There were the nervous new parents who outfitted their house with every babyproofing item known to man, only to succumb to something you couldn’t babyproof against. I would’ve liked to imagine them safe as houses somewhere, but since I killed Mom and Dad myself, I know that’s not the case. They’d taken care of the baby for me, and because their apartment was untouched, I scored a cabinet shelf of squeezable pouches of pureed food.
There’s the guy who had an impressive collection of Star Wars paraphernalia. The dude with the disturbing woman-sized, anatomically-correct torso that fell to the floor when I walked in, and which I almost stabbed in the rubber head. The Jesus family—a picture of the guy in every room, bathroom included. The people with no obvious quirks unless you go looking, which I didn’t.
I might soon, though, because I’m bored out of my mind. It’s been a week. A week of sitting on a balcony, drinking tepid water and eating sparingly, just in case. There’s a thousand gallons in the bottom of the tank. I have enough food for two weeks. I’ve killed all the zombies I’ve come across. I’m in no danger, except for the risk of dying of boredom, which has begun to seem like a possibility.
The second-floor apartment I live in is nicely decorated. The balcony has a zero-gravity chair. The bedsheets are crisp. I use the bathrooms in apartments a good distance away, so this one smells fine. I have a stack of books. Old issues of The Times mean I’m up to speed on no-longer-current events. The main hallway has become a bowling alley—I found a bowling ball and use weighted plastic jugs for pins—and my dart skills have improved. I rise with the sun and sleep when it’s dark, and I watch zombies most of the day.
And, when they aren’t coming after you, zombies are the dullest things imaginable. They stand. They stink. They grunt. Every once in a while, one will shuffle toward something, which gets the rest of them shuffling, and every single time I jump to my feet, thinking this is when I’ll make my escape, and then…nothing.
I tried dropping things from up high. Loud things which would attract them to one corner, but I can’t get enough to move at once. I can’t find a D battery to run a found boombox. I tried shouting from a side of the building and banging things, but that only drew the ones on that side closer without attracting the other street, too. I thought about dropping something I’ve set on fire, but it’d have to be large, and if I light this building afire with me in it and no clear escape—the dry grass out front would catch easily—it’d be a pretty stupid move. Safest plan is I stay until staying is more dangerous than leaving.
I twist the top off a baby food pouch, lean back in my chair, and suck it down. Blueberries and oatmeal puree. Not half bad. I watch one Lexer bump another with its shoulder, like a jerkoff at a bar. The second one doesn’t blink, or groan, or whatever it is he should do.
“You’re going to take that?” I ask low enough that he can’t hear me.
Great, now I’m talking to them. I leave my chair to check the opposite side of the building. Same old. Of course these zombies won’t move. When I was trapped with Sylvie, the ones outside couldn’t follow that horn fast enough.
The thought stops me in my tracks. A horn. If I can make it to a car, bust a window, and wedge something between seat and horn, it’ll blast until the battery dies. That would be loud and interesting enough to draw a crowd from the surrounding streets. I just have to do it and get into the building before someone eats me, then make my way out another exit.
I told Sylvie I’d be back by my birthday. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a promise, but it felt like one. I have five days, and I have a feeling every one of them will be spent here if I don’t do something about it. I’ll still stop at Stuyvesant Town and ask for a boat, but if that’s out, I could be home even sooner. Home. It’s always been home because I grew up there, but I haven’t thought of it as my home—the place where I live—in years. And I’m homesick.
I’ve been patient thus far, but now I itch to take action. I should be upstate, about to turn around. Instead, I’m twiddling my thumbs in a high-rise in Upper Manhattan. Fuck that. I set off to find materials for my plan.
Chapter 23
I have a short length of 2x4 and a mallet. The front entrance will be my mode of exit, but since my appearance is expected to draw a crowd to the doors, I’ve tied a long, knotted rope to each of the three sets of first floor balconies to reenter the building. They’re not climbing approved but seem strong enough to hold my weight.
The Ford pickup in front should out-blast the imports that surround it, and I can stand in the truck’s bed while I wedge the board. If that doesn’t work, I have my eye on a nearby sedan. This year’s model, with a newer battery, and conceivably one less likely to have drained from lack of use.
I hang out the window of an end apartment. One by one, the Lexers in front of the entrance swish toward me through the grass until they’re packed from stem to stern and the first are pushed to the ground by the last. I wave at them. “Stay here, okay?”
They groan. I set the transistor radio—triple A batteries—on the windowsill. It won’t be loud enough to attract zombies from across the street and a block away, but the static might keep a few of them busy.
I pound down the hall to the lobby. My heart races, my nerves sing, and though I’m anxious, it feels good to have adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream and setting my muscles in motion. I slam open the glass door, run the building’s walkway to the street, and vault into the truck’s bed. The Lexers at the window haven’t noticed me yet, but the ones on the opposite sidewalk and the rest of the block are moving my way.
I crash the mallet through the rear window and use it to clear out the glass. Next, I line up the board with the steering wheel and press it into the driver’s seat. The peal of the horn is deafening in the silence. I’m now the most popular guy for miles. I spin to jump from the truck, gauging the time I have to reach the closest balcony, when the horn wanes to the bleat of a wounded sheep before it fades away entirely.
Fuck. I can get to the nearest car to try again, but I won’t make it back to the building—or anywhere else—through the crowd of zombies that’ll surround me. Two are here, and more are ten feet away. I leap to the ground and swing my mallet to knock the closest down, then skirt around the second. That group of Lexers at the window moves perpendicular to my planned route, but I think—hope—I have enough time.
My heart is in tachycardia and my muscles scream to move faster than is humanly possible. This does not feel good. At all. I squeak past the incoming group and leap for the rope. Boots on the knot. Hands up again. A Lexer jerks on my left boot and a few inches of rope slide through my hands. Another yank, and I’m down another inch.
He’s close to seven feet tall. Bald before the virus rotted away half his scalp. Holding my ankle like he’s the hungry diner and I’m the chicken drumstick. His mouth closes in, and I whip my foot in his grip so that his teeth miss. Another’s fingertips graze the sole of my right boot. If the tall one gets me any lower, it’ll catch hold.
I pull up an inch, then close my right hand on the rope far above my head. My fingers burn inside my gloves, and my leg might pop from its socket, but I haul myself up with every bit of strength I can muster. The Lexer rises inches from the ground. Goddamn, he’s persistent. I put my left hand above my right and yell with the effort of dragging the both of us higher. He wriggles like a fish on a hook, the rope swings, and he drops to the ground. I scramble the rest of the way up, dive over the rail and collapse onto the balcony, where I watch the sky and catch my breath while they lose their minds below.
That was pretty stupid. Of course, had it worked, I’d be patting myself on the back. It’s all in the outcome. After another minute, I limp to check the building’s other side on the off chance the hubbub drew them away. It didn’t. I fall into my zero-gravity chair, pop open a pouch (apple, pear, and quinoa) and close my eyes.
***
I’ve devised a plan in which I start a fire at the corner of the building to distr
act some of them and then fight my way into houses across the street. They’re smaller, connected buildings and I should be able to travel roofs and yards. But that’s for tomorrow—once the Lexers have settled down.
A boom echoes in the south and rolls like thunder. An explosion, that much I can tell. It could be gas trapped in a line, or something else entirely, but, whatever it is, it’s distant. Another follows close behind, and a few of the zombies lift their heads, mildly interested. I wait to see if they react on the whole.
An hour later, when I’ve given up the dream, the water in my glass begins to shimmy and a hum comes from the bottom of the block. The Lexers in front groan and shuffle. And, so slowly it’s excruciating, they shamble the way they came.
I’m afraid to believe it. I don’t know how far this parade of Lexers stretches, but maybe the southern end is close enough to be attracted to the explosion, and the tail end will follow. I hold my breath until the zombies who were uptown march past. They’ve picked up speed, which isn’t saying much, but I toss everything into my bag without careful packing. I won’t miss my chance.
By afternoon, the street is barren but for a few shoes that fell off undead feet during their stay, and I’m free.
Chapter 24
The FDR Drive is as empty as it was on my way up, but, when I emerge from the enclosed roadway at 53rd Street, a new dark cloud hangs in the south near Stuyvesant Town. This is not good—that mob of zombies is on its way if not already there. It’s a straight shot on smooth road, and less than ten minutes later I travel the final rise through wisps of smoke and clouds of dust.
The curve of the road, where I stopped to speak to Roger and Louis, comes to an abrupt end in exposed rebar and jagged concrete. The fences that connected the buildings and river are down, and two dozen zombies make their way through Stuyvesant Town’s gate, which has been blown into abstract metal sculpture. Still not good, but fewer than I expected.
Gunshots come from inside the gates. I wheel around for where the road dips to street level, lower myself and bike to the street, and dodge Lexers along the service road. One of the garages between buildings is full of zombies. I debate closing the door, but I don’t think they can get into Stuyvesant Town’s interior, and the threat at the gate is more pressing.
I drop my bike at the guardhouse and pull my knife. Three Lexers whirl at my approach. A man in a plaid shirt gets it in the eye, the woman under the chin, then I toss the last to the ground and finish him in the ear. I spot Roger, Louis, Julie, and some others on the street past the twisted metal, standing in the open back of a green Parks Department truck. They call more than fifty zombies their way to keep them from exploring farther in, and it’s working, but they won’t have a chance if that mob shows.
I stay close to the building while I make my way in, then take a running leap into the truck. Louis turns and nods as though he was expecting me, grabs a woman by her hair, and pierces the base of her skull. I join in, and, once they’re all down, a hundred or more lie in the street. A few look new enough to have turned in the past day.
Roger leans on the truck, out of breath. “What are you…?”
I shake out my hand. This is not the ideal time to ask to borrow a boat. “I was passing by.”
He nods and wipes his forehead with a gloveless hand, leaving a black and bloody smear. “Let’s go in,” he says to the others. They jump to the ground.
“Is everyone inside okay?” I ask.
“No zombies, if that’s what you mean,” Louis says.
I point uptown. “There’s a group—a giant mob—I was stuck behind them, but they could be moving this way.”
Louis takes in the gate, or lack thereof, and his mouth forms a line. “You, you and you.” He points to several people. “Go in, see to everyone else. The rest of you stay here. More are coming.”
“They were on the west side,” I say. “They might not.”
Louis evaluates the dark haze in the sky. “They’ll come.”
That leaves me, Roger, Louis, Julie, a guy named Charles, and a woman named Kim to get some means of protection going. Half the gate stands. The rest we heave into position with the truck, then park the truck crosswise to hold it in place.
Charles and Kim stay with a radio while the rest of us walk the loop to the entrance by the basketball courts. “Shouldn’t you be in quarantine?” Julie asks me. I open my mouth, and she offers a tired smile. “Kidding.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Civil war,” she says, and wipes under her glasses. “Some people didn’t want to live where it’s actually peaceful, so they decided to take over. And when they couldn’t do that, they took off. But not before blowing up what they could.”
“Who they could,” Louis mutters.
We reach the inner iron fence, which is being repaired by a couple of guys with grim expressions. The taller of the two gets to his feet. The dark smattering of freckles across the lighter brown of his face makes him appear young at first, though he must be in his thirties, and his fatigue makes him ancient.
“What happened, Chris?” Louis asks him. Because, although plenty has happened, Chris has the demeanor of a reluctant messenger.
“Declan…” Chris says, and shakes his head.
Julie stifles a cry and runs the path toward the Oval. Louis follows after her, and Roger curses while we trail behind. “They didn’t have to—” He glances at me and sets his jaw.
Part of one building is scorched, and there are dark spots and chips in the concrete ground. Two trees caught fire but have since been extinguished, and part of the garden burned.
“Were these the people who were causing problems?” I ask. “Declan mentioned them.”
Roger nods as we reach the oval. Hugging, crying people surround the fountain. Bodies lie on the concrete in rows. A woman with a gray-blond ponytail is bent over a tall body, head bobbing. Kate. Kissing Declan’s face and murmuring into his ear while his lifeless eyes stare at nothing. I stand on the sidelines, unable to grieve the way they do, though my eyes sting at this loss of life, and uneasiness knots up my shoulders.
This could be us. Could be Sunset Park. Sacred Heart might pull something, and I’m not there to help defend them. Maybe the assholes were biding their time at first, waiting for the situation to mellow as much as it would, but between being shot at in Queens and now this, that time may well be coming to an end. I suppose it’s human nature, or in some humans’ nature, and all it takes is one person to convince others to commit atrocities. I don’t understand it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not reality.
“What can I do?” I ask when Louis passes. If there were three hundred people before, that number has gone down by fifty. There are bodies to bury. Shell casings to pick up. Fences and windows to mend.
Louis raises a finger and moves to crouch beside Kate. She listens, though her blank expression indicates she isn’t hearing, then she nods and bends to Declan again. Louis pats her shoulder and returns to me. “We need help with the new fence. That group of zombies—how big was it?”
“Thousands, I think.”
He exhales through his nose. “Okay, we need to get to the garage. The trucks and extra fencing—”
“The one on Avenue C?” I ask, hating to be the bearer of more bad news. “The door was up and it’s full of zombies.”
Louis rests his chin in his hand while he recalculates the plan. “They used those trucks and the ammunition. Okay, we’ll use the other trucks. Come on.”
***
It was a long afternoon, and between moving vehicles, salvaging fencing, clearing out broken pieces of the FDR and creating a truck wall down to the East River where barriers once stood, I’m beat. I lean on the railing at the water, watching wreckage hit the concrete retaining wall and bob away while I mentally ready myself for the trip back to Brooklyn.
They have five hundred feet of the East River fenced off, using the trusses of the elevated FDR as posts for their solid metal wall. Behind the riverside
path is a narrow garden with a winding mulch trail and covered shelters to provide shade—Stuyvesant Cove Park, which was looking for more volunteers, the flyer on the dusty signboard states.
Julie and Louis stand on either side of me. “Thanks for helping,” Julie says. “Why’d you come back?”
“Couldn’t make it out?” Louis asks.
“You were right, it’s impossible up there. I need a boat. Declan said you had boats, and I thought I’d offer to set up those solar panels in exchange for borrowing one.”
The three of us consider the frayed ends of rope that once tethered their vessels to the railing at the river. They were either ripped from their moorings when the FDR blew, or taken along with food, a few trucks, a lot of ammo, and many lives. It started early this morning and became a standoff. With plenty of firepower and food split evenly between buildings, it was going to be a long siege.
Until the leader, Hugh, decided to blow things up. The garden fire. The trees. Part of a building. While the others were putting out fires before they spread, Hugh and his people were packing up everything they could in the underground garage before they made their escape. They took down that small section of the FDR to make it impossible to follow—the rubble left the entrance ramp to Lower Manhattan unusable by vehicles until it’s cleared. A few of the rebels were found dead, but the rest are gone.
“They broke the generators,” Louis says. “We could use your help with the solar. The reason I ask is that if we can’t pump water to the tanks, we run out. We also have an insulin-dependent diabetic, and the insulin needs to be refrigerated.”
My heart, and my hope I’d be home by nightfall, drop somewhere in the vicinity of my boots. Five days until my birthday. The Brooklyn Bridge is so close, and I don’t want to play the hero. I want to go home. But this isn’t heroic; it’s simple human decency. I’ll do my level best to get it done in five days.