The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

Eric stops inches away. I’m not quite sure how to arrange my face when he’s so close he could kiss me. He lifts my hood and pulls the drawstring until my vision narrows to an oval, like I’m a three-year-old.

  “You’re getting soaked,” he says. “You’ll be freezing in ten minutes. Be right back.”

  I watch him walk to the outhouse, heart slowing, then loosen my hood and lift my face to the rain. It’s just as well. I’m no good at romance. I’m barely good at friendships that don’t involve Grace. I like Eric too much to lose him as a friend or to make him miserable, and my relationship track record assures me both are distinct possibilities if not absolutes.

  When he returns, we check buckets and pails and garbage cans to find only a few require small adjustments. We’re full up on water. This means baths and clothes washing and plant watering and, most importantly, a little more security.

  We bring our boiled water inside to use the French press. “I looked out the window before I came down,” Eric says. “They’re waterlogged.”

  “What is?”

  “Zombies. The ones with a lot of clothes are moving even slower. Maybe we should go out looking for food while they’re wet.”

  “Okay.” The kitchen is homey and cozy with the sound of rain outside and the smell of brewing coffee, and it feels especially so when I look out at the cold, gray rain. “I like rainy days.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Sunshine all the time is too damn happy,” I say. “It makes you feel like you have to be productive, but rain is lazy. It means you can curl up under a blanket and read a book or watch a movie. You can order in because who wants to go out in the rain if they don’t have to?” I heave a dramatic sigh. “Of course, the zombies have now fucked that up for us, since we have to go outside today.”

  “Figures they’d rain on our parade.”

  I smile as I fill two mugs, then pour the excess coffee into a thermos and start a new pot. We’re going to run out of coffee one day, and I’m going for a long walk with the zombies to get away from Maria on that morning.

  “Thanks,” Eric says. He leans against the counter and watches me stir in sugar and powdered milk. “You take it sweet. Like you.” I snort. “I’m laying it on a little thick, aren’t I? Too thick?”

  I hold my index and thumb an inch apart. He says, “What if I do think you’re sweet?”

  “Then you’re out of your mind.”

  His laugh is cut off by Paul, the bane of my existence, entering the kitchen. I’ve tried not to let him bring me down, but the minute he appears it’s as if joy is a bird that’s been dropped from the sky via shotgun blast. I know Eric can feel the tension in the room with the way his eyes skim between us. It may not be like me to back down from a fight, but I have been for Eric’s sake.

  “There’s coffee,” I say.

  Paul grunts and moves for a cup, his chiseled, blocky face unresponsive. You’re welcome, Paul.

  Leo comes in blinking, hair in twenty different cowlicks. “Good morning, Syls.”

  He’s heard Grace call me Syls, and now he does, too. “Morning, squirt. Looking for breakfast?”

  He sets an elbow on the table and crosses his legs at the ankles while he mulls it over. I don’t know if every kid is this entertaining or it’s just Leo, but his grownup mannerisms kill me. “Will you make me oatmeal?”

  I look to Paul and Eric, but they’re paying us no mind while they talk. It can’t be that hard to make oatmeal. You pour boiling water over oats and there you have it. “Sure.”

  I lift the big glass jar of oats from under the counter and pour some into a bowl while Leo pulls over a chair on which to stand, then I add water from the hot water thermos and stir it with a spoon.

  “That doesn’t look like oatmeal,” Leo says, one golden eyebrow lowered.

  “Maybe you have to mix it more,” I say. “Here, you take over.”

  Oats float and spin in the cloudy water when he stirs. After a minute, I poke the mixture with another spoon. “They’re softer, I think. It could be I added too much water?”

  Leo shrugs. “Well, if they’re softer, maybe they’re ready. Can I eat it?”

  It doesn’t look quite right but, with a little sugar, they’ll taste fine. I turn over the sugar bowl to dump in a little, but end up with a lot. I raise my finger to my lips. Leo’s eyes gleam with merriment.

  I glance at Eric and Paul—still talking. Leo takes a bite. A thoughtful look crosses his face before he chews. And chews some more. He shakes his head, still chewing, and then swallows it down. “It tastes mostly okay, but it’s kind of weird.”

  I’ve messed up the most basic breakfast food on Earth. I’d love to throw it out before anyone sees my blunder, but it’s precious food, so I amend the plan to my eating it for breakfast. I look to the bowl and then him. “Leo, my man, I think I royally screwed this up. We’ll make you something else.”

  He giggles. Paul comes over just as I’ve nudged the bowl away from Leo, who now uses his tongue to retrieve the oats stuck between his teeth.

  “Whatcha doing, bud?” Paul asks.

  “Sylvie made me oatmeal, but it’s weird.”

  “What do you mean weird?” Paul eyes me as if I’ve given Leo a bowl of cyanide. “Are you okay?”

  Leo nods. I explain, “Something went awry. We put in hot water, but it didn’t get soft.”

  Eric guffaws. “You just dumped the water on the oats?”

  “Hot water.” He nods, lips quirking, but clearly he knows something I don’t. “Okay, Chef Eric, what did I do wrong?”

  “You have to cook it. In a pot, on a stove.”

  “But I’ve never cooked oatmeal in my life! You open the packet, dump in the water, and, voila, oatmeal.”

  “That’s instant oatmeal. Then there are quick oats and regular oats.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Who knew?” I ask. He raises his eyebrows. “Everyone but me, I guess.” I turn to Leo. “Sorry, squirt. That’s going to be the last time you ask me for breakfast.”

  Paul catches Leo as he jumps from the chair. “Why didn’t you ask me for breakfast?”

  “Syls asked me if I was looking for breakfast. So I asked for oatmeal.”

  Paul spins to me, Neanderthal brow lower than usual. “I’ll make my kid breakfast.”

  “Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t realize I was spoiling your grand breakfast-making plans. I was only trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t,” Paul says. “Since you obviously can’t.”

  If he weren’t holding Leo, I would let fly with a string of curses. Leo is watching me, though, so I say, “I’m not funny and I can’t cook oatmeal. What other faults do you think I might have?”

  Paul tenses, mouth ajar. I’ll bet he has a list. A numbered one. Eric glances his way. I’ve never seen Eric look anything but friendly, but his eyes hold a gold, glacial warning. Paul moves to the cabinets with Leo in his arms.

  “What do you think about going out today?” Eric asks me.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go change.”

  Usually, I can pinpoint what I’ve done wrong. I might not want to publicly acknowledge it, but I’m aware of how I brought it on myself. With Paul, the specifics are a mystery—I’m just unlikeable.

  Grace is in the bedroom, and when I tell her the day’s plan she puts down the clothes she holds and pulls out dirty clothes, then ties her hair up in a bun with not so much as a blink. I like that I don’t have to worry about her, but I don’t like the way the soft lines of her face have sharpened, whether from diet or disappointment. She’s still Grace, but no matter our drunken conversation, I think she might be losing hope.

  “Is there coffee?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Hey, did you know there are three different kinds of oatmeal?”

  She looks up from her socks. “I guess. I mean, yeah. The instant in the packets, the quick cooking and then old-fashioned. There’s steel-cut, too, which is kind of like old-fashioned.”

/>   I drop to the bed on my back. “I am officially the only person who doesn’t know that.”

  “Is that really something you need to know?”

  I tell her about Leo’s breakfast, and, when she’s done laughing at me, she says, “I don’t get it. Why was that such a big deal?”

  “Because Paul hates me, that’s why.”

  She lies down beside me and stares at the ceiling. “He definitely has a problem with you, and, I have to say, you get points for not stooping to his level. Karmic points.”

  “I wish they were brownie points. Real, actual brownies. I can’t even be mean to him because of what happened to his wife. Even if it’s only for Leo’s sake.”

  “I can. I’ll hate him for you.”

  It’s so unlike Grace that I twist my head and see how her anger boils just beneath the surface, heating her cheeks. “No, because you hating someone would mean the world has really ended.”

  “Can I fuck with him, just a little?” she asks. “No one messes with my best friend.”

  I laugh. “Just a little.” I know she probably won’t, but I like that she’s willing to.

  She pats my head and leaves for coffee. The anger has subsided and now I’m drained. It’s less that I want Paul to like me and more that I don’t want to be somewhere I’m not liked. I’ve done enough of that for one lifetime.

  Chapter 66

  Maria offers to stay with Leo. I don’t think she minds, but she also wants to supervise our every movement, so she buzzes around reminding us to tie our shoes and button our coats and whack zombies in the head.

  “Maria,” I say with my hand to my heart, “I promise we’ll obey all your orders even if you’re not there to give them.”

  “Smart-ass. Just be careful.” She hugs me, and I hug her back without thinking. “Did you just hug me?”

  “Whoops,” I say.

  She takes my hands and moves her feet in a complicated pattern while I watch her with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll have you dancing soon,” she sings.

  Maria—after coffee, of course—spends the rest of the day running on what I’ve come to believe is an endless fount of energy. She cooks and gardens and plays with Leo, and she does it all while humming and dancing. I escape her attempts to make me her partner because I don’t dance, though I do like that she tries. I don’t like when her playfulness fizzles out and she stares into space with heavy shoulders. Often she shakes it off, but sometimes she leaves and returns later with puffy eyes.

  “Crazier things have happened,” I say, “but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Maria swats my arm. “What are you waiting for? Get out of here already.”

  I grin and head out the back door. Eric catches up with me in the yard. I’ve decided to keep my distance. As I dressed to go out, I realized that whenever Eric and I are together, especially if we’re joking, Paul turns hostile. I refuse to be in the middle. If Paul wants him, he can have him—it’s a battle I can’t win. Grace would never lose out to a guy for me, no matter who he was. Then again, Grace wouldn’t sabotage me either.

  “What’s wrong?” Eric asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were so happy an hour ago it was scary. What is it?”

  His eyes are gold-flecked green instead of brownish, even with the gray sky. Arresting. This is what they mean by arresting eyes. They’ll give you a heart attack if you’re not careful.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it Paul?”

  I take a deep breath. Yes, it’s Paul. “I can handle Paul. He can’t call me anything worse than what I’ve already been called at some point in my life.” Eric frowns and I frown back. “Stop trying to rescue me. I’m fine.”

  “I can punch him.”

  “Not on my account,” I say. “Although I wouldn’t blame you if you did it just for fun.”

  “It’s…he is a good guy. Really.”

  “You keep saying that. It doesn’t make it true. Paul is your friend. I don’t want to make your life harder.”

  Eric pulls me to a stop by my sleeve. “Why do I feel like you just unfriended me?”

  “I didn’t do anything except make it easier for you. For once in my life, I’m trying not to make things harder for people. Maybe you should let me.”

  His hand tightens. “I—”

  Something white flashes along the fence that separates us from the backs of stores. I can’t tell what it is before it disappears under the wood. A cat, maybe. I haven’t seen anything but a single live squirrel and dog carcasses in weeks. And roaches, but I’m pretending they don’t exist. I tug myself from Eric’s grip and walk to the peeling fence. Low to the ground, I can just see into the dim space.

  A cat sits against the cinderblock of a store, eyes reflecting in the shadows. Black and white, with a messy black blotch on its face and wet, spiky fur. I make the usual pss pss noise, but it only presses its back more firmly against the wall.

  “What is it?” Grace asks.

  “A cat.”

  “Really? Let me see.” I scoot over so she can join me, and it runs out of sight. Grace gets to her feet. “I guess it doesn’t want to say hi.”

  I try to see where it went without success. The thought of that cat wet and lonely and hungry gives me a hollow feeling in my stomach. I hate to see stray animals—stray anything, really. “Do you have any food?” I ask Grace.

  “Just some nuts.”

  I hear a zipper and then Eric kneels beside me, tearing something in his hand. “Beef jerky.”

  He takes the time to make sure the jerky is shredded small enough for a cat and places it just inside our yard, close enough to entice but far enough that it will have to come through to eat it. If it returns, I’ll feed it part of my food every day. That way no one can object to its presence.

  “Thanks.” I stand and start to move away.

  “Don’t unfriend me.” Eric kneels in the mud, his bottom lip in his teeth and his plea in his eyes. I’m bewildered at the idea of him—this normal, funny, kind-hearted human who appeared out of nowhere and, for some mysterious reason, thinks the crazy person is worth knowing.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m Eric Forrest,” he says, hand extended. “Who’s going to be your friend whether you like it or not.”

  I yank him to his feet.

  ***

  The gentle rain turns to a downpour when we’re blocks from home. The zombies who are dressed, especially the ones still in coats, are weighed down by sopping clothes and shoes, and we’re using the opportunity to visit stores away from our safe passage of houses. The rain and thunder mean not only that Lexers can’t hear us as long as we stay out of sight, but also that anyone with guns might decide to stay inside.

  It also means we’re soaked. Even running between houses was enough to drench me. I should’ve put shampoo in my hair before we embarked and let nature do the job of rinsing. We have a list of the supermarkets, restaurants and stores on the avenue. According to Guillermo, the stores without zombies are bare. The stores with zombies may have something inside, but they also have zombies. However, we’ll starve without more food, and now we have enough people to do unwise operations like fight off a store full of zombies.

  We stay low on our way up to the avenue. Whether it’s the rain or not, the streets are pretty clear. Paul asks, “Where are we going?”

  Jorge points to the next block down, past a group of dozens of Lexers, where a pizza place’s boarded-up windows suggest someone is either living or undead inside. My mouth waters. Just one slice of Brooklyn pizza, that’s all I ask. To go back in time and buy one more slice. To have the pizza guy throw it in the oven, making it so crunchy and hot that you almost can’t taste the first bite off the triangle and the crust cracks when you fold it.

  “…good?” Grace elbows me. She blinks to keep the rain out of her eyes; it slants to find us even under the corner store’s side awning.

  “What?”

  “Paul’s going to distract them.” r />
  I wipe my forehead. Water drives into my face with each push of wind. I wanted rain. Be careful what you wish for. “How?”

  “Not sure.”

  I shrug. I don’t want him to get eaten, but better him than me. Paul nods once, pounds Eric’s back and heads straight for a shiny Hummer parked at the curb a block down. He rocks it with two hands and the alarm sounds. A month ago, no one in the city cared about a car alarm except to bitch at its owner for it blaring in the first place. But it’s not too loud mixed with the din of the rain, which would defeat the purpose—we want to call the nearby zombies away, but we don’t need to invite new ones.

  Paul waves us back. We press ourselves against the wall while the corpses on the pizza block trudge past. Another car alarm peals, this one farther off. I’m hiding behind garbage cans watching dead bodies walk up the street. Zombies, sneaking around the streets, possibly starving to death, New York a wasteland—a single one of those things is unbelievable. Altogether, they’re fucking insane.

  “What?” Eric whispers from my other side. His hair is plastered to his head. Rain drips from his chin and drops perch on the end of his eyelashes.

  “Didn’t say anything,” I whisper.

  He wipes his face with his equally wet sleeve. “You said fucking insane.”

  Before I can answer, Jorge says, “Okay, go.”

  We follow him around the corner. Aside from the large group that now follows Paul, only one straggler lurks on this block. Jorge waits for it to close the last two feet and then brings his cleaver into its head. Our visibility is down to a couple of blocks due to the rain, but those blocks are vacant.

  Eric clears out the broken glass of the pizza place’s doorframe and slams his shoulder into the wood behind. It shifts. Jorge gets a go, and the corner dislodges, then Eric goes again. I can just make out the distant bodies clustered around the Hummer through the mist the rain throws up. Either Paul keeps setting off the alarms, or the zombies do, or they’re those car alarms that never stop and tempt you to hunt down and strangle the owner.

  The wood crashes to the floor and reveals a pitch black interior. Grace flicks on her flashlight. Rotted faces peer back, already moving toward the light of the street, and we withdraw to allow them room on the sidewalk. Rain moistens the dried blood once they’re out. It runs in streams over their faces and down their clothes. Rehydrated gore smells just as bad the second time around.