The sun flares brighter outside, illuminating his face with a shifting, flame-like pattern of orange and red. I look to the wall and see that he stands in the light of the Sacred Heart stained-glass window. Forget that being a vague sign—the universe is slapping me in the face. I can hear Grace now: remember that love is most important, and things are still beautiful. Maybe she’s with me in the perfectly Grace-like form of a ray of sunshine.
I step into the light and wrap my arms around him, my heart burning for this person who would do anything—risk losing me, risk losing himself—to save me. The only difference between our anger is that he’s not dumb enough to act on his. We’d be dead in hours if we went back. It would prove nothing, gain nothing. We’d only punish ourselves and take away any opportunity to make them pay.
“I could never hate you,” I whisper. “And I don’t blame you. No one does, I swear.”
He buries his face in my neck and nods like he believes me. I promised Maria I’d take care of him, of everyone, and I’m already doing a terrible job of it.
“We’ll go to Stuyvesant Town,” I say. “And if we don’t like it there, we’ll go somewhere else. I don’t care, as long as we’re together.”
“That’s all I want.” He pulls back, eyes taking on a hardness at odds with his words. “I’m not going to offer myself up on a platter, but I will kill him if I get the chance.”
I know he will. But when I picture him going after Walt, my heart stills. I’d fight him on that the way he’s fought me. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. “Not if I kill him first.”
“You got Kearney. I get Walt.”
“But I want to kill everyone,” I whine.
“Together,” he says with the hint of a smile. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
***
Somewhere in there, I’d forgotten about the bridge. And now I stand on the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge where it turns to a zillion-foot drop to water, contemplating the probability of my death. The mobs have moved into Downtown Brooklyn, but I’d almost rather deal with them than this.
Eric motions at the rest of our group. They walk along a girder, holding on to the vertical cables for support until they reach the line Eric fastened along the scariest, no-handhold middle part. Leo is tied to Paul’s waist. Jorge carries Jin on his back in a found baby carrier. All the kids are tethered to an adult somehow, though I suspect they didn’t rope me to one because they think I’m going down.
“You coming?” Indy calls. Paul squawks like a chicken, and she squeals with laughter.
“Indy, you traitor!” I yell. “I thought we were womyn with a Y.”
“More like chicken with a Y,” she calls, then winks and turns back to the cables.
I watch them for another minute, searching for the impetus to take that first step.
“It’s not going to get any easier,” Eric says. I shut my eyes and nod. If I could shut my eyes and cross, it would be easier. I’d also be dead. “I can still tie you to me.”
I glare at him. “I am not tying myself to you like a six-year-old.”
“Then stop acting like one.” He leans against the walkway rail with a grin, much of the light returned to his eyes, and that alone is almost enough impetus to cross the bridge. Almost.
“You’re lucky you’re standing on the edge of a precipice,” I say, “because I really want to shove you.”
“Is it making you mad enough to cross?”
I shake my head. The drop into water will kill me. The cesspool factor would be insult to injury.
“How about this?” he asks. “Put on your big girl panties and cross the damn bridge already.”
I laugh. “Is that this week’s word?”
The new calendar is in our bedroom. Or likely gone now, tossed into the trash along with the saved candy and old calendar pages. But I don’t care; I have the person who gave it all to me.
“I have no idea, but it was one of the week’s words.”
“Of course it was.”
“We never got to my favorite,” he says. “I found it in a thesaurus. Instauration. Renewal or restoration after decay.” He looks over my shoulder. “And there’s a lot of decay walking somewhere behind you, so get a move on.”
Instauration. We had it until it was taken away. But maybe we can create it again, if I can get my ass across this bridge. I take a deep breath, grab the vertical cables, and haul myself onto the beam. Eric hops up beside me, brown hair fluttering in the wind. “I won’t let you fall.”
“I know,” I say. And though my legs are shaky, my confidence in that is unshakeable.
I take the first step, then the next, and I keep my eyes on Brooklyn to remind me why I shuffle sideways along this beam. After I’m across—and greeted by applause from Indy and Paul, who receive the one-finger salute in return—I take a last look in the direction of Sunset Park.
They won. They killed people we loved. Stole our home. Obliterated my sense of justice. It’s possible we’ll never get the chance to make it right, and I’ve tried to make my peace with that. For now. They won’t get away with it forever, not if I have anything to say about it.
We surrendered this time, but not all surrender is defeat.
Thanks for reading!
Stay tuned for the next book in The City Series:
Instauration (book three) coming in 2018
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Sarah Lyons Fleming is a Laura Ingalls devotee, wannabe prepper and lover of anything pre-apocalyptic, apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic—or anything in between. Add in some romance and humor, and she’s in heaven. Besides an unhealthy obsession with home-canned food and Bug Out Bag equipment, she loves books, making artsy stuff and laughing her arse off. Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, she now lives in Oregon with her family and, in her opinion, not nearly enough supplies for the zombie apocalypse. But she’s working on it.
Acknowledgements
As always, I have a whole lot of gratitude for the folks who read my long-winded, terribly written second drafts. And who forgive me for my inability to write novels that are a normal length.
The parents:
My mother, who reads all my drafts repeatedly and brags all about me all over town. And who would like you to know that Sylvie’s mother is not based on her. (See, Mom, now they know!)
Mama P, the world’s best mother in-law, who does the same.
My dad, who does the same as the first two—and, since he lives nearby, likes to embarrass me out in public by announcing to people that I’m an author—and who has become stellar at hunting out typos. (Y’all would not believe how many people proofread my books, including a genuine paid-by-the-word proofreader—and there are STILL typos. Sneaky little suckers.)
Big Larr, step-dad extraordinaire, who’s always proud.
My author-readers:
Lindsey Fairleigh, Rachel Greer, Denise Kawaii, Rain Stickland, Lindsey Pogue, Anne Geever Riconosciuto, Jennifer Knight, Beth Hegy, and Julie Tuovi.
I love your input and respect your opinions. You know I’m here for your next drafts, and I know you can’t wait to receive my ridiculous witty comments on your docs! Ha.
My other beta readers. Y’all are the bestest:
Jessica Gudmundson, Danielle Gustafson, Jamie Arest, and Tracey Nielsen.
Thank you to Will, husband and editor. Who gets me and what I’m trying to say, even when I say it badly, and then tells me to fix it the hell up. And who tears up at the parts most people don’t—except for me—which is how I know I’ve (possibly) gotten it right.
And a big, squishy thank-you kiss to Silas, my now seven-year-old baby boy, who unknowingly supplies me with all the wackadoo things Leo says and does, and is just as sweet, if not sweeter.
Sarah Lyons Fleming, The City Series (Book 2): Peripetei
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