The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “Sylvie,” I say loud enough that they open fully. “I know you’re tired, but you need to try to stay awake. Please. I have a candy bar in my bag. Don’t you want chocolate?”

  Her eyelids sink. She shakes her head. Sylvie doesn’t want chocolate, and that alone strikes fear into my heart. I try to believe her tremors are a sign she’s not too far gone. Too far gone means I’d need a hospital and doctors. I hate this world that has so many ways to kill and so few ways to save.

  I keep her conscious as long as I can, until she no longer rouses. I think she’s warmer, but with no one to help and my reluctance to leave her, there’s nothing to do but hold the person I love most in the world and beg anyone who might be listening that she not leave me, too.

  Chapter 62

  Sylvie

  I open my eyes but don’t move. I can’t move; Eric is wrapped around me like an octopus. We’re naked in a strange bedroom under blankets piled too high to see over. I shift and let out an involuntary gasp. Tiny muscles I didn’t know I had scream for me to remain still.

  My neck shrieks when I turn to Eric. He looks terrible, with pink-rimmed eyes surrounded by dark circles, but his smile is brilliant enough to blind. “Hi. How do you feel?”

  “Things hurt. Everything.”

  “The shivering. You gave your muscles a workout.”

  Now that he’s reminded me, I’m not surprised at the pain. I remember my strange thoughts that seemed utterly normal, sitting on the steps to sleep, and then it’s a blank.

  “You had hypothermia,” he says. “You were going downhill fast.”

  With the other memories comes the water bottle incident. His sister is gone and I fought with him over a bottle, which makes me the biggest asshole to ever walk the Earth. The only saving grace is that I was too numb to voice any of the other awful things that ran through my brain.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I hold back tears, but the guilt is impossible to suppress. “I was so mean—”

  Eric shushes me. “That was grumbles.”

  “What?”

  “One of the warning signs of hypothermia. Stumbles, grumbles, mumbles, and fumbles.”

  My hands wouldn’t work, I could hardly walk, and I didn’t care that I left my bottle behind. I waved at the fucking thing, like a lunatic. And then, to top it all off, I decided that taking an outdoor nap in the zombie apocalypse was a great idea. Nevertheless, I feel like an asshole. “I’m still sorry.”

  “I’m sorry. If I’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have happened.” He cups my face with his hand, brow creased. “I’m sorry for how I acted. I know you were only trying to—”

  “It’s okay. If anyone gets it, I do.”

  I have ample experience using fury to fend off pain, and Eric’s blatant misery tells me he’s beaten himself up the entire time I’ve been comatose. Maybe I have a medical excuse for my behavior, but every single time I’ve rebuffed Eric, he’s found a way around it. I wish I’d done the same for him. I wasn’t there, like I promised, but I will be now.

  “We can go back,” I say. “Or look somewhere else.”

  “It’s too dangerous. We don’t know where to look.” His eyes close and he takes a shaky lungful of air. “If I’d gotten there in the spring, maybe they’d be okay.”

  It’s whispered like a confession. My muscles screech, but I lift a hand to stroke his cheek, his temple, his hair. “You tried. And maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything. It could’ve been you, too.”

  Tears slide from under his eyelids and roll over his cheekbones. I cradle his head to my chest while he cries for Cassie with guilt-ridden, if only sobs. I told Eric we were lucky, and I do think it’s true, but it also seems that hopes are dashed more often than not. I wanted so badly for his to be justified.

  Eventually, his tears subside and he scrubs at his face, eyes on the wall over my shoulder. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t get all tough guy on me,” I say.

  “Says the girl who never cries.”

  I smile and dry his damp cheek with my palm. If he only knew how often I want to. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here before, but I am now.”

  “It was touch and go for a while, but you’re here.” He runs a hand down my arm as if to verify that fact, then presses warm lips to my forehead before he hops up and throws on clothes. “You need food and water, and to rest a few days. I left our stuff outside. Be right back.”

  I ease myself to sitting. The room is nice enough—matching furniture and walls painted a soft blue. No daring art, but prints I know by sight if not artist, and they bring home the fact that I’ll never meet Cassie. I silently promise her I’ll take care of her brother. Maybe we would’ve gotten along, maybe not, but I think she’d like that about me.

  We’re here for a bit, according to Dr. Eric, but the thought of seeing Maria retightens every muscle and makes me want to live here forever. I lie down to rest my aching back, close my eyes, and wake again when Eric sits on the edge of the bed with a bowl.

  “They have an LP tank,” he says. “And it’s full. You believe that?”

  I gather this tank is a good thing. It’s put a smile on his face, and that’s enough for me. “Yay, but I have no idea what that is.”

  “Liquid propane,” he explains. “They have a gas stove that runs on LP. We can cook. They also have a wood stove and a half cord of wood. And a creek out back. And some food.”

  “Why would they leave all that?”

  “Don’t know. But their loss is our gain.” He hands me a bowl of freeze-dried chili mac. “Eat. We have to fatten you up.”

  I gobble it down with two glasses of water and two bags of nuts, then get dressed in the pajamas he’s found and head for the bathroom.

  “You can flush,” he says. “I filled the tank with water.”

  “Don’t ever leave me. What would I do without you?”

  He leans an arm on the doorjamb, smiling, before his lips flatten to a grim line. “You’d be okay.”

  I was joking, but he isn’t. A chilly emptiness displaces the warmth the food left behind, and I touch his hand with fingers gone icy. “The last thing I would ever be is okay.”

  He must see something in my face because his eyes move between mine, serious as I’ve ever seen. “I will never leave you on purpose.”

  I nod and walk into the bathroom, where I wipe away the tears that escape.

  ***

  Eric spends the next afternoon filling every pot with water, then heats the house to a thousand degrees between the stove burners and the woodstove. I lie on the mattress he dragged into the living room and pretend it’s summer, since he reprimands when I try to help. I gave up; keeping busy seems to keep him happy, and my muscles still ache.

  The bathtub is partly filled with cold creek water. Once every pot of water is at a boil, he adds them to the tub, and then I sink into the first hot bath I’ve had in months. “Holy fuck,” I groan.

  “Enjoy,” he says, heading for the door.

  “Stay with me.”

  He sits on the toilet lid. “Watch you take a bath? I guess I can do that.”

  I laugh. “You have no idea how amazing this is. Thank you.”

  “I can see how amazing it is on your face.”

  “Get in with me,” I say.

  “That would not work. I’ll get in after you.”

  This tub is tiny and he is not. I sling a leg over the side. “Fine. Water sex is overrated, anyway.”

  Eric snorts. “I see you’re feeling better, but you need to rest.”

  I pick up the washcloth and lather myself while he watches, but, when I raise my eyebrows in invitation, he shakes his head. Here we are, two adults on our own, with me the cleanest I’ve been in months—possibly ever, since I met Eric—and he’s turning me down.

  I scrub my feet with a sigh. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to ravage my clean body.” Eric leans against the toilet tank, faking a giant yawn, and I crack up. “C’mon, we can be as noisy
as we want.”

  “No, we can’t. Zombies.”

  “Spoilsport. I need some good old-fashioned lovin’.”

  “Did you really just say good old-fashioned lovin’?” Eric asks. “I wish we had a medical handbook.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could check if brain damage is a side-effect of moderate hypothermia.”

  I throw the washcloth at his head. He catches it, drops it in the sink, and re-crosses his arms with equanimity.

  “How about a cigarette?” I ask. “Can I have one of those?”

  “I got rid of them.”

  “You what? Why would you do that?”

  “Because Grace said you’ll never stop and I shouldn’t give them to you.”

  “But you were the one who got them in the first place! That’s not fair.”

  “It’s different. I’m a social smoker. I can have one and then not have another for a year.”

  He’s right—if I wake up the nicotine monster, I’ll spend hours searching zombie corpses for my next fix—but I roll my eyes anyway. “Even your vices are annoyingly faultless.”

  Eric chuckles. I sink below the water, then scrub my scalp raw with shampoo. After I rinse and condition, I lie back to soak and watch him watch me in the light of the single window. Aside from his outdoorsy good looks, he has a relaxed kindness that gives him an inner glow. He’s so good, and good to me, down to trivial things like how he’ll insist on waiting to bathe and then be stuck with my dirty, cold water.

  I reach for my towel. “At least get in while it’s warm.”

  “It’s your bath.”

  I wrap the towel around me and leave the bathroom, saying, “I’m not letting you near this clean body if you’re dirty.”

  “Get under the covers!” he calls.

  The living room is nearing two thousand degrees from the roaring fire. I put on a tank top and washed-out underwear, then sprawl on the mattress.

  As the sun goes down, I watch now-clean Eric cover windows and light candles. His face is sad at quiet moments, but every time he looks my way he smiles. We eat dinner and get in bed. He faces me on his pillow, but his eyes watch something far-off in his mind.

  I skim my fingers down his shoulder. “What can I do for you? Tell me something I can do.”

  “Just be here.”

  “I’m here.” I tap his chest. “And here.”

  His fingers hover above my heart. “Am I here?”

  “You know you are,” I whisper.

  Our lips brush together leisurely, until the heat between us grows as hot as the room, and we join together. Eric moves as though I might break, his hands in my hair and sincere gaze locked on mine. He’s put his heart on a plate, set a dagger beside it, and let me do with it what I will. What he doesn’t know is that I want to protect it more than I want to protect my own. He deserves to know. He deserves to hear it.

  I gather my courage and whisper, “I love you.”

  It clears the haze from his eyes—I half-hoped it would get lost in the shuffle—and the radiance in them and his smile makes me wish I’d said it sooner. “I love you, too.”

  My lips tremble. Everything trembles. And then his mouth and body are on mine, and I allow myself to feel the connection I’ve only permitted in small doses up to now. It’s terrifying and wonderful and raw and real, and it builds until the end, when my fading shudders of pleasure are hijacked by chest-wracking sobs. I don’t know what they’re for, but they’re not altogether sad—they’re love and hope and a mix of emotions I can’t begin to separate.

  I gulp in air while hot tears spill. Grace says we don’t have control the way we think we do, and I’ve always been scared to let go the way she does. I was never sure I could. But I’ve done it here, with Eric, and I’m still alive. Awkward as hell and sobbing like a maniac, but alive.

  Eric wipes my cheeks with panicked hands. “What’s wrong?”

  I shut my eyes. This is the time I’d say I’m fine, re-buckle my armor. But I’m tired of armor—that shit is heavy.

  “Please talk to me,” he says.

  “It’s…” The tears have tapered off. I fill my lungs and say, “I love you.”

  It’s easier the second time, especially with my eyes closed. Maybe by the twentieth, I’ll be shouting it from the rooftops.

  “And that’s why you’re cry—”

  “Shh,” I say, “I’m practicing. I love you.”

  “I love you,” he says.

  I open one eye. “Funny you should mention it because I love you, too.”

  He laughs and whispers in my ear, “I love you.”

  I whisper it back.

  “Now deep voice. Ready?” He drones, “I love you.”

  My voice cracks, but I do it.

  “I know you’ll like this one. Opera voice,” he says, and sings, “I love you!”

  I mimic his while giggling. Yes, giggling. God help me.

  “Now a bloodcurdling scream—”

  I slap a hand over his mouth. “What’re you, crazy?”

  “Crazy in love. With you.”

  “You’re going to be crazy dead with me if you do that.”

  “Okay, how about a regular old I love you?”

  I trace my thumb along his lips and keep my eyes on his. My heart thumps and my stomach somersaults, but they’re at manageable levels. “I love you. A lot.”

  “Now, was that so hard to say?”

  He’s joking, but I tell the truth. “Yes.”

  “I know.” He blows out the candle and pulls me close, where his chest rumbles with his laugh. “So, all it took was a near-death experience to get an I love you. Not too shabby.”

  “Sorry I’m crazy.”

  His arms tighten. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I lie in the dark and let out the breath it seems I’ve held forever. It’s always been my benchmark, the thing I couldn’t and wouldn’t say unless I was sure. But I’m sure I’ll never want to take those three words back. They belong to him.

  ***

  It’s two more nights before Eric deems me well enough to travel, though I was ready yesterday. He dreads seeing Maria, as do I, and I think he needed time to come to terms with his world being so altered before he could bring himself to do the same to Maria.

  I hugged him while he cried. I cried with him. For him. For Cassie. I cried for Maria and those two letters, which were the only dry things in my pack. I also cried because I was happy. And I cried when Eric gave me the chocolate bar he’d hidden in his bag because I love chocolate. Then, inexplicably, I cried because the autumnal trees were pretty. I now know what it’s like to be Grace, although I think I’m back to normal. Or improved normal: crying ability attained, yet powered down. I don’t know how Grace does it.

  Even with all the tears, the past days have felt oddly like a honeymoon. Eric and I have been alone in the past, but never truly alone, and it was a relief to find he’s as happy doing his own thing as I am. We can be in the same room, or different rooms, and not talk for hours. Happy, content, and together-apart. If I didn’t miss everyone at home—and wasn’t scared shitless of every sound in the woods at night—I could live this way for a long while.

  The motorcycle is packed. Eric closes the front gate of the yellow house’s yard. “I’ll miss this place.”

  “I’ll miss The Crybaby House, too,” I say.

  “Is that what we’re calling it?”

  “Yes. At least for me. More tears have been spilled in that house than in any other place in my life. We should have a plaque made.”

  “You’re an odd duck, you know that?”

  I smile. “Quack.”

  He nuzzles my neck like an overzealous puppy. I squeal but don’t fight with any real vigor. I like to see him silly, and I hate the shade of sorrow that has colored his happy-go-lucky self in the past days.

  He lets me go after a minute. “I love you, ducky.”

  “I love you, freak,” I say, and it flows from my mouth with ea
se.

  Chapter 63

  Eric

  There’s no surefire way into the city, but I’ve come to the conclusion that our best bet is a boat, and up here, away from open ocean, small boats are a dime a dozen. Rather than chance the roads and attempt to cross the George Washington Bridge, or navigate a boat across the Long Island Sound into Queens, we could cruise down the Hudson River straight into New York Bay and come ashore only blocks from Sunset Park.

  We had to backtrack ten miles into this more populated area in order to avoid a mob. Once we swing back east, it’s almost a guarantee we’ll have to swing west once again to avoid another mob. And so on and so forth, until we end up riding double the miles to reach Westchester, where I anticipate we’ll have trouble swinging anywhere. It’ll take us longer by boat, but we’re now cruising at a top speed of twenty-five miles per hour because of the threat of Lexers in the road.

  There are a few sticking points in my fantastic plan: The bay is full of debris, zombies, and likely every pathogen known to man, so we need a boat that can be rowed where a motor might get caught up, yet a sturdy one that won’t tip easily. We need to get that boat to an entry point on the Hudson far north of the city. And I need to sell Sylvie on the idea.

  I’ll start with Sylvie. We stop at a house to use the bathroom because Sylvie is, as she says, a big fan of toilets, even if they don’t flush. Considering that the last pit stop turned up a brick of high-velocity .22 LR ammo hidden in a hall closet, I don’t mind. I wait on the grass, once we’ve ascertained her safety inside, and spot the perfect opener for the discussion of my plan: a canoe by the garage, although we’re too far from the river for this one to be of any use.

  Sylvie comes out the front door and stands beside me, shivering. “Are you cold?” I ask, for the tenth time today. Or the twentieth.