Leo scampers off. She turns to us, full lips set in a line and face serious. The one semi-plus about a neglectful mother was that I didn’t get parental lectures. But I got plenty from other authority figures, and it’s clear one is coming. Eric is all clasped hands and somber expression while he waits.
Maria opens a bag on the table—the canvas tote she carries from house to house to collect stuff she wants—and pulls out a box of condoms. She plops them on the wooden surface while I die a thousand deaths inside. Eric coughs, though it’s more of a choking sound.
“We don’t need any babies right now,” she declares. “I found a few boxes. I’ll put them in the upstairs bathroom. Use them.” She turns stern brown eyes on me. Maria does stern extremely well. “We can go to the pharmacy and find you pills if you want.”
I nod. I’m twenty-seven years old and getting a birth control lecture. It seems she wants a response from one of us, so I say, “We were careful. I didn’t want kids in a normal world, Maria, forget now.”
“Good. That’s all I’ll say about it.”
Eric hasn’t moved a muscle this whole time. Maria picks up her bag and pats his cheek as she passes, then winks at me before the door shuts behind her. Eric closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Did that really happen?”
“Yup.”
“You think, when you get to a certain age, that mothers won’t—” His eyes pop open at a crack-crack sound from outside our yards, yet close by. Gunshots. His hand goes to the gun he wears all day because he doesn’t think guns are scary, which makes me rethink my earlier comment about him being normal.
Eric sticks his head outside, then motions me into the yard. Everyone’s backs are glued to a house wall and their eyes are on the sky. Leo’s head is buried in his dad’s side. A horn blares and begins to recede, as though a car is slowly driving away.
Paul carries Leo to Grace, leaves him burying his head in her side, and then strides to us. “What the hell?”
Eric points to the roofs. I trail them through a house because I refuse to die in the yard like a sucker. Eric frowns at me, I glare back, and he keeps his mouth shut. Okay, so maybe new me isn’t entirely agreeable.
We pop the roof hatch. Once Eric and Paul are through with their guns and don’t find anything to shoot, they wave me up. The surrounding rooftops are barren, but the zombies on the street follow the horn, which grows fainter as it travels up the avenues.
Paul signals off the backyard side of the roof that all is well so far. In a matter of minutes, the street is empty but for a few especially raggedy-looking creatures. Jorge steps out the front door of a brownstone across the street, crosses the asphalt, and disappears into a house on our side. It must have been Guillermo and company with the horn. I’m sure Jorge was worried about us, so they cleared the block for him to get home.
“I’m going down,” Paul says, and climbs into the hatch.
I’m overjoyed Jorge is okay and glad he’s back, but I watch the street with a hole where happiness resided just minutes ago. Eric is no longer trapped.
He taps the roof ledge for a few seconds, then faces me with a strained smile. “The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back, right? It’ll still be by my birthday.”
I nod into the distance. The low roofs and tall apartment buildings of Brooklyn go blurry. He could be surrounded by one of these mobs and die of thirst. He could get hurt or sick. He could get eaten. Any number of things could happen and I would never know how it ended or where he is. The other shoe has dropped directly onto my head. I should’ve known better than to let down my guard.
But it is down, or lowered, where Eric is concerned. If he never returns I won’t curl up and die, but I think my heart will crack a little. Maybe a lot. It would be the death knell for this fragile hope I’m trying to keep alive.
Eric takes my chin. “Look at me.” I shake my head and blink until the blurred rooftops turn to crisp lines once again. He tries to spin my face to his, but I push his hand away. “Hey, look at me.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not looking at you.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. You’ll say something to try to make me feel better, and it’s probably going to be mushy and heartfelt, and that makes me feel weird.”
He laughs. “Okay, how about I say that I can’t wait to leave? You’re funny and gorgeous and great in the sack and all, but there are a lot of ladies out there.” His hand waves at the city in my peripheral vision. “It’s going to be a rollicking good time.”
I smile. I like him so much it hurts. “Then maybe you’d better bring that box of condoms.”
***
Dawn is here far too soon. Maria took my watch shift, and she looked pointedly at the upstairs bathroom before we went to sleep. I sit on Eric’s bed while he finishes getting ready. I guess it’s not really his bed—the lady who owned the building outfitted this room with matching blond wood dressers, a neutral bedspread and art prints from the Met Museum’s gift shop. It occurs to me that the Metropolitan Museum is up for grabs. If you wanted to brave the zombies, you could have a real Van Gogh or Monet or Rembrandt for your very own.
Eric’s boots clomp on the wood floor and his brown jacket swishes as he sticks things in its many pockets. He crouches to zip his pack, pats it once, and then stands. “Done. What are you thinking about?”
“Looting the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“Of course. That’s what I was thinking, too.”
I attempt a laugh, but I’m too worried about him and scared I’ll mess up this goodbye. “I loved the mummies when I was young. I wanted to get behind the glass and check everything out for real.”
“That’s gross.”
“Not the mummies, freak. I wanted to get behind the glass everywhere. I wanted to touch all the things you aren’t allowed to touch. The jewels and vases and sculptures and—”
Eric kneels and places his hands over mine. I’ve been twisting them in my lap while I babble about wanting to manhandle priceless pieces of art.
“This is going to be mushy and heartfelt, so prepare yourself,” he says. His eyes are brownish today, like his coat, and serious. “I promised myself I’ll say what I want to say in case I never get another chance. So, what I want to say is: I would shit the bed a hundred times over if, at the end, it meant I got to meet you.”
This time, I laugh for real. “Always with the poop, you.”
“I mean it. And, just so you know, you are funny and gorgeous and great in the sack and there are no other ladies out there, as far as I’m concerned.”
My insides have liquefied, but I ask, “So why’d you pack the condoms?”
Eric’s jaw drops. “I did not—” He breaks off at my smile and then matches it with his own. “You have no idea how much I’m going to miss you.”
After everything he’s said, I refuse to mess this up. I’m in the home stretch—he’s almost out the door. I raise a hand to his scruffy cheek. Look into his eyes. Take a breath. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
Chapter 13
Eric
I stop at Sunset Park to check on Dennis and Rob, and to ask a few more questions about the bridges. I find the families in the park, where clean-shaven Dennis and Rob are already at work in the dirt. They wipe their hands on their soiled pants and extend one at the same time.
“You guys sure you’re not twins?” I ask.
“That’s what the wives say,” Rob says.
“The kids say brother from another mother,” Dennis says.
I ask them my questions, but they give me the same information as the other day, with added apologies they don’t know more. I turn to leave, almost taking down Rob’s wife, Susan.
She tugs at her washed, now curly, hair and says, “I wanted to say thank you. I’m sorry for doubting you. I’m not usually such a bitch.”
“Yes, you are, babe,” Rob says.
She throws him a sharp look, though her mouth twitches with a smile. “I forgot people could b
e good. I don’t like being so suspicious, but…”
“Anyone would be after what you’ve been through,” I say. “I’m glad you like it here.”
Susan nods, blinking quickly, and turns to plant her face in Rob’s chest. He wraps her in his thick arms. The kids look on from where they sit under a tree with Jean, but they go back to playing once I wave.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. I shake Dennis’ hand and then give Susan’s and Rob’s shoulders a pat. “I’ll see you all soon.”
Sylvie may joke about playing the hero, but she would’ve done the same. In fact, she’s traveling to the monastery tomorrow to bring chips to the nuns and kids. I’m not thrilled about that, since I won’t be there, but she insisted when Jorge mentioned the plan. If I’d protested, she would’ve insisted on taking a walk around the block just to prove she could.
I spy Carlos and Micah and come up with a way to be there without actually being there. They straighten as I stroll over. I half want to say at ease. “Listen, can you two do me a favor? It’s important.”
Micah’s head jerks up and down. “Sure?”
“I watched you guys out there the other day. I can see you have your shit together.” Carlos puffs out his chest, and I stifle a laugh. “I want you to keep an eye on Sylvie tomorrow. Don’t let her do anything too dangerous. Can you do that for me? I’d appreciate it.”
Micah nods, and Carlos says, “We can do that, man. We won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Is she, like, your girlfriend?” Micah asks.
I don’t think Micah has a crush on Sylvie, but Carlos does, and he deflates a bit at my nod. I don’t want to break the kid’s heart, so I say, “Sylvie’s a little old for you. But I saw Guillermo’s sister—what’s her name again?”
“Marissa,” Micah says.
“Right, Marissa,” I say. “I saw her checking you out when we came back with Rob and Dennis the other day. Keep rescuing people like that and she’ll be all over you.”
Carlos scans the park and starts with his hair grooming. I turn to see Marissa paying him no mind, as usual, but I had to put him off the scent somehow. Marissa could do worse. I can say with certainty that Carlos would burst into flames if he were in bed with Sylvie. The thought makes me smile. It also starts up a biological reaction I don’t need at the moment.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m counting on you two. I know I won’t find out you didn’t do what you could.” They step back when I lean forward. I’m not trying to be menacing, but it never hurts to put the fear of God into someone. “I owe you one.”
We shake on it. I stride away and then turn to find them grinning and elbowing each other. They cease immediately. “Hey, give her a message for me. Tell her I said what’s up?”
“What’s up?” they echo.
“Yeah, she’ll understand.”
***
I am in a very bad mood. Even the fact that I managed to get north to Queens alive and in record time—record time being four hours for what should be a one- to two-hour bike trip—is not enough to get me out of this funk. I hate this fucking city and I hate Queens and I hate Lexers. I also hate people, ever since being shot at somewhere around Sunnyside. I was riding along, minding my own business, and the next moment shards of brick were raining down. It may have been more a warning than attempted murder, but I still want to go back and kill the bastards for fun.
I’ve made my way into a ConEd power plant or something. This is how foul my mood is—I don’t give a shit what it is. There are fewer zombies in here, since the entrance is blocked by trucks, but I got to use the well-made machete I found earlier to nail a couple in the head.
I stand on the concrete pier and look out over the East River. Randalls and Wards Islands are about a third of a mile away, across zombie and debris-filled water. To my left, past a destroyed railroad bridge, is the equally destroyed Triborough that crosses the islands. Now I know for certain every bridge from Brooklyn to the mainland is gone. The only choices left are the four bridges into Manhattan, and that means I’ll need another bridge out of Manhattan. What little I can see of Upper Manhattan is charred, and the Harlem River crossings are no doubt demolished. The odds aren’t cheering, though there is the rumor the G.W. can be walked into northern Jersey. The G.W. is on the west side, I’m on the east, and the only way to know is to see it for myself.
I was hoping to get up to the cabin quickly, but that bubble has been burst. Now that I know what this will entail, it’s also plain to see that leading everyone to the cabin would be well-nigh impossible. It was a dream, a fantasy, to think I could drag adults, a kid, and very likely a cat two hundred miles through millions of zombies.
I kick a rock into the dark water of the river. It lands with a plunk and a nearby body spins, arms splashing, which in turn sets off the body next to it. I curse them out, loudly and with vigor. The cause of my bad mood isn’t a mystery: I didn’t want to leave Sylvie, and she didn’t want me to. I almost asked her to come, but I wouldn’t put her in danger like that.
Instead of standing on this stupid pier, I could be in the yard. Second Meal would be cooking in the solar oven, while Jorge, Paul, and Maria shoot the shit. Grace and Sylvie would be giggling over something no one but them finds comical. Leo would be playing with Bird or running around or hanging on someone. Maybe it’s an odd scene of domesticity, but it’s mine. I like it.
I could be in bed with Sylvie. The second night was even better. We’ve worked out the kinks, so to speak, but there’s a connection there, too. She’s hilarious and hot and smart and surprising. One minute she almost makes me cry with her empathy, the next she makes me laugh, and her kindness shines through it all. I want to take care of her even though she doesn’t need me to. I like that she doesn’t need me to.
I’m pretty sure I love her. No matter how I tell myself it’s only two months since we met, I can’t argue with my feelings. I guess I can—I am—but I’m not winning.
Now that I know what I’m missing, Brooklyn’s pull is magnetic. However, the plan still stands: I’ll do my best to get to the cabin, make sure they’re okay, explain what’s going on, and then I’ll turn around. After that, I’m staying here until travel is safe. Maybe in winter, if zombies freeze. Trudging through miles of bitter cold isn’t easy, but it’s easier than two hundred miles of Lexers.
My thoughts are interrupted by a man in a bloody orange work vest stumbling my way. Did I mention I hate zombies? I whack it with the machete and straddle my bike. I have four bridges to check out.
Chapter 14
I don’t like the looks of the Queensboro Bridge. It crosses to Manhattan with a brief stop to anchor on Roosevelt Island in the East River. Both ends have been eliminated just before the island, which makes me wonder how the island itself has fared. It could be the perfect place to wait this out, if you had enough supplies, and if waterlogged Lexers can’t make it ashore.
The Queensboro would bring me into northern Manhattan, where I’d be closer to the George Washington. I can’t take the subway tunnels—many, if not all, flooded within a day of the power going out. They were constantly pumped dry, and without the pumps they’re underground rivers. And if some aren’t rivers, then they’re dark, zombie-filled passages.
I try not to get extra pissed when I have to backtrack, avoiding the Sunnyside Welcoming Committee’s bullets, and head for the three remaining bridges. The streets of Williamsburg are dirty and full of shit, both literal and figurative, and they’re crawling with Lexers. I head for the industrial section and find a pier from which to view the utter destruction of the bridge—metal to the water, boats bobbing, bodies floating. A fall into this river won’t be like my swim in the Arthur Kill. If I go in, I’m dead. And not of sickness, though the stench is terrible. The jagged sea of moving debris and live zombies are sure to kill me before digestive issues will.
Two bridges down, two to go.
***
It figures I’d end up at the bridge nearest to where I’d started.
I could’ve crossed the Brooklyn Bridge eight hours ago and saved myself a tour of Brooklyn and Queens. At the far end, Lower Manhattan’s charred buildings stand stark against blue sky. It may be unwise to cross this late in the day, but I don’t think I can kill time in Downtown Brooklyn until morning without heading to Sunset Park. And if I go there, I might find it impossible to leave.
I stick to the pedestrian walkway, whose partially barricaded entrance sits above the roads where Lexers loiter. Below, the cars are thick at first—doors opened, upholstery stained with blood, and personal belongings in heaps on the ground—before several fire trucks block passage for all but the most persistent of zombies.
My concrete path turns to boardwalk-like wooden planks at the same time as I come upon my first Lexer: a woman tangled in a baby stroller. Her leg is caught in the bar behind the seat, but that doesn’t stop her from dragging it my way. She’s down in one strike, and the stroller topples face-up to reveal a strapped-in boy with pudgy black-veined cheeks and eight gnashing teeth. I’ve killed kid zombies, but this toddler is a special kind of terrible.
I was surprised when Sylvie said she’d never wanted kids, but I can get behind that now. Zombie toddler aside, I see how Paul worries about Leo. Between that and Susan’s desperation for her kids’ well-being, it’s enough to convince me there won’t be a good time for parenthood in the foreseeable future.
There’s no gentle way to do it. I plunge the knife into the toddler’s temple, flip the stroller so he’s out of sight, and wipe off my knife. Lexers have gathered on the road below and kicked up enough racket to bring over a dozen out of hiding behind the first bridge tower on the pedestrian path.
It’s too many to handle alone and on foot. I climb onto the girder above the walkway’s railing and hold a vertical cable, then hang over to get the first few with my new machete. I move down a bit to get the next in line, hack into the final few, and then retrieve my bike. That was easy enough, but I’m more cautious than I was a couple months ago. New worries have taken up residence at the back of my mind. People are depending on you. You don’t want to lose what you’ve found.