The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  Even if I live to a ripe old age, I’ll be dead before this is gone entirely. And since there’s a good chance I won’t live to a ripe old age, I don’t want to waste time. I put a pillow behind my head and lean back on the couch, where an east-facing window will wake me at first light.

  I’m a day late, but I’m still here.

  ***

  It can’t be called dawn, but once I’m able to make out shapes of zombies, I ride the streets home. Our yard is quiet and everything in place, much to my relief. Jorge isn’t on the sofa bed, and I tiptoe to the parlor floor where he sits on the couch beside a bundle of blankets.

  Jorge puts a finger to his lips and joins me in the hall. “She waited all night and just fell asleep five minutes ago.” He motions to the blankets that I now recognize are Sylvie curled into a ball against the arm of the couch. “Did you get there?”

  “I couldn’t get out of the city. Got to Manhattan, but that’s as far as I could go.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m glad you’re back.” He gives me a solid hug—not a bro hug or a half-assed one—then lifts his chin at Sylvie. “You can tell me the story later. I’ll be downstairs.”

  I creep into the living room, apprehension zipping through my middle. Sylvie’s eyebrows are drawn like her dreams are full of unrest, and her hands are curled to her chest. She wears a lacy brown tank top, and I wonder if she dressed up for the occasion, which makes me feel worse about breaking my sort-of-promise, especially when I imagine how many promises she’s had broken on her. She’s bound to be angry, or hurt, or different somehow.

  I kneel on the floor and whisper her name. She doesn’t move. “Sylvie, I’m home. Sorry I’m late.”

  Her eyes open, dark and dazed, and she pushes herself to sitting with one arm. She is indeed dressed up, and she put on makeup, though it’s smeared around her eyes. She’s rumpled and half-asleep and as gorgeous as I remember.

  I’m not sure she heard me, so I try again. “I’m sorr—”

  She flings herself into my arms, a response so startling that she almost takes us both down, but I hang on and bury my face in her hair. I can’t tell if she’s happy or upset. Either way, her grip is so tight I can hardly breathe. That has to be a good sign.

  “I was going to eat your cupcakes today,” she says. “You know I can only hold out for so long.”

  I laugh, as much from the release of tension as from her words. When she pulls back, everything about her glows in a way that leaves no question she’s glad to see me, and the warmth radiating through my chest makes me think it wasn’t only the brownstone that felt like home.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it yesterday,” I say, running my hands down her soft arms. I want to touch every inch of her. Two nights wasn’t enough. I’m not sure what would be enough, and I push from my mind the awareness that Sylvie’s presence makes me far less enthusiastic to leave the city again.

  “You couldn’t make one measly phone call to tell me you’d be late?” she says in Jewish Mother Voice, complete with martyr sigh. Lack of sleep has made her nuttier than usual. Her fingertips stroke my cheek. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I knew you’d be back.”

  Something is different, but it’s a welcome change. I expected hesitation or doubt, not this unrestrained delight at my presence, and definitely not this faith, however misguided, in my survival.

  I lean in because not kissing her is killing me, but she asks, “Cassie?”

  “I couldn’t get out.”

  Her lips twist in sympathy. God, her lips. I can’t stop staring at them. “What happened?”

  “What happened is that I spent two weeks waiting to kiss you. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Get out of here! I need to brush my teeth.” She wipes around her eyes and glances down at her lacy top. “I must look crazy. Let me go—”

  I take her face in my hands. “You are crazy, but you look gorgeous.”

  Her laugh seems to take her by surprise. I reach her lips before she can argue more and get a taste of Sylvie, which is a flavor I can’t describe but have come to crave. She melts into me briefly and then pulls away. “I’m gross.”

  “You are not,” I say. “You weren’t asleep long enough to have dragon breath like you did the other morning.”

  She yanks me into a half-laugh, half-kiss that’s so completely her: playful and passionate, with—perhaps wishful thinking on my part—a tenderness that feels a lot like love.

  “I hope you know you don’t get all those points,” she murmurs on my lips, “but I’ll give you otology.”

  She giggles, although I’m sure she’d deny it was a giggle to her dying breath. And I’m sure of something else: nothing beats making Sylvie laugh.

  Chapter 30

  Sylvie

  No one is going anywhere. We’re not crossing bridges or hiking upstate or doing anything except living in a city filled with zombies. Though Eric’s description of Stuyvesant Town was encouraging in terms of survivors who aren’t jerks, being stuck in New York has so many implications it’s impossible to take them all in at once. The one implication that has hit home is that we need food. A lot of food.

  Which is why we’re in the basement in what’s left of the daylight, cataloguing our supplies. What seemed like a ton is disappearing at an alarming rate. And while I love chips, I will admit they’re not a viable source of nutrition to eat day in and day out. Particularly for a growing kid like Leo.

  “Six and a half people eat a lot of food,” I say.

  “Who’s the half?” Leo asks.

  “Take a wild guess, squirt. And it’s not Bird.”

  Leo grins. Eric hands me stapled sheets of paper taken from the basement filing cabinet that holds all sorts of survival information, but not humanure toilet plans, much to Grace’s chagrin. “Here’s what one person needs for three months.”

  The items are counted in pounds: twenty-five pounds of wheat, twenty pounds flour, fifteen pounds rice, and so on. Pasta, sugar, cooking oil, canned meat, shortening, canned and dried beans, canned vegetables and fruits, potatoes and condiments and soups and stew and desserts. And if you multiply this list by six and half, it’s certain we’re going to starve to death by spring. We’re already skinnier. Maybe I once would have appreciated the melting away of extra pounds, but I would gladly take every one of them back, plus ten more.

  “This can’t be right,” I say.

  “It’s right,” Eric says.

  “No, I mean it can’t be right that all you need is one box of cake mix and one jar of frosting for three months. That’s untenable. I can’t live like that.” I show him the list in faux horror that’s a cover-up for my true horror over the fact we’re going to starve to death.

  “They gave you a box of brownies, too. And a bag of chocolate chips.”

  I make a dismissive noise. “That’s a week’s supply. These people don’t know me at all.”

  “Me neither,” Leo says. “I need a billion-twenty chocolate chips.”

  I high-five him and move to Maria, who gazes at the shelves. It’s a lot of food if you have a store on the corner for when it runs out. It’s not a lot when it’s all we have for the foreseeable future. Where there were once boxes of pasta and canned goods, there are now barren spaces beside empty mason jars. We have flour and canned tomatoes and oil and other things, but I imagine our impending bare shelves and my stomach growls.

  “Hungry?” Jorge asks.

  “Always. How much of the chips and nuts do we have?”

  There’s a stack of boxes behind me, another in the parlor floor kitchen, and still more in other houses. Maria looks at her clipboard. “Part of our share is at Guillermo’s, so I don’t know. But at least a couple months, I think.”

  “Maybe it’ll last us until next spring,” Grace says. “And if we can preserve some vegetables and take vitamins, we’ll still be alive.”

  “Alive to do what?” Maria asks in a muted, weary voice. “Find more food? We don’t have a farm or animals to make fo
od. We’re going to keep looking and looking until it’s all gone and then what?”

  Maria is usually upbeat, and the worst part is that she’s right. Eric bounces a fist on the shelving, his eyes on the concrete floor. “I’m sorry, Maria. I’ll try again in a couple of weeks.”

  Maria shakes her head. “No, you won’t. Maybe you’ll try again if we find a boat, but it’d be crazy to do the same thing over and over. You’re not risking it. I’m not risking you.”

  “They might move off the G.W. Bridge. I can head up there and see if—”

  “Eric, end of discussion,” Maria says, and balances her sharp words by patting his shoulder. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”

  ***

  Grace and I wash the dishes in a yard down from our house after dinner. Eric and Maria were quiet, and the rest of us tried unsuccessfully to fill in the gaps. Usually, I want meals to last forever, but tonight I was glad when it was over.

  “I assume you’re sleeping upstairs?” Grace asks once she returns from dumping the rinse water into our gray water receptacle.

  I focus on drying a plate. “I don’t know.” I don’t want to leave Grace the second Eric returns. And though earlier I was sure Eric wanted me up there, now I think he’d rather be alone.

  “It’s fine, Syls. Do you think I want to share a bed with you? You toss and turn half the night. It’s like sleeping on a freaking boat.”

  “Do I have any redeeming qualities?”

  “Possibly. I’ll think about it and let you know. Looks like everyone’s going to bed. Bow-chicka-bow-bow.” She sings the last part with glee. “No, really, why aren’t you running upstairs? He’s been home the whole day and you guys haven’t…” I fail to hide my smile, and her eyes turn to circles. “You did. When?”

  I shrug, though it wasn’t anything to shrug about. It was intense and affectionate and fun in a way I’ve never experienced, and every time I think about it I get annoyingly blithesome. If I’m annoying to my own self, then I can only imagine how annoying it would be to hear me talk about it. “He was here at dawn. We woke everyone after.”

  “So how was it? I have to take my jollies where I can get them. It’s not like I’m getting any.” Her joking tone changes to sniffles. I put my arm around her shoulder, and, after a minute, she says, “I’m sorry. I’m a jerk. I’m fine, I really am.”

  “You don’t have to be fine.”

  “The I’m fine girl is telling me I don’t have to be fine?”

  “I’m turning over a new leaf. It’s all feelings, all the time, over here.”

  “Maybe not all the time, but I’m proud of you. I know how you feel about feelings. Or don’t feel about feelings, really. Because you refuse to feel them.”

  I wipe out a glass. “Still searching for that redeeming quality, I see. You can let me know in the morning.”

  Grace laughs, and we dry the remaining dishes in companionable silence. As we bring them toward the house, she says, “It’s that you’re actually incredibly sensitive, so you shut people out in order to not feel anything. But when you let them in, no one can help but like you. It’s your best redeeming quality.”

  “That’s the best one? That’s a terrible quality.”

  “No, it’s not. Because when someone makes it in, you’ll murder anyone who tries to hurt them.”

  I would murder someone who hurt Grace—or anyone in this house—thanks to the homicidal rage that boils over when I’m pushed too far. It’s not the healthiest reaction, but if Grace admires it then it can’t be all bad. And, honestly, I don’t mind being seen as unpredictable by people who might deserve the rage.

  She sets the plates on the kitchen counter. “I see you smiling. I knew you’d like it once you thought about it.”

  “It keeps people guessing,” I say. “But you don’t have to worry, I have no plans to murder you. Yet.”

  “Thanks a lot. Now go. I’ll be doing watch upstairs, so keep it down.”

  I find Maria sitting on her bed, looking as though she could sleep for a year. She hugged Eric before she came inside, but her disappointment is so palpable that the exhaustion I’ve staved off all day comes crashing down. Eric’s account of the city, Maria’s despair, and the thought of going out on the streets in an endless mission to find sustenance devour the last of my energy. And it’s all made worse by the realization that I’ve been sailing on a wave of bliss over Eric’s return while Maria’s been contemplating what could’ve happened to her daughters.

  I stand for a moment, weighing my words, and say, “I know you were hoping for news, and I’m sorry if it seemed like I didn’t care. We’ll figure out how to get up there. We just need to find food to last us until we do.”

  Maria clasps my arm, then drops her hand to the bedspread. “Thank you for thinking of me, but I’m glad you’re happy. Take care of him tonight, okay? He feels bad. Tomorrow will be better for everyone.”

  I say goodnight and run into Jorge brushing his teeth in the kitchen. After he spits in the sink, he asks, “How’s Mimi?”

  “Not good.”

  “I’ll keep an ear on her. Don’t worry. She’s a strong lady.”

  I glance toward the living room. “But how much can anyone take?”

  “A lot, mami. More than you’d think. Especially Maria.”

  I trudge upstairs. Eric’s door is ajar. I rap softly and step into the room. He sits on the edge of the bed just as Maria did, bouncing one leg up and down and staring into space.

  “Hi,” I say. “I wanted to say goodnight.”

  “Are you sleeping downstairs?”

  “I thought maybe you weren’t in the mood for company. It’s totally fine.”

  “I always want your company.”

  I don’t know how to reply to the nice things he says, but I sit and take his hand. He grips it in both of his and resumes leg-bouncing. “You did the best you could,” I say. “Maria knows that. She’s not upset with you, she’s upset with the situation.”

  “I’m upset with me.”

  “Well, then maybe give yourself a punch or something.” I push his hair back to see his profile. “There’s nothing you can do about it. Except wallow in misery, of course. Is that the plan?”

  “That was the plan.” He side-eyes me with the hint of a smile. “But you’re ruining it.”

  “I did warn you about my powers of fuckupitude.”

  “I didn’t know they could be used for good.”

  “Me neither, but there you go. You’re welcome.”

  He squeezes my hand. I’m not sure how I’ve gotten so far into today without causing a wreck, but maybe the trick is to let it happen. Try not to freak out and derail the train.

  “Are you tired?” he asks.

  “Yeah. That five minutes of sleep wasn’t quite enough. You?”

  “So tired. Want to hit the sack?”

  “Yes, old timer, let’s hit the hay. I’m going to sleep like a log. I need my forty winks.”

  Eric drops onto his back and yanks me down after him. “Stop making fun of me,” he says, though his tone is light.

  “You make it irresistible. I can’t stop, not if this relationship is going to work.” I consider a way to backpedal on the R word but keep my gaze on the ceiling. Maybe he didn’t notice.

  He rolls on his side. “Relationship? Is it official?”

  I scrunch my eyes. “I was hoping you missed it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t say things like that.”

  “Why?”

  I want to be different from now on. I don’t want to test Eric until I push him away for good. He may be the most patient person I’ve ever met, but he must have a limit, and, if there’s anything I excel at, it’s finding that limit. If being honest means hanging out a big banner that says Welcome to Crazytown, population Sylvie, at least he’ll know what he’s getting into.

  “Because I’m scared, of you and of this.” A crease appears between his brows, and I add, “I’m also scared of heights
and zombies and people. And I’m really scared of roaches. Maybe them more than everything else. I know you’re not scared of anyth—”

  “I might be scared of spiders,” he cuts in. “Okay, I’m definitely scared of spiders. I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “That’s your big secret fear? That’s so unoriginal.”

  “Are you saying my secret fear is lame?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  His smile fades, and he fingers the collar of my shirt, eyes downcast. “I was scared I wouldn’t get back here. And I’m wondering if maybe I didn’t try hard enough because of that.”

  I’ve heard the details of his trip, and the bridge crossing alone should absolve him of any cause for guilt. “You got shot at, you tried every bridge, you attempted to find a boat, and then, when all else failed, you rescued a diabetic’s insulin. Have no fear, your Golden Boy status remains untarnished.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Why did that insult make me feel better?”

  “Because you’re a freak.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “Ready for bed?”

  I crawl up to the pillows while he shuts off the lantern. He nestles me to his chest under the covers, and though I’m sure I’ll end up on the opposite side of the bed come morning, this is where I want to be tonight.

  “You don’t have to be scared,” he says. “Will you try to trust me?”

  “I am,” I whisper. I’m almost there. Not quite, but almost.

  He pulls me closer, his body easing with a long exhalation. “I’m glad I’m home.”

  Home. I smile into the dark. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 31

  “The city stocked hundreds of thousands of MREs,” Guillermo says. “Gary read about it years ago. They can’t have eaten them all. We just have to find them.”

  He rubs his hands together, eyes hungry. We’re all hungry, though we just ate. Ever since taking inventory a week ago, everyone but Leo has eaten less than usual. We did the math using the number of calories we’ve acquired divided by the number of people to eat them, and found that both we and Sunset Park will be starving by end of winter. Especially if they keep taking in survivors, and Guillermo won’t turn hungry people away. I couldn’t turn hungry people away, no matter how I might joke that I would.