The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

  “It might.” I point at Eric. “That guy’s a walking germ factory.”

  “Keep talking to him. He’ll wake up just to get rid of you.”

  “Hey!”

  She brushes his forehead and leaves the room with a tiny laugh.

  I settle down with a book. Now that I’m supposed to talk, I have nothing to say. Maria told us he’ll turn twenty-seven soon, lives in Pennsylvania where he goes to grad school, and that he likes to do things outdoor catalogue people do. That doesn’t give me much to go on. I can talk about being a few months older than him, maybe mention the Liberty Bell, and tell him about the two times I’ve been camping—all very exciting topics.

  “All right, I’m reading a book about survival. I have a feeling you know something about that, since this is your house. Sorry if it’s old hat. And I’m sorry for telling you to get out of your own house, although I’m hoping you don’t remember that part.” I read out loud from the chapter on water purification and set the book down. “We dug an outhouse. Feel free to use that instead of the bed next time.”

  He’s stationary as ever, no response to my joke. “Too soon?” I ask.

  I tell him about the solar oven and water heaters, then the details of Guillermo’s setup. More details than he needs to know. “Maybe Grace and I will go there now that you’re here. You probably don’t want us eating your food. Which is fine. I don’t blame you. I might take my solar oven, though. I really want to make cake, and Guillermo has a whole supermarket.

  “They won’t let me make cake,” I whisper, leaning close. “What’s that about? We’re all going to die and there’ll be boxes of cake mix sitting in the basement. It’s a tragedy. They’re yours, so if you eat them I guess that’s fine, but I can’t bear the thought of all that processed sugar just…sitting. And there’s icing. Icing. What if no one ever eats them and they become archeological evidence ten thousand years from now? My final thought as I die is going to be I should’ve made cake.”

  I’ve run out of steam, so I read from the book in an Irish accent for my own amusement. I wish I could watch TV. TV could do the talking for me, or I could pester him with comments about it.

  “If someone told me that I could only watch Murder, She Wrote right now, I would watch every single episode of every single season, and not only would I watch them, but I’d fucking love it. I’d be all up in Angela Lansbury’s crime-solving business. And if that doesn’t say something about how desperate I am, I don’t know what does.”

  He doesn’t answer. “Not a fan?” I ask, which cracks me up.

  After that, I read some more and then go on a stream-of-consciousness bender until I lean back in my chair. Incessant talking is exhausting. I’ve spoken more in the past three hours than in the past three years. I’m sure it’s the fluids rather than the talking, but he’s improving—the dark circles around his eyes have faded and his gauntness has filled out some.

  “Based on my absence of any knowledge on the subject, I think you’re going to be okay. You look better already. Now you only have to kick those kidneys into high gear and get out of bed. I think you should demand cake as your first meal, but that’s just me.

  “I hope you know I’m kidding. Maria is great, even if she does have a firm No Cake rule set in place. She brought us here from the hospital. My mother was there. She died. She was a shitty—let’s just say she wasn’t the best mother.”

  I regret saying it, especially since my voice hitched at the end. I hope he doesn’t remember me crying. “Anyway, me and Grace—Grace is my best friend, who you made throw up, by the way—got stuck in the basement with Maria. Even if we don’t go to Guillermo’s, we’re going to Grace’s house, so I won’t eat your cake. I can’t bring the solar oven to Brooklyn Heights, but I guess I can make a new one.”

  The thought of that trip makes me edgy. I get up and draw aside a newly installed blackout curtain. “The sun is up. You don’t want to miss today. The forecast is sunny with a one hundred percent chance of zombies.”

  A noise comes from the bed. His eyes are still shut, but his lips are curved. I move closer and then say, “Really? That terrible joke is what makes you laugh, out of all the clever things I’ve said?”

  His eyes move under his lids before they pry themselves open. Tiny crinkles appear beside the hazel. “It was really bad,” he whisper-croaks.

  I laugh, and his cheeks crease. He looks like shit but, even with that, he’s easy to look at. Maybe it’s the disarming smile or bright eyes, but he’s striking in a way that makes my chest catch for a second.

  “Maria will kill me if I don’t wake her,” I say, and head for the door. “Welcome back. I’m Sylvie, by the way.”

  “I know,” he murmurs. “Thanks for not shooting me.”

  I turn with a wince, but he’s drifted off with the corners of his mouth still lifted.

  Chapter 48

  Eric

  I thought I was a dead man, but I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be at the apartment. Maria took care of me and Cassie after our parents died. She made sure holidays weren’t lonely affairs and loved us like a mother when we most needed it. Once I saw her, I still thought I might die, but I knew if there was any chance of my pulling through, Maria would find it.

  And she did. I’m alive. I’m fucking alive. And it’s all the more exhilarating for just how dead I almost was. You can get in a tight spot, escape zombies and be tremendously happy you’re alive. Or you can get in a tight spot, escape zombies while half-dead yourself and be blown away that you’re alive.

  The disappointment I felt when Maria told me Cassie isn’t here was outweighed by the relief they might have gotten out, and that I’m alive to find them. The cabin is the only place left to check. But Maria has to let me out of bed first, and that’s not looking likely in the near future. She’ll relent sooner or later, if only because she wants to know what’s happened to Ana, Penny and Cassie. Maria has always looked ten years younger than her age, but her worry about them has shaved about five years off that gap.

  Maria says Dad’s guns are gone from the basement, so I know they have weapons. Their friend Nel was with them—he’s a big, comical guy who knows his way around a firearm—along with another guy from their work, and possibly Cassie’s boyfriend, Peter. I hope not; Peter’s a douche. If the apocalypse puts an end to that relationship, then it can’t be all bad.

  Maybe they’re at the cabin. Maybe they never made it. Either way, we need to know. I wouldn’t have made it to the cabin in this shape. Of course, I wouldn’t have taken a swim in the Arthur Kill had I gone straight there. Raw sewage will get you every time. I’m not sorry I made the trip, though. I assumed Maria was with them, but now I’ll bring her there myself. And Paul, if I can find him. He should be here, knowing what he knows about the basement, but I won’t go upstate until I check his house and make sure Maria is set for while I’m gone.

  I feel like a toddler when Maria peers inside my pee jug and smiles as though I’m finally potty trained. “Eric, stop with that face. You’re peeing, which means your kidneys are working.”

  “I hate to be a bother.”

  She makes a dismissive noise, as if my shitting the bed wasn’t bothersome. Knowing her, it probably wasn’t. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

  I do know. She treats me as if I’m going to keel over at any second. Over her protests, I managed a trip to the outhouse. No one but me is ever wiping my ass again.

  Sylvie enters with a bowl. It was bad enough when I thought she was a nurse. Now that I know she’s not, I try not to think about how she saw me in the worst condition of my life. How she—to be blunt—wiped my ass. I remember almost all of it, although it has a dreamlike quality. Sleeping soundly when you’re shitting blood doesn’t come easy.

  “There she is,” I say. “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Grace’s oatmeal-flaxseed concoction, full of Omega-3s and vitamins.”

  Sylvie sets it in my hands, makes sure I’ve take
n hold, and then steps away with a polite expression. Maybe flirting with the guy who crapped his pants isn’t her cup of tea. Can’t say as I blame her. She moves to the dresser, where she carefully lifts up a page of Cassie’s calendar and slides it into a paper clip with the previous days’ pages. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” I say. “Thanks for breakfast. And for nursing me. I’ve never been so sick in my life. You got me through a rough spot.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, her lips twist into the suggestion of a smile. Nice lips. Shapely. Not too thick or thin. “Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase eat shit and die, huh?”

  I burst out laughing, and her smile turns full. Getting well enough to go upstate is foremost on my mind, but I’d have to be comatose not to notice that Sylvie’s pretty with her chin-length dark hair, guarded chocolate-colored eyes, stiff shoulders that scream keep away, and, whether she likes it or not—and I think not—a softness underneath all that. Maria and I watch her leave, although I think Maria watches a different part of her.

  Maria turns my chin so I don’t miss her no-nonsense gaze. “Don’t even think about it. That girl’s baggage has baggage.”

  She knows about me and Rachel. Or the lack of me and Rachel. Maybe four months ago Maria called to check in and it all slipped out. Maria’s good at making you want to talk about things you’d rather not discuss.

  “Maria, I wasn’t thinking anything,” I say.

  She humphs. “Sylvie’s mother died in the hospital. She was a drug addict who basically ignored Sylvie all her childhood. She needs friends. Be her friend. Don’t stare at her culo.” I choke on my oatmeal, and she pinches my cheek. “I’ll check on you in a little while.”

  A few minutes later, Sylvie and Grace appear. “Sorry, we just need to get some clothes,” Sylvie says.

  “Go ‘head.”

  Grace grabs some stuff from the closet and turns to me. She’s petite and has a tranquil presence about her, though those qualities don’t make her appear fragile the way they might on someone else. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Thanks.”

  “I’ve been sending you healing energy,” she says, completely serious.

  Sylvie turns from the closet and grins apologetically over Grace’s shoulder, but I’m all for healing energy when I can get it. “I guess it worked,” I say.

  Grace spins at Sylvie’s snort. “Sylvie, you’re the freaking worst! They did studies and proved that prayer and healing ener—”

  “I know, I know,” Sylvie says. “You sent me an email all about it. But you just throw things like that into conversation like they’re normal. You don’t even consider that people might think it’s weird.”

  “Eric doesn’t think it’s weird.” Grace raises her eyebrows at me, arms crossed. “Do you?”

  I shake my head. Normally, I wouldn’t take sides, but it’s clear they’ve had this argument before and that they both enjoy their role in it.

  “I bet Eric doesn’t think it’s weird to use human poop as compost, either,” Grace continues.

  “Humanure?” I ask. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”

  Grace claps her hands. “Yes! Do you know how to do it?”

  “Not off the top of my head. But you know the file cabinet in the basement?” She nods. “There’s a drawer full of information on stuff like that, and there could be a printout of the handbook in there. The author posted it online.”

  Grace shoots Sylvie a victorious look. Sylvie shakes her head. “Great, now there are two of you.”

  I laugh. “It is better for the environment. The human nutrient cycle stays intact.”

  Sylvie groans. Grace squeezes my arm with her free hand. “I am so happy you’re here. You just made my week.” She sticks her tongue out at Sylvie. “I’m going to change and then look for the handbook.”

  Grace practically dances out of the room. I turn to Sylvie. “I guess you lost that battle. Sorry I had a hand in it.”

  “You’ve created a monster,” Sylvie says, though she’s smiling.

  She takes a shirt from the closet, then opens a dresser drawer. I try not to stare, especially at her culo, but I’m bored. I hate sitting still. “Are there enough clothes here for you and Grace?”

  “Yeah. That’s one thing we don’t need.” She raises the shirt. “Thanks. I’ll move some clothes out of here later so we don’t have to bug you all the time.”

  “You’re not bugging me. You and Grace can have this room. I’ll stay upstairs.”

  “No, this is your house.”

  It’s not rudely said, but it’s clear the discussion is over on her end. “Not really,” I say. “It’s my sister’s now. We used to share this room. When we were older, my parents put up a wall and made it into two rooms. I had the window side. Cassie would sleep until noon on weekends, so she didn’t care.”

  “And you were the morning person?”

  “Still am. I know, we’re annoying. Which are you, morning or night?”

  She looks at the ceiling. “I like to go to sleep late but then I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back to sleep. I’m a grudging morning person, I guess.”

  “My mother was a morning person. We’d have breakfast together and be done with half our day by the time Cassie and my dad rolled out of bed.”

  “That sounds nice. I’m sorry about—Maria told me about your parents.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry about your mom. You said your mom was at the hospital.”

  Sylvie blinks. The shirt is balled up in her hand. “Yeah, thanks. I have to change.”

  Out of all the possible topics of conversation in the universe, I chose to bring up mothers after what Maria said about hers. I shouldn’t have brought up her mother, or any mother, for that matter. I call her name after she’s through the door. She stops, back to me. “I mean it. I want you to keep this room. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days.”

  “No, but thanks.”

  She disappears with fast footsteps. She might need friends, but I’m not sure she wants them.

  ***

  Later in the day, my four housemates congregate in the bedroom to hear my story in more detail. I call Rachel a friend, which is true, and I leave out my breakdown. After I’m done—and I don’t rehash the part where I shit the bed—Jorge asks, “Did Wadsworth know who was broadcasting from the city? Or if Stuyvesant Town is still a Safe Zone?”

  “Not as far as I know,” I say. Maybe it was a fluke they could broadcast at all—antennas were probably damaged from fire and, without electricity or a generator, nobody is broadcasting anything.

  “So there aren’t any boats,” Maria says quietly.

  “Boats aren’t the only way out. I got across the Verrazano. Maybe I can take the Triborough or Whitestone upstate.”

  Maria pulls at a corner of my sheet, straightening what’s already straight. “We won’t talk about that until you’re better.”

  I wouldn’t get more than a few blocks at the moment, so she’s right in that respect, though if we talk about it now we’ll have a plan in place. My brain is full of energy while my body lags behind. But I lucked out again. Take that, universe.

  Grace leans forward eagerly. “I know you came from the other direction, but do you think we can get to Brooklyn Heights?”

  “I wouldn’t go without a bike, but I think you could make it.” Maria’s hand rests lightly on the blanket over my foot, and now it tightens. I amend my statement. “That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. You shouldn’t go until you know you can get there.”

  Grace may be into healing energy, but the only energy coming off her at this moment is a solid wall of frustration. I think my earlier impression—that Grace’s delicate exterior masks a tough interior—was spot on. It’s good. She’ll need it to reach Brooklyn Heights.

  “But there’s no way to know that, is there?” she asks.

  “There isn’t,” I say. Maria will be pissed at what I plan to say next, but she can’t make everyone o
n Earth stay in bed. “Sooner is probably better than later.”

  Sylvie glances at Grace. My impression is that Sylvie wants people to think she doesn’t give one iota of a shit about anything, but anyone paying attention would see that she does, especially when it comes to Grace. And I know she does, because I listened to her talk for hours on end. I know a lot more about her than she’d like.

  Grace nods as if her thoughts have been confirmed and turns to Sylvie, who gives her a nod that says whenever you’re ready, I’m game. But, when Grace looks away, Sylvie’s hand trembles as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

  Chapter 49

  “So, it’s a wacky, mixed-up day,” Sylvie says when she enters the bedroom. “Soup for breakfast. We had it leftover in one of the jars from last night. Maria says you need the vitamins.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Sylvie hands me my bowl and then moves the paper clip on the calendar. “Keeping track of the days?”

  “Yes and no. It’s a dumb game I play. I try to use the word at some point in the day, even in my head. This one’s not easy.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tonsorial: of or relating to a barber or the work of a barber.”

  She plays word games. I have a feeling she’s good at them. So am I. I have a feeling she hates to lose. Me, too. “Can I play?”

  “Sure,” she says. “But I’ve never played with anyone before. I guess then we have to use it aloud, and it has to make sense.”

  “I wish I were skilled in the tonsorial arts so I could cut my own hair.”

  Her hands come to rest on her hips. “You can’t just up and use it like that. Anyone can do that. It has to flow naturally. In regular conversation. Not that tonsorial has much of a flow.”

  “Fine, fine. Just seeing what I could get away with.”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “I can see that. I’d better get out of bed if I’m going to be around for a conversation where I can slip in the word.”

  “You shouldn’t get up yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Maria says so.”

  I make a face. “Maria’s not the boss of me.”