The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

“We don’t have to drink if it bothers you,” I say. “I don’t care enough.”

  Jorge sets the case on the table. “Is that why you haven’t had any? You told me you were going to drink like a fish when you got some beer. What happened?”

  I shrug. He lowers his face to mine. “Sylvie, I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t okay. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t expect anyone else to be sober. It’s my problem, not yours. After ten years, I don’t miss it. But this old fart likes to see you young people having fun.”

  “Oh, stop. You’re still a young buck.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Jorge says with his genial laugh. “I don’t want you to worry about me. But thank you for caring enough to worry.”

  “Of course I worry. How has a lady not snagged you yet?”

  Jorge’s kindness is readily apparent in his sincere brown eyes, and his cherubic cheeks lend him an aura of boyishness. But he’s not weak, and what had been a bit of middle-aged softness has reverted to muscle on his broad frame.

  “I don’t know, too much man for any one woman?”

  I kiss his cheek. “That must be it.”

  ***

  The sun has set, and we sit in the yard and enjoy the cool air. The food is gone, sadly, but we’re still clustered around the long teak table with our beer and Jorge’s and Leo’s sodas. By beer number two, Maria grew livelier, and now she and Jorge are embroiled in a game of dominoes.

  “You’re letting me win,” she says to him.

  “Mimi, I never let you win. You just kick my ass.”

  Maria’s eyes gleam when she says something in Spanish, and his response makes her smack his arm. If anyone can lift you out of a funk, it’s Jorge.

  “Your necklace,” Eli says to Grace at our end of the table. “Is that a moonstone?”

  Grace fingers the pearlescent oval stone she wears around her neck. At one time, its purpose was to enhance fertility, and I think she continues to wear it because it’s a piece of her life with Logan. “It is. You know stones?”

  “A little.”

  “The mystery of the Lothario lawyer deepens,” I say.

  “Eli’s a crackpot when he’s not lawyering,” Indy says. “And he’s a yoga junkie.”

  “You are?” Grace perks up. “Do you prefer a specific style?”

  Eli sips his beer. “Ashtanga mainly, but Yin when I need to think on something. It’s the meditation I find most relaxing.”

  “Grace is a yoga teacher,” I say.

  “Not for a while,” she says. “I only taught on the side while I got my master’s.”

  “Still,” Eli says, “that’s impressive. Why did you decide to go to school for yoga, too?”

  “I took classes for years. And then, one day, my third eye opened and I decided it was something I wanted to pursue. I took an intensive summer course and finished it during the school year.”

  “We’re not the only overachievers,” Indy says.

  Eli leans forward, elbows on the table. “You opened your third eye? I’ve been close.”

  “It was the single most life-altering experience I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, God, here we go,” I murmur. Paul chokes beside me.

  “Mine was a purple light,” Eli says, “and this sense of peace, but then it got a little scary.” He gazes at the table sorrowfully. “I shut it down and haven’t been able to get there again.”

  “Did you see the beings?” Grace asks.

  Indy catches my eye, brows at the top of her forehead, and mouths the beings? She covers her face with her hands, shoulders quaking. I hold in my laugh. I have plenty of practice holding in laughs where this stuff is concerned.

  “I think I sensed them,” Eli replies.

  Grace nods, chin in hand. “That is scary. I was a little weirded out at first, but then I got onto a higher vibration. It was like I unlocked another dimension.”

  “And she says you’re crazy?” Paul mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

  Indy might be crying now. I duck my head so Eli and Grace can’t see my grin, but they’re in their own world. Or maybe their own dimension.

  “I wish I could get back there,” Eli says, more solemn than when he held me and Eric at gunpoint.

  “I’ve been trying to get everyone to do some poses and meditate with me. If you want, we could work on it.”

  “I’d love that.”

  Grace claps—she claps like a seal when she’s excited. “This week?”

  Eli agrees, and after a few more minutes of discussion that prove once and for all I am not the crazy one in our friendship, Indy pulls on her leather coat. “I hate to break up this enlightening conversation, but we should go before we drink too much.”

  “Why don’t you stay the night?” I ask. The more I’m around Indy and Eli, the more I like them, third eye discourse notwithstanding. “We have plenty of houses to sleep in. And Eric’s sister is obsessed with dental hygiene, so we have tons of toothbrushes. We even have tongue scrapers. Grace and Eli can meditate in the morning while we make fun of them.”

  Grace flips me off, and I wink at Eli. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he says, and raises his chin at Indy. “What do you say?”

  Indy drops in her seat. “Let’s drink.”

  ***

  A while later, I ask Indy, “How’s Lucky?”

  “Lucien is a teenager,” she says. “That’s how he is. Talking back, angry at everyone, and acting like I started the zombie apocalypse to fuck up his life.”

  “Yeah, I think I saw some of that the other day. It looked like fun. Why don’t you call him Lucky?”

  “His mother called him Lucky, as in her lucky charm. He could get her drugs when she couldn’t find any. The neighborhood dealers took pity on him because he’d get in trouble if he didn’t come back with something. She sent that little boy out on the street, at night, to score for her sorry ass.” Her voice is clipped and her eyes flame. “That’s why I don’t call him Lucky.”

  I contemplate that for a minute, both because she’s pissed and because it’s a terrible image. At least my mother didn’t punish me when the neighbors refused her request, through me, for a pill or two. But I was more my mother’s albatross than a lucky charm, and I can see why he might cling to that moniker. I tread carefully with my next words. “Maybe it doesn’t have the same meaning for him. Maybe it reminds him he was important to her somehow, even if it seems irrational and wrong to you.”

  Her expression wavers between holding on to the fury and coming to an understanding. I take a swig of beer. “It’s just a thought. My mother was a lot like your sister. I’m sure no matter what she did, he loves her, and he wants to believe she loved him, so he’s held on to that tiny scrap as evidence.”

  As a kid, I would mine the depths of my memories for something, anything, that could serve as proof of my mother’s love. I finally stopped when the memories were too ancient to matter.

  Indy rubs her index finger between her brows. “Shit. I never thought of that. He said everyone at SPSZ calls him Lucky, even Eli. I told him it’ll be everyone but me that calls him by that stupid name. No wonder he hates me.”

  “Teenagers hate everyone who’s not a teenager. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Just apologize and call him Lucky.”

  “He was in counseling for fighting at school. He’s so smart, but he’s so angry, and I’m afraid he’s going to be unhappy forever. He could use an adult who gets it.” Indy sips her beer and scrunches her face into a hopeful expression. “Maybe you could talk with him? I’m at my wit’s end.”

  What she’s said about Lucky is what every guidance counselor said about me. Get out of your own way, Sylvie. I’m the worst person for the job, but I’m flattered she’s asked and can’t refuse without explaining I’m crackers.

  “I will if he wants to,” I say, secretly hoping he never does because I haven’t the first clue what to say.

  “Thanks
.” We sit in silence until she says, “I miss girlfriends. I had a few good friends, but none of them lived in the neighborhood and now…” She runs a finger around the rim of her beer can. “It’s harder to make friends the older you get. You know, the kind you call in the middle of the night, or who tell you point blank you’re being a dumbass. Like when you won’t call your nephew by his stupid nickname.”

  I laugh. “It was always hard for me.”

  I watch Grace, who’s teaching Eli to play dominoes with Paul and Leo. I’m lucky to have her in general, and more so now. Grace must get my psychic message because she looks up and sticks out her tongue. I blow her a kiss that turns into a raised middle finger.

  Indy smiles at the exchange, then drops her eyes to the beer in her lap. “I was a little scared to come over today,” she says quietly. “You two are so tight, I don’t know if you have room for another person. I wanted to impress you with my food so you’d want to play with me or something. Eli said I was being a big baby.” She swipes at a cheek with a short laugh. “Ignore me. It’s the alcohol.”

  Indy—gorgeous, confident Indy—was intimidated by me and Grace. This is further proof that we have no idea what goes on in other people’s minds.

  “You and Eli seem so sure of yourselves. I second-guess everything I do and say.” I stare into the dark, wishing I hadn’t admitted that. The second case of beer has been cracked open, and my mouth appears to have cracked open with it. I add, “Everything, including the words that just came out of my mouth.”

  “I’m an actor,” Indy says. “I just hide it better.”

  I had to make friends whenever Mom moved us to our newest shitty apartment, and it was painful to put myself out there for rejection again and again. Eventually, you pretend you don’t need friends and, whether you want them to or not, people take the cue. After a while, you start to believe it yourself. I know how difficult it is to admit you’re lonely the way Indy has.

  “We do have an opening for another friend,” I say, “but a long time ago we decided it had to be someone who could make nacho cheese out of vegetables. Up until tonight, we didn’t think it was possible, but here you are.”

  Indy rolls her eyes at my absurdity, though they shine with pleasure. She clinks her can on mine. “All right, then. So, as your girlfriend, tell me about your boyfriend.”

  “Nothing to tell,” I say. “He’s not my boyfriend. He didn’t give me his varsity jacket or anything.”

  Guilt rises at my flippancy on a subject about which I feel anything but flippant, but while the beer may amplify my love of mankind, it is not going to make me discuss my love life. If I have a love life next week—and I’m not counting on it.

  “He told Carlos and Micah you were his girlfriend.”

  I jump up and down inside but remain silent.

  “That’s all you’re going to say?” Indy sucks her teeth. “You’re one of those people. I hate those people.”

  “That’s it,” I say. “Friendship officially over.”

  She swats my shoulder as her laugh explodes into the night. Fake nacho cheese or not, I think I like having her around.

  Chapter 22

  Eric

  I was able to take the few remaining streets on the west side of Upper Manhattan. That route ended as the island narrowed and the Lexers increased in number. I’ve gone as far as I can without resorting to the Henry Hudson Parkway, which teems with zombies. It doesn’t matter, anyway—the George Washington Bridge might be doable in winter, if zombies freeze, but it is not doable now. Based on the view through my monocular from the roof of a high-rise, it appears to be the one bridge with enough surface left to cross. But the bridge, and the roads onto it, are packed.

  The blocks east of me are blown to hell, and the rubble continues to the Harlem River and into the Bronx. Scrambling over that debris would be an effective way to be buried alive and/or eaten. The Hudson River looks the same as the East River in terms of floating destruction, and the Jersey side has zombies in many places one would come ashore. Given enough time and resources, I might be able to build a boat or raft, but navigating the garbage, bodies, and strong current means it’d have to be a failsafe contraption, especially when I reached that Lexer-filled shore.

  I rest my elbows on the roof ledge. I’m out of ideas. Part of me wanted an excuse to return to the brownstone, but now that I have one, all I feel is frustration that there’s no way to Cassie without the boat I don’t have. Unless Stuyvesant Town will loan me one. It’s a huge favor to ask, but maybe I can trade solar expertise for a rental. My spirits lifted, I bound down the stairs, grab my bike where I’ve hidden it in the lobby, and then freeze at an indistinct buzzing sound. I follow it to where the glass entry doors vibrate in their metal frames. My first thought is a small earthquake, then maybe a distant explosion, until raspy grunts make it through the glass.

  A mob of Lexers. I back away at their approach, breath held until I’m sure they didn’t spot me. The advance line takes up the width of the street, with the closest just past the stretch of overgrown grass that fronts the building. It’s near enough to see the details of their deaths—a neck bite, disembowelment, a missing arm or hand or, in the case of the one dragging itself along the concrete with fingers worn to bone, a mislaid leg. They continue their march, then begin to slow until the street is full of rambling zombies. I wait for them to resume their travels, but this appears to be the end of the road. I saw what’s up ahead—impassable streets and more zombies. There’s no road for them to travel.

  This building stands alone on the bottom half of the block. I may not be trapped, but another few minutes could mean I’m stuck until they move. If they move. The lobby stretches across the building from side street to side street, with a glassed-in entrance on each, and both have a retinue out front. I can leave through a first-floor window if they haven’t found their way into the open lot behind the building.

  I wheel my bike up the short flight of stairs to the first floor, down the long hall, and through the open door of a one-bedroom apartment whose contents have been trashed. My stomach drops at the kitchen window. The lot is full. The streets are full. There’s always the chance they didn’t make it to the other end, but they came from that direction, so that chance is slim to none.

  I check anyway. The chance is none. But I have food, I think I can get more water, and much of the building is zombie-free. It could be worse. It might get worse. For now, I’m all right.

  ***

  The water tank is enclosed by a square brick structure that resembles a house dropped atop the roof. Paul once mentioned that a sizable number of gallons in water tanks sits below the outflow pipe for the building, kept in reserve for firefighting. It should be waiting at the bottom of this tank and will be my drinking water for the foreseeable future. That is, if no one has gotten to it first.

  This building has a lot of apartments. Four hundred and eighty apartments, to be exact, spread out over twenty-four floors. Most have the small balcony common to this type of high-rise, from which I watch the Lexers that haven’t moved for the past two days. I found a single bottle of water, along with some food, in my search of the apartments. I’ve kept to the lower floors as much as possible—it would suck to be on the 20th floor if a route briefly opens through the mob. With that in mind, I’ve come straight to the source instead of spending the next three days searching upper floors for another measly bottle.

  I’d planned to break into the structure, but I found a ring of keys in the super’s apartment, one marked WATER TANK. It doesn’t get any easier than that. Inside, the cylindrical wooden tower rises above me on steel legs, and though the structure is roofless, it’s dark and musty. I step straight into a spider web and try not to freak at the sticky strands clinging to my face and neck. My plan works until a very large, very dark spider skitters over my shoulder, and then I jump into sunlight, throw off my coat, and stomp my boots while I inspect my pants for the eight-legged creature.

  I do not like s
piders. At a distance, they’re tolerable, as long as they stick to their business and leave me to mine. But they build invisible webs where people roam, like they want to catch us. It’s fucked up. My arm tickles, and I glance down. Nothing. My leg is next. I try not to give in, but I can’t resist.

  Between the spider and the sun, sweat coats my neck and back. I shake out my jacket, leave it on my pack—which I filled with empty water receptacles before I came up—and grab the bucket I found in an apartment, to whose handle I’ve attached a rope. I sidestep several more webs on my way to the tank’s ladder, then begin the climb, doing my damnedest to ignore the sweat tickling my neck. The memory of the spider won’t allow for that, and I hold the ladder one-handed to wipe it.

  My fingers close around something solid. Alive. Spider. It’s a quarter the size of my hand, with hairy legs that go on forever. I shout and toss the giant fucker as far as I can. It hits the wall, then falls to the floor and disappears into the shadows. I rest my head on a rung and shudder with waves of revulsion.

  “Motherfucking fuck,” I say. It reverberates off the brick.

  Once my breathing regulates, I think maybe I should be embarrassed about that little production, but no one else is here, and it was on my neck. Like a vampire. That was the biggest spider I’ve ever seen outside of someone’s prized collection.

  I continue up, though what I want to do is leave and never return, and peer inside the hatch with my flashlight. Its beam reflects off water at the bottom of the fifteen-foot-deep tank. I drop in the bucket, play with the rope until it fills, and pull it up. This cloudy substance with floating sediment is not what I expected to emerge from a receptacle that’s supposed to contain drinking water. I wonder how long it’s been since the tank was cleaned. Too long, if you ask me.

  I sit on the spider-free roof to filter the liquid. I’m not taking any chances. Once that’s done, I continue until I have five gallons—I’m not climbing those stairs or visiting with arachnids unless necessary—and head downstairs to wait.

  ***

  You learn a lot about people from their apartments. There was the woman who had a penchant for magazines devoted to organization and simplicity, but who could’ve been related to the Collier Brothers with the amount of clutter stacked on every surface, including those magazines.