The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

  Micah points at me, and I give him the double point back. Guillermo bends toward Grace. “Uh-oh. We got ourselves a friendly drunk over here.”

  “Sylvie’s the best drunk!” Grace says with a cackle. “All the things she won’t say in real life she says when she’s drunk.”

  I cross my arms. “Not true. I would totally tell you all that I love you any day of the week.” Upon further deliberation, I know I probably wouldn’t, but it feels true in that drunken way where all your problems seem easily solved. “I could if I wanted to. I should want to. I definitely will. This week.”

  Grace and Guillermo laugh riotously at what they know is a bald-faced lie. I would argue more, but reality has set in. Though I can’t stop myself now, I’ll regret this tomorrow. It’s just that, like earlier today, tomorrow seems so far away. But it’ll be here in the morning, and there’s no way I’m proclaiming my love for anyone but Grace when it arrives.

  “You guys know I won’t, right?” I say. “So don’t go asking me to.”

  Guillermo falls from his chair. Micah’s grin goes from ear to ear. Grace winks and says, “I do love you, Syls.”

  “And I you, missy.”

  We cheer as Carlos stumbles back into the light holding a bottle of tequila and tequila mix. The mix is sloshed into cups along with liquor and we toast to ourselves, then to all the poor schmucks who don’t have alcohol.

  Grace turns to Micah. “Why did you move to New York?”

  “I just thought it’d be cool. The music scene and stuff.” He stares at the boots he now wears instead of loafers. “And my dad. He’s…he doesn’t really like me, and I thought I’d be far enough away that I wouldn’t care.”

  “There’s never far enough away that you don’t care,” I say, and his eyes dampen. “But we like you, so fuck anyone who doesn’t.”

  “We loooove you, right Sylvie?” Guillermo says.

  I feign tossing my cup at Guillermo’s head but then see how Micah has brightened at our exchange. “Yeah, we do,” I say, and raise my glass Micah’s way.

  Grace gives him a sloppy cheek kiss and Guillermo tousles his hair. Micah shrugs and picks at his jeans, but he practically glows. Micah’s cute in an emo sort of way. With his dark hair and eyes, he could be the younger brother I always wanted. When I was older, I was glad no one else had been subjected to my mother, but it would’ve been nice to have someone with whom to commiserate. It seems Micah could commiserate nonetheless.

  “I loved my dad,” Carlos says, and all eyes turn to him. He’s drunk as the proverbial skunk; his bloodshot eyes are apparent even in the dark.

  “He was a good man,” Guillermo says. Carlos’ eyes redden even more.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says. “Is he…”

  “My sister got home first and found my mom and dad. The neighbors’ kid, he…she, you know, took care of…” Carlos swipes a fist across his face. “A couple days later some others got Rosa. Guillermo was her boyfriend.”

  Guillermo turns away, hand scratching under his chin. Everyone carries around this shit, more so now than ever, and our apologies to both of them come nowhere near easing the heartache. Guillermo releases a breath and says, “They used to say God took the good ones first. Now he just took everyone.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes and then move on to the things we wish we could do. Hot Shower wins by a landslide, with Watch a Movie close behind, although Go for a Walk is popular. And then, when it’s either cry or laugh, the conversation devolves into drunken teasing until we realize midnight has come and long gone. We stumble toward the houses.

  “Thanks, Guillermo,” Grace slurs. “I needed that.”

  “I’m glad we broke out a bottle,” Guillermo says, hand gripping Carlos’ shoulder to stay on his feet. “We gotta do this more often. I need to hear Sylvie say she loves me again.”

  “I love you, Guillermo. I love all of you.” I’m laughing as I say it, but it’s still kind of true. I’ve found my burning love of mankind, or at least a few guys, with the help of a bottle of vodka.

  You have to start somewhere.

  Chapter 59

  Eric

  I shouldn’t have left them. Once Sylvie and Grace disappeared from sight and I was ten blocks away, I turned back, thinking that if Paul was safe, he’d still be safe in a day—the man is a brick shithouse. But they were gone. A crowd of zombies stood outside the cemetery. I waited as long as I could, scanning for freshly eaten bodies on the ground or fresh blood dripping from faces, and, when I saw none, left before I was a freshly eaten body.

  Now, as I near Paul’s house in Bay Ridge, I hope for the hundredth time they made it over that fence or down the block. Not helping isn’t quite the same as hindering, but sometimes it feels close.

  I can almost hear my father: Eric, you let them go alone? What if it’d been Cassie?

  Dad, they didn’t want anyone along. This is the 21st Century, not 1880. I gave them the gun.

  The imaginary voice of my father is not impressed. I swear I hear his sigh in the breeze. The I expected more of you, Eric sigh. My dad wasn’t a hard-ass; he barely raised his voice. He was just so honorable, and so full of faith his kids were as well, that the slightest loss of light in his eyes made me squirm. Mom was the same. I was raised by two hippies who practiced what they preached. Sometimes it’s a lot to live up to.

  Dad, you weren’t always an angel, and you didn’t have the fucking zombie apocalypse to deal with. Cut me a break, maybe?

  Now he would’ve laughed and given me one of his big hugs, then sent me to the basement for some home-brewed beers. What I wouldn’t give for one more beer on the cabin’s porch with my dad.

  I concentrate on the streets instead of the hole my parents’ absence left. An old four-story brick school sits on the next corner, enclosed by a black iron fence, with the new addition of razor wire looped through the top rail. Bodies are piled behind a stopped truck halfway down the block. Someone here cleaned up at some point. I stop at a muffled thump to my right. It sounded as if it came through one of the long metal doors of a brick garage with space enough for five vehicles. More than five, if it’s subterranean the way it seems. The garage is attached to a four-story brick building behind it, which is itself attached to the church that takes up the lower half of this city block.

  I wheel closer to listen. But, after another couple minutes of silence, I coast to the corner and stop beside a sign that reads Sacred Heart of Christ Church. The church that rises above the nearby buildings looks like a museum with its grand side staircases and columns of stone. The stairs are enclosed with tall iron gates, and behind those gates are Lexers. A lot of them. They move forward at my arrival and hang on the metal, ragged arms out. Maybe they sought refuge here, though it doesn’t seem they found it.

  I move on to the lower avenues. Maria warned me about them, so I’m ready for the flood of bodies and the garbage and cars. I’m ready for the Droppers off the BQE. And drop they do, in sick, heavy thumps to the asphalt behind me. The weather is sunny but cool enough that a bike ride doesn’t work up too much of a sweat, even with a pack.

  We need rain. They have plans for gardens and, while water heaters are a start, all that securely stored potable water would be wasted on a garden. I didn’t mention to Maria that I plan to stop at the gardening store—I don’t have a death wish. My plan is to help them set up a garden, get Paul settled, and then go upstate. I’d leave sooner, but I want to be sure they have enough food. I can only imagine Ana, Penny, and Cassie’s distress if I say I left Maria without a way to survive long-term, and my father’s voice would never let me off the hook.

  The streets are industrial, the Brooklyn Army Terminal to my right—a complex of warehouses and businesses that runs for blocks. It would be a perfect fortress except for the fire that left the façade standing and all the joists and floors and ceilings in a heap inside. Burned bodies lie in the gated lot, some still moving.

  I cross above the train tracks and hit the residen
tial area, where the streets remain clear enough to drive a car. Maybe we can use Paul’s truck for part of the return trip. Semi-detached brick colonials line the quiet street and there are fewer parked cars than usual, which could explain the Droppers on the BQE and the vehicles that line the streets to the Verrazano. There are plenty of zombies, though. No sooner do I get past one slavering group than I’m dodging another, until I hit one so large I have to plan a new, roundabout route.

  The houses here are brick and stucco and wood, with terracotta roofs and built-in garages at street level. More like a suburb than Brooklyn. I turn left at the big houses by the water and skid to a stop at a glimpse of the Verrazano. If I hadn’t crossed it myself, I wouldn’t believe the two bridge towers stood a week ago. Now, the one on the Staten Island side has folded into the water. Hundreds of feet of metal, with cables still attached, is visible just above the waterline. The other tower has bent toward its mate, roadway hanging in a cracked sheet. The Brooklyn side of road has come loose to float in The Narrows. It’s no wonder nothing more has washed from the bay than when I saw it last—it won’t until the Verrazano washes away.

  It was my backup plan in case the other bridges are a bust: I could go to Wadsworth, make it into Jersey and head upstate. All of a sudden, Brooklyn feels very small and I feel very trapped. I take a breath and pedal onward, hoping to leave the feeling behind.

  Two more blocks to Paul’s house. When I’ve been asked why I’m still friends with Paul, mainly by Rachel, all I say is that he’s like a brother. Paul has my back and I have his. That’s the way it’s always been. He plays up his tough guy side, but underneath is a solid good guy who’s a lot smarter than he likes to let on.

  Paul’s block is the same as a lot of Bay Ridge—no architectural wonder but comforting in its familiarity. Two-story homes with enclosed porches. Brick first floors and stucco or vinyl on the second. The occasional grotto on the tiny lawn out front. Working class homes that house working class folks, or did when I was a kid, before they more than quadrupled in price. Paul’s dad sold him his childhood home for a fair price before he retired to Arizona.

  Many of the houses at the bottom of the block have broken doors and blood streaked on the concrete walks. A body is folded over a white fence in an advanced state of decay, burst flesh almost melted into the metal. The street is quiet now, but it wasn’t at some point.

  Leo must have been terrified. Hannah, too. She’s a tough Brooklyn girl, but I just rode past a lot of tough Brooklyn girls turned zombies. I pedal faster until I see Paul’s house remains untouched. I drop my bike at the base of his three brick steps and pound on the door. No sense being delicate, not with the Lexers up the street who’ve spotted me.

  “Paul!” I yell. “Hannah!”

  Five zombies, ten houses down. Maybe one minute until arrival. I lift my bike over the fence in the driveway between houses, thankful Paul’s dad had the good sense to put in the gate. A waist-high barrier is better than nothing. The detached garage sits in back, a basketball hoop lowered to Leo height on the concrete parking pad. I mount the tiny wood deck of the postage stamp backyard and try the door. Locked, and Paul’s not stupid enough to keep a key hidden outside.

  Footsteps stop at the gate. They can’t see me, but if they decide there’s something here worth chasing, I’ll have to jump to the next yard. A small scrape comes from ground level, where steps descend to the basement door. It eases open before someone steps through and says, “What the fuck’re you doing here?”

  I know it’s him, but it takes a second to see Paul in the haggard face and leaden blue eyes. He’s a big guy, but he looks weakened somehow, lips cracked and legs unsteady. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. I don’t think he’s slept. Whatever has happened, he’ll be okay. Paul has it in him to be okay.

  I jump to the steps. “That’s what you say when I come all the way to the ass-end of Brooklyn to find you?”

  He blinks in the sunlight and looks around, then tips his head toward the driveway. “Bro, you gonna come inside or wait until they eat your sorry ass?”

  He pushes me over the threshold on my way. I knew Paul was in there somewhere.

  Chapter 60

  The basement rec room has been unchanged since the 1960s. Same striped couch and paneled walls and shag rug. Hannah wants to renovate, but she hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Growing up, Paul’s basement was a treasure trove of old records, a real record player on which to play them, dusty bottles of liquor and the requisite forgotten Playboys.

  Dim light filters through the high rectangular windows. Paul locks the door behind us. It smells strongly of old socks and faintly of zombies. My body temperature drops by degrees in a split second—I don’t see Leo. There may be no bringing Paul back from that. I turn to Paul’s dark silhouette against the basement door window and catch sight of a glowing head of blond by his hip.

  Leo steps out and comes running. “Uncle Eric!”

  I’ve never been so happy to see someone, and not only for Paul’s sake. I raise Leo into the air to make sure he’s in one piece before I lower him to my chest. While Paul has his gruff moments, Leo is a five-year-old ball of love. He rests his head on my shoulder and wraps his arms around my neck, legs kicking.

  “Hey, Little Lee,” I say. “I am really, really glad to see you.”

  Paul moves toward me with a grim smile. I set Leo down and brace myself for one of Paul’s hugs. When it comes, it’s strong as ever. Maybe it’s my familiar face, but he already looks livelier.

  “So, what the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Long story. I came in because I thought Cassie was here, but we think she left the city. You remember Maria, Penny and Ana’s mom?” Paul nods. “She’s at the apartment with some other people. I came to bring you back. My plan was to stop for you on my way in, but I was sick.”

  Paul digests this information while absently scratching his cheek. It’s hard to tell, but I think his face is thinner under his beard. Leo looks healthy as can be. No surprise there: Paul would cut off his own flesh and feed it to Leo piece by piece rather than let him starve.

  “I brought some food.” I drop my pack to the floor and pretend not to see the way Paul watches with keen eyes. “What do you say we eat?”

  I pull out an MRE from Wadsworth, a few bags of dehydrated food, and powdered milk. I toss the MRE Paul’s way. “You know what to do with that. Got any water?”

  He nods and tears open the outer packaging, then one of the brown plastic packages inside. He walks to the old wooden bar and sets out two bowls.

  “That’s all you,” I say. “I have another for Leo.”

  His head dips, and I turn to Leo over the sound of Paul gulping down beef and beans, followed by whatever else is in the bag. “You hungry?”

  Leo considers the question, face screwed up. “Well,” he says, drawing out the word the way he does, “not that hungry.”

  “I guess you don’t want a cupcake, then.”

  His goofy smile shows a gap where he had a front tooth when I saw him three months ago. “Of course I want a cupcake!”

  I hand him the container with a laugh. He opens it and then sets his big eyes on me. Leo has bright blue eyes people stop to remark upon.

  “Do you want some?” he asks.

  “No way, buddy. I saved that one just for you. We can bake more when we get back to my house.”

  While he digs in, I walk to Paul at the bar. A drink mix and piece of tortilla are all that remain of the MRE.

  “When did you last eat?” I ask. He shrugs his big shoulders. I have an inch on Paul, but he’s half again as wide as I am. “You’re not doing Leo any favors if you starve yourself.”

  The tortilla disappears into Paul’s mouth. He chews it slowly, nodding. Paul has cried three times that I know of—at his wedding, when Leo was born, and when my parents died—but his eyes water. He swipes at them with his arm and then drapes it over my shoulders.

  “God sent you here, bro. I asked for a mi
racle, and He sent you. What the fuck was that about?”

  I elbow him. “I missed you, asshole.”

  ***

  I check the phone book to be certain the address is correct, and, after I extract a promise from Paul that he and Leo will head to the apartment if I don’t return, I leave behind everything but a bottle of water, Paul’s bolt cutter and my weapons. I need an empty pack as well as Paul’s bike panniers for the gardening store, or I hope to need them.

  Fifth Avenue is a little tricky, but no more so than anywhere else. Stores looted, bodies on the asphalt—the usual. I’m growing accustomed to this horror show, but it’s not as if I have a choice. Acclimate or die, just the same as when you climb Everest. Not that I’ve climbed Everest. I prefer to stick to the quieter mountains, or at least ones most humans can climb without supplemental oxygen. It’s fun to test Mother Nature’s patience at times, but it seems there are some places she doesn’t want us to go.

  I scope out the storefront from the side street. So far, no one has thought the gardening store worth their time. That’ll change if anyone is around to get hungry once all the food is gone. There’s still food in the city, even if it means a house to house search. There’s a supermarket stocked and waiting in Fort Hamilton, and that can’t be the only place people have missed or can’t reach.

  I once heard—and maybe I’m wrong—that the average large supermarket holds enough food to feed a single person for about 50 years. Perishables will rot, so that cuts into the supply, but the rest will last a while. Maybe until after these creatures finally die, whenever that is—years, tomorrow, never.

  The metal hatch set into the sidewalk out front is a good way in, but once in the basement with the hatch closed behind me, getting out will be tricky if zombies congregate on the sidewalk. I need a way out. It says they have a nursery out the back door right there on the store’s sign. That’s my best bet.

  Other cities have alleys, which provide another route for travel or escape, although at this point they may be zombie highways. Where there should be an alley in New York, there’s an additional store or the side of the building or a gate that leads to the backyard of the corner house. On this street, it’s a one-story shoe repair/key maker/tailor shop—talk about covering your bases. I set my bike behind the gate of the apartment house next door, throw the panniers to the shoe repair’s roof and climb up after them via the stoop’s railing.