The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “I wouldn’t lie about this,” I say truthfully.

  “Can I try again?” she asks.

  “Of course.” I help to load one of the magazines and then wind up the anchor. “But because you’ve proven to be a crack shot, my love, I’m going to make it harder.”

  She groans. “Can’t I just coast on my success for a while?”

  “Nope.” I point to the back of the picnic area, where a small mob walks toward the noise. “They’re coming, and we’re leaving, but on the way you’re going to kill as many as possible. You’ve got this. And you’ve got twenty rounds at your disposal.” I set my 9mm beside me on the bench. “Make that thirty-eight.”

  Her head whips side to side. “I don’t know what to do with that one! They all look the same. Which one is it? Is it the your finger is the safety or your brain is the safety or the safety is the thingy on the side kind of gun?”

  “That one is your finger is the safety.” I begin to row, paying no heed to her dramatics. “But your brain is always your safety. First round is chambered. I’m moving closer now, so unless you want to be eaten, you’d better start shooting.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “I would.”

  She doesn’t believe me until the boat floats toward the grass. “You’re crazy!” she yells. “I am not doing this.”

  But even as she says it, she lifts the .22. I have no intention of going where one can reach her, but she doesn’t need to know that. I want to see what she can do under pressure. When we’re moving parallel less than ten feet away, Lexers begin to fall. She curses me in between every shot, then switches magazines and takes down more. At seven feet from the edge, she turns for my pistol, eyes ablaze.

  “It’s got a kick,” I remind her.

  “I’ve got a kick—for you,” she says, and grins before she turns to shore.

  Eighteen rounds later, my ears ring, thirteen more zombies are dead, and Sylvie sits in her chair flexing her hand as I row toward the center of the Hudson.

  “You’re definitely on my zombie apocalypse team,” I say.

  She smiles, drags my pack by her feet for ammo, and begins to reload without her usual reluctance. Fierce, fast, and hot as hell—she’ll be just fine.

  ***

  The Tappan Zee wasn’t bad, since we fired up the motor a half mile out and traveled fast enough to evade the bad timing of the few zombies who plummeted from the bridge.

  A couple miles later, the river becomes the choppy water that precedes high tide. A mile after that, even near the riverbank, the force is unrelenting. We can just make out the tall buildings of the city by afternoon, and it’s time to make camp for the night.

  Most of the land here is marsh, and, where we could go ashore, zombie-filled neighborhoods promise we’d be dinner in no time. The Palisades—the cliffs that rise above the Hudson—come into view. Hiking trails meander beneath, in the woods between river and cliff, but the trees are too thick to see if Lexers meander on them.

  A pebbled beach at the base of a rock fall looks promising. I don’t like the idea of being brained by a rock, but that’s less likely than a zombie coming upon us on flat ground. We run the motor until we’re close and then tie the boat to a vertical rock in the jumble of fallen boulders. Dark cliffs tower above our heads, with a strip of orange-brown where the old face fell away to form the rocky expanse on which we’ll camp.

  We’re both unsteady on our feet from the motion of the boat. After hours on the river, it takes a while for your body to accept the fact you’re on land. I point out a good-sized boulder that’s mainly flat, wide enough to camp on, and far enough that if any Lexers fall from the cliff, we’ll hear them before they near.

  Once we sit on the rock, watching the woods and river, I say, “Our last night of camping.”

  “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. They’re covered in zombie and dirt and things I don’t even want to know about.”

  “You have to become one with the dirt. Give in to it. You won’t mind as much.”

  Sylvie inspects her jeans, which are brownish where they’re not black. “You really did this for weeks? By choice?”

  “Of my own free will.” I motion at the scenery. “Admit it, it’s nice floating down the river.”

  She fingers her forehead. The bump has lessened, but the bruise is dark purple. “For a day trip, maybe. On a yacht with a bathroom. Speaking of which…”

  She assesses the woods and rocks before she comes to the only conclusion there is. I unclip my trowel from my pack and try not to smile. “Here you go.”

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Dig a cat hole and, when you’re done, use a stick to stir the poop before you fill the hole. Normally, as far away from the river as possible, at least two hundred feet, but the Hudson is already polluted and I don’t want you to go too far.” I examine the woods at the sides and back of the rock fall, and I’m not pleased with the visibility. “In fact, I’m coming.”

  Sylvie looks down at the trowel, then up at me, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing at the horror on her face. “No freaking way,” she says. “Some things must remain a mystery.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  She drops the trowel on the rock and leans back on her elbows. “Nope. We’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “As a heart attack. If you’re coming, I’m not going.”

  I could mention how she wiped my ass while I was sick, but I’d prefer that she actually want to sleep with me again. I relent. “Okay, forget digging a hole. Go between rocks behind that big boulder. I’ll see anything coming. But you still should bring back any toilet paper or wipes. We can burn it.”

  She drops her head with a whimper, rifles through her bag for the tools of the trade and a plastic sack I brought for this purpose, then walks off muttering. I watch her jump across rocks until she disappears behind the big one.

  My heartbeat sounds loud in my ears. She hasn’t been out of my sight for days, except in various closed and vetted bathrooms. It can’t have been more than a couple minutes when I start to move, though it seems longer. I’m almost there when Sylvie appears. She comes to a stop, rubbing antibacterial gel into her hands—she has an entire pouch devoted to bathroom paraphernalia. “Really?”

  “I got worried. How’d you do?”

  She resumes walking toward me. “Do you want a play-by-play, or will a simple fine suffice?”

  “Fine is good,” I say. “You did it. You pooped in the woods. Are you proud?”

  “Oddly, I am.” She narrows her eyes. “What have you done to me?”

  “A slow and subtle brainwashing. Ready for dinner?”

  We eat a meal of hot soup as the wind blows and the October chill bites. And then, because it’s our final night, I use more stove fuel to make the last of the cocoa. Sylvie leans on her pack, sips at her drink, and sighs contentedly.

  “I think I get it,” she says. “All the deprivation makes the little things better.”

  “That’s part of it.” I point across the river, where the last rays of sun have lit the trees and what’s left of the clouds red-orange. “And that’s another part.”

  I put my hand on her chest, which rises and falls with unhurried breaths. “Feel that? That peace?” She nods, eyes reflecting the orange sky, and I smile. “That’s the best part.”

  Chapter 66

  Sylvie

  We get on the river in early afternoon. The outboard motor hardly struggles against high tide, unlike our arms. The first low tide was in the dark this morning, and the second isn’t until later this afternoon. We don’t want to be in the bay or on the streets at night, which means we have to hit the bridge around low tide in order to row through the bay miles south by evening. We’re still surrounded by trees, but skyscrapers and the George Washington Bridge sit in the distance. Eric has told me how packed the bridge was, and though I tried to hold on to that peaceful feeling fr
om last night, it’s gone out with the tide.

  My mind rotates through our next obstacles: the bridge, the bay, the streets, Maria. Rowing would put it all off a little longer. We might have to stop using the motor soon anyway—there was the occasional zombie or piece of wreckage before, but they’re growing in number. So far, we can avoid it. In New York Bay it’ll be unavoidable.

  Rather than ponder that, I use the monocular to view our first obstacle. Fragments of bridge and road dangle between the bridge towers, though Lexers stand on the intact walkway at the edges. Fewer than on other parts of the bridge, which are Zombie Central, but enough to give me pause. The rails of the pedestrian path might be high enough to keep them up there. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, until a body drops, limp in midair, then slams to the water with a splash. Then another. The engine is loud, which will serve to tell the zombies we’re coming, though I’m not sure slowly drifting past would be a better option with the way bodies are falling.

  “We need hard hats,” I say, only half-joking.

  Eric can’t hear me over the engine, but I must look panicked because he leans to pat my shoulder with an encouraging smile. The gray bridge looms ahead. Faces peer over the rails. Eric turns right to avoid a piece of metal and then left at a body, following a winding path through the crap in the river.

  I grip my seat and urge my lungs to carry on, all the while whispering Holy fuck on repeat. Eric guns the motor, face grim. Just before the bridge, a cracking sound comes from the stern, followed by the crunching noise of the propeller being slaughtered like a metal spoon in a garbage disposal. The engine grinds to a stop. We stay in motion, but instead of straight under the bridge, we veer to the left.

  I grab the oars. Eric ousts me from the seat with, “I got it!”

  Moans come from above. This close, I can see the missing side rail of the lower roadway and all the bodies that stand on the brink above our heads.

  “Move away!” I scream. “To the right!”

  Eric responds instantly. A Lexer steps off the ledge as though out the door for a Sunday stroll. Its impact sprays us with water, and three more hit moments later. Zombie bombs. Always. I despise zombie bombs.

  Eric rows us upstream, where he pushes his hair back, panting. “Goddammit.”

  Fifty feet ahead, zombies nosedive to the water. A few float close, one on his back. He grabs for us and rolls facedown. After a minute of flailing, he drifts away.

  “Keep us here.” Eric rises to give me the rowing seat and moves for the motor. “Maybe I can fix it.”

  I frantically row back and forth to stay in place. Dropping the anchor into debris lodged under the water could mean the inability to lift the anchor later. Splash. Another splash. The stupid zombies continue their dives. Eric curses at the engine for the tenth time.

  We begin to drift toward the bridge no matter how hard I pull. The current has shifted with the tide going out, and it’s stronger than I am. Many times stronger than it was up north. The Lexers have stopped diving for the moment, and all the cursing in the world isn’t going to fix the mangled propeller. The Hudson, or the universe, has its own plan.

  “Low tide!” I yell.

  Eric spins to take in the bridge, then nods. “As fast as you can.”

  I stroke with all my might, wondering why he hasn’t taken over and wishing he would. He stands close enough that his knees touch my back, his face upturned and body tensed. I can’t see where I’m going, only the bodies I push with the oars as the current sucks us closer. My biceps are on fire, my breaths dry and rough. I do not want to be in charge.

  “Down!” Eric yells. He plants a hand on my head and shoves me forward, wrenching my neck, and then drops on top of me in the stern. A body hits with a thud that cracks the thick fiberglass bench and makes the boat see-saw sickeningly. It’s a woman, eyes pale and vicious, and she reaches for my ankle with her one unbroken arm as we pass under the shade of the bridge. Eric brings his knife through her forehead, pushes her off the bench, and begins to row.

  Between him and low tide, we emerge out the other side in seconds. I sit beside the dead body, still dazed from the past minute, and stare at Eric. His hair is wet with sweat and water spray, his breathing comes in gusts, and he wears a stunned holy-shit-we’re-not-dead expression. Now I know why he didn’t take over. The man was planning to save me from any Lexer that dared fall on my head. He’s out of his mind, but he’s incredibly considerate.

  “You’re crazy,” I say. “But thank you.”

  Even his laugh is a little crazed. He drops the oars and helps me toss the woman into the water without capsizing. “Did I hurt you? Sorry.”

  I roll my head on my shoulders. My neck is stiff, but not as stiff as it would be if a zombie landed on it. Or, rather, cracked like the bench. I have no complaints. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

  “I was ready for it. You weren’t.”

  “True. I was not ready for you to save me from a zombie falling a thousand feet onto my head.”

  “It wasn’t anywhere near a thousand feet.”

  “Oh, so no big deal.”

  He smiles and takes up the oars again. I sit in the stern and gasp for the fiftieth time today when I finally take in Manhattan. Washington Heights is reduced to rubble but for the buildings closest to the river. Riverside Park overflows with Lexers. All the people who ran when their neighborhood was destroyed likely ended up here and on the bridge. I want to punch whoever did this. I want to punch anyone who would consider doing this.

  Eric spares it a frown, but he’s busy dodging things in the water. A lot of things. Pieces of metal and fiberglass boats. Fluffy insulation that resembles waterlogged cotton candy. Empty bottles and food packaging. A flip-flop. A prescription bottle. All the everyday possessions people had on their boats when they were bombed.

  And then there are the people themselves. Dead, bloated people. An arm. A torso. A woman’s head tethered to a floating scrap of boat by tangled hair. People who appear dead until we near, and then they whip around and growl. The stench is bad and getting worse.

  The old buildings of the Upper West Side are intact. Two figures move along one’s roof. I grab the monocular, but they disappear before I get a look. “I saw people on a roof.”

  “Louis said there were some on the roofs up here.”

  The buildings of Midtown still gleam, though a few have shattered windows. Piers line the river, resembling floating warehouses with first-level loading bays and second-level offices. Aside from one Circle Line cruise on a school trip, I haven’t seen New York from this angle. It’s fascinating to see an entire marine world I never knew existed, even if it doesn’t exist anymore.

  The Empire State Building still towers above the others, its spire crisp against the blue sky and puffy clouds. I search for the High Line park with no success. You can see the water from the elevated tracks, but maybe it’s harder to see the park from the water.

  Eric keeps the boat in the center, where the current is strongest and the flotsam and jetsam either travel with us or stay out of our way. Up close, burnt-out Lower Manhattan looks worse than from a distance. Jagged buildings still stand, though a few lean to the side as though the apocalypse happened six years ago rather than six months. Windows are gone, blown out from bombs and fires, and water laps at the base of a few buildings closest to shore.

  “Is it sinking?” I ask.

  Eric stops rowing to inspect the damage. “Maybe. That could be rising water from the subways, but it’ll sink at some point. All that seawater will eat away at everything underground.”

  I’ve read about how the shape of Manhattan was altered through the years, built up on landfills and pushed ever outward in the quest for more edifices—more money. It didn’t take long for all that steel and glass and decadence to begin to crumble.

  I watch it a minute longer and say, “I find it tremendously satisfying Wall Street is going down first.”

  Eric grins. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I lo
ve you more than I did a minute ago.”

  The debris in the water is thicker here, at the end of the Hudson, though low tide has brought most of it to rest in the wide bay. It smelled bad before, but this pungent sewer stink is enough to make me gag.

  At the tip of Manhattan, Governors Island lies ahead to our left, the Statue of Liberty to our right. Wreckage bobs in water colored with the iridescent film of fuel. Eric labors at the oars. He not only has to move water but any garbage in our way as well.

  Boats are everywhere: semi-intact ones that overturned, as well as large chunks and smaller bits and pieces. A stinking, fetid mess of what I can only assume is human feces and toilet paper drifts by.

  “Is this where our toilet flushing goes?” I ask.

  “Pretty sure. There’s an emergency overflow to the bay when the sewage treatment plants are offline or overwhelmed. It happened during really bad storms every once in a while, but now,” he gestures to the water, “I think this is our sewage treatment plant.”

  It’s so disgusting I want to take fifteen showers. I’m thankful for the acrid smell of fuel because it cuts through the shit and rot. Amid the gently swaying garbage are bodies with fingers that curl and mouths that open. Some are waterlogged and swollen while others are fresh as can be. Any that fall into the river from Jersey and New York must end up down here. A woman watches us pass, one yellowed eye underwater and long hair floating like seaweed, and she lets out a frustrated yowl.

  We’re adding to this with every flush of our toilets. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the Verrazano weren’t in the way and our sewage washed out to sea, but there’s no way this isn’t going to make us sick at some point.

  “We never figured out that humanure thing?” I ask, and dip my nose into my shirt collar.

  Eric finishes steering around a half-submerged ferry. “It must be bad if you’re asking about humanure.”

  “I blame your subtle brainwashing.”

  “Give Grace the glory. She’s worked longer than I have.”

  “True.”

  I’m excited to see Grace. I begin to worry that SPSZ is gone, though I haven’t until now. Burned down or overtaken by zombies. By Kearney. Anything could’ve happened. I strain my eyes for a sign, but we’re too far.