The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” I ask.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she says, then glances at the windows, where she’s opened the shades. “Or not.” She looks me up and down, eyebrows drawn. “Did you sleep enough? You shouldn’t go if you’re tired.”

  “I’m okay.” I’m exhausted, but the adrenaline will make short work of that. I can’t foresee getting a good night’s rest before a trip like this, anyway.

  “You’ll be careful?”

  I sit beside her, angled her way. “Nope.”

  Her nose crinkles. As my sister would say, I like like Sylvie. I like her sense of humor and her strength and the vulnerability she tries to hide. I like her lips and her laugh and her brown eyes and her silly facial expressions. I can’t think of a single thing I don’t like.

  “Good. I was worried you’d be all careful and not get eaten,” she says, and wipes her hand across her forehead. “What a load off.”

  “I won’t do anything too dangerous.”

  “I have a feeling your too dangerous and my too dangerous are on opposite sides of the danger spectrum.” She says it lightly, but the circles under her eyes say she’s worried. A bit of pleasure circulates at the idea she might be worried about me.

  “I’ll be careful. My birthday is in just over two weeks, and I’ll be back to celebrate. But I’ll tell you right now, I expect cake.”

  She laughs and takes a breath, lips parted as if on the verge of saying something. There are sentences—paragraphs—of thoughts behind her eyes, yet she doesn’t speak. That’s something I don’t like. I try to understand how hard it must be for her, though I wish she would give me something before I go.

  “How’s your cheek?” I raise my fingers to where the scrape is healing fine. It’s a blatantly transparent excuse to touch her, but I can’t resist.

  Sylvie leans in close enough to kiss. Ten inches and I could taste her, but if I try to kiss her every time she comes within a foot of me, she might stop. She lifts a hand to my chest, her eyes drop to my lips, and my insides jolt. Hell, yes. This is better than anything she could say, and I move in before she changes her mind. Her lips are yielding, welcoming, and her scent fills my nose and mouth.

  She pulls away, eyes the color of melted chocolate and just as warm. This is the same person who held my hand while I was sick. “I’ll miss you,” she whispers.

  It’s happening. We’re happening. Up until this moment it seemed like both a given and an impossibility. I run my thumb along her bottom lip. Her teeth nibble gently, her tongue wet and warm, and I suck in my breath. “I’ll miss you more.”

  Her lips curve before they return to mine. I run my hands up her arms and down the arc of her waist, brush against her soft curves. This could be a goodbye kiss, never to be repeated, and I’ll take as much as she gives me while it lasts. I’ll do whatever she wants to keep her here because no matter how great I’d thought this might be, it’s better.

  I taste her neck and she makes a throaty sound, melting into me. My fingers caress the silky skin beneath her shirt while I wonder if it’s too far, too fast, but she straddles my lap without breaking contact. I groan at the press of her hips on mine—a spot of flame in all the heat.

  It’s unbearable that we still wear clothes, and her hand that fumbles with my belt buckle tells me she feels the same. I slip my fingers beneath her waistband, grazing satin and tantalizing warmth. Sylvie rocks on my lap and sighs into my mouth, tongue and lips teasing in time to her rhythm. She’s hot, in every sense of the word, and I’m on fucking fire.

  And then she’s gone. She lands to sit two feet away, flushed and breathless. I turn to her in confusion and then hear the footsteps on the stairs. A second later, Leo and Paul hit the parlor in their pajamas.

  “Morning,” Paul says. He scratches a hand through his hair and yawns, then does a double take. Sylvie looks dazed. I am dazed. My body still beats in time to our kiss and my brain still chants her name. We lean away from each other, overcompensating for our previous proximity.

  “Oh,” Paul says slowly. “C’mon, Leo. Let’s go make Eric breakfast. We’ll surprise him.”

  “Daddy, he can hear you!”

  Paul chuckles. “I don’t think he can.”

  “But I want to talk to Uncle Eric,” Leo says. “He’s leaving right after breakfast.”

  Paul grimaces apologetically and takes Leo’s sleeve. “You’ll talk at breakfast. C’mon—”

  “It’s okay,” Sylvie says. “You can stay.”

  Paul looks to me. I shrug, though I’d like to forcibly shove them downstairs and lock the connecting door. Leo bounds over. “Are you really leaving?”

  “I am,” I say, rather than let out a long, frustrated curse. “Will you miss me?” I glance at Sylvie as I say it, but she stares into space, fingers on her lips.

  “Of course I will,” Leo says.

  Sylvie smooths his morning hair and asks, “Want to help me make breakfast?” Leo pulls her to her feet, and she turns to me with a polite smile that’s as distant as we were close two minutes ago. It cools me down to a subzero temperature. “I promise it won’t be oatmeal.”

  I search her face for some remnant of emotion, but she’s shut me out. She knows it, too—I can tell by the way her face falls for a second before she covers it with that smile again.

  After they leave for downstairs, Paul groans. “Sorry, bro. I had no idea or I would’ve kept Leo upstairs. I might’ve had to break it up if you got too loud, though.”

  The sound I make falls just short of a laugh. “I don’t think that was going to be an issue.” Although if she was as into it as she seemed, I’m lying for sure.

  I stand and pick up my pack. Now I don’t want to leave with a want bordering on desperation. I want to follow that kiss more than anything. I want to make sure I didn’t imagine what she said and how she looked at me.

  “So, are you and Sylvie…?” Paul asks.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I’ll be your man on the ground while you’re gone. Maybe I can find out what she thinks.”

  “Paul, if you can do that, you’re a fucking magician.”

  After a breakfast of pancakes that Sylvie really did make, or helped with, we say goodbye in Hipster Zombie House. I didn’t get a chance to catch Sylvie alone, which seemed deliberate on her part, and I can take a hint. I pick up Leo and squeeze him, then hug Jorge, Grace, and Paul. Maria holds me so tight I can’t breathe. “You come back if it’s not completely safe,” she says.

  “Completely safe, Maria? Then I probably shouldn’t go at all.”

  Maria taps my nose. “You know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass.”

  I hug her again. That leaves Sylvie, who leans against the wall. She ducks her head as I move toward her, then looks up with that detached smile. “I’m not one for maudlin goodbyes. So, we’ll see you soon?”

  “All right,” I say. That’s it. That’s all I’m getting from her. My chest feels heavier than my pack, which is pretty damn heavy.

  She chews her lip, watching me, and then throws her arms around my neck. “I’m sorry I—” she whispers in my ear, and drops back against the wall.

  Her eyes glisten with remorse, but there’s also something defeated in them—and in the resigned twist of her mouth. I said I wouldn’t let her ruin it, and I’m beginning to think I have my work cut out for me.

  I cup her chin in my hand, and she meets me halfway. It starts as a semi-chaste kiss, and seconds later it’s as though I never cooled down. Sylvie winds my coat in her hand to drag me closer. I touch her face, her neck, and feel her pulse drumming as fast as mine. I didn’t imagine anything up there.

  After a few more seconds, and with every ounce of willpower I have, I tear my lips away, though my hand refuses to comply with my brain’s directive and lingers on her neck.

  “Get your ass back here, okay?” Sylvie says. Her pleading tone contradicts her joking words.

  I’m too choked up to answer. I nod
, give a final wave, and wheel my bike out the door.

  Chapter 6

  In order to leave Brooklyn for the north, I have three choices. Actually, I have more than three, but crossing into Manhattan only to have to cross a second bridge to get off Manhattan is plan B. Or maybe plan D.

  For now, I’m looking at the Triborough, Whitestone, and Throgs Neck Bridges. The Throgs Neck is farthest, and it crosses both the East River and Long Island Sound. Double the chance to not make it. The Triborough also requires two bridges be intact—it crosses the East River, spans Wards and Randalls Islands, and then passes over the water of the Bronx Kill. I’ve lived out of the city for so many years that I don’t remember details of the different crossings over the Harlem River north of Manhattan, although I know it’s not much of a river. I briefly toyed with the idea of heading into the city to check, but they likely blew the shit out of that area. That’s what I would’ve done, if I were asshole enough to leave everyone in New York to the zombies.

  A boat would be the best option, but it’s not an option, as far as I know. Someone, somewhere must have a boat, and that someone is not me. There has to be at least one plane at LaGuardia airport, which would be the safest mode of travel, except for the fact that I don’t know the first thing about flying. Pretty sure that knowledge might come in handy if one wanted to pilot a plane.

  I’ll try the Whitestone first, about twenty miles away, and, if I’m feeling particularly lucky, I might take a peek at the Triborough. But for now I’m cruising through Borough Park, your spot for kosher baked goods. Yesterday, when I said I would most likely go through here, Sylvie jokingly asked me to bring her back some rugelach.

  I wish I could. It’s shot to shit—broken everything and plenty of zombies in the modest attire of Orthodox Judaism. Dark men’s suits and long-sleeved women’s suits and small boys with crusty payess hanging beside gray little faces. No one is whipping up a batch of rugelach dough and filling it with jam or chocolate or Sylvie’s professed favorite, cinnamon with nuts.

  I can still taste her through the pancake syrup. It’s not helping me to ride my bike faster or keep my mind on the task at hand. I have to stop thinking about her. About all of them. I have to concentrate on the two hundred miles ahead and not look back, because there will probably be a zombie in front of me when I do.

  It’s getting time to plant upstate. Cassie will have started the seeds already. If she’s not there and John, our neighbor, is, he’ll have started extra. He always does, whether the spring has zombies or not, and I’ll help them get the vegetable starts in the ground before I return.

  Flatbush Avenue is a mess, but Flatbush Avenue always looked grubby with its buildings and garish store awnings covered in the grime of truck exhaust. I want to travel north, but a sea of zombies blocks the way. Eastern Parkway is reminiscent of the West Indian Day Parade, but full of dead people and moans instead of flamboyant costumes and lively music.

  I cross the Triborough off my list for now and head east. There are so many bodies. Dead on the ground, dead on their feet. Some blocks are immaculate and empty. Then I’ll pass another group, more burnt houses, and then nothing again. Up to now, the Lexers haven’t paid attention to each other unless following the noise of one who’s found a meal, but I could swear they’re mobbing into groups. It makes life both easier and harder. In the midst of one, I’d be fucked. Otherwise, I’m all for it.

  When green elevated subway tracks come into sight on the avenue ahead, I hit the brakes at the idea that I can travel them instead of the streets. I should have thought of it sooner. A dozen zombies lie at the base of one of the staircases situated on opposite corners, with a dozen more attempting to climb over them. I coast to the empty stairs across the street, carry my bike up the two flights, and push through the door into the turnstile area. The station attendant box is forced open and blue and yellow Metrocards litter the floor.

  I roll my bike to the stairs that’ll take me to the outdoor platform, then realize I have no idea where the hell I’m going. I can get to the city and parts of Brooklyn without a subway map these days, but I don’t remember the lines out here, and definitely not in Queens. I grab a subway map from the booth, then bring it and my bike to the platform.

  When I’m on the ground, I know my heart beats faster. I’m hyperaware of sound and movement, but I haven’t grasped how on edge I am until I stand on the platform to inspect the map. My heart slows. The jumpy, anxious feeling subsides. The wind blows, as it almost always does up here, gently rippling the paper. I’d forgotten what it’s like to feel hunted. Though our jaunts from the brownstone have been hair-raising at times, there was always the house to return to. Now I have nowhere safe. Except, I hope, these tracks.

  I can take them, meet up with other elevated tracks, and move into Queens. Once they tunnel underground, I’ll have to return to the streets. I fold the map and roll my bike to the end of the platform, where I move down the few steps to the slatted area beside the rails.

  We used to venture onto the tracks when we were young. One friend had a backyard that bordered the outdoor line of the D train, and we’d hop his fence and walk to the platform to skip the fare. We went into the tunnels, too. Usually on a dare and never for long—we’d all heard the stories of the Mole People who couldn’t wait to get their hands on those of us from aboveground.

  But I’ve never been out in the open on the elevated tracks like this, and it affords a view I couldn’t get otherwise. Meat markets and discount stores are decimated. Apartment buildings are burnt to a crisp. The busier streets are cluttered with trash, and zombies pace past bodies that didn’t turn. I don’t know for sure what transpired, but I can venture a guess that resources ran dry, literally dry, and then people took to the streets to find water. Between zombies and other people, they didn’t stand a chance.

  Blocks away, a few figures sit around a smoky fire on a low roof. I stop for a moment with the thought that I’ll wave, but they don’t look up. Maybe it’s better that way. Before, I had a reasonable expectation I wasn’t going to be killed at any moment. These days, it’s anyone’s guess.

  The tracks creak beneath my feet, and I reach for my gun. “Uh-uh-uh,” a deep voice says. “Hands up.”

  I raise them and turn. A meaty man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with ruddy skin and sandy hair, holds a pistol on me. Beside him stands a dark-skinned man with a bushy beard, in a leather jacket that’s seen better days. He swivels his eyes and gun up and down the tracks, then brings both to rest on me.

  “What are you doing here?” the blond guy asks.

  I’m really fucking tired of getting snuck up on. I’m aware I’m not a ninja, but there was no lookout, no sign of people, no nothing I could see. I have no idea what answer he’s looking for, so I go with the truth. “Trying to leave the city to find my sister. I want to get to the Whitestone or Throgs Neck.”

  “Yeah, so did everyone else. Not gonna happen. Now get off the tracks and go back to wherever you came from.”

  I spot movement on the platform ahead. A small figure is quickly snatched back into the recessed area with a faint squeal. A family could make you less dangerous or more dangerous, but these men seem more desperate than dangerous. The bearded one looks as though he wasn’t always this thin, though he still isn’t thin. His pants are loose. His eyes hang low. The blond one sniffs and runs his unarmed hand under his nose.

  “Are you living up here?” I ask.

  “What did I say? Did I say let’s have a conversation, buddy? You’re lucky we don’t take your bag. And your gun. Now, go.”

  “I know of a Safe Zone, that’s all I was going to say. I’m leaving.” I spin my bike around and throw a leg over the frame. I have to trust they won’t shoot me in my sweaty back. The tracks were a promising idea for the few stations it lasted.

  “All the Safe Zones are gone,” one says. I turn around. I don’t know who spoke, but they both look like they want that statement proven wrong.

  ?
??I know of another. So far, it’s safe, and they’re taking in people.”

  They exchange a skeptical glance, and the blond guy asks, “Where?”

  “Sunset Park. The park itself. Ask for Guillermo and tell him Eric sent you. Listen, I only want to get to my sister. I didn’t know anyone was up here.”

  “It’s safer than down there,” he says. “There were a few zombies up here, but we took care of them.” His gun still points, but his grip has relaxed.

  I nod. I’m not sure if we’re done here, but I don’t want a gun on me any longer than necessary. “I can see that. Okay, I’m going.”

  “Wait.” The bearded man hitches up his pants one-handed. “This guy—”

  “Guillermo,” I say.

  “Guillermo. How many people will he take in?”

  “You and your families.” I look to the seemingly empty station. “There are lots of kids there already.”

  He scratches at his beard and looks at his friend. The blond one gives a slight nod, and the bearded one says, “You can take the tracks if you want.”

  “You’ll let me pass?”

  “Yeah, we’ll let you pass, but we’ll have our guns on you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I turn my bike to walk it in that direction. They follow behind. I hear a few mumbles before the blond one says, “You won’t make the bridge. We tried it.”

  “When?” I keep my eyes forward, searching the platforms for a trap. The sun is hot, even nowhere near its apex, with all the clothes I wear. I want a drink of water, bad.

  “First week after it blew.”

  “It could be different now. The zombies move around.”

  “Nope, Whitestone and Throgs Neck are gone. We heard you could maybe walk across the G.W.” By the way he says it, it’s clear he doesn’t believe it, or thinks the far-off George Washington Bridge might as well be in Chicago for all the good it does us.