We lug our suitcase full of medications down the stairs. After careful packing of the vehicles, we lift the garage door, and, with a knock on the side, Paul sends them on their way. The truck turns onto the street, van close behind, and we set out next. The city is quiet enough to hear the truck’s engine from our route blocks away. I focus on what’s ahead, though it’s hard to focus on anything but food. There was a lot of baking stuff in there, and I am willing to learn to bake if it means I get to eat baked goods.
“Can you teach me to bake?” I ask Indy when she veers close.
She glances at me, bent over her handlebars. “You want to bake?”
“Why is that so weird? If there’s any cooking I would ever want to do, it would be baking.”
“True.”
“I once saw a recipe for a Twinkie cake. Could we do that?”
“Twinkies?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “Twinkies? That is…no.”
I laugh. “Fine, then something—”
The screech of brakes from blocks away is followed by the thud of a crash, a second thud, and the tinkle of shattering glass. A horn blasts, and it doesn’t blast once—it blares and continues blaring. We slow our bikes, ears trained to the broadcast of their location, and race that way.
The horn stops as abruptly as it started. A block down, the front of the box truck is buried in a storefront. The van is behind, front tires lifted inches off the ground and nose resting in the truck’s cargo area. Lexers surround them, and more spill from a store and hobble down the street. Eric was right; they’re up to speed now.
“Are they in there?” Indy asks, shielding her eyes for a better view. There’s no reason to go near if they’ve escaped—we’ll move the zombies away once they grow bored of the commotion.
Eric lifts his radio. “Rob? Dennis? Are you in the truck? Is anyone in the van?”
“We’re in the truck,” the radio crackles with Dennis’ voice. “Rob’s hurt. I don’t think they can get in, but he’s bleeding pretty bad.”
“Where?” Eric asks. “Where’s he bleeding?”
“Arm. Think it was glass from the store. Hang on.”
At a noise from behind, I drop my bike and turn, chisel ready. Ten Lexers coming. I run for an SUV’s roof to distract them while Grace and Indy make for a car on the other side of the street. The four stumbling my way won’t present a problem if I’m up here, and I have nothing to prove. I will get up high or behind something or under something every single time when it comes to zombies.
I bend for the first—a raggedy old woman with fissures for wrinkles—and push my chisel into the white hair at her temple. The next one takes my wrist, and I sink my chisel deep enough into his eye that it makes a popping sound on its way out.
The SUV shakes with footsteps as Paul comes to my side. I grip the long hair of a teenage boy, slam him against the car, and drive the chisel down. Paul gets to his knees, denting the roof with his weight, and clobbers a teenage girl over the head with his Halligan. The adze cleaves her skull down the center in a sickening display of mushy brown brain matter and bone shards. I scan the street as Grace and Indy trot our way with Eric and Eli, but all other Lexers are at the vehicles or on their way there.
“Dennis made a tourniquet,” Eric says, “but he’s not sure Rob can make it until we get help. We need to get him out.”
“Guillermo?” I ask.
“In the van. I don’t know how they’re doing.”
They doubtless weren’t wearing seatbelts, and though they couldn’t have been going that fast, it might’ve been enough to injure.
Eli’s gaze roves the street. He’s tranquil as can be while I’m drenched with sweat, wanting to both rescue and run. It’s an instinct, the running, and has to be overruled by my intellect. I couldn’t face Rob’s family if we left him to die. Forget his family, I couldn’t face myself.
“Two of us to distract,” Eli says. “Four to get them out and home.” He points to Grace and Indy. “Get the mob away, then get help.”
Grace and Indy will be safe, and I’m not leaving Eric. The four of us move down the block, staying low behind parked cars, while Grace and Indy mount their bikes. Indy’s bell rings, but the Lexers are five deep around the vehicles and so loud they don’t hear.
The truck is lodged in the front of a hardware store attached to the corner building. The one-story store was once a garage, though the faded sign suggests that was long ago. A narrow driveway sits on the other side of the store, an SUV parked within, and its iron gate is topped with razor wire.
Eric spins in a crouch, finger pointing that way. “We get into the driveway, climb to the store roof, and pull them up and out the windows.”
It’s the only plan that doesn’t involve certain death for someone. Glass smashes at the van, and Felipe emerges from the driver’s side window head-first, forehead bloody. He flips around and grasps the doorframe to pull himself to the roof. Hands seize his jacket, yanking him downward, and he ducks back inside, where he kicks at the windshield instead.
We race across the street. Paul fits the Halligan’s curved end between the halves of the driveway gate and throws his weight behind it while Eric, Eli, and I stab at the few bodies who notice our arrival. Indy’s bike bell silences, followed by a shout, and then Indy and Grace run toward us. Whether drawn by the bell or the horn, another mob has turned the corner.
The gate snaps open and we race through, though it won’t relock. Paul, Eric, and Eli climb the SUV to the roof while Grace, Indy and I push against the gate. We stand motionless, ready to run if the mob decides we’re their next stop. I flick my eyes between the coming Lexers and Paul, who walks the truck roof to step onto the van’s hood.
“Get down!” he yells.
His Halligan smashes the windshield into a million pieces. Paul scrambles back onto the truck to give them room to exit. They struggle out and to their feet, Guillermo hugging his waist as if hurt. Paul hauls Guillermo up to his side, but, as he does, the van slips from the truck’s cargo area and drops to the street, bouncing on its tires.
Felipe goes off balance, his foot slipping through the windshield opening, and he slams stomach-down on the hood. Grimy hands instantly grab what they can. Hair, jacket, ears, open mouth. Every inch of Felipe has dirty fingers scrabbling to bring him down.
Paul leaps to the hood a moment too late, and I stifle a scream as Felipe slithers off the metal. Grace whimpers beside me. He disappears below the bodies, then struggles above them to stand on the van’s running board, his beautiful eyes round with fright. Hands travel under the hem of his jacket and teeth fight to bite through the fabric. His lower half is hidden from view, but they must be there, too.
Paul beats at them with his Halligan, the other hand grasping the shoulder of Felipe’s coat. He could pull him to safety if Felipe would let go of the doorframe, but Felipe holds on for all he’s worth, head whipping side to side. He’s beyond clear thought, caught in a frenzy of terror.
A middle-aged woman tangles her fingers in his hair, yanks him down and back to expose his neck, and sinks her teeth in. The explosion of blood drives the crowd wild. Felipe drags himself back to standing and clutches the van while they tear through his coat into his torso. His hoarse, guttural screams work their way into my lungs until I breathe in time to their rise and fall. Paul has lost his grip on Felipe’s jacket, but though it’s too late for rescue, he doesn’t stop his desperate assault on the Lexers.
A gunshot cracks. Felipe jerks into silence, the side of his head spurting blood and bone, and then collapses into the crowd. On the roof of the truck, Guillermo lowers his gun. His shoulders pump with his breathing. I can’t see his face from here, and I don’t want to. Paul retreats from the hands that grab at him, jumps to the truck, and drags Guillermo to the store roof, where Eric and Eli have brought Rob and Dennis to safety.
It happened so fast. Seconds. That’s all it takes. I tear my eyes away when the end of the new mob stops before our gate, dispersing only feet away
. Our escape is blocked. This is more like a canyon than a driveway—behind us is a windowless wall and one side three stories of solid brick. The low roofs of the garages are our only exit.
A woman in the mob turns, mouth gaping to reveal chipped teeth, and looks straight into my eyes. Hers are a lusterless brown, the whites yellowed and shot with black veins. I hold my breath as she takes a step toward me, and five more turn to see what has her attention.
The three of us can’t climb that SUV at the same time. “Go, I’ll follow,” I say in a low voice, and shove Grace with my hip before she can argue.
She bumps into Indy, and they run for the car. The woman sinks crusted black fingernails into the arm of my leather coat, and though I know she can’t get through, I clamp my lips to keep from screaming. I pull my face out of reach and push the iron against the force of the man who’s joined her. They’ll be right behind me when I run. My head whirls with the terrifying thought that I won’t make it.
“Now, Sylvie!” Indy yells.
I let go and spin for the SUV. The gates fly open. Bullets twang while I scramble up the hood. Before I’ve made it past the windshield, I’m dragged by my shoulders to the garage roof, where I fall backward onto Eric. His arms clasp my chest and his breath hums in my ear, along with what’s either a curse or a prayer.
Grace, Eli, and Indy lower their guns. There’s no point in shooting the ones in the driveway. More bullets draw more zombies, and we don’t have enough ammo on us anyway.
“Need some help here!” Dennis yells.
Eric and I stumble to our feet. I was afraid before, but there was no time to experience the sensation in all its shaky-legged and stomach-twisting glory as I do now. Eric’s eyes are dark with alarm that hasn’t subsided, and he nearly carries me from the edge of the roof to where Dennis kneels.
Rob’s open jacket reveals clothes drenched in fresh blood. His face is grayish white. Grace kneels, hands fastened around his upper bicep. “The tourniquet came off.”
“Hold the pressure while I move his arm,” I say, and turn to Dennis. “Get him sitting up a little if you can.”
Dennis complies, inching his body under Rob’s head and torso until they’re off the ground. Slowly, so Grace doesn’t lose her grip, I raise Rob’s arm above his head. Everyone stands back, watching, and it’s as though I’m watching myself, too. This person who just took charge like she’s knows what the hell she’s doing.
But she sort of does. I might be wrong, but a steady diet of survival books for the past months had to leave some mark. And they all have the same general advice: Number one, calm the fuck down. Number two, deal with the situation.
Tourniquets can do more harm than good. I think. And Grace’s pressure, along with raising his arm above his heart, might be enough to stop the bleeding and save him from any nerve damage done by an improperly applied tourniquet. If he lives. Right now, I’m not certain he will. It’s not looking good for any of us.
I watch Rob’s arm until the bleeding is negligible and then dig in my bag for a cloth. I take my clean knife from my belt, rip it in half with the blade, and attempt to tie the two strips.
“What are you trying to do?” Eric asks.
“Tie them together.”
He takes them from my hands, skillfully rips and then knots the two pieces in some unusual way, and then yanks hard to be sure it holds. I guess I should read up on knots. Grace lets go on my word, and I wrap the cloth firmly around Rob’s wound. Two minutes later, the gray cloth remains gray instead of turning red with new blood. I wipe the sweat from my face, nod at Dennis’ thanks, and guzzle water from the bottle in my bag. It sloshes uneasily in my stomach.
“Now what?” Paul asks.
The garage roofs sit behind the first five houses of the side street, and we can easily break a rear second-story window and leave out the front if the mob isn’t there. We climb the fire escape ladder to the taller roofs, but the Lexer-packed street reveals the easy plan is not to be, and the six-story building at the end of the five houses prevents travel along the roofs or through yards. We have zombies on three sides, a tall building on the fourth, and our radio calls go unanswered.
Waiting it out isn’t an option. Rob needs medical attention, and I’m tapped out of medical expertise. Eric eyes the six-story building, whose depth shrinks on its upper floors to reveal a balcony at the rear of each apartment. The first windows twelve feet up are gated, but the ones on the story above are not.
“I can climb it,” Eric says. “I’ll go through the yards and get help to lead them off.”
The second row of windows are set into a flat brick wall impossibly high above our heads. I don’t see how it’s possible without the aid of a ladder, or a rope, or whatever people use to climb mountains. Either Eric has suction cups for limbs or he’s out of his mind.
“How?” Eli asks, eyes squinted in doubt.
“I can get in those windows or over to that balcony on the fifth floor.”
Eric tightens his small pack and walks to the wall. He’s going to do this, and then he’s going to plummet to the lower roof and die, or crack his spine. I run to where he feels the brick with his gloved fingers, evaluating the surface. “You can’t climb this wall.”
“Rob might die if I don’t. It’s just a little buildering. Not that dangerous, I promise.”
“Remember how your version of dangerous and my version of dangerous are two different things?” It comes out tiny and pitiful instead of with the humorous air I’d intended. I can tell he’s going no matter what I say, and if it were Eric bleeding out, I’d want someone to climb a brick wall for him.
Eric kisses my forehead, and I take a bit of solace that his worry lines are nowhere to be seen. “I’ll be back within the hour,” he says. “Love you.”
I back away and clutch Grace’s arm. It’s only when he’s found purchase to climb three feet that I realize I didn’t say it in return. It feels like a bad omen, but I can’t distract him now.
Eric’s legs are spread, arms too, and he inspects the brick carefully between each move. His fingers dig into some invisible hold only he can see, and then he raises a boot to a new spot.
I sag with relief when he reaches the first set of windows. He stands on the sill and rattles the gate, then shakes his head and begins the climb again, changing course midway for a window five feet over. I know he must be following handholds, but he’s also giving me a nervous breakdown. Three more feet and he’s at the base of the window. One hand grips the stone windowsill, then the other, and he pulls himself to standing in the window frame. Exhales come from all around, mine the loudest.
“He really just Spider-Manned his ass up a wall,” Indy says in awe.
Paul, who has watched this whole thing completely unperturbed, laughs. “He used to do this shit in high school. Crazy fucker.”
Eric motions us to retreat, then kicks the window. Glass shards clatter to the roof. He clears the remainder with his boot and climbs inside. A moment later he reappears, gives a thumbs up, and is gone from sight. I take the ladder to the garage roofs and watch him exit the apartment’s balcony and hop down to the next. A real hop. Somewhere in his freak mind, he’s enjoying this.
He turns at the far edge of the balcony and raises his hand in a salute. I blow him a kiss and shake my head. He may be a crazy fucker, but that’s likely the reason he’s still alive. This time, I won’t worry that he won’t come back.
Chapter 72
They arrived in a half hour and led the Lexers away in minutes. While we rode to SPSZ with Rob, they salvaged the food and medicine, collected the bikes, and brought home Felipe’s body. Dennis told us about the mob that came from the right where the street dog-legged. He sped up to get through before they converged, as did Felipe, but a body caught in the wheel well slowed the truck, and Felipe rammed them from behind. Guillermo didn’t say anything, and he still hasn’t. His jaw is loose, eyes unfocused, and he rubs his hand over his cheeks with a raspy sound he doesn’t seem to no
tice.
We have an official infirmary now. After I showered, I made my way through the brick rotunda of the rec center and down to the kitchen wing, where a small office has a bed, our suitcase of medicine, and a desk for Maria.
Guillermo sits in a wooden school chair in the hall outside the office. I stand beside him, hand resting on his shoulder. He pulls at his chin and stares. “Did you see her?” he finally asks.
“See who?”
“Elena. Felipe’s wife.”
I imagine how she must look and think of how much I don’t want to see, then say, “No. Do you want me to find her?”
He shakes his head. “She’s just…wrecked. Fuck!”
His hands cover his face and his legs jounce on the balls of his feet. Even though he pulled the trigger, killing Felipe was a mercy, both for Felipe and for Elena. To know for sure he’s wandering around as a zombie has to be worse. There’s no way it’s not.
Susan, Rob’s wife, comes into the hall. Her curly hair is a mess and her eyes sport pink pouches. She spares a sympathetic look for Guillermo and then strides for me in a way that makes my heart leap to my throat. Maybe Rob did need a tourniquet. Maybe he’s dying and it’s my fault.
As she closes in, her severe face dissolves and she wraps me in a hug. “Thank you. Maria says you did exactly the right thing.”
I go woozy at the news I didn’t kill a husband and father of three and pat her bony shoulder blades. Though I can do hugs nowadays, hugs from acquaintances are still awkward, especially from someone as staid as Susan. She’s affectionate with her kids, but she doesn’t give off a touchy-feely vibe.
After a moment, she steps away and straightens my shirt. “Sorry. I don’t usually hug people I don’t know. But now I know you. You’re the person who saved my husband.”
She’s giving me way too much credit. “Dennis put the tourniquet on. I just helped after it fell off.”
“Maria says that if he’d had the tourniquet on too long, he might’ve lost his arm or not been able to use it again.”
“All right, so I saved his arm. Dennis saved the rest of him.”