
It's noon by the time we leave the big house. We're in a little cul-de-sac off Page Mill Road. The road is dark and slick with last night’s downpour. The sky is heavy with broken gray clouds, but if we're lucky, we should be in the hills under a warm roof by the time the rains start again.
Our packs sit on Paige’s chair, and if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend it’s her I’m pushing. I catch myself humming what I thought was a meaningless tune. I stop when I realize it’s my mother’s apology song.
I put one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the too-light weight of the wheelchair and the wingless angel beside me.