She giggles at her joke, in a fine mood now. I stifle my laugh. I get a kick out of her grouchiness, but she can’t know that.
“That’s it, you are so dead.” I straddle her and tickle her sides until she’s screeching and bucking. Someone knocks on our door, and I suspend my torture to say, “Come in.”
Jorge enters, lips twitching at our current state. “Sorry to interrupt, but Gary just came by. He said it looks like they’re frozen and we should be ready to go if the temperature stays where it is.”
We’ve been sticking close to home until the zombies freeze. They must be frozen up north, but they aren’t here, even in mid-December. It’s been cold, just not for long enough. Yesterday’s temperatures slowed them considerably, and we waited for our chance, but they kept moving after thirty hours. If the cold continues today, it should be enough.
“We’ll be ready,” I say.
Sylvie takes advantage of the distraction and slithers out from under me, then picks up and sniffs yesterday’s jeans. “Get your lazy butt out of bed already.”
There’s no sense putting on clean clothes if we’re going out into the world. I find yesterday’s outfit, reveling in the fact that our room is warm, something for which I’m grateful every morning. I’m not sure how spring will play out in terms of water, if we get a prolonged freeze and pipes burst all over the city, but we have the swimming pool for storage and can always revert to rainwater collection.
If the water goes, so do our radiators, and we’ll need alternate heating plans if we’re here next winter. I don’t know where else we’d go, though I’d like a backup besides the nearby building we chose as a bug-out location. As it is, we can scarcely travel outside SPSZ, forget build a satellite Safe Zone, and, if we’re not there to defend it, any supplies could end up a loss.
We’re on our assigned roof by dawn, with coffee in insulated mugs. Sylvie sips hers. “This tastes like shit.”
“They’re watering it down so we don’t run out.”
“Maria is going to lose her mind.”
She bounces from foot to foot, breath coming in clouds. It’s twenty degrees, according to the thermometer, and it doesn’t look likely to go above freezing today. The sun’s weak rays hit two zombies who sit on the sidewalk half a block down. One’s arm twitches. The other turns its head when I whistle, then attempts to drag itself toward the sound. It gets six inches before it collapses. I try to quash my excitement, to no avail. I think this is it. And so must the others—they’re moving trucks on the other side of the park.
“What’s today’s word?” I ask.
“I was thinking we should save the ones we have left. Maybe one word a week until they’re gone.”
“Why?”
Sylvie sips at her coffee and avoids meeting my eyes. “Once they’re done, it’ll be over.”
She isn’t just talking about the words, and her superstitious notion makes me rap my head with my knuckles while I say, “Nothing will be over except the calendar.”
“Why are you knocking on your head?”
“My dad did it when there wasn’t any wood around. And when there was. He said it was just as good.”
“I wish I could’ve met your dad,” she says. “Seen the source of the freakness firsthand.”
I yank her to my chest, and we watch the two zombies lie below. Dad would’ve loved Sylvie, without a doubt. No one appreciated a kickass woman with a smart-alecky sense of humor more than him. I can’t guarantee our safety, but there might be a way to allay her fears some. It’ll take a dictionary or thesaurus, but I have enough time before the new year.
An hour later, the sun hangs low in the southeast and the temperature is twenty-one degrees. Rissa and April exit the roof door, bulky in winter clothing and both carrying a pistol.
“What are you doing here?” Sylvie asks.
“They put us on watch,” Rissa says. “You’re going out. They said to tell you to be at 6A in half an hour.”
“Does Guillermo care that you have a gun?”
“Does Guillermo care about anything?” Rissa asks. Sylvie nods as though she has a point. Guillermo has checked out for the past few weeks. “He showed me how it works a long time ago. But we’re only supposed to use it to call for help.”
We head for the house, where Paul, Indy, Grace, and Eli suit up in the foyer. Maria and Leo will stay home, and Jorge has already left in a van with nine other people to move cars and frozen bodies.
“Can I go?” Lucky asks, wearing a puffy parka and hopeful expression.
Eli looks up from his leather gloves and appraises his nephew coolly. “You’re going to keep your head on out there?”
“No,” Lucky says, “I’m going to take it off and leave it on a supermarket shelf.”
Indy snorts while she zips her coat. Eli draws himself to full height, possibly about to give Lucky a talking-to, when she says, “Let him come. They’re frozen.”
“Thanks, Auntie,” Lucky says, and kisses her cheek before he runs off.
“You’re going to let him go when he won’t be serious about being serious?” Eli asks Indy.
“He was being funny. Have you noticed he’s started joking with us again? Not everyone is Serious Lawyer Man twenty-four seven.” Indy stalks toward him. She may be half a foot shorter, but she stands up to him just fine. “You’re not our father, or his. Maybe we can find you a sense of humor at Fort Hamilton.”
Eli lets out a humph, and Sylvie and Grace giggle before we join the party atmosphere by the gate. Five trucks wait, engines running, two of them large rental moving trucks. It’s an optimistic number of vehicles.
Gary lumbers over. He’s a solid guy, and though his gut has shrunk, it’ll take more than eight months of fewer calories before you can call him slim. He rubs at his face, which is more lined since he’s taken over much of Guillermo’s duties. “Guillermo went with the van. Keep an eye on him.”
“Will do,” I say. “Did he want to go?”
“Negative. But it’ll do him good.” He holds out a map and points to a street. “See here? They’re taking down the fence to get to the loading bays.”
“You’re not coming?” Sylvie asks.
“No, I’m staying in case there’s a problem here. Figure you all can handle it.”
“That’s affirmative,” Sylvie says.
Gary’s lines curve upward—his version of a smile. “See you when you get back.”
Dennis will drive our truck. Rob isn’t yet healed, and he stands off to the side pouting as much as a thirty-something-year-old father of three can pout. Susan holds his arm as though he’ll take off for a vehicle if she doesn’t.
“Be careful, Den,” she says to Dennis. “There’ll be no living with him if something happens to you.”
Dennis chuckles and kisses her cheek, then plants one on Jean’s lips. “It’s all good,” he says to his two boys, who watch him with wide eyes. “This is the safest we’ve been since April.”
Sylvie, Dennis, Paul, and I get into one of the moving trucks. It’s a tight fit in the front, even with Sylvie on my lap. We lead the way on Sixth Avenue, then move down to Fifth after we’ve passed Sacred Heart. They’ve kept to themselves, and we want it to stay that way.
Zombies lie on the streets and sidewalks. They sit slumped over, though the few who aren’t fully frozen through watch us pass, eyes jerking in their sockets.
“Creepy,” Paul says.
“Better than chasing us,” I say.
A narrow path opens between stopped cars—Jorge and the others’ work. We pass apartment buildings and a gas station, then turn the wrong way onto a one-way narrow street lined with brick semi-detached homes and parked cars.
It widens into two lanes, and Dennis breathes out. “I don’t like that one lane business. Makes me feel trapped.”
I feel the same. There’s no turning around, and reversing five trucks can’t be done at the drop of a hat. After a curve, we come upon a dead-end outside the military base, where our van i
s parked beside a fence. Two sections of chain-link and razor wire have been removed, and Jorge and the others are in the lot behind a squat brick building, dragging bodies to make room for our vehicles.
I watch them work—bend, stab head, pull body to side. Every zombie killed is one fewer in the spring, and there are hundreds in the lot. The supermarket is full-size, with three loading bays, one of which is occupied by the trailer end of a tractor-trailer.
Dennis points to a Freightliner cab parked off to the side. “If we can get that working, I can get that trailer home.”
“The road back’s not too narrow?” Paul asks.
“It is if you’re driving,” Dennis says, smiling, and cuts the engine.
It’s cold on the street with the wind coming off the water, but the sight of all those motionless monsters warms the heart. The occupants of the other trucks join us on the sidewalk, every eye glued to the store.
“It’s big. Think it’s full?” Indy asks.
Jorge joins us at the tail end of her question. “Smells like hell, but there’s a lot in there. I think the Lexers escaped the hospital before anyone knew what was going on.”
The VA hospital was the same story as every hospital—overwhelmed by nightfall of that Friday. It sucked for the families who lived here, but it’s a boon for us. I unsheathe my knife and get to work on heads.
After we clear out enough space, we lift the rolling doors for light and head through the backroom into the store. It’s a murky gray instead of pitch black due to the small windows high on the side walls and the wall of glass in front, and it smells awful. Rotted produce and burst milk containers add to the atmosphere, with decayed meat to round it out. We use flashlights to walk the aisles and find row after row of fully-stocked shelves. Even with the food that’s gone off, there are plenty of canned goods and cereals and baking supplies and coffee.
“Temperature’s gone up five degrees,” Jorge says from behind me. “We have to move.”
“All right. This is incredible.”
“Tell me about it.” He leans against a shelf of canned vegetables. “How’re you holding up? You know, with your sister and things?”
I watch his breath fog up the flashlight beam. The truth is I ignore the aching feeling she’s gone and try not to think about it. I also try not to blame myself. It doesn’t always work. “I’m all right. How’s Maria really doing?”
“She has her moments, but she’s okay.”
“I’m glad you guys are…a thing.”
“Must be like I’m the last man on Earth or something. I know when someone’s out of my league.” He chuckles, though, which makes me think he knows she isn’t settling but counts himself as lucky nonetheless.
“No one is out of your league, Jorge,” Sylvie says as she moves into the light.
He hooks his thumb at Sylvie and shakes his head. “This one.”
“It’s true!”
“Sylvie, if you were in charge of the world, I’d live like a king.”
She laughs. “Candy for everyone! Especially you.”
Jorge hugs her to his side. There’s real love between them, and Sylvie’s affectionate gaze makes no secret of that fact. I know she’s changed with me, but I think she’s changed with everyone.
“You’ve got a good one here,” Jorge says to me.
“I’m not letting her get away.”
“What am I, a dog?” Sylvie asks. “I’ll go wherever the hell I want.”
“No doubt, mami,” Jorge says, then winks at me. “Better keep her on a short leash.”
I laugh, and she says, “Jerks. Go do something productive before I punch you both.”
“Her bark is worse than her bite,” I say to Jorge, who chortles, and we narrowly avoid her steel-toe boot.
Once we’ve set up floodlights, we get to work. Flattened boxes from the back are re-taped and loaded with cans. Bundles of cereal boxes are wrapped with plastic wrap from the storage aisle. Bags from the checkouts hold whatever will fit. The work and lifting keep us warm while the temperature holds at twenty-eight degrees.
A few people take a walk to the PX, and Sylvie comes skipping back with the news there was a wide assortment of worthwhile items now being loaded onto a truck. With over twenty people to help, we empty all but the cleaning supplies and pet food sections in four hours, and we get a good bit of those, since Dennis has hooked up the truck in the lot.
“Thirty-one degrees,” Eli says.
They won’t spontaneously thaw at thirty-three degrees, but our freezer tests showed they thaw out quicker than we thought they would. We set off, fourth truck in line behind the van. I drive the U-Haul now that Dennis is in the semi, and I grind my teeth at Paul’s driving pointers. So far, I need to lighten up on the gas as well as floor it, turn corners both wider and tighter, and basically anything else he can think to critique. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have Paul as a passenger. I should’ve let him drive to avoid the headache, though it’s another kind of headache with him at the helm.
“Bro, stop gassing it so hard,” he says.
“Oh my God, Paul, he’s fine!” Sylvie yells from the bench seat between us.
It’s his tenth bit of advice, and it was old ten times ago. It’s good Sylvie’s in the middle or I might’ve clocked him already. “Do you want to drive, Paul? Is that it?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.
I switch on the hazards and coast to a stop so that Dennis, behind us, has ample time to brake, and then I trip Paul as we switch places in front of the cab, which only serves to amuse him more. Back in the truck, Sylvie has opened up her messenger bag to reveal packages of candy that crinkle as she sorts through them, and there’s more candy in a plastic bag on the floor by her feet.
“You took candy?” I ask.
“No, I was told to take candy,” she says. “By Guillermo.”
“He spoke?” He was head down and quiet every time I spotted him.
“I said, ‘Candy!’ And he said, ‘Take some, take it all, I don’t care.’ So I did, but obviously not all. Did you see all that candy?”
“You knew he would say that. You used poor, defenseless Guillermo to score candy.”
“Did not.”
“You absolutely did—” I stop because she’s plugged her ears with her fingers. Paul slaps the steering wheel in glee, and I look out the window and mutter about what pains in the ass they both are.
“Nice parking job, jerkoff,” Paul says to a car angled at a hydrant.
Sylvie takes her fingers from her ears. “They could’ve jumped out to escape zombies.”
“It had a ticket on the windshield. They weren’t giving out tickets then.” He moves his attention to the truck in front of us. “Eli drives like my grandma.”
Sylvie watches the box truck, which is traveling at a completely reasonable speed. “Aren’t we supposed to go sl—”
Paul brakes dramatically when Eli’s brake lights flash once. “Jesus, whoever’s in front loves their brakes. Figures the hundred people left in the world all have no idea how to drive. Amateurs.”
Sylvie casts a musing look my way, and I say, “Welcome to Paul behind the wheel.”
“Bro, you have to admit people drive like idiots.”
“Not people. Person.”
He makes a dismissive noise. “You’re just jealous. Can you drive, Sylvie?”
“Of course,” she says. “Can you?”
“Jury’s still out on that one,” I say.
Paul ignores me. “Not everyone who grows up in the city gets a license.”
“Sometimes I had to rent a car when we flew to see clients.”
That sounds like a lot more than what she’s made her job out to be. “What exactly did you do again?” I ask.
“I told you, I wrote copy. Ads and things.”
I think she hasn’t told me the full story, and I can tell she isn’t planning to now. The trucks slow, then stop, before I can grill her more. Paul is patient for a millisec
ond before he pounds both hands on the dashboard. “What’s the holdup here?”
“You have a serious road rage problem,” Sylvie says. “I hope you didn’t do that in front of Leo.”
“At least I’m not a candy thief.”
“You want to know why I have that candy, Paul Malarkey?”
Paul keeps his eyes on the road, only half listening. “Enlighten me.”
“For Christmas. For your son’s stocking. Just because the rest of us aren’t exchanging gifts doesn’t mean Santa isn’t coming.”
Paul stops tapping his fingers. “Shit. I need to get him some presents.”
“I got some at the PX,” Sylvie says. “I shoved them in the back of the truck. And I’ve been gathering things I find in houses.”
“Sylvie, I seriously love you.” He grabs her head in the crook of his arm and kisses it, then looks out the windshield and is instantly irritated. “C’mon, really? What is going on here?”
I pull my gun and open my door. “I’ll check.”
Sylvie follows me out, and Eli, Indy, and Grace join us from the truck ahead, leaving Lucky behind the wheel. On the next block, Jorge and a few others are out of the van, where three unfamiliar box trucks face us in the single lane of travel. The truck last in line is slowly backing up. Three men stand outside the first truck. Even with a hat and winter coat, I can tell the middle one is Kearney. It must be the asshole stance.
Sylvie slows for a second and then speeds up so that I have to jog. Jorge glances over his shoulder and lifts a hand. “Everything’s cool. They’re moving so we can get through.”
“What’s up?” Emilio says. He leans against the truck’s bumper and crosses his arms, lips curved. “Guess we had the same plan, huh?”
Kearney glowers from under his navy blue watch cap. I nod at Emilio, then Kirk, who I didn’t recognize inside his puffy hooded coat. He nods once in return. “Guess so. Sorry, man. There are still some things in the PX. But if you need anything, we can help you out.”
Emilio shrugs. “We have other places to check. This was our second stop today.”
I’d like to know where their first stop was, but he doesn’t offer the information. Sylvie watches Kearney with the expressionless stare she does so well, though it’s tinged with hostility. While I understand the feeling, it’s not going to help matters. I take her arm, but she yanks from my grip to rest her hand on her holster, making me question the wisdom of teaching her to use a gun.