The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  “Smells good,” Maria says when she and Bart enter the kitchen.

  “We have nineteen to feed upstairs,” Bart says. “Plus down here.”

  Prisha glances up from where she places cold cuts on bread. “Do you think they’ll come for us?”

  We know who she means: The government, the police, the they who could rescue a bunch of civilians. Bart runs a hand over his head. His thinning hair is a gray cloud from all the head rubbing. “I wish I knew. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “This food will be gone in two weeks.”

  “It doesn’t matter, we’ll all be dead,” Dawn mumbles, still attempting to polish the counter with a finger. We ignore her.

  “Get everyone fed for today,” Bart says. “It’ll improve morale. After that, we’ll ration the food. I want to thank you all for helping. I know this is hard, but you should be proud of the way you’re pulling together. We can hold out here until this is over.”

  He looks each of us in the eye as he speaks. It’s an obvious pep talk, but I can feel myself falling for it. Next I’ll be singing folk songs.

  “Maybe we should hang a sign out a window for rescue crews, to let them know we’re here, and put something on the roof,” Bart says. “Is there a two-way radio anywhere in the building? Kearney’s and Clark’s radios are dead.”

  “Yeah,” Jorge says. “But you’d have to ask security where it is.”

  I glance at the walk-in freezer. Security isn’t talking. I haven’t told Grace what’s in there. I want to do something ordinary like cook, although it isn’t my typical ordinary—my expertise starts and ends at scrambled eggs. I don’t want to remind her of what’s outside, which is stupid. None of us can forget for a second.

  ***

  Jorge and a few others bring our finished meal upstairs via elevator while Grace and I serve the basement.

  “Thanks, Sylvie,” Maria says when I hand her a tray. “Why were you at the hospital? Were you visiting someone?”

  “My mom.”

  “Is she—”

  “She died. Not from the virus,” I say quickly. “Before that.”

  “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you to cook if I knew.” Maria’s fingertips brush her heart. Her tone is soothing.

  “We weren’t close. I don’t mind cooking. Anyway, we have to do inventory now.” I know how callous I seem, but I don’t want sympathy. Mainly because I’ll cry, and I’ve sworn to never shed another tear for Ruth Rossi.

  “All right,” she says. It’s obvious she wants to say more. I leave before she can.

  My stomach roils the whole time we do inventory and then start on the next meal. I don’t know which makes me angrier—that my mother died without a speck of remorse or that I’m here because of her. We could be at Grace’s parents’ house or her apartment, figuring a way out of this mess. We’re safe for now, but her family might not be, and there’s no way to know, thanks to Mom. I take deep breaths so I don’t throw something across the kitchen.

  “Is this lunch or dinner?” Grace asks.

  “Linner,” I say. “Or dunch. Since we’re only making two meals.”

  Jorge chuckles and lifts fries from the oil to drain. “I think it’s good you girls are keeping up your spirits. We’re better off than a lot of other people. We’ve got a plan for now.”

  “You mean Operation Someone Save our Asses?” I ask. “I don’t know about that. You saw what’s happening out there. Who’s going to save us?”

  Jorge’s head bobs in agreement; I knew he was smarter than that. “So you think it won’t happen?”

  I knock on my head. “They don’t pay me to think.”

  Jorge grins, but I’m not kidding. If I think about it all—my mother, Grace’s family, the world—I’ll end up like Craig, who might be better off on the psychiatric floor.

  I had every intention of having a drink to send my mother’s spirit on her way. I hoped to finally sleep all night with no worries about a 2 a.m. phone call—because out of all the things drugs erased from my mother’s memory, my number wasn’t one of them. I had no illusions I’d suddenly get married and acquire two kids and a golden retriever, but somewhere I harbored hope that I’d meet someone. Someone smart, with a sense of humor, someone who wasn’t offended when I lovingly told him to go the hell away and give me some space.

  It’s been almost two years since Matt, my one and only long-term boyfriend, told me to look him up when I got my shit together. He was tired of my mother’s calls and my nighttime rambles through the apartment. I had no plan to look him up, but I thought I’d do better next time. Next time seemed so close, and now all I have ahead of me is another round in the commercial kitchen and an assload of dishes to wash.

  I should’ve freed myself from my mother years ago, but if I didn’t answer the phone she might show up. That was my excuse, at any rate. What may be closer to the truth is that I spent so many years fixated on my mother it’d become a habit I couldn’t quit. A habit I wanted desperately to be free of, although I’m sure you could say that about every addict. Perhaps even my mother.

  Chapter 7

  There’s no news, no nothing, for the next two days. Bart’s phone is officially non-operational, and the transistor radio they brought to the roof played only emergency broadcasts that urged us to head to Safe Zones we can’t reach. When Jorge, Kearney and Clark came down from the roof yesterday, the day after the bombs, Grace fled to the bathroom upon their report that New York still burned.

  Basement living isn’t all that taxing, but I’m tired. I’m tired of cooking and spending nights awake and reminding Nancy, the old lady with dementia, of my name for the hundredth time. I’m tired of imagining what exactly is going on outside. And I’m particularly tired of Dawn, who has finally come out of her trance to boss us around the kitchen.

  Her loud laugh is tinged with sarcasm. “You beating that soup or stirring it?” she asks Grace, who makes a face behind her back.

  “That’s the way I did it before,” she says to Prisha, who cooks the French fries as per Dawn’s instructions but is somehow off the mark. “You got a problem with that?”

  Prisha mutters something in another language. The words are foreign but the sentiment is quite clear. So, when they ask for help with the signs, Grace and I volunteer.

  “I swear I’m going to beat her if she says one more word about my cooking,” Grace says.

  I laugh, relieved to be out of the kitchen. They’ve set sheets on the hallway floor along with every pen they could find. I outline large letters with a Sharpie while Grace fills them in. The lights flicker for a moment and then burn steadily, albeit a touch dimmer.

  Jorge walks into the hall a minute later. “That’s the generator kicking in.”

  We’re now on borrowed time. If we stay the thirty days, we’ll have to move to a safe spot on a floor with windows before the generator dies, or else be thrust into darkness in the basement. Once we relocate by elevator, we’ll be stuck until the stairwells and lobby are full of motionless dead bodies rather than moving ones. Our other option is to leave the hospital by the kitchen loading door, outside of which there are hundreds of zombies. And, beyond that, millions more.

  Craig is slumped against the hallway wall, silent as usual. He drums his fingers on his leg. “I’ve got to get home.” Well, Craig is silent except for that one sentence, repeated in various permutations throughout the day.

  Grace squats in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get home, Craig, but you’ll never make it home right now. Just focus on getting there when we can leave. If you picture it, you can make it happen.”

  Next she’ll have him create a vision board—she loves those glorified collages. But it’s better to see her this way, and it works because Craig wipes his nose on his sleeve and looks more upbeat. “I want to go to the roof again. I might be able to see my house.”

  The basement is a giant sensory deprivation tank. Even the window of the stairwell door has been papered over
to keep zombies from banging at the sight of us. That was a welcome upgrade, but the lack of outside exposure could almost convince me the city isn’t as destroyed as it is. I’m afraid if I don’t see it again, I’ll be tempted to throw open the kitchen door to check it out.

  “I’m coming if he does,” Grace says.

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “All right,” Jorge says. “We’ll drop off the food on the pediatric floor, then hang the signs and go up.”

  We fold the finished sheet signs and load the prepared food on a cart. I throw five chocolate bars in because I know kids like candy, but that’s about all I know. Having been a kid myself should’ve given me some experience in how to interact with them, but they usually flee for their mothers after a minute of conversation.

  They kept nine of the sickest kids up there. The rest were sent home with their parents, as were all the ambulatory patients. The patients in the basement are the lucky few who made it downstairs via service elevator when their floors were overrun. My mother’s section—inpatient hospice—was supposed to be emptied of visitors by a nurse in the hours before my mother died. It was Jorge who insisted they check when that nurse never returned.

  One hall of Pediatrics is painted with a mural of animals romping in nature. Another wall has an outer space theme. They’re well done, rather than the usual primary-colored, slightly frightening crap you see on the walls where children congregate. In the corner it reads By the Children of Sunset Park Community Center.

  They’ve moved the patients to the rooms closest to the nurses’ station, and the hall beyond that ends at double doors with papered-over windows. Pediatrics is a small part of this floor, and beyond it roam zombies in a maze of hospital departments and corridors. They debated whether or not to move the kids downstairs, where, theoretically, it’s safer, but a few need access to various lifesaving machines and minimal germs.

  We hand out trays to kids who look miserable, a few of whom have parents on the wrong side of the hospital door. Where they are is unknown, although we all could take a wild guess. I set a tray on the table of a dark-haired boy who looks to be around ten. He greets me pleasantly, but his eyes are dull in his unnaturally puffy face.

  “You get half a chocolate bar,” I say.

  “I like chocolate.”

  “You’d be crazy not to.”

  “I don’t think I’m allowed.” He wants it, though; that’s clear enough by the way he gazes at the bar.

  “Let me go find out. I’ll be right back.”

  The grandmotherly nurse in the hall gives a sad nod when I ask. “It’s okay. I’m sure his mother would agree.”

  “She’s not here?”

  “She had to go to work or else lose her job and his health coverage. She always came back in the evenings, but she didn’t… Usually we’d say no, but we can’t do anything for him.”

  It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and then they end up somewhere in my chest, chipping at my heart. “He’s that sick?”

  “Without dialysis, he only has a few days, maybe a week. The doctor didn’t think it was permanent, but if we can’t support him through the renal failure, he’ll die. We’re making him as comfortable as possible.”

  I stare at her, unable to come up with a response. That kid is going to die. It’s unfair that people like my mother—people who don’t give a shit—get to live for fifty years, and little boys who want to live don’t get to.

  I clench my hands by my sides. “Are dialysis machines portable? Can we bring one here?”

  The nurse shakes her head. “They are, but that part of the floor has…infected on it.”

  “What floor?”

  “Third.”

  I nod and return to his room. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

  “Manny.”

  “Well, Manny, it’s your lucky day. You can have chocolate.”

  He wastes no time stuffing it in his mouth. He doesn’t look like a kid who knows he’s dying, but he’s going to figure it out sooner or later. The thought of that moment is in the running for something worse than what waits outside.

  I dig in my bag for one of the chocolate bars I bought on my way to the hospital. I’m not stealing from our rations—this is all mine. I tuck the Kit Kat under his blanket and raise a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t you dare share it.”

  Manny grins then, luster in his eyes. All he needs to bring it back for good is a stupid machine that’s only floors away. I think about patting his head before I leave, but I’m pretty sure he’s too old for head-patting. I don’t even know. But what I do know, even as I try to talk myself out of it, is that a visit to the third floor is very likely in my future.

  Chapter 8

  The sheets say HELP, PEOPLE INSIDE. Jorge found a can of paint that we’ll use to write the same words on the roof. Hanging the sheets is easy once Jorge devises a plan that involves broom handles and allows us to stretch the stapled-together sheets from one busted window to the next in a waiting area.

  I peer into Manny’s room and zip my lips on our way to the elevator. He does the same, cheeks puffing out, and pats his blanket.

  “What was that about?” Grace asks.

  “Manny and I have a secret.”

  “Really? You hate kids.”

  “You know I don’t hate kids. I just…don’t always like them.”

  It doesn’t sound much better, although I plan to be a great auntie to Grace and Logan’s kids. Kids I know are okay, some are even adorable. Kids who have runny noses and sticky hands and no manners, which seems like the majority, I can do without. I don’t plan to pop out any myself; better to know I’d be a horrible mother than to have them because I think I should. Having had a horrible mother, I’ll die before I become one.

  We take the elevator to the top floor and climb to the roof. A droning murmur filters up the stairwell from the lower floors. We’ve been debriefed in what zombies can and can’t do—as much as anyone knows. They like noise and movement. It’s possible they’re attracted by smell. One nurse says they can crawl up the stairs if they have enough impetus, but doorknobs are out of their capabilities. Elevators are not, since they managed to travel via the visitor elevators before they shut them down. It wasn’t deliberate, of course, but if you put a bunch of zombies in an elevator and let them bang around for a while, one of them will manage to press a button or ten.

  We step outside, into air that still reeks of electrical fire and smoke, but the commotion is gone. No helicopters, no horns and no bombs. Jorge sets down the paint and points to the huge wooden water tank that stands on metal legs. “We won’t run out of water. There’s thousands of gallons in there.”

  It’s a reassuring thought. We have food and water. Our lights will go out and we’ll eat cold food, but we won’t die of thirst.

  Craig jogs to the end of the roof that overlooks interior Brooklyn. Grace and I head toward the water. Smoke hangs in clouds from the fires that still burn in both the city and across the water in Jersey. The once sleek and shiny skyscrapers of lower Manhattan are dulled and black. And from what I can see through the haze, the squared edges of some roofs are jagged.

  Dust streams into the air where the Brooklyn Bridge meets Manhattan. It’s impossible to see what’s left, but it doesn’t appear to be much. The Statue of Liberty’s head appears for a split second before it’s shrouded once more. Every surface is covered with a layer of ash. The devastation is so complete, so dramatic. I thought I was prepared, but this is a city demolished.

  Grace points to the water without a word. It’s possible some boats made it to safety, but most are destroyed and bobbing in the current with countless bodies. They haven’t drifted out to sea the way I expected. I grip the roof edge with both hands. In the middle of a roof, I’m good. At the edge, I’m convinced that either someone will shove me or my body will fling itself off without my consent.

  Hundreds of zombies still mill on the street. I move away and put my arm around Grace’s s
houlder after she retches. The loss of all these lives, the sheer terror they felt, makes me feel as if I’ve swallowed a tennis ball.

  “They’re not alive,” Grace whispers. She wraps her arms around herself, her gaze locked in the direction of Brooklyn Heights, where both she and her parents live. “I know they aren’t.”

  “Don’t say that,” I say. “You don’t know that.”

  She takes a few uneven breaths and nods. We move to the other end of the roof. Brooklyn is smoky and smoldering in places, but it isn’t blanketed with gloom like Manhattan. Block after block of attached houses made of brick and brownstone and limestone spread into the distance. Taller apartment buildings are sprinkled between these three- and four-story houses, many with water towers on their roofs. If you don’t look down, you could almost pretend nothing’s changed. But the life I’ve made for myself, as unremarkable as it was, is gone. There’s nothing left. Nothing to look forward to. I envision standing on the ledge in the cool breeze. Allowing myself to dive into the crowd below so I won’t have a brain left to turn. No one would blame me.

  I shake my head to clear the histrionic thought. I would blame me. My only framework for life has been to try to do the opposite of what Mom would do whenever possible. And she would’ve taken a header off the nearest roof once the alcohol and drugs ran out. I squeeze Grace’s good arm. She wouldn’t take a header, either. She’s not the type.

  “It didn’t look so bad by Brooklyn Heights, did it?” she asks. And there she is—Optimistic Grace.

  “No worse than the rest. Didn’t you tell Craig to envision it? That’s what you need to do.”

  She turns her face to the smog-filled sky and inhales the horribly-scented air. “I know,” she says with a sigh.

  “So do that shit. Practice what you preach, woman. That vision board isn’t going to Mod Podge itself.”

  She laughs and gives me a shove. “You are an asshole.”