On my way into Brooklyn from Philly, I’d hoped that if I couldn’t find Cassie, I’d find people. Not only did I find Maria, Paul, and Leo, but I also found strangers who’ve become friends. I found Sylvie. That I might never make it back to them, to her, is not putting pep in my step. The search for Cassie, Penny, and Ana isn’t a millstone around my neck, though in the past I have questioned why the honorable duty often seems to fall to me.
I snort as I strap the machete to my bike. That’s not a hard one. It falls to me because I take it on voluntarily. It’s what Dad did. It’s what he expected his son to do. Sylvie calls me Golden Boy—maybe jokingly, maybe not—but there are plenty of times I want to say screw it. Tell someone to solve their own damn problem or save their own damn self. The only glitch in that plan is I’ve found refusal is almost never worth the guilt that plagues me afterward.
I glance toward Brooklyn and imagine heading that way, free from care, and then I drag my bike in the opposite direction. The pointed archways of the first tower loom just ahead, and the path beyond the tower is zombie-free, but it’s only intact for a stretch before it turns to a blackened mess. Where it’s not missing entirely, the wood is splintered and burnt, and the roadways beneath are destroyed.
The wood won’t support my weight, but I’ll take this over the Verrazano any day. There are cables to hold while I walk the girder and, where the cables end, I step across metal framework in the worst spots. Thankfully, I won’t have to crawl. That would be impossible with my bike over my shoulder, and I don’t want to leave it behind. Getting Sylvie to cross this would be a tough sell. If I were afraid of heights, I’d be shitting my pants, but I’m not and I’ve shitted up my pants enough for one lifetime.
Before the next tower, the promenade becomes whole again, and nothing lurks on the path. The apartment buildings of Lower Manhattan burned along with the once-gleaming skyscrapers, and I assume their residents didn’t stand a chance. I ogle at the impossibly barren FDR Drive that runs perpendicular beneath the bridge. There’s the occasional stopped car, but, for all intents and purposes, the six lanes of the highway traversing Manhattan’s east side are empty. No Lexers, no nothing. That means smooth sailing as far north as the eye can see. I’ll cut west across the island when I get uptown.
A roadblock of real fences and police trucks stretches across the bridge on the Manhattan side. No one mans it now, but it’s still doing its job. I take the curved exit ramp that slopes from the bridge to the FDR. When I reach the road, I stop to view the East River, now known as the World’s Largest Septic Tank. If I had any explosives, I’d blow up what remains of the Verrazano myself just to clear this mess out. Sylvie said they saw kayaks and smaller boats before they were capsized by the bombs. There must be a boat undamaged enough that it could be used to cross the water, but I’ll be damned if I can spot one.
It’s great to fly along this normally well-trafficked road, and even better is the fact that much of the highway is elevated over the streets. Where the road slopes to street level around Houston Street, a combination of fences and vehicles are arranged along the entire stretch until I rise safely above zombies once again. Someone did this at some point, though there’s no telling if it was a week ago or at the very beginning.
I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of life. The city is desolate. On the one hand, I’d like to see someone besides bodies wandering the parks along the river. On the other hand, I don’t particularly want to be shot.
Shadows have lengthened by the time the tall buildings of Stuyvesant Town come into view. A dozen or so stories, built of brick with rectangular windows, and clustered in a rectangle that encompasses three times the area of Sunset Park. It was a Safe Zone at some point, but the broadcasts that named it as such stopped soon after everything else did.
The two closest outer buildings are connected by a garage at street level. The garage roof makes up a second-story courtyard of trees, benches, and a playground between the main entrances of the buildings. A lone pint-sized Lexer stands motionless near a swing. It turns and then runs to another pint-sized figure who hops toward it. Their shrieks carry on the wind as two adults make their way over.
Not zombies. Kids. Playing outside. The sight brings me to a halt, and I dismount to peer off the overpass. The street into Stuyvesant Town is fenced to form a wide passageway that travels under the FDR. It must lead to the water and the base of the exit ramp I passed a quarter mile back. Where the street enters Stuyvesant Town, a gate between the buildings blocks access to the interior. An octagonal glass and metal guardhouse, obviously from days before zombies, sits out front.
A guy rounds the side of the guardhouse, rifle over his shoulder, with another guy behind him, rifle aimed at me. The fact that they were a Safe Zone leads me to believe they’re friendly, so I set both hands in view on the guardrail and wait for them to reach the street beneath. The first guy looks up—he’s somewhere in his early thirties with dark hair, though the longer hair on top of his head is bleached. “Howdy. What can we do for you?”
“Just passing through,” I call down. “Didn’t think Stuyvesant Town was still a Safe Zone. I’m from the Safe Zone in Brooklyn.”
“There’s a Safe Zone in Brooklyn?”
“There is now. At Sunset Park.”
“Cool. Where’re you heading?”
“Out of the city. Upstate. Do you know a way off the island? All the bridges are down in Brooklyn.”
“Pretty sure you can cross the G.W.” He rubs his chin and grins. “The problem is getting close enough to cross it.”
“How about the Harlem River?”
He shakes his head. “They bombed the shit out of there after Yankee Stadium got infected.” The guy behind him says something and he nods. “You want to come down here and talk?”
I gaze along the FDR. I’d like to see what’s behind those gates, but I want to get upstate. I can always stop on my way back. “I was hoping to get farther north. I still have to find a place for the night.”
They have a quiet conversation. Finally, the bleached one says, “We quarantine everyone who comes in, but they might make an exception for you, since you’re from a Safe Zone.” He points the way I came. “Take that exit you passed, come down the ramp, and we’ll let you in.”
They seem normal and healthily cautious. My curiosity is piqued, a safe place for the night is irresistible, and they can give me information on how best to escape Manhattan. Five minutes later, I’m cruising down the off ramp. The Empire State Building rises in the north, antenna spire lit orange in the early evening light. Chain link fencing, with a thick green material woven through for privacy, blocks the end of the ramp, and it rolls open at my approach to reveal the two men.
Stuyvesant Town is straight across the fenced intersection, and here the fence makes a right angle and attaches to the underside of the FDR. It encloses a small park and a section of the path that borders the East River. They have access to the water, which could mean they have boats.
“I’m Roger,” bleached-blond says, hand out. His bare arms are patterned with black tattoos.
The other guy—dark-skinned and medium height, with short hair—holds out a hand and says, “Louis.” He pronounces it Lou-ee and has an accent I can’t place.
I introduce myself. Roger waves to someone behind the glass of the guardhouse and leads me across Avenue C, then stops at the gate. Cinderblock walls close off the sidewalks. At the asphalt, the ground has been chewed up and the posts of an iron fence sunk into pools of cement. Behind that is another gate of corrugated metal. Roger swings out half the first gate, then slides the corrugated metal to the left on squeaking wheels.
He turns to Louis. “You coming?”
Louis shakes his head, gives me a friendly nod, and joins the other person in the guardhouse. I turn my attention to the tree-lined street that curves deeper into Stuyvesant Town. To my left, stairs and a ramp set into a grassy rise lead to a cluster of buildings above sidewalk level—where those kids playe
d without a care in the world.
Roger motions that way. “Quarantine, when people come. Keeps them away from the main buildings.”
“How many buildings are there?”
“A fuck of a lot. We don’t use them all. Only around the perimeter of the Oval down to Avenue C. About half the buildings are inside the inner fence.”
“They’re all full?” The size and scope of this place is astounding. I don’t see how they could feed that many people.
“Pretty much everyone’s on the lower floors. No elevators. But we only take up a few buildings, anyway.”
“How many people are here?”
“About three hundred.”
I whistle. That’s a lot of food and water. “Do you have water?”
“Yeah. You don’t in Brooklyn?”
“They turned it off. Some neighborhoods might, but Brooklyn Heights all the way to Bay Ridge is dry.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah, running water’s nice. We have outhouses.”
“Really?” Roger asks with a grimace. “You just made me like this place more.”
He steps off the empty street, across the sidewalk, and up to a gate on a tree-shaded path between buildings. Basketball courts sit to the left, and the iron fences that once surrounded them have been removed and reattached to form that inner fence Roger mentioned. Multiple fences mean multiple layers of protection. Someone here isn’t taking any chances.
“Knock, knock,” Roger says, rattling the gate.
A woman rises from a park bench behind a tree fifteen feet away. She’s around thirty, with brown hair and a book under her arm. “Who’s this?”
“This is Eric. Eric, meet Julie. Julie, meet Eric.”
Julie gives me a polite smile, then turns to Roger. “Why aren’t you going to quarantine?”
“Because, Julie, Eric isn’t going to quarantine. He’s from Brooklyn and unbitten. From Brooklyn and Unbitten: good album title, huh?”
Julie rolls her eyes. “I can’t let you in, you know that.” She crosses her arms and blows her straight bangs off her forehead. “I need an okay from Kate or Declan.”
Roger leans on the fence. “I left my radio at guard. Do me a favor and call one of them?”
“Fine.” She ambles to the bench and talks for a few seconds. I hear the fuzz of static and then a voice before she moseys back. “Dex is coming.”
“You’re a doll.”
Julie salutes him and goes back to her bench, where she stretches out her legs, opens her book, and ignores us. Her complete disinterest is driving Roger crazy, as evidenced by his constant glances at her, but he tries to play it cool.
Roger tilts his head her way with a crooked smile that seems practiced. “She hates me.”
“Yup,” she says with her eyes on her book. “Sure do.”
“You love when I bother you.” She continues reading. He turns to me. “Dex is Declan O’Neill. He’s the head honcho.”
“Along with Kate,” Julie says without looking up.
“I don’t want to cause any problems,” I say. “I can find somewhere else to stay for the night.”
“Not everyone here is as big a prude as Julie. It’s fine.” He looks to see if she’s heard, but, if she has, she gives no indication.
A tall man comes toward us. I pictured Declan O’Neil with ruddy skin, auburn hair, and even a brogue, but this man is olive-skinned, possibly with South Asian in his ancestry. Salt and pepper hair sits in close-cropped waves against his head and his short beard is white as snow. His brown eyes are friendly yet cautious as he approaches the fence.
“I see you’re at it again, Roger,” he says with a soft lilt to his voice. I was right about the brogue part. It’s faint, but there’s a touch of Ireland in his voice. “If you don’t exemplify the old adage rules were made to be broken, I don’t know who does.”
“Declan, this is Eric…” Roger lifts his eyebrows my way.
“Forrest,” I supply.
“Right. So, he’s from the Brooklyn Safe Zone and was passing by on his way out of the city. I invited him to stay the night without quarantine, but Jules here won’t let us in.”
Declan raises an eyebrow. “Julie is a stickler for the rules. Which is why she is allowed to guard a gate on her own.”
Roger sighs. “You gonna let us in, boss?”
“I’m perfectly happy finding somewhere else,” I say.
Declan assesses me judiciously. Finally, he opens the lock on the gate. “Come on in, Eric Forrest. I’m Declan. You can stay with me tonight.”
Chapter 15
Stuyvesant Town is made up of winding paths and staircases strewn with identical-looking buildings. Both Declan and Roger know where they’re going, but I’d like a map of this place to get my bearings. Trees and brick facades and entry doors with green awnings are everywhere, and they all look alike. People walk to and fro. A dozen sit on benches in the oval Roger mentioned—an open space with a dry fountain set in a patch of concrete. Gardens have been planted on the sizeable oval of land at the rear of the fountain, and though dotted with trees, stumps mark where many more were felled to provide sunlight for the plants. The peas have gone wild and the lettuce and spinach are lush. They started theirs on time, unlike us.
“My wife, Kate,” Declan says. “She has a green thumb.”
“She sure does.”
The sun drops another degree and the shadows grow a shade darker. Declan watches most of the people on the benches leave for the closest buildings. “They want to be indoors when it’s dark. The lights will come on soon.”
“Lights?”
“We have generators and gasoline. As of now, we have two hours a night. Only for a minimum of lights and to heat water in the electric water heaters we rigged up once the steam and gas went. We have our eye on a solar installation on 33rd, but we haven’t figured out how to transport it or set it up.”
I consider offering to help, as my dad and I set up a solar system at the cabin, but I keep my mouth shut. If I make good time, I can always offer assistance on my way back if they’ve gotten their hands on the panels. There is one mission, and one mission only: the cabin. I am not deviating from that mission. I am not playing the hero. Golden Boy has left the building.
After Roger takes his leave, Declan steers me to the closest building and through a glass door reinforced with metal. I leave my bike in the lobby, follow him down the dark hall, through an apartment door, and into a foyer that leads to a large living and dining area. It’s still well-lit enough by the setting sun to see parquet floors and light-colored furniture.
A woman appears in the doorway of the galley kitchen off the foyer. She tilts her head in inquiry, but her smile doesn’t fade and her blue eyes are welcoming. Her blond hair is threaded with gray and pulled back into a short, messy ponytail. “Who do we have here?” she asks Declan.
“Eric Forrest, this is my wife, Kate. Eric’s from Brooklyn and is staying the night sans quarantine.”
“So if he eats anyone, it’ll be us?”
Declan chuckles. “That’s about the size of it.”
“It’s nice to eat—I mean meet—you,” Kate says with a wink. If Declan seems kind but serious, Kate exudes a warmth that makes me like her immediately. She heads back into the kitchen. “I’ll set out another plate. Dinner in five.”
“We’ll get cleaned up.” Declan motions me into the living room. The view out the large window is of the Oval, now empty and growing darker by the second. “You’ll stay in the guest bedroom, first door on the right. Bathroom’s across from the master bedroom. Why don’t you go set your things down?”
Except for the lack of lights, I could be visiting friends of my parents before zombies arrived. Our domestic life in Sunset Park may be odd, but this—as close to normal as you can get—feels odder considering the world around us. The guest bedroom is generically decorated, but there are signs it once held a person, now a grown-up child. Bookshelves hold books, dog-eared and well-loved, a few wi
th the “used” stickers from a college bookstore. A picture is stuck in the edge of the mirror—a few teenage girls, backs to the camera, looking over the ocean. An old stuffed dog on the bed reminds me of Leo, and I wonder what they’re doing now. Dominoes, likely. Laughing, definitely.
I try to ignore the pang in my chest by heading for the bathroom, where I marvel at the water running from the faucet. The toilet flushes. I watch the water spin away and listen to the tank refill, then wash my hands and face and head for the living area.
Declan and Kate are already at the wood table, and I sit at the spot meant for me. Kate lifts the serving spoon stuck into a dish and drops a glob of food on my plate. Meat of some kind, with vegetables in a creamy sauce.
“A warning,” she says. “I am not a chef, but I make do.”
“I’m used to making do by now,” I say. “I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Declan chuckles. “He’s polite. Aren’t you curious as to what the meat is?” I nod. “Rabbit. We have a lot of rabbits who, pardon the expression, fuck like rabbits.”
Kate snickers. “Take a bite. It may taste like shit, but it shouldn’t kill you.”
I do as I’m told. It tastes like cream of something soup and isn’t half bad. “Delicious,” I say. “Much better than the potato chips and nuts I planned to eat.”
Kate shifts her eyes to Declan, laugh lines deepening. “And he’s a good liar.” She turns back to me. “Tell us about Brooklyn. Dex says there’s a new Safe Zone?”
I do. They ask me about my family, about my life before, and they listen as though it’s the most fascinating story they’ve ever heard. I tell them about our new neighbor Joe and his buddies up the road. We haven’t seen or heard from them since our first hostile meeting, but I don’t trust that’ll last forever.
By the time I’m done, the lights have flickered on. Declan sits with his hands in a steeple, elbows on the table. “And how do you keep people from fighting over resources? We’ve had some trouble with that here. Most people are content to share and share alike, but there are some who aren’t. I call them the holdouts.”
The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia Page 9
