The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “Everything okay?” he asks quietly.

  “Everything’s great.”

  The Sacred Heart guys stand with Grace, Eli, and Indy at 6A. Eric uses his free hand to shake theirs. “Thanks for helping us out, man. We really appreciate it.”

  Paul does the same, then Eli, and I wave. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that I hold Eric’s hand, and while I hate that this is what it takes, Emilio is the model of courtesy and his eyes never leave mine for lower regions. The gate rolls open, exposing a view of the second gate and the houses on Sixth Avenue, before it rolls shut behind them.

  Indy slouches, arms wrapped around her waist. “How was lunch?” I ask her.

  “Put it this way: I’m glad they turned on the water because I need a shower.”

  I groan. Grace screws up her face. “Me, too, and he wasn’t all over me.”

  “What do you mean?” Eli asks.

  “Emilio,” Indy says, eyelids lowering in disgust. “Desmond wasn’t bad. Thankfully, Kirk didn’t come to lunch, so we didn’t have to find out.”

  “What’s wrong with Emilio?” Paul asks.

  Indy, Grace and I study each other. Finally, I say, “He’s like that guy at the store who holds your hand for too long or gives it a caress when he hands you your change.”

  Grace nods, and Indy says, “And they do it sneakily enough that you can’t call them out on it without being accused of melodrama. Because they were only being friendly.”

  “Men do that?” Paul asks.

  Indy lowers a brow. “They do a lot worse than that. He was a little…touchy. He’s harmless.” Eli eyes the gate as though considering a trip through it. Indy taps his arm. “C’mon, it’s fine. He’s just sex-starved.”

  “We’re all sex-starved,” Eli mutters, “but we don’t do that.”

  “I’d beat your ass if you did. Let’s go enjoy our water.”

  Grace walks beside me on our way to our houses. “Did he try to maul you, too?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, though her hand rests on her gun in a very un-Gracelike fashion. “There’s just something I don’t like about him. Besides that.”

  It’s an undercurrent of icky, and I don’t know how to explain it any better than that. “We can take off our guns now, I guess.”

  Grace fingers her holster. “I don’t want to yet.”

  Neither do I.

  Chapter 44

  Indy and I make our way up to the roof on our corner, where we have the late night to morning watch shift. Micah and Carlos turn and lift their lantern as we close in.

  “Howdy, neighbors,” I say. “How was your first night in your new house?”

  They moved into the vacant brick house on the other side of ours and were joined by Tommy and Harold, leaving Indy, Eli, and Lucky with a giant house to themselves.

  “Great,” Micah says, running a hand through his hair.

  The fauxhawk is growing out and a mass of floppy dark hair swoops to his cheek. Couple his newfound aptitude for killing zombies with his expressive eyes and gentle personality, and I think Micah might prove to be a dark horse in the dating race once the girls notice what a catch he is. It could take a while, since his gaze is often on his boots.

  “We’re going to have people over soon,” he says. “Like a housewarming party. Will you come?”

  “We’ll be there. I’m glad you moved to our side.”

  His smile is shy but delighted. The more I say nice things, or speak the thought it used to seem easier to leave unsaid, the more I realize how much everyone needs to hear them. Micah does anything asked of him and does it in good spirits. He’s eager to please, and I wonder how much of that is from trying to please the father he once said didn’t like him. In my opinion, his father’s an idiot.

  “Hey, Sylvie,” Carlos says, eyes shifty. “You don’t have anything to drink, do you? You know, for our party.”

  “I have water. Lots of it.”

  The pool is full and in the process of being covered for storage. After only two days of consistent watering, the gardens look invigorated. Cold water comes out of faucets and flushes toilets like magic, and I adore every ounce of it.

  Carlos tugs the rim of his baseball cap. “You know what I mean.”

  I do, but I still ask, “Carlos, are you inquiring about alcohol?”

  He grins, and Indy says, “You know that’s not happening, right?”

  “Guillermo would kill me,” I add. “And, if I had any, I’d drink it so fast your head would spin.”

  “Just checking.” Carlos sighs. “Anyway, I can drink if I want to. I’m twenty.”

  “Should I ask Guillermo that? And, better question, were you planning to give some to Rissa?”

  Carlos’ eyes go circular. “You think I’m crazy? I wouldn’t do that. Rissa gets water. I’m not even putting iced tea mix in there. She can do that herself.”

  “Smart move,” Indy says. “Now go to bed before you get into trouble. You’ve had too much time to plot up here.”

  They say goodnight, and we settle in. The four-story building makes it easy to see the two streets under our watch, and the chips I brought help to pass the time.

  “Aren’t you sick of those yet?” Indy asks a while into our shift, when I’ve opened my second bag.

  I crinkle my salt and vinegar chips. “No. I don’t think you fully understand what my eating habits were like before this.”

  She sits in a folding chair while I look over the edge. The street is dark, and therefore this feels like a pointless exercise. Our only light is a low wattage lantern—enough to see each other. I think of Eric tucked away in our bed and yawn. Only a few more hours to go.

  “Tired?” she asks.

  “I feel like I’m catching up on twenty years of sleep. I usually have insomnia and I’m fine. Now I sleep eight hours and I’m exhausted.”

  “That’s because you have someone in bed with you.”

  “I’ve had other people in bed with me, and I still woke up.”

  “Someone you want in bed with you.” Indy leans back and releases a gust of air. “I wouldn’t mind someone in bed with me.”

  “I’m sure Emilio would take you up on that.”

  “Lucky me. I was a spinster who lived with her brother before, and now there are no eligible men anywhere.”

  “Indy, you’re twenty-nine, not two hundred. You were hardly a spinster. And you’re gorgeous. I’m about to get all Emilio on you.”

  Indy’s laugh resonates, making the few Lexers below moan in reply. “Unlucky in love, that’s what my mom said. I had a fiancé. We were together four years, and everyone was sure we were meant for each other. I was sure, until I found out he’d been cheating the whole time. The worst part is that he was the one who talked me into this dream of monogamy and marriage, then I got a call from the other woman, who told me about the other other woman.”

  I make a sound that suitably expresses my outrage. “That’s horrible, Indy. He sounds like a total dick.”

  “He was, but I think there’s something wrong with me. The next guys I dated were the same. I’m a dick magnet.” I laugh before I can stop myself. She scowls. “Thanks for laughing.”

  “I’m sorry, but I just pictured you walking down the street—” I choke on my next laugh. “Like, they’re flying through the air and—Boop! One sticks to your arm. Then another to your leg.”

  Indy sniffs a few times, trying to remain offended, but finally gives in. Every time I hear her laugh it sets me off again, until my eyes tear and my stomach hurts. I don’t think this is how you’re supposed to do watch, and though we shush each other, it takes minutes to trail off into leftover snickers.

  “We have to demagnetize you somehow,” I say. “Grace would say we should smudge you with sage.”

  “No way.”

  “Fine.” I swirl a hand in the air. “I hereby pronounce you demagnetized.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously, though, there’s nothing wrong with you. I wish I could regal
e you with stories of all the men I knew who didn’t cheat or take off, but I do know Grace’s husband was a great guy.”

  I’m pretty sure Paul was, and I’m operating on the belief that Eric is, though saying as much feels like gloating after what she’s told me.

  “At least there was one great guy out there,” Indy says. “My brother wasn’t into monogamy, but he didn’t lie about it. Now he does yoga to work out his frustration.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

  Indy’s chair squeaks as she sits straight. “What was that about?”

  “Have you noticed he spends a lot of time with Grace?”

  “Yeah, idiot. She’s a yoga teacher.” I’m silent, and Indy says, “You think that—no, he’s definitely not playing her. I know how my brother works. They’re just friends. He says he likes to be around her, and he thinks she’s really special…” Indy draws in a breath. “Holy shit, he likes Grace.”

  I can’t talk to Grace about it because I don’t want to make her friendship with Eli awkward, but someone else had to agree, even if it took a little prompting. “Don’t say anything to him. If he gets weird, Grace will be sad and then I’ll have to do yoga.”

  “You’re asking me not to bother Eli about this? Do you know what you’re taking away from me?”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  She curses, though I see her nod against the lightening sky. “Fine. But you owe me.”

  “I gave you a whole cart of pizza fixings, remember?” I open a bag of pretzels. “And, here, you can have a pretzel.”

  “I hate you,” she says and takes two, then crunches on the first. “I know how you can make it up to me—talk to Lucky.”

  “Does he still hate you?”

  “Yeah, but I’m used to it. He’s either angry or completely…nothing. What if he’s a psychopath?”

  I laugh. “Lucky is not a psychopath.”

  “I know,” she groans. “But he won’t talk to us, and now that his friends have moved out he’s worse. I almost let him move, too, but it feels like I’d be losing him for good. Like, if we don’t make it right before he goes, we never will.”

  It could be defeat that tinges her voice, but the love is unmistakable. Grace’s mother was the closest thing I had to someone like Indy. One of my many regrets is that I didn’t take her up on every bit of her love, and that I didn’t believe her when she showed me I was more than my mother’s treatment implied. Maybe Lucky can do it sooner than I did—or still struggle to do.

  “I can’t guarantee you miracles,” I say.

  “I don’t need a miracle, just a nephew who isn’t miserable all the time.”

  I promise to try, and though I dread the prospect less than when I originally agreed, I still haven’t a clue what to say.

  By the time we’re relieved of duty, the day has dawned and Eric is asleep in our king bed, though ordinarily he’s up with the sun. I tiptoe past with his watch and the marine radio, close the bathroom door behind me, and listen to static while I brush my teeth. Every day, I turn it on five minutes before 8 a.m., then shut it off five minutes after the hour. I do it every hour until noon, but so far Wadsworth hasn’t made contact.

  I sit on the toilet lid until the ten minutes are up and then shuffle to bed. Eric lifts the blankets with a sleepy smile. I sink into the luxurious mattress that must have cost a few thousand dollars and rest my head on his arm.

  “Good morning,” he says, flinging his other arm over me.

  “Goodnight.”

  I fold my legs along his and soak in his nearness, trying to remain motionless and cozy, but one pants leg is bunched around my knee, I have an itch on my side, and my hair tickles my face.

  “You are the worst snuggler in the world,” he says, voice groggy. “Stop moving around.”

  “Stop trapping me in one spot. Why are you in bed, anyway?”

  “I couldn’t fall asleep without you.”

  “Why didn’t you come visit us?”

  “I could hear you laughing, and I didn’t want to interrupt. What was so funny?”

  “Magnets,” I say.

  “Magnets?”

  “You had to be there. Will you listen to the radio at nine? There was nothing at eight.”

  “If I don’t, you’ll wake yourself up to do it. But if they didn’t call at eight, they probably won’t at nine. And there’s always ten. And eleven. And twelve.”

  “What if today’s the day? I don’t want to miss it.”

  “I know.” He kisses my neck, then opens his arms. “Be free, worst snuggler in the world.”

  I move away and face him. His hair is messy, his eyes half closed with sleep, and I can’t imagine wanting to wake up next to anyone else. “Sorry,” I say. “I can’t fall asleep with people all over me.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  Bird jumps onto the bed and scratches ineffectually at the blanket by my shoulder. After thirty seconds of futile pawing, I lift it so he can creep beneath. “You are not the smartest cat in the world, are you?”

  Bird turns in a circle before he settles into a warm, comforting heap of fur by my side. I smile at the happy purr emanating through the covers. He’d be the best cat in the world even if he wasn’t the only one, as far as we know.

  Eric fake pouts. “Why does he get to be all over you?”

  “Because he’s not people. But I do want you all over me. In spirit.”

  He laughs. I roll onto my other side, careful not to disturb Bird, because facing people while I sleep is also off the table. Eric tucks my hair behind my ear. “I want you all over me, too.”

  There’s no doubt in my mind he’s one of the great guys.

  Chapter 45

  “We’re surrounded,” Guillermo says, and lowers his binoculars.

  We traveled the roofs around the park yesterday evening and again this morning. Now we stand on the school roof, having given up searching for a break in the crowd. There’s no question we’re sealed in by zombies. A thousand, maybe thousands, loosely assembled in the streets outside our walls. It’s a relief they haven’t caught on to our existence in any organized way, but all those bodies make the July heat more oppressive, especially since the rotten flesh smell intensifies the longer they roast in the sun.

  Everyone is under orders to remain quiet outside. The Lexers haven’t gotten that memo, and when a thousand start with their moaning it’s enough to drive you mad. I don’t want to think about what will happen if enough of them get the idea to push on a wall or gate.

  Rob and Dennis, the two dads Eric brought to SPSZ from the elevated tracks, watch the street side by side. Rob pushes back his sandy hair. “If we could get through, we could draw them off.”

  “We’ll volunteer, if a hole opens up,” Dennis says.

  “You’re not going out there,” Guillermo says. “We have food and water. We can wait.”

  We take one last look before we descend to the street. Grace, Eric, Paul, and I head for our laundry shift, one of the few places loud noises are permitted. You can’t hear the teenage hoopla from the basement over the diffuse rumble of the generator, which is the reason there was hoopla to begin with.

  Grace inspects the intersection walls as we pass. A framework of steel and wood is being added behind the brick, held in place by angled supports that’ll withstand pressure. Gary, who tends to stick in his yard and tinker with things, is silently supervising. He may be the one person who doesn’t mind the moratorium on speech.

  “That makes me feel a little better,” she says quietly.

  I nod, though my emphasis is on little. It doesn’t make me feel a lot better. We’re stuck on an island with worsening mobs of zombies, and it’s not as if they’ll march past and never be seen again. We’ll see them on the return trip.

  “They won’t get in,” Eric says. “Those walls were solid to begin with.”

  “I’m going to grab Leo and meet you there,” Paul says, then veers off after a wary glance a
t the wall. I don’t blame him—if Bird wasn’t already at my side, I’d get him, too.

  Laundry is lively, albeit quieter. Grace has learned from her past mistakes and now kicks ass in her video game while Lucky and I pull wet laundry from a machine. We watch as she evades capture by pulling a one-eighty, bouncing over boulders, and sideswiping a police car.

  Eric opens a washer. “Grand Theft Auto again?”

  “Yep. Grace has found her calling.”

  Grace’s game ends in a subdued cheer, and she hands Carlos the controller. “I think I’ve murdered enough people for today.”

  “You were good,” he says.

  Grace’s jaw drops in indignation. “Good? I was amazing. Three helicopters and all those police cars? I fucking dusted the Five-oh.”

  It’s fun to see Grace get irate because she does it so badly. Lucky sniffs beside me, where he pulls sheets out of a washer. “And my uncle says Grace is the most peaceful person he’s ever met.”

  “Your uncle has never seen Grace get worked up,” I say. “She’s a maniac.”

  We fill the remaining laundry baskets. Eric and I follow Lucky up through the lobby and into the yards, where clotheslines wait. I drop my basket at the line next to Lucky’s, hang up two shirts, and then compel myself to ask, “Speaking of uncles, how are things with your aunt and uncle?”

  “Fine,” Lucky says.

  “I know it must be hard, not knowing where your mom is.”

  At the line on my other side, Eric pauses for a moment and then bends to grab another shirt. I promised I’d talk to Lucky, and this is probably as private as it’s going to get at a time where I can pretend it’s a casual conversation, since most conversations must now be held indoors.

  “I hardly ever knew where she was,” Lucky mumbles. “Doesn’t make any difference.”

  I know that’s not the case, but I don’t know how to say it. I quit with the subterfuge. “Okay, listen. My mom was a lot like yours—drugs, not around, all that fun stuff. She lived on and off the streets from the time I was sixteen until the day she died, which is why I was at the hospital that Friday. Your aunt wanted me to talk to you about it, but I suck at talking.”