Ren points out Floyd Bennet Field in the distance while we float in deeper water, our bikes secured to rails on the back and sides. “That’s gone, too.”
It was on Guillermo’s list of places to visit, and I mentally cross it off. “Are there any Safe Zones left besides Stuyvesant Town?” Paul asks.
“Stuyvesant Town is okay? We can’t get past the Verrazano. There’s a Zone in New Hampshire, too. National Guard. Civilian camps in Vermont and Pennsylvania. The one in New Hampshire broadcasts.”
“Have you heard anyone else?” It’s a long shot, but there’s always the possibility Cassie and John have set up a radio. John would be all over that idea, if they’re able to leave the cabin. Unfortunately, we can’t get close to a police station, and the one Radio Shack we did visit didn’t have so much as a shortwave.
“We hear a lot of random things.” Ren motions at Sylvie, Indy, and Grace outside the cabin. “Is one of them your sister?”
“No, she left for upstate. I thought maybe she’d found a radio. Her name’s Cassie Forrest. She might be with someone named John Randall, or Ana and Penny Diaz.”
Ren shakes his head. “I don’t remember those names, but I’ll double check. We write them all down.” He moves to a panel of screens and buttons and assorted electronic devices, then dons a headset.
“Sure is good to see you,” Blake says. He’s a farm boy, and his smile is as wholesome as that would suggest. “Sorry about that at the college.”
I clap his shoulder. “Blake, one day you and I are going to meet up and not draw guns on each other first.”
“That’ll make for a nice change. I feel bad we scared Sylvie and Grace.”
I look out to where they stand at the bow with Indy, talking to the guy who manned the gun. They’re smiling, and he seems to be enjoying showing off both his gun and his guns by the way he flexes his biceps under his short-sleeved blue uniform.
“They don’t scare easily,” I say. “How are the gardens at Wadsworth?”
“Great. Except we had to build 10-foot fences to keep out the deer. They’re a pain. I’m only here today because a few guys got hurt when they left for a food run. We’ve been waiting to catch those people at Kingsborough when they came back.”
“Why would they?” Paul asks.
Ren returns from his call, head shaking in answer to my inquiry. I’m more disappointed than I thought I’d be, knowing the chance of Cassie both having a radio and broadcasting a long distance is slim.
“Sorry, man, I wish I had good news,” Ren says, and turns to Paul. “To answer your question, we think they’d come back because they left half the food. I guess they couldn’t get it all out at once.”
“There wasn’t a thing in there,” I say. I’m not afraid of roaches, but my stomach curdles at the mental image of that body. They were eating his hair and eyelashes and fingernails. I will never tell Sylvie that bit of information or she might insist on wearing a hazmat suit around the city.
Ren’s lip curls into a sly smile. “That’s because we took it all. Either they couldn’t come back or they saw us and stayed away. We checked in with Kingsborough every week. Few days ago, we saw the smoke and headed over, but they were already gone. Whoever did this held them in the buildings, packed up the food, and then torched the place. We found one survivor. He told us what happened.”
“Does he know who it was?” They must have a lot of people and vehicles, and they’re likely on our island, all of which is not sitting easy. It could be Sacred Heart. It could be the people who shot at me in Queens. It could be anyone. We have no idea what’s going on around us at any given time.
“He didn’t make it long enough to give us a good description. Was burnt over most of his body.”
Paul and I grimace. Blake stares into space. “We tried, but I don’t think a hospital burn unit could’ve saved him.”
It’s a level of cruelty I know exists but still can’t fathom. After a moment where we all stare, either reliving or imagining that horrible scene, I change the subject. “This is the one boat you have?”
“This is it,” Ren says. “We moved it once it looked like the bridge was coming down and built a new dock this side of the Verrazano.”
“How far up and down the coast have you gone?”
“Pretty far. There’s nothing but Lexers. We’re running low on fuel, so we stopped.”
We follow Ren out the cabin door onto the stern. Brooklyn’s line of yellow beach looks peaceful from our gently bobbing vantage point. With the sun out, you can almost imagine the traveling figures are ocean-goers, or maybe one of those guys who walk the sand on hot days, selling cold sodas out of plastic shopping bags.
I point at the entrance to the Upper Bay, where the Verrazano holds the wreckage, well, at bay. “There’s no way to clear that out?”
“We’re working on it,” Ren says. “But it’s a million tons of concrete and steel. Water’s becoming a fucking cesspool, and I swear every Lexer that falls in washes up on our beach. At this point, we don’t think it’ll all drift away if we do clear the bridge out—some of it sank and the harbor currents have trapped it in spots. But it’d be better than this.”
It was called the Verrazano Narrows Bridge because it towered over the narrow entrance to the expanse of water that lies between the boroughs and Jersey. The steel, concrete, and cables that were strong enough to support countless cars are now strung across that spot.
Eli leans his elbows on the rail, watching the shore, and he says, “Let us know if we can help on the Brooklyn side.”
“Will do, thanks.”
Paul and I join Eli. He keeps his eyes glued to land. “I still don’t believe it sometimes. New York, gone,” he snaps his fingers, “just like that. I had it all mapped out, but not only did the course change—the whole damn map changed.”
“It’s fucked up,” Paul says.
“That it is.” Eli watches a few seconds longer, exhales to the bottom of his lungs, and then turns to our Coast Guard friends, wry smile covering the gloom of before. “So, what’s our course for today, gentlemen?”
“We can drop you at a marina on the Brooklyn side,” Ren says. “It’s safe, and there’s a footbridge that’ll take you over the Belt Parkway, but I don’t know what it’s like after that.”
“We’ll be fine, long as you can get us on land.”
“We can do that,” Blake says. “Hey, have you tried to get into that supermarket in Fort Hamilton?”
We tell him it’s as risky from the streets as from the water. Ren gives the three of us a once-over. “How are you on food?”
We’re all strong enough, and fed, but we’re leaner than we were. What I wouldn’t give for a week of steak dinners. “We’ll run out before winter’s over,” I say. “If the Lexers freeze, it’s our first stop.”
“I’ll tell Jerry it’s yours. It is on your borough.”
“It’s not worth any hard feelings. We’re happy to split it.”
“No hard feelings. It’s yours.” Ren turns at the arrival of Indy, Sylvie and Grace with the coxswain, Eduardo, another strapping lad who doesn’t look the least bit put out by hanging with the ladies. “Did you get the tour?”
“We did,” Grace says. “The bathroom—head, I mean—is so cute.”
Blake beams at her. “Did you want anything to eat? We can feed you.”
“Eduardo gave us some MREs. We have them in our packs. But thanks, Blake.”
Blake blushes and mumbles something. Sylvie’s lips curve at his visible enthrallment before she clears her throat. “So, do you guys ever go up the coast? Or down?”
It’s asked casually, but her voice is higher than usual and she tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s up to something, and I wish I knew what it was.
“No plans to,” Eduardo says. “There’s no one on the coast.”
“But, if you were, and you could contact us beforehand, would you be willing to give us a ride?” She avoids the eyes of everyone but the officers. “E
ric tried to find his sister, but he can’t get out of the city without a boat. If we could get a ride to anywhere off Brooklyn, maybe we can get upstate.”
It’s been on my mind since we stepped foot on this boat, but I would never ask, knowing that they have no plans and fuel is an issue. Heat rushes up my neck to my ears. “I don’t want—”
“He won’t ask, so I am,” Sylvie says, as if I haven’t spoken. “Only if you’re already going and we make it as easy as possible for you. If not, no biggie. I completely understand.”
Ren glances at me, face expressionless but eyes laughing, then faces Sylvie with a smile. “I think we could do that. Get your hands on a marine radio, and we’ll call you on channel 16 if we do another run up the coast. You can meet us where we’re dropping you now, it’s just across the water. How many would we need room for?”
“Just two. Me and Eric.”
You could knock me over with a feather, though no one else looks surprised at the announcement she’ll come along. Sylvie hasn’t looked at me once. Her cheeks are flushed and she fidgets with the hair behind her ear.
“No problem,” Ren says. “We’ll try you on the hour for five hours, starting at 8 a.m., a few days before we go. We’ll give you a time, and you let us know if it works. We won’t give more details in case someone’s listening. But you have to get that radio.”
“I’ll get one.” Sylvie treats the crew to sparkling dark eyes and a wide smile, and they bask under the glow. She doesn’t wield her charm very often, but it’d be a formidable weapon if she chose. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. And so will Eric, when he’s done being mad at me for asking.”
Riotous laughter erupts at that. I nod in thanks to Ren and the others, then move to the rear of the boat while the engine starts up. I’m not mad. I’m slightly embarrassed, but, mainly, I’m speechless. The reasons I’m reluctant to try again, besides any reasonably safe means to leave the city, are that I don’t want to leave Sylvie and I don’t want to go it alone. In one fell swoop, she’s managed to solve every problem, and her willingness to come is more of a statement than any words she could—or, more likely, couldn’t—say.
I watch the horizon as we close in on land. Sylvie steps beside me, hair blowing all around her somber face and hands gripping the metal rail. “I’m sorry if I made you angry, but I’m not sorry I asked. And I know that’s a terrible apology, but it’s all you’re getting.”
A laugh works its way past the lump of gratitude in my throat. I shake my head and cover her hand with mine. “Thank you. But you don’t have to come. It’s probably better if you don’t.”
“Better for who?”
“For you. It’s dangerous.”
A fight brews in her expression before she takes a meditative breath more suited to Grace than herself. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t want to go. And I’m going for Maria, too. I won’t come if you don’t want me to, but you have to say, Sylvie, I don’t want you to come.”
She’s giving me a much easier out than I anticipated, but I don’t want to take it. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her, and I vow that my number one priority will be to keep her safe. “Sylvie, I do want you to come.”
She turns her face to the water, though it doesn’t hide the curve of her smiling cheek. “Good. Because I was coming anyway.”
I pull her to me with a laugh. I should’ve known.
Chapter 36
After ransacking the yacht club, we emerged with a marine radio that Sylvie triumphantly tucked in her bag, and then we flew across the Lexer-filled Belt Parkway—the highway that hugs the coast of Brooklyn and Queens—on the empty pedestrian bridge. But the streets are another story. A mob has moved in since we rode over earlier today, and we can’t get close to a station on the elevated tracks. There’s no crossing 86th Street, which we discover in a series of fruitless journeys up and down block after block. We finish off loitering zombies before they can attract all of 86th Street our way, and the constant jumping on and off bikes wears my patience thin.
The Belt Parkway is impossible, 86th Street is impassable, and afternoon is evening by the time we hit the back side of the golf course I slept in when I first reached Brooklyn. The one I could’ve died in had I not made it home. We might make the brownstone by dark if we travel through the course, but we’re tired and hungry and that makes us more likely to end up as dinner.
“Let’s find a place to sleep.” Indy leans on the golf course fence and motions at the line of houses across the street. Five Lexers stumble from one of the driveways, heading for us, and she drops her head back on the chain-link. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I move into the street, sink my knife into a man’s forehead, and the others take the remainder. All but Indy, who says, eyes closed, “Thanks.”
Sylvie laughs. “Did you look to make sure they were dead?”
“I trust you.” Indy drags herself from the fence, walks her bike a few steps, and points at a brick house. The turret-like projection on the front has been faced with fake rocks to resemble a castle, and the gold grotto out front has a plastic Peter Cottontail nestled inside. “Let’s stay here.”
“Not there,” Eli says. “Let’s stay somewhere nice.”
“Here,” Indy says firmly.
“My sister likes kitsch,” Eli informs us.
“I like authenticity, Eli. You like your clean rooms and modern lines and no personality. That’s why you lived upstairs and I lived downstairs.”
They shared a brownstone before they moved to SPSZ, and from what I remember of Indy’s retrofitted porcelain stove, homey kitchen, and comfortable living room, she definitely was authentic. “I can get in the open window,” Indy says, “and I think we want intact windows and a locking door.”
She climbs the front stairs and calls into the house. When nothing comes, she pops out the screen and climbs inside. A minute later the door locks click and Indy stands in the open doorway with a grin. “It’s even better than I hoped.”
We leave our bikes in the foyer and make certain of the house’s safety. If Indy wanted kitsch, she has it. The carpets are shag, one living room wall is mirrored, and the gold entertainment center is so ornately carved it brings to mind the baroque period.
“Versailles has nothing on this place,” Sylvie says, and fingers one of the teardrop-shaped crystals that hang from the extravagant chandelier in the dining area.
Grace plucks a gold-fringed pillow off an upholstered chair. “They went all the way, no holds barred.”
“If you’re gonna do it, do it right,” Indy says. The three of them wander down the hall and laughter filters down from the bedrooms.
Eli sinks into the damask couch, and Paul tries to relax in a chair while he frowns at the steadily dimming sky out the window. It’s not zombies he’s worried about, and there’s only one other thing that makes Paul this nervous.
“Leo knew we might not be home tonight,” I say. “But, if you want, I’ll go with you and come back to get them in the morning.”
Paul shakes his head. “Thanks, bro. I know. I just don’t like being away too long. It’s fine.”
It’s not fine, but it’s smartest. Indy, Sylvie, and Grace return and dig in their bags, then head for the kitchen with talk of food. Paul looks around the room as if for the first time. “This place is butt ugly. I don’t care how much you love your wife, I could never live in this. It’s divorce-worthy.”
Indy sticks her head out of the kitchen doorway. “Eli, come here. I need you.”
“No.”
“Eli…” Indy’s voice is friendly bordering on I’m-going-to-be-less-friendly-if-you-don’t-listen.
Eli rises to his feet. “I have a bossy twin sister, that’s all the wife I need.”
He ambles to the kitchen as slowly as possible to annoy her. It makes me think of Cassie, and instead of the familiar belly-churning guilt, I’m excited. I have a chance of getting off this island, thanks to Sylvie, who has just entered
the connected dining area with a stack of plates.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Indy’s making us eat at the table. Although it’s MREs and potato chips, so I’m not sure we need gold chargers.”
“What’s that?” Paul asks.
She holds up a large gold plate and then suspends a smaller gold-edged white dinner plate in front of it. “These plates that do nothing but go beneath your real plate are chargers.”
“Why have a plate under your real plate?” Paul asks.
“Because it looks nice, and that makes the food taste better,” Indy says on her way to the table. She sets a candelabra on its surface and lights the three candles with a match.
“But it’s double the dishes to wash,” Paul says.
Sylvie fixes a bemused gaze on Paul. Indy blows out the match and says, “If you want to wash dishes, be my guest, but I’m not cleaning up the house that no one lives in and we’ll never see again.”
“That was pretty stupid, huh?”
“It wasn’t your brightest moment, out of many dim ones,” I say, and lean out of reach of Paul’s fist.
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated at the table with an assortment of bowls that hold the contents of MRE pouches. They’re mostly warm, due to the heating packets they include. Our blood-red goblets hold water heater water. I purified it to be on the safe side, though no one’s gotten sick from drinking water heater water thus far.
“This is nice,” Indy says. She holds up her glass and watches it sparkle in the candlelight. “Isn’t it nice?”
“It’s, how should I put this, nice,” Eli says with a small smile at his sister. “We haven’t had family dinner in a while.”
“Our parents made us have dinner at home every night when we were kids, no exceptions,” Indy explains. “It wasn’t fancy, but it was good food. We still had to go home for Sunday Dinner, no ifs, ands—” Her eyes dampen, and she covers them with a hand while Grace pats her back. Eli sinks in his seat and runs a finger along his fork.