All traces of sun leave the sky. Wind whips through my jeans and the leggings beneath. I pull my winter hat below my ears and yank at the oars until Eric insists on a turn. It isn’t his time, and he rows more than me to begin with, but he’ll get us downriver faster.
A drop of rain darkens the denim on my leg. Eric grimaces at the dark clouds above. “We’ll keep going for now. Get out the tarp.”
I drape it from my lap to his. His coat is waxed canvas, which repels water like my leather coat does, so we should be dry-ish if not warm. An hour later, the rain hasn’t worsened, but the wind gusts, and a bridge sits in the distance.
“I think that’s Bear Mountain,” Eric says.
I find the Bear Mountain Bridge in the atlas and see it connected two fairly unpopulated areas. The likelihood of Droppers is slim, but I ready my chisel. As we close in, the wind worsens and the rain begins in earnest. By the time we’re beneath the bridge, the tarp holds a pool of water and I can’t see the road above.
Thunder vibrates in my chest. Lightning strobes overhead. Rain slaps the river, creating a dense mist. Eric steers for a long, narrow island straight ahead, hugging the shore until the rocks become something close to a beach and we can leap out. Better visibility off the water allows us to see the ten Lexers that roam outside the buildings across a stretch of bare earth, with who knows how many more inside. We scuttle back to the boat, where Eric casts worried glances at the clouds as he rows, though I suppose death by lightning is better than death by zombies.
The island narrows and then rises into a rocky cliff with trees on top. Thunder and lightning come in tandem, scaring the bejesus out of me. Eric yells something I don’t hear, but his finger points to a small zombie-free expanse of island on the other side of the steep cliff. It’s covered by scraggly brush and trees, with a gigantic boulder set back from the water. We pull the boat onto a pebbled beach above the high-water line and tie it to a spindly tree.
The dark afternoon flares with lightning so close that my hair follicles tingle. Eric propels me beneath the boulder’s six-foot overhang. We circle the smooth, dusty dirt beneath the rock to where bushes form a protective wall from rain and wind and possible zombie eyes. It’s dry, though no warmer.
He drops his pack with a relieved breath and slaps his wet hair off his forehead, yet I see a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Now that we’re out of the storm, he’s relishing the adrenaline buzz.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks.
“Because you just had fun, didn’t you?”
His teeth flash. “A little.”
I lower myself to the dirt, my bag at my back. Eric sits beside me with the atlas and carefully turns damp pages. He stops on a page of the Hudson and points to the rendering of a skinny island with an orb at the end.
“Pretty sure we’re here,” he says of the orb. “Which makes us,” he checks another few pages, “still really far. Maybe fifty miles to the tip of Manhattan, then over to Sunset Park. We can’t do that in one day.”
I peel off my gloves and pull a cut piece of old t-shirt from my pocket to wipe the rain off my face. “Didn’t we know that?” I hand it to him to do the same and then wring out my hat.
“Yeah, but I was hoping not to have to stop for the night near the city. I wanted to push another twenty miles today.” He peers through the bushes. As if in answer, thunder explodes with such force I swear the boulder shakes.
“The universe says no,” I say.
“All right, universe. You win today. Should I try to get a fire going? Are you cold?”
“Not too cold. But let’s make a drink.”
Eric sets up the stove. I ready the tiny pot and rip open hot cocoa packets from The Crybaby House. Five minutes later, we’re sipping wonderfully hot beverages while rain cascades feet away.
“Do you think those Lexers can get over here?” I ask. We’d never hear them coming, though this part of the island looked mostly inaccessible from the larger area.
“Not on the side where we left the boat, but I can check the other side of that cliff for a path or something.”
“No. Either we both go or no one does. And right now we’ll only get wetter.”
I wrap my hands around my warm metal cup, which I’m told can also be used for cooking. Apparently, dual use and minimum weight are a big deal in the backpacking community. I like it, and I liked how Eric was excited to give it to me after he found it in SPSZ’s supplies, as though I’d been waiting my whole life for this dual use, lightweight cup.
“Why doesn’t your cup have a handle?” I ask.
“Long story,” he says, and then explains how he used it to open a garage door outside of Philadelphia. From the way he tells it, you’d think he was alone.
Maria and I came across a photo of Rachel and Cassie while straightening Cassie’s things one day, before Eric arrived. Maria told me her name, and that they’d broken up. And since Eric called his traveling partner Rachel, it didn’t take a genius to put it together. In the picture, she was pretty and smiling. Blond and fresh-faced and exactly the type of girl who would climb mountains with her boyfriend.
I think he’s afraid to mention her, but we all had lives before the apocalypse. If we’re going to get cranky about ex-lovers, then I’m going to cause my fair share of crankiness. I should just come out and say it.
“The garage was with Rachel, right?” I ask. He nods, though he watches the bushes with rapt attention. “Ex-girlfriend and, possibly, owner of the purple gun?”
He nods again, index finger tapping his mug. “But it was over a while before everything went to shit.”
“I know. I didn’t want to pretend I don’t. That must’ve been horrible. In Philly.” He nods for the third time, visibly uncomfortable with this topic, and I say, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No,” he says, shoulders easing some. “I’m glad you did. I felt like I was lying even if I wasn’t.” He taps the bush with a boot. Droplets of water sprinkle on dry ground. “It was horrible, but she didn’t want to keep going. She was…tired.”
I know that feeling. It came around often before I escaped to Grace’s house. “I’ve been that tired.”
“But you didn’t give up then. You wouldn’t now.” He says it with certitude, but he has that lower lip thing going on. And the brow crease.
“I wouldn’t.” I agree partly to allay his fears, but I do think it’s true. Maybe I’ll need a long nap, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be tired enough I’ll want to die.
“Me, neither.” Eric takes my hand and lets his lungs deflate. “Okay, so we got Rachel out of the way.”
“Did you think I’d get upset about girlfriends before you knew me? Like you should have waited for me for twenty-seven years? You know, the way I saved myself for you.” He finally laughs, good and loud, and I elbow him. “I should be insulted you find the likelihood of that idea so amusing.”
He elbows me back. “Anything I should know about your sordid past?”
“Only one serious thing. We lived together for a while, but…” I shrug. Poor Matt, who put up with my aloofness for reasons I can’t fathom. He probably deserves an apology, but I hope he found someone who gave him what he needed. And didn’t get eaten by zombies.
“You didn’t save yourself for me,” Eric says in mock dismay.
“I saved something,” I say, my face warming. “You’re my first I love you.”
“Really? Not even in that one relationship?” he asks. I shake my head—scratch the apology, Matt deserves a fruit basket. “So I should be honored.”
I smile. “Or terrified.”
He rebukes me for that joke with a hand squeeze. “My family had a thing we would say: I love you until the end of the world and after. Cassie and I—” Her name trips him up, but he continues after a few seconds, “We still said it to each other after our parents died. But I never said it to anyone else.”
That they carried on the tradition without their parents is both heartb
reaking and heartwarming. “That’s sweet,” I say.
He tucks my wet hair behind my ear with fingers warm from his cocoa cup. “What I’m saying is that I saved it for you, even if I didn’t know who I was saving it for.”
“But the world already ended,” slips from my mouth before I can stop it. It’s insane to argue when someone is professing an end-of-the-world kind of love, but I’ve never claimed to be a pillar of mental stability and mushy things still make me feel weird.
Eric blinks once, twice, and then squints skyward in disbelief. “You’re a real pain in my ass. Fine. We met in a new world, so I love you until the end of this world and after. Better?”
I duck my head to hide my blush and the way my insides have softened. “You’re such a schmaltzball.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” I peer through my hair to find him grinning. “Though I reserve the right to make fun of you.”
“If not this, you’d find something else.” He brings my hand to his lips. “And that’s one of the reasons why I love you until the end of the world, my precious, my sweet, my—”
“All right, all right, I get it,” I say.
Chapter 65
Eric
Last night’s bed under a rock wasn’t the worst place I’ve ever slept. Both Sylvie and I were stiff this morning, and as we waited for the tide to lessen we walked our small piece of island and stayed hidden from distant zombies. I think we’ve got a handle on the tides now. Low tide and high tide twice a day, with their times shifting about an hour each day, though those times are changing as we move south. With only twelve hours of light, one low tide is in pitch black and impractical for travel.
Today we’ll pass the Tappan Zee Bridge and then find a camping spot on shore, perhaps in Palisades Park. We’ve saved our fuel to motor down the river at high tide tomorrow and then row through the bay at low tide. I wasn’t kidding about liking the walls—I want to go home.
What I don’t want is to tell Maria. Maybe she can hold on to the hope that someone survived. I can’t seem to. After seeing the utter destruction of the cabin and the mobs that roam the countryside, I’m not sure I’d find Cassie as anything other than a zombie. It’s too dangerous to drag Sylvie on a wild goose chase and risk losing her, too. I almost lost her once, and I won’t let that happen again.
My allegiance to Cassie hasn’t waned, but I have additional allegiances now, more people to care for. If I didn’t have them, I’d continue the search, and I know without a doubt that Cassie would insist I do exactly what I’m doing. Nevertheless, guilt weighs me down. My chest is tight from rowing, and it tenses more at the thought of my funny, kind-hearted sister. Of John, who was a good man like my father. And of Penny, who was always at our house growing up, and who was nice to me even when I was a gangly preteen boy with a supersized crush on her.
I drag myself out of that thought spiral, though I can’t shake the heaviness. The river here is wide and a muddy brown, with choppy water that sets the boat rocking. The road along one shore has a gang of aimless bodies. The other is a town or small city, with industry at the river and houses in rows behind. And then trees surround us again. It’s cool today, and gray, but the wind and rain have ceased.
Sylvie sits in the chair at the stern, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes bounce from bank to bank and then land on me. “Want me to row?”
“The river is doing most of the work,” I say. “I’m only keeping us on track.”
She shields her eyes with her hand and peers into the distance. “How far is the Tappan Zee Bridge?”
“We’ve still got a ways.”
“The way you talk sometimes, it’s very salt of the earth.”
“I was going for more of a devil-may-care thing,” I joke.
“Sorry, you’re too nice for that. Sweet as pie, as you might say.”
“That is usually not a compliment.”
“It is from me. The bad boy thing is stupid. Why would you want someone to be a dick to you? Or brood all the time? I grew up with a brooder—they’re exhausting. But don’t worry, you’ve got the bad boy moves when you need them, just not the constant attitude.”
“Thanks. Maybe.”
Sylvie sets her feet on the boat’s bottom and leans forward. “Not maybe. You’re loyal and dependable and funny and smart. Anyone who doesn’t like that is more fucked up than I am, and that’s saying a lot.”
I busy myself with the oars, my ears warm at the insistence in her voice and the compliment itself. It makes sense Sylvie would appreciate those things, as she never had loyal or dependable people aside from Grace’s family, and possibly the grandma she’s mentioned a couple of times. I don’t want to be another person who lets her down, and I feel like I’ve let a lot of people down in recent months.
“You forgot my dashing good looks,” I say to lighten the mood. To lighten my mood.
“That’s because, obviously, you don’t need to be reminded of them.”
My laugh releases the tension of minutes ago. I love her, and she loves me, and it makes everything, if not perfect, then pretty damn great. I told her she’d be okay if I was gone, and I do think she’d manage emotionally, but I worry about her safety. She pulled her gun on those zombies at the marina—finally willing to see it as more than an accessory—but she needs practice. Now that the mobs in the city have grown in size and number, there’s nowhere to fire weapons without attracting many more Lexers than one wants hanging around. However, a moving boat is a different story.
“Guess what you’re going to do?” I ask. “Target practice.”
“When?”
“Now. On the boat. With that ammo we found, you have more than enough.”
I expect an argument, but she pulls the .22 from her holster and waits for her next instructions. I row closer to the tip of the peninsula that stretches halfway across the river. “We’ll start with things that don’t move, like trees.”
“You want me to shoot trees?”
“I want you to murder trees,” I say.
“This is more serious than I thought.”
I’d murder an entire forest if it would keep her safe. The peninsula has plenty of trees, but even better is the grassy area in which a couple dozen Lexers wander among picnic tables. It’s built up and bordered by a retaining wall, making the water deep enough to get close and not risk a zombie walking out.
I stop about fifteen feet from shore and point at the metal signpost stuck in the grass. “Try that first.”
“Should I stand?”
“Do you plan to do a lot of seated shooting in the future?” I ask.
The boat rocks side to side when she rises. This won’t be easy, but if she can get the hang of moving targets on a rocking boat, she’ll be good to go.
The first rounds go everywhere but the sign. The last pings off the metal. Sylvie’s jaw is tight when she sits to reload the magazine, and she mutters something about sucking. I lower the anchor using the winch, hand her the spare magazine, and take over loading the empty one.
“You don’t suck,” I say. “You need to lose the fear of the gun, and you need to focus. Imagine it’s a zombie coming for you, or for Leo. Imagine it’s Kearney.”
She shoves the magazine into the pistol. “Just his name pisses me off.”
“Good. Now go get him. Don’t forget to breathe and don’t close your eyes.”
Sylvie stands, ignoring the zombies, one of whom has plunked into the water. She raises the pistol and sights with her left eye. It doesn’t matter as much with a pistol as a rifle, but I wish my dad were here; he’d know best how to handle her dominant hand-eye issue.
She takes a moment to get accustomed to the movement of the boat, arms up and legs spread but not stiff, and then fires. It hits. I start to congratulate her, but she fires again. And again. Then seven more times in quick succession. Every last one hits the sign.
I turn to her, mouth agape. “I really hate that motherfucker,” she says.
&
nbsp; “I can see that.” I pass her the full magazine and hold out my hand for the empty. She slides it out like a pro and clicks the new one in.
“Now them,” I say, of the Lexers. They stand at the edge of the grass, heads and arms swaying and not much smarter than that metal sign. “Aim for the middle of the head. You’re most likely to hit something even if they move an inch or two. If you’re shooting a human, go for the torso. Center mass. Remember, with a .22 you might need more than one bullet, even close up.”
She nods to acknowledge I’ve spoken, but she’s in the zone. “Lounge singer,” she says, and fires twice. A man with a combover and shiny shirt falls to the grass and logrolls into the water. “Grandma.” Another two shots take down an older lady.
“Nondescript office guy,” she mutters, and a paunchy Lexer in khakis drops in one.
“You’re naming them?” I’m trying not to get excited in case this is a fluke, but she’s killing it out here.
“I’m telling you who’s next, so you know if I’m hitting what I aim for,” she says. “We still have Steampunk Dude and Lady Who Looks Like My Ninth Grade Math Teacher.” The two take the last five shots, and she frowns. “Stupid Steampunk moved.”
“They do that,” I say. “Try to anticipate it, if you can. But don’t expect to get a headshot easily. Guns are a last resort. And with people, you go for—”
“Center mass,” she finishes, then switches out the empty magazine for the full and aims again.
This time she doesn’t bother naming them. The ten bullets take out four Lexers, though every shot hits flesh above the shoulders. She drops to her seat and shrugs. “I guess that wasn’t horrible.”
She has no clue. I lean close, elbows on knees. “That was not only not horrible, but better than anyone has a right to expect, especially their second or third time with a weapon. Maybe even their twentieth time. You have no idea how hard it is to make a headshot.”
“Really?” She cocks her head in suspicion. “You’re just saying that.”