The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “It was cold in the house,” she says with a noticeable amount of patience. “I already swore on my life I’ll tell you if I’m dangerously cold. Or wet. Or have a sudden urge to beat you up. And that last one might happen sooner than you think.”

  I poke her side in retaliation. “Hey, you know what I just thought of? We should take a boat down the Hudson into the bay. We’ll have to be careful of Droppers and debris, but I think a straight shot down the river is the safest plan.”

  Sylvie eyes the canoe, then me. “You just thought of that?” she asks, staring me down. “You flipped to the page with the Hudson every time we opened the atlas today. I wondered what you were doing.”

  “Okay, but hear me out. I—”

  “It’s a good idea,” she says.

  “It is?”

  “I don’t know, is it? You’re the man with the plan.”

  “People kayak down the Hudson, so I know it can be done.”

  “Don’t kayaks flip?” She doesn’t look keen on the kayak idea, and rightfully so. If a waterlogged zombie manages to pull itself up a low side, we’re going in the drink.

  “I was thinking more like a rowboat. It’s stable, with high sides, it’s large enough that we can spread out, and we can use a motor until the water gets too clogged with crap.”

  “Then we’ll have a boat in Brooklyn,” she says. “We’ll be able to get to Wadsworth.”

  They’ll shit themselves if we bring home a boat. I push the thought of Maria from my mind—something I’ve had a lot of practice doing in the past days. Nothing, aside from good news about Ana and Penny, will thrill her, and I’m bringing the worst news possible.

  “What should we do now?” Sylvie asks.

  “We have to get to the river, maybe we can find a boat there. Right now we’re parallel with Poughkeepsie.” I open the atlas. “If we head south, it shouldn’t be as bad.”

  “Sounds good,” she says breezily. “Let’s go get us a boat.”

  I close the atlas and study her face. She’s making this painless the same way she’s made the past days as pain-free as possible by being near. She’s not drunk, or hypothermic, so the only option left is that she’s finally all the way here.

  “Are we gonna get that boat or stand here staring at me all day?” she asks.

  “Here I am, gracing you with my loving gaze, and that’s what you say?”

  Sylvie plants a kiss on my lips. “Of course that’s what I say.”

  ***

  We’ve made our way to this marina on the Hudson, which took hours. The small town is full of zombies, and the ones who followed us stand beside our motorcycle outside the gate, rattling the flimsy metal. More are coming. If we can’t get this boat into the water soon, we’ll have to take one of the motorboats at the dock and search for something more suitable downriver.

  I pictured an old aluminum rowboat, slightly dinged, with crappy splintered oars and uncomfortable bench seating. It took us a while to remove the covers from numerous boats, but what we’ve found is similar to that rowboat, yet sleeker. The white boat has a padded single chair at both bow and stern, a low middle seat for rowing, an outboard motor, dry storage for gear, raised areas underfoot to avoid soaked shoes, and the extravagance of cup holders. The long oars are made of wood and carbon fiber. I recognize the brand from rafting trips, and they cost a pretty penny. Either rowboats have come a long way since the Boy Scouts, or I was in the wrong troop.

  Sylvie spares the fence a glance and then turns her attention to the matter at hand. “Can we pull it?”

  I shake my head. The tongue of the trailer is propped on blocks of wood. It will crash to the ground, and it’s too unwieldy and heavy to drag. But this is a marina, for Christ’s sake—they have to have a way of moving trailers around without involving a truck, especially in storage rows this narrow.

  Sylvie trails me through the rows of blue-tarped boats. The metal-sided office and garage sit at the river, both locked. I grab a stray pipe from the ground. “Turn away.”

  Once she does, I smash the door window, then clear out the jagged glass and turn the lock. The fence screeches in the distance; that noise did not help with the Lexer situation. But it takes only seconds inside to find a hand dolly that hooks to a trailer. Close in appearance to a manual push mower, but where the blades would be is a post with a trailer ball. I grab it and we run for the boat.

  I situate the ball under the tongue and then pull out the top block of wood, lowering the hitch into place. Sylvie tosses the remaining blocks under the neighboring boat, then drops our packs and gas container into our new ride.

  “Now this should be easy,” I say.

  “What?” Sylvie yells over the noise from the fence.

  I shake my head, remove the chocks from under the wheels, and yank. The trailer budges, first slowly and then faster. I back up to ease it out of its spot and turn it into the lane. Sylvie pushes at the rear. We make it into the open area of the marina as the fence squeals in protest. The sound of metal clanging to concrete comes next. I try not to show my alarm, but if I didn’t wear gloves my sweaty hands would slip off the dolly.

  Once the trailer wheels hit water on the boat ramp, I motion at Sylvie to get in. She looks over her shoulder and scrambles for the oars instead of arguing. The back of the boat lifts and floats, but the bow is strapped to a winch on the trailer. Try as I might to turn it, the metal is locked with corrosion—the boat may be newer, but the trailer has been around a while.

  I draw my knife and saw at the thick nylon. Sylvie stands above with her pistol in hand. I don’t know how close the Lexers are, but nothing has eaten me yet. The last of the nylon separates, the bow lifts, and Sylvie crashes backward. I spin the boat in the proper direction and leap over the side. The first Lexer is ankle deep in the river, though it doesn’t expect the slope of the ramp and belly-flops to the water.

  Sylvie is on the boat’s bottom, hand to her forehead, and she waves me away when I bend to her. “Go!”

  I grab the oars and row to no effect. Two Lexers’ decayed hands are curled over the edge of the stern. Before I can stand, Sylvie gets to her knees and fires point-blank into one’s face. The other digs its fingers into her shoulder and then drops from the bullet she puts under its chin.

  We coast smoothly into water. Fifteen feet from shore, the parts of me not working the oars begin to relax. The Lexers wade into water until buoyancy trumps weight, and then they lose their balance and bob, though their arms never stop reaching.

  Mid-river, I let the boat drift. It’s taking us in the right direction. Sylvie leans against the side of the boat, legs sprawled. “That was fun.”

  I crouch to inspect the mark on her temple. It’s already red and swollen, and is going to be a magnificent bruise in a day. I touch it gently. “That’s a good bump. Do you feel okay?”

  “I feel like I was chased by zombies.”

  “I mean confused or disoriented.”

  “Zombies,” she says, as though that explains everything. “I’m not dying of a concussion, and I’m not cold. I’m sweating my ass off.”

  “That can be dangerous,” I say. “If you get sweaty and then cool down—”

  “Good God, I’m fine! But why is it always me who gets injured and not you? It’s not fair.”

  “That’s why I keep you around. You’re my fall guy.”

  She allows me to hoist her to her feet and into the chair at the stern, then she looks up with a glint in her eyes. “At least I haven’t pooped my pants.”

  My laugh carries across the river. I return to the rowing seat and take up the oars. A brisk wind blows, but I resist a Sylvie temperature check. The Hudson is maybe a mile across in this spot, and, aside from the occasional unidentified floating object or zombie, it’s peaceful. The fall foliage on the rolling hills is spectacular. When a bridge appears in the distance, Sylvie roots through my bag for my monocular.

  “It looks like two bridges,” she says. “I don’t see anything waiting to leap o
ff. Want me to row?”

  I decline the offer. Rowing this thing is a dream. I only have to keep us from the riverbanks and steer clear of obstacles. We don’t have much gas, so we’ll save the motor for when we need it. We pass under the bridges with only one Dropper, who misses.

  “Let me take over,” Sylvie says. “I want to try. I’ve never rowed a boat.”

  “You’ve never rowed a boat?”

  “I’ve pedaled a paddleboat, does that count?”

  “Nope.”

  We switch places, and, after a minute of coaching, she gets to work. A couple of miles later, we pass a beach with a day use area. Sylvie sighs as we float past. “They have toilets. I have to pee.”

  “So go.”

  “Where?”

  “Off the side.”

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “I can pop a squat on land, but peeing off the boat? I don’t think that’s going to work out well when I tip us.”

  “I’ll move to the other side. It’s easy.”

  “When you have a vagina, you can come back and talk to me about what’s easy.” I lower a brow, and she grins. “Yeah. Vagina.”

  Maybe I should check her for a concussion, although I’m pretty certain this is just what happens when Sylvie’s guard is down—or obliterated. I’ve seen her and Grace in action.

  A few minutes later, Sylvie still rows, but we make almost no headway. We want to travel as far as possible before finding somewhere to sleep. The boat has an anchor we could use close to shore, but, although this vessel is a wonder, it would make an awful bed unless it’s our only option. And then there’s the bathroom issue.

  “Do I suck at this or am I tired?” she asks. “We’re not moving.”

  “Maybe you’re tired,” I say. “You were doing fine before.”

  I take over and don’t skimp on effort, but the payoff is minimal. A small kernel of a memory comes to me, and I aim for the edge of the river where the current is weaker. “The Hudson up to Albany is a tidal estuary. Sea water comes up from New York Bay. It must be high tide.”

  “All the way up here?” She watches the water with a slight frown. “I never realized how little I knew about everything until I suddenly had to know it all.”

  It’s true. There’s no hopping on the internet to check something out. No calling a friend or knowledgeable person. We’re drifting in ignorance. And drifting on the Hudson, though I’m fighting the northbound current with everything I’ve got.

  “Maybe you should give up,” Sylvie says. “Grace would say the universe wants us to go this way. Maybe it’s trying to teach us a lesson and we should follow its lead.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” she says. “Well, yes, she would say that. But, unlike me, the universe doesn’t have to pee.”

  Chapter 64

  Sylvie

  Eric has gotten us farther than I could. Though I’m trying to be as light-hearted as possible to keep up his spirits, he’s tired from rowing and the events of the past week. The temperature is dropping, too, which I will not mention unless absolutely necessary. I’m not an idiot—I will avoid hypothermia forevermore—but this is your average kind of cold.

  Train tracks run along the riverbank, with the occasional zombie limping to nowhere, and beyond that are clumps of houses that make up towns. Even with the monocular, I can’t make out details regarding zombies or damage, though I’d guess it’s the same as everywhere else.

  I’m in no danger of crying about it, but the mountains are gorgeous with the late afternoon sun setting the colors afire. A small island sits in the distance, with what looks like castle turrets silhouetted against the sky. I wait until we’re closer. When it still resembles a castle, I hold out the monocular. “I think there’s a castle up ahead. On an island.”

  Eric pushes sweaty hair from his eyes and takes a turn. “That’s a castle, all right. Or what’s left of one. An island is perfect. We can camp there tonight.”

  He rows toward the center of the river with renewed enthusiasm that lasts five minutes, then he starts the motor. Part of the crumbling castle sits at water level, and the crenellated wall between towers reads Bannerman’s Island Arsenal. We near a dock connected to a ramp, which in turn is connected to a deck, which has two beautiful porta-potties shining in the early evening light.

  Eric deftly maneuvers the boat beside the wooden dock and we wait, but only quiet greets us. Using rope from a compartment, we secure the boat and walk the ramp to the wooden deck, where I promptly disappear into a porta-potty. I come out, rubbing my hands with antibacterial gel from the dispenser on the wall.

  “Leave it to you to find a bathroom on a tiny island in the Hudson,” Eric says. He motions to the wooden staircase built into the side of the hill. “Let’s check it out. But I want to sleep near the boat, just in case.”

  Many, many steps and a path later, we stand before the ruins. They rise several stories, with rounded turrets, fancy stonework, and light that shines through holes that were once windows. Higher on the island is a smaller building, also castle-like, and we find a sign that informs us it was once a residence. Other signs warn us away from the collapsing structures, and, since dusk has arrived, Eric insists we return to the dock.

  We sit on the wooden deck to eat jerky and admire the sky that’s turned as orange as the trees under dark purple clouds. I jump at a rustling of leaves from above. “What was that?”

  “A bird,” Eric says confidently.

  “How do you know? Did you see it?”

  He rips into a piece of jerky. “No, but it was a bird. You can tell.”

  “You can tell. I think everything’s a murderer. Or a bear. Why did you like camping again?”

  He puts an arm around my shoulders. It makes me feel better, which is dumb, since the murderer is behind us and could clout us over the heads before we know it.

  “Cold?” he asks, and I nod. “Let’s get in our blankets.”

  We stuff ourselves into our sleeping sack and watch the sky go dark while I catalogue sounds. There’s the water lapping against the dock, the rustling of tree leaves in the wind, the bird-slash-possible-murderer up the hill, and Eric’s low breathing.

  A thump is followed by a swishing noise. “What was that?” Eric whispers, his voice fearful. I sit up with a screech and he yanks me down beside him. “I’m kidding. It was only something falling to the ground from a tree. It rolled for a few feet and stopped.”

  “You’re a jerk. If it wasn’t so cold, I’d get out of this bag.”

  He locks me in his arms, far too satisfied with his prank. “But it is cold, so you’re stuck. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  I shove him and then burrow closer. I’m exhausted and want more than anything to go to sleep so I don’t have to listen to scary noises. The world seems dreadfully big and frightening. Maybe I wasn’t much of a nature girl before, but I wasn’t afraid of open spaces.

  “I’m becoming like a caged animal who’s forgotten how to live in the wild,” I say. “Or like Bird, when he wants to leave the room because the door is closed but the second you let him out, he wants back in.”

  “I like the walls, too,” Eric says. It’s followed by a quiet, surprised laugh. “There’s something I never thought I’d say. But think of the river as a wall. We’re safe, I promise.”

  The stars pop up quickly in the dark sky. It’s tranquil out here, even with the murderer lurking above. I make a wish on the brightest star, like I would when I was little. Usually the first star of the night out the window of whatever apartment we lived in at the time. My wish had no words. It was a yearning for something I couldn’t name, though I can now: family, belonging. But I have them—even if one jerky member makes jokes in the woods to scare me—so I wish for them to stay.

  ***

  In the morning, the river is high and shrouded in fog. Eric consults the water marks on the dock and concludes we should wait to head out with the ebb tide. We’re ready when the river is, and we set off row
ing easily. The fog has dissipated, though the sun only peeps from behind thickening clouds in short intervals. We might need more drinking water, and I make a face when Eric mentions obtaining it from the Hudson.

  “We’ll boil and purify it,” he says. “It’s probably brackish anyway, especially at high tide. So either we’ll test it out at low, or we’ll dock somewhere and find some.” He pauses rowing. “Do you know what brackish means?”

  “Yes, smarty-pants,” I say. “We should’ve brought these days’ pages of our calendar.”

  We left it home, not knowing how long we’d be gone or if it would get lost or ruined. And it probably would’ve been ruined in my bag.

  “Today’s word is brackish,” he says, and ticks a finger in the air. “Point for me.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Can and did, my friend. Can and did.” I toss an empty can of soup at him, and he laughs. “You can have a point, too. What’s your favorite word?”

  “Maybe shenanigans. And I’ve always liked pandemonium.”

  “Least favorite?”

  I think for a minute. “Moist. And panties. They might be tied. Roach is up there, too.”

  “You mean like when you fell into the ditch, your panties got moist?”

  “My underwear got wet, yes. Not that that sounds much better.”

  Eric pulls on the oars, eyes green and twinkly. “How about waterbug?”

  I scream without forethought, like I’m being murdered, and it causes a few birds floating peaceably on the water to flap into the sky. Eric gawks, but that’s what you get for making me think about giant cockroaches.

  “I think that might’ve just reached number one,” I say, and fold my hands on my lap.

  “I’ll say.”

  I take over rowing a while later. Small pieces of debris, perhaps things that traveled north from New York Bay, drift by, along with the occasional body. After a bend where the land flattens some, Eric points to a collection of buildings with high stone walls. “That’s West Point.”

  We strain our eyes for any clue of military presence, or an indication some government agency is working on salvation, but the slow-moving figures kill that hope. It’s not unexpected, but that doesn’t make it any less depressing.