The longing for human contact sits heavy in my chest. If I can’t find my sister, I hope I can find someone. The Jeep radio was all static, but people have to be out there, banding together. I know they are.
***
The traffic doesn’t reach the bridge. In fact, the road from the final entrance ramp onward is clear but for the occasional zombie. After it blew, you didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know not to head toward the smoking metal drop-off, and, since the drop-off is my destination, I might just be an imbecile.
I stop the bike fifty feet from the crumbling edge and give it a pat before I walk away. A few zombies follow in the distance, but if I wait to kill them, then the ones just behind, and the ones behind them, I’ll spend the rest of my life fending off a never-ending stream of New Jersey zombies.
I stay to the side of the road, a hand on the steel trusses, and work my way to the metal and chunks of concrete where there used to be bridge. It’s about 100 feet down, give or take. The cascade of broken trusses will work like a ladder, except I have no idea how much weight it’ll hold before it shifts and crashes down on my head.
I stomp on the bent metal that stretches down to the water. It seems solid. A man wearing only bloody khakis is a hundred feet away. Time to go. I lower myself onto the metal and follow the line of a single truss to be sure I don’t step on a loose piece in the web work of bent steel. Fifty feet down, I hear a grunt from above and look up just in time for a piece of concrete kicked by the zombie to hit my forehead. I don’t come close to letting go, but I let myself hang until the momentary stunned feeling passes. The sharp pain is followed by stinging and the dull pound of a burgeoning headache.
Right over my eye, too. It hurts, but it could’ve hit my eye, and, if the concrete hurt, imagine what his whole body could do. I climb out to the side, where I don’t trust the metal as much, because I trust the zombie even less.
And with good reason: when I’m twenty feet lower, the khaki-clad zombie crashes into the metal and bounces off on his way down. He hits the water with a small splash and is held up by the debris. My debris. My path to the other side of the bridge. I might have to stop to kill him before I pass, in case he decides to take grip of my ankle. Asshole. But now I know the debris will hold weight, as I hoped.
Pebbles of concrete tinkle on the steel to my right. Grunts come from the roadway. I won’t look up again. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I’d rather concentrate on getting myself down. Twenty feet to go. The groan of steel mixes with the zombies above. I get a nice lungful of the dust that sifts down from their feet and cough. It’s answered by a few very dramatic moans.
The water laps just below my feet. Shirtless Zombie lies on the first debris island in the chain that spans the twenty feet to the other side of the bridge. He’s alive—or undead or whatever—but his now-broken arms are about as threatening as flailing noodles. Even zombies need bones.
The ones up top, now numbering five that I can see, are dangerously close to the edge. I step sideways along a wide bar of steel. One jump and I’ll be with Shirtless. I choose a likely spot—concrete and metal—and aim for the metal, which appears to be attached to the bridge still.
I’m going to have to hope that the weight of my pack doesn’t hurt my joints. It’s a six foot drop, even with my own six-foot-one frame dangling. I let go and bend my knees as I land. There’s no soft spot and nowhere to roll, but I’ve placed it perfectly. The metal gives a little and cold water rushes over the top of one boot before it springs back to just below water level. Shirtless turns for me, inches away, but I eye my next step: the top of what I can now tell is a car roof, submerged an inch or two below the surface four feet away.
I push off and land in a skid, but regain my footing as the surface dips once, twice, and then levels out. Next up: six feet to where concrete, rebar, flotsam and jetsam have collected against the other end of the bridge. A standing long jump. Even with my pack, I think I have it. I squat and swing my arms back just as something crashes from behind. A body, and then another. The wake they kick up sends the car into a slow, sustained tilt that sends me ass over teakettle into the stinking water of Arthur Kill.
My arms are out to catch the car before my head goes under, but my backward slide means I miss. I’m going in. Mouth closed tight, I spread my arms to the side and bring them down as I hit in an effort to keep my head above water. My boots, my pack, will weigh me down, but I need them both. Only absolute certainty of drowning will make me relinquish either.
The water is cold but bearable. I kick to make progress and my upper shin bone slams into something below the surface hard enough to make me gasp. Water fills my mouth. Something tugs on my pants. It could be anything, it could be my imagination, but I swear there’s a pull. Something wants me down there.
I kick back instead of forward. My pack hits my original jumping-off spot. A teenage boy hangs off the debris, face half immersed and one black-rimmed eye above water level. His free arm swings my way with filthy nails that will kill me as sure as his teeth if he breaks the skin. The woman who’s landed on Shirtless crawls forward, hair dripping. I push off through the water and pull myself onto the car roof. If the others drop when I stand and there’s another wave like before, I’ll end up where I started. I may as well swim it the rest of the way. I’m already soaked.
I push off the car and glide to the remains of the opposite side of the bridge. Once I’ve dragged myself onto the metal, I climb two feet above the water, then seven, then twelve. My pack feels like it’s almost tripled in weight, but it lightens as the water drains. The sun above is blinding, so I’m unable to gauge the welcome I’ll have at the summit. Seven zombies have joined Shirtless down below, however, and I’m lucky to have escaped unscathed. Again.
I scramble to the road and jump to my feet only to be greeted by empty asphalt, then stay close to the rail until I’m sure the road will hold beneath my feet. One zombie farther down is easily dispatched with my knife. The sun is warm but the wind wicks my body heat away. I’m not in danger of hypothermia, although I could be if I’m not dry before night sets in. I used my single dry sack and what was left of the gallon Ziploc bags from last night’s house to repack the most important things—ammo, Rachel’s gun, flashlight, phone, socks—but I have a feeling the garbage bag with which I lined my backpack hasn’t done much against total immersion. It wouldn’t be this heavy otherwise.
The road is four empty lanes separated by concrete dividers. A school bus glints in the distance, a roadblock. I’d bet behind that school bus are a whole lot of zombies, so I plan to get off the highway when it drops closer to sidewalk height. I’m in the clear for now, and I’m in Staten Island.
I’m in Staten Island. It’s not unexpected, seeing as how it was the whole purpose of that exercise, but it still hits me with a jolt. I’m so concerned with zombies and wet socks creating blisters that I haven’t congratulated myself on being one borough closer to my goal. One more bridge and I’m home.
I sit on the divider to take stock of my bag. Sure enough, the garbage bag holds pounds of water and water-soaked clothing. I stick the bag in a pocket, then wring out my clothes and toss them back in. My Ziplocked gear is dry, however, and I change my socks and chew on some trail mix. This is as peaceful as it’s going to get for a while. I should take care of business.
As the road slopes lower, I jump onto the roof of a conveniently parked backhoe, then backtrack in the shade of the highway to the first side street under the bridge. I’m curious as to what’s behind that roadblock, but I fear I’ve used up all my luck for today.
Chapter 41
I have a bicycle. It’s not the great beauty the Triumph was, but the quieter ride has worked in my favor so far. I’ve almost covered the twelve miles to the other end of Staten Island in the course of a full workday, which is kind of depressing when you think about it. Of course, my full workday required crossing a broken bridge, killing sixteen zombies (I kept count), finding the bike and dry
clothes (harder than one would think), and pedaling more like twenty-five miles with all the crisscrossing I had to do. I stuck to the boundaries of the island as much as possible, both to look for a boat and with the hope there would be fewer lurkers, and came across a gated community of homes that had to cost well over the million dollar mark. The gates were reinforced and the streets were quiet, but I’m sure I heard a generator buzzing away. I almost stopped just to hear another person’s voice. At various times I could’ve sworn there were eyes on me. People are hiding—they have to be, but I still can’t shake the empty feeling from last night. It’s ironic that I spend half my life in search of peace and quiet and now a jackhammer would be music to my ears.
I harbored a fantasy in which I reached Brooklyn by late afternoon, but I’ll have to find a place to sleep for the night and tackle the Verrazano tomorrow. At times, I can see the tall towers of the bridge well enough to see they’re upright and the main cables are intact. Whether or not that’s true of the whole bridge is what I need to know before tomorrow morning, and I know the place to get a perfect view: Fort Wadsworth.
When my friend Paul got married at the ripe old age of nineteen (because that’s what a good Irish kid from Bay Ridge does when he knocks up his girlfriend) we took the wedding party photos in the park that houses the old fort. Sadly, the pregnancy didn’t last, but the marriage did, and then Leo came along a few years later. The fort was built sometime in the early 1800s, which is all I remember of its history, but I could never forget the view. The Verrazano arches into the sky from inside the park to cross the water of The Narrows before it dips to land in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn—Paul’s neighborhood, and only a few miles from the apartment.
I can spend the night high on the fort. I traded my expensive yet sopping sleeping bag for the Coleman Kmart special in a musty basement. It promises comfort to thirty degrees, which I don’t buy, but it should only dip into the forties tonight. No matter what, I’ll sleep like a baby if I know I’m out of zombie reach.
The streets have been house after house, store after store, and zombie after zombie so far. I almost needed my spare wet underwear when I accidentally turned into a strip mall and half of Staten Island stumbled toward me in the lot. But I’ve made my way back to the edge of the island, where the beach and houses have turned to a stretch of road surrounded by budding trees and packed with cars that were heading away from the Verrazano before they stopped heading anywhere. It was the right idea—getting to Jersey meant the freedom to travel to any destination—except that the bridge they wanted to cross is the mess of tangled metal I climbed this morning.
I stick to the sidewalk, although I have to swerve around the cars that tried to use it as road. It got out of hand at some point, as demonstrated by the multiple collisions and the way the cars’ positioning changed from straight lines to a jumble of angles. Clothes and food packaging blow in the near-constant breeze off the water. A stuffed pink dog with floppy ears and jeweled collar lies forlornly by one open door.
The road is unoccupied but for the occasional wandering body and the frequent eaten ones. It’s difficult not to imagine the scene when it’s basically spelled out for me, but I do my best to keep my eyes on the tower of the Verrazano above the trees a couple of miles away.
In all my various apocalyptic imaginings, I never truly thought zombies would bring down the world. An EMP, a war, or even a virus of some sort, but never this. And, in all my apocalyptic imaginings, I was fairly capable. I can start a fire with next to nothing, grow food, hunt, and know my way around a gun. I’m no Navy SEAL, though I have a halfway decent skill set for this kind of shit. But I was going to be in the woods, with people, and only have other people to worry about. Zombies have changed the game. In the course of the past week, I’ve learned they’re dumb and even predictable. When you can see them. But they lurk everywhere. They don’t die. They don’t want your supplies; they want you, and they won’t stop unless you stop them first.
And with billions of zombies in the world—the largest army ever assembled—I have to assess my chances honestly. That at some point I’ll slip up is almost a guarantee. A small mistake will turn deadly fast. Something as trivial as a barely twisted ankle could take me out of the running, literally. Food poisoning, a dull knife, an accidental noise—the possibilities are endless. I have to use my head. Cassie likes to say I’m annoyingly competent, which I play up for her amusement, but the fact is that I don’t do stupid shit. Well, I seldom do stupid shit, but that’s because I give things a lot of thought. I read, I plan, I learn. And I’m lucky. Sometimes I think I was born under a lucky star. It’s not a bad thing, but I can’t ever forget that lest I get too confident.
A hand comes from under a pickup a few feet ahead. It’s followed by a shoulder and then a long skeletal face with yellow teeth. Crawling zombie at twelve o’clock. I skid to a stop. That would have been bumpy, at best. The universe might be saying, That’s right, Eric, don’t get too comfortable.
I back up and roll among cars in the street. An SUV’s windows are cloudy with smeared innards, but not cloudy enough to stop whatever’s inside from beating on the glass at my passing. The road curves ahead and houses come into view, along with zombies who watch my approach with interest. I veer across lanes, through a gap in the guardrail and hop the curb into a parking lot that was commandeered as an emergency road, resulting in the same gridlock.
The lot is almost as bad. I scan the maze of cars and zombies ahead. All it’ll take is one to catch me as I fly past. I ride toward the beach in order to lead away a group that’s coming my way. There’s a boardwalk, which could be useful if zombies hadn’t availed themselves of the ramp to stroll the wood planks. I come to a halt at its base.
As much as I’d like to haul ass out of here, I have to wait until the ones both behind and ahead close in, until the ones on the boardwalk start down the ramp, and then cut toward the street. They tighten in formation as they stagger through the cars, and I try to bide my time without shitting my pants.
A path opens to my right. I wait a few seconds longer so the ones who have moved out of my route won’t have time to move back, grab my handlebars and take off. A woman’s putrefied fingers just miss my sleeve on the way through, but I hit the street and veer right, leaving them in the dust. That was too close. I wipe my palms on my shirt one at a time and contemplate stopping to retrieve the water bottle in my pack. I’m not thirsty enough to die. Not yet, anyway.
Maybe the universe is really saying, Your luck has run out, friend.
Chapter 42
But I’m still lucky enough to hit the barbed wire-topped fence that surrounds Fort Wadsworth without being eaten. A few zombies linger outside, and I’ve learned enough about my multi-tool in the past days to know its limitations. No matter what they say, it’s not cut out for barbed wire; I’ll spend the entire time the zombies advance struggling to either climb over or slice it. I have a sturdy pair of fence pliers on my post-apocalyptic shopping list, but I haven’t come across them yet.
My bike has to come with me—I might need it tomorrow for the approach to the bridge. There are a couple of gates into the park, but I don’t know where they are. If someone’s in the park, the gates might be guarded, and I’m not looking for permission to enter.
I move fast enough to outrun the zombies but slow enough to watch for an inconsistency in the fence. As it turns out, I hardly need to look. The fence surrounding the park ends at another, higher fence that cordons off a separate building’s lot, and the second fence is not only free of barbed wire, but it’s also built into a slope with a wood retaining wall at its base. It’s practically begging me to go over. I step onto the wall, hook a boot in the links, lift my bike one-handed and drop it to the grass.
The noises from behind grow louder, more urgent, as they close in. I can tell how close they are by the speed and intensity of their hisses, like a game show where the music speeds up as the allotted time runs out. I scramble over the top. They reach the fence
and rattle the metal. It’s loud in the quiet, which makes me hope it’s a common noise around these parts and I haven’t given myself away.
The grass still has brown patches, but spring has indeed sprung. I bike on the path through the trees instead of on the road. As long as I follow in the general direction of the Verrazano, I’ll end up at the fort and be afforded a good view. Which, of course, might afford whoever’s here a good view of me.
And I think someone is here. It feels recent. It’s alarming how quickly the world has taken on a dead feel, but there’s a pulse this side of the fence. I trust my instincts. They don’t yell run, not yet, but they do say beware. On my right and through the trees and brush, which I wish were leafier to provide better cover, is a grouping of buildings that look burnt. I steer clear and get on the now-hidden bike path. Old stone walls—what’s left of the batteries of the fort—sit among the vines, surrounded by trees.
The bike path ends at a wider path and open expanse. I stop to listen. Wind in the branches, that’s all, but the pulse has sped up. I stay in the tree line and circumvent an empty parking lot until a break in the trees provides me with the information I need. The bridge curves across the water, tall and graceful as ever, with one significant change—a long stretch of roadbed in the middle of the span is gone, and sunlight streams through where there was once upper and lower roadway. A car couldn’t cross it, and neither could a zombie, but it’s possible someone on foot could travel along the cables or sides that look intact. I suppress my whoop of joy. I didn’t realize what a weight the unknown was until the warm sunlight on my shoulders is a comfort rather than a sweaty punishment. I can’t see the Brooklyn or Manhattan skyline from here, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going. Unless Brooklyn’s burned completely to the ground, it’s my next stop.
Just before I throw my leg over the bike, something gives me pause. A tickle, a niggling feeling that I’m not alone. There’s no clear sign, but it’s there nonetheless. Run. But I don’t. This isn’t a zombie, and running won’t help. The pulse pounds in my ears. It’s stealthy and watching from the trees behind me and in the stand of trees to my left.