The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “They need to rest,” Maria adds. “You know how long it took to get them to agree to do that.”

  We had to forcibly put Eric and Paul in bed, even though Paul kept asking us to repeat ourselves and Eric listed to one side.

  “Don’t you think this is killing me?” Jorge asks, his kind face stormy for once.

  I nod and bite my tongue. Literally, so that I taste blood. No one wants to wait. This was a declaration of war, possibly only the first battle, and we have to think it through.

  Indy has listened quietly, close to dropping from fatigue, but now she leans across the table and takes my hand, her brown eyes ferocious. “I promise we will kill them. Even if it’s just you and me, we will kill those motherfuckers eventually.”

  A current runs between us. They tried to kill her brother, her nephew, and her. I’ve never seen this wrath on Indy, but I recognize it all too well. It’s the fury that burns bridges and ends things explosively and refuses to stop until shit is fair. I grip her hand in answer, and hers tightens on mine, as though to seal the deal.

  Chapter 85

  Eric

  My headache is a dull, distant pressure and equilibrium has returned, for the most part. If I had a sudden need to pirouette, it wouldn’t go well, but after a big breakfast and two cups of coffee, I’m all right to go to Sacred Heart. Which I’ve insisted on doing, much to the displeasure of Sylvie, who’s insisted on going as well.

  Before sunrise, the orange glow of fire filled the sky in the direction of Sacred Heart, and it still smokes this morning. Things are going up in flames around here, and we suspect it was part two of the plan Emilio mentioned. There’s no way to tell who won this particular skirmish without seeing it for ourselves. If it was Kearney, our plan is to make him as miserable as he made us yesterday.

  Going in with guns blazing and driving a tank would be nice, but we’ll scout it out first. We have a decent number of weapons. Obviously, they have more. They have flash-bang grenades, likely larger amounts of ammo, and who knows what else. They could’ve cleaned out every police station, and Kearney would know exactly where the good stuff was hiding.

  “Are you sure you have the wherewithal to do this?” Sylvie asks before we leave the house for 6A.

  “Hey, I have a concussion. You’re not allowed to use our word.”

  She puts her hand to my temple for the hundredth time. “You’re too calm. If you were angrier, I’d feel better.”

  I’m enraged we got caught out like that. We were lambs to the slaughter. Depending on the moment, I’m either hot with fury or cold with an icy wrath that vows Sacred Heart will pay in blood. Sometimes both. If Sylvie gets a glimpse, it’ll be more fuel for her fire, and she’s fiery enough as it is. I remove her hand from my head, kiss it, and place it at her side. “I’m plenty angry. But storming around yelling isn’t going to help.”

  “Maybe not, but it makes me feel better,” she says.

  It might make me feel better, too, but I’m trying to remain levelheaded. Going off half-cocked is a good way to end up dead, and I almost did that yesterday. But the self-control it’s taking to remain composed is not improving the ache in my head. I didn’t ask Sylvie to stay behind today, and she didn’t ask me, though I know she wants to. She’d have a pretty solid case if she did.

  We’re biking close, then taking houses the rest of the way. The van will hang back in case we need a quicker getaway. Eli sits on the couch, possibly seething inside, though the thick bandage around his hand and the fact that he doesn’t need to pirouette to lose his balance have made the trip a no-go.

  Grace hugs us all, saving Sylvie for last. Their heads touch, one dark, one blond, before Grace pulls back. “If you see a shot, take it,” she says, only half-joking.

  Sylvie smiles with bared teeth. “Don’t worry, I will.”

  We head for the gate with Paul, Indy, and Jorge. Guillermo, Dennis, and Micah wait there with Rissa, who hurries away at our approach, though not before we see her tear-stained cheeks.

  “Hey,” Guillermo says.

  “How’s Rissa?” Sylvie asks.

  He shakes his head. Sylvie rubs his arm. I don’t know what to say, either. I do know if it were my mother, levelheadedness would be impossible.

  “Only looking for now, right?” I ask him.

  Guillermo nods reluctantly, shoulders up to his ears. He’ll stay in the van with his hurt leg, and I think that’s a good thing.

  “Watch yourselves,” Maria says, expression tight. But she doesn’t tell us not to go, which is its own statement on how bad this is. She’s rolled the first gate open when Jean comes racing up the block. “They’re here! Down at 5A.”

  “Who’s here?” Jorge asks.

  “Sacred Heart. Someone I’ve never seen before and that guy with the dark hair who helped turn on the water. They have some of our trucks and say they want to talk.”

  “Does the other guy have brown hair? Not too tall?”

  Jean nods. “Kind of scared looking.”

  Paul’s eyes narrow. “I’ll stay here, in case it’s a trick.”

  “Will you wait with Paul?” I ask Sylvie. “I’m sure it’s fine. It sounds like Walt and Emilio.”

  She deliberates a few seconds, then nods when Indy says she’ll stay. Jorge, Guillermo, and I head down. The inside gate is rolled open, and, after the okay from above, the outer follows.

  Walt stands with Emilio in the center of the street, a pickup truck and two of our cargo trucks parked off to the side. His expression is both sheepish and fearful, his eyes darting to the roofs, where guns are aimed at his head. He takes in our rifles, the guns at our sides, and our thunderous expressions, and he gulps loud enough to hear.

  “We’re here to apologize,” he says. “We didn’t know.” He waves a hand between himself and Emilio, who watches us warily. Can’t blame him for that. “We thought…we thought Joe was planning something, but not this. It’s—”

  A single tear runs down his cheek. But I have no sympathy for this crying man who didn’t have the balls to stand up to Kearney, or tell us how bad it had gotten, and brought his shit on us.

  “I wouldn’t fault you for wanting to kill us all,” he says, “but things came to a head last night. After we realized what he’d done, they hid in the church, and we— Joe’s dead.”

  Guillermo watches Walt above crossed arms. “He’s dead?”

  “Dead,” Emilio says. For once, he doesn’t seem to find humor in a situation.

  “We didn’t expect it to be so violent,” Walt says with a high, panicked laugh. “Or I guess I didn’t. We lost a lot of food, our generators, and damaged our water supply. They’ve asked me to be in charge—me and Emilio—and I said yes for now, as long as we’re at the church. But we need somewhere safe to live, and you said we were welcome—”

  Guillermo growls. “He killed my mother yesterday. My fucking mother.”

  Walt pushes at his blunt bangs with a trembling hand. “I can’t imag— I’m so sorry. But I hope you won’t hold it against us. We lost people, too. Anyway, that doesn’t matter.”

  I look to Guillermo and Jorge, both impassive yet listening. Walt rocks from foot to foot. “We want to return what he took. Some of it was still in your trucks, and we’ll load the others and bring them to you. It’s going to be a cold night, and we’ll be out of water in a few days. Maybe we can just bring the families? The baby? That’s all I ask. The rest of us will figure it out.”

  Walt waits for the verdict, eyes pleading. I don’t know why anyone would want him as the head of anything, unless he’s got more personality once you get to know him. Maybe they want a change from Kearney. I don’t want to do anything nice for anyone right now, but the families, and the baby, shouldn’t suffer because of Kearney’s depravity or Walt’s incompetence.

  Guillermo glances at me and Jorge. “Let’s check the trucks,” Jorge says.

  Emilio waves them forward. The first pulls into the gated area. I look up—four people on the roof, rifles po
inted at the street. I can’t see who they are, but I hope to God they’re decent shots. Jorge raises the door to reveal a wall of airline food cartons, moves a few out of the way, and peers into the back. “It’s our stuff.”

  He switches places with the driver, a short guy who gives a quick nod and then trots out of the gate as fast as possible without running. Jorge moves the truck inside and returns as the next arrives. Same cargo, and this driver also heads out like he’s late for a meeting.

  “I guess he’s serious,” Guillermo says, rolling down the back door.

  It’s an olive branch of sorts, but two trucks of food don’t make me trust him or make up for the lives we lost. “He could be lying.”

  “We’ll check out Sacred Heart,” Jorge says. “I’m not letting them in until we see Joe’s body.”

  We walk back to Walt. “We’ll come by you later to see for ourselves,” Guillermo says. “We’ll talk more then. Maybe the families for now. And the rest of our food.”

  “That’s fine,” Walt agrees with a lowered head. “Thank you.”

  “Thanks, man,” Emilio says. “I’m really sorry about your mom.”

  Guillermo nods. We watch them get in their pickup, where the men who drove the trucks wait in the bed. Walt sits in the passenger’s side, head rotating like he’s afraid to be outside even with the Lexers frozen, but he gives us a feeble smile before they drive away.

  ***

  It’s a bit of a letdown, as much as I hate to say it. I didn’t want to risk more lives, but this is anticlimactic and somewhat disconcerting. Sylvie’s and Indy’s suspicions are not helping matters. The two are bloodthirsty. My dad always said that women will put up with a lot more bullshit than men, but once they’re done, they’re done. And I believe it.

  “I think Walt is like Mr. Jeffrey,” Eli says while we sit in our living room.

  Indy nods, and Sylvie says, “Oh, Mr. Jeffrey, now I get it.”

  “Mr. Jeffrey went to our church,” Indy explains. “He was one of those quiet guys, scared of his own shadow. But nice and ready to help if you asked. He never married or anything, and then one day—”

  “He went postal?” Sylvie interjects.

  Indy lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “No, idiot. One day he stopped a fight on the street, stood up to some guys in the neighborhood, and he became surer of himself. He got a wife and everyone lived happily ever after, the end.”

  “But this is Mr. Walt. We don’t know him. What if this is an elaborate plot to kill us all?”

  I’m worried about the same thing. Even when I manage to take my rage and thirst for revenge out of the equation, I’m left with a jittery unrest that makes it hard to sit still. This feels too easy.

  “You’ve never met Walt,” Eli says. “How’s he going to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Sylvie says. “But I also don’t sit around plotting to kill people. I’m sure, if that’s what one does, one could brainstorm up an idea or two.”

  “Maybe they made a vision board,” Grace says.

  Sylvie laughs, her expression softening at Grace. “I don’t want you to get hurt again. Six inches over and that bullet was in your heart.” Grace reflexively rubs her hurt arm.

  “We’re going to check the place out in a couple hours,” I say. “See the damage, ask to see Kearney’s body, all of that.”

  “You’re not going anywhere I don’t,” Sylvie says. “Just so you know.”

  I won’t win this argument, and my own need to see it makes me say, “Fine. We’ll both go to Sacred Heart.”

  Sylvie’s eyes widen. “What?”

  “You’re not going in, and neither will I. Guillermo and Jorge will. But maybe it’ll put your mind at ease.” And mine, I think but don’t say.

  Two hours later, we stand on a roof across the street from Sacred Heart. The church windows are blown to smithereens on this side, with black marks left by flames around the open spaces, and ash puffs from the windows at every strong breeze. It’s a solid building, made of stone, and has stood for a hundred years, so it’s not surprising there isn’t more outside damage. Over a dozen charred bodies lie in the street, and we watch Guillermo and Jorge pick through them with Emilio before they head to the unburned upper part of the block.

  Fire also got the rectory and the long, low building—the trade school where they stored supplies. The only thing undamaged is the school, and while it has plenty of room, it’s March. Without food and warmth, I don’t expect they’ll flourish, if they survive. No one is on watch that I can see, which leaves them open to attack. Sylvie and I move along the roofs of the houses opposite, staying low while Guillermo and Jorge follow Emilio inside the school building.

  “I guess they did blow things up,” Sylvie says.

  “They did.”

  A woman comes into the school courtyard with two small children. The concrete expanse is ten feet below ground level, with a tall fence at the street. It has no play structure like SPSZ, and they kick a ball around and run in circles.

  “I’m bored, mama!” the smaller kid yells. “It’s cold.” The woman bends to tuck his scarf more tightly around him, then all three play for another minute before they head for the door.

  “Can we eat lunch soon?” the smaller one asks. We can’t hear the woman’s response, but the kid replies, “But why don’t we get lunch?”

  The door closes behind them, and Sylvie drops her head back with a groan. “Was that a sign from the universe? Look at these poor kids who have only a square of concrete in which to play and no lunch. Don’t you feel bad for them, Sylvie? The only thing missing was a little matchgirl with no shoes.”

  “You know you’re secretly a soft touch,” I say, though it’s not much of a secret these days.

  She plants a fist in my side.

  Chapter 86

  Sylvie

  Guillermo and Jorge saw Kearney’s body, or what was left of it. Same size, same shape and similar features, and a religious medal on a silver chain embedded in burnt flesh. It’s as close as we can get to surety he’s dead, and while I wish Kearney were alive so I could blow him up myself, there’s a new lightness in the world with him gone. I don’t know if this Walt character is Mr. Jeffrey-like, but I’ll try to reserve judgment until I meet him myself. Guillermo and Jorge say it was as bad inside as Walt implied, with cold children and little food but for our stolen goods. After seeing the destruction firsthand, I agree the families of Sacred Heart need a place to go. And that’s all we’re allowing in tomorrow. Walt and the others will have to tough it out until we decide to let them in.

  Sitting in the parlor floor of our house with our heat and running water, I imagine how cold they must be tonight. Their toilets no longer flush, which won’t take long to become a mess. And if they don’t come before the Lexers thaw, the trip will be that much more dangerous.

  We’ll be watching closely when they arrive, and Eli is insistent that he be on the ground in the thick of it. Grace has listened to him with understanding, then mirrored back his emotions, and now she says, “Stop it. You’re not going out there, even if I have to chain you to the bed. Don’t be a baby.”

  He opens his mouth. Grace cuts him off with, “No.”

  I laugh—inside. She turns to me, eyes blazing. “Look at his hand. He’s an idiot.”

  I nod at Eli’s bandaged hand, then wink at him. His slow-to-start smile spreads until he’s grinning. Lucky has the same smile. As does Indy, though hers is usually at the ready.

  “All right,” he says.

  “All right?” Grace repeats, and he nods. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “Are you going to let me say more than that?”

  “I’ll let you say whatever you want, but you won’t change my mind.”

  “Then all right.”

  Grace takes his good hand in her lap. “You shouldn’t throw yourself on a grenade for people if you want to be involved in things like this.” Her voice is teasing, though, and she blinks swiftly.

&nb
sp; “It wasn’t a real grenade,” he says.

  “Did you know that?”

  Eli doesn’t answer, but his hand tightens in hers. If there was any question he loves Grace, and she loves him, it’s been demolished by that non-grenade. I head for the kitchen, ruminating on the delectable idea that I can eat potato chips in my heated, running-water house.

  I open a bag and sit beside Paul at the table. He gobbles down something while he listens to Leo read aloud from a children’s book.

  “Is he teaching you?” I ask Paul. He spits out crumbs with his laugh.

  “I’m reading!” Leo says, oblivious to my joke.

  “You’re doing great,” I say. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  I listen and come to the conclusion that we should probably have a school. We have a genuine school building at the top of the block, and more children are on the way. These kids are going to grow up, and they’ll need reading, science, and math skills, as well as history. It may be a new world, but it’s important to know about the old one. I don’t have any plan to teach at this future school, but someone can.

  Leo finishes his book and leaves to find Maria. I dump the last of the chip crumbs in my mouth. On my way to the garbage can, Paul says, “Syls.”

  “Did you just call me Syls?”

  “I was trying it out. That okay?” Paul smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  I throw my crumpled chip bag at him. “Did you want something or were you only seeing if I’d answer?”

  “Leo told me what you said about taking care of him. Thanks. It means a lot, to both of us.”

  I stare at him, my stomach tensing at those fateful words. “What sparked this? Are you planning on dying?”

  “I almost did die, yesterday,” he reminds me. “And I think Leo might be pulling for me to bite the dust now that he knows he’ll have you all to himself.”

  “We all are, Paulie.”

  He grins. “Anyway, thanks. Sorry I was a jerk to you at first. You’re one of my favorite people now, you know.” I try to think of a response that won’t be corny. Paul stands from the table and brushes past me. “Don’t be too flattered. There are only a hundred people here, it’s not like you have a lot of competition.”