The tables are packed. In the far right corner, a wide doorway has the rough-hewn look of something added since zombies. Diners head that way with their plates, likely to more seating in what was once a first-floor apartment. People jam the counter while the workers behind it race back and forth. Metal clatters above the clamoring voices. Indy and I stand by the tiled wall, searching for Kate’s trademark ponytail until we spot her talking to a woman beside a row of electric cooking ranges. Every last burner is covered with pots and pans. After a few minutes of watching Kate engrossed in conversation, it’s clear we’ll have to announce our presence.
Indy closes her eyes and rests her head against the wall as if to shut out the scene. I suck it up and move to the counter. Someone bumps me from behind, and a mumbled apology follows. Without turning, I wave a hand to say don’t worry about it. The guy behind the counter pushes back his sweaty brown hair and extends a hand. “Card.”
“What?” I ask.
“Card,” he says, louder. “Need your punch card if you want lunch.”
“I don’t have a card yet. I came to see Kate.”
“Kate! For you!” he screams, making me jump. He gestures to the person behind me. “Card.”
Kate waves and raises a finger. I step back so the guy who bumped me can continue on. He’s mid-twenties and chubby—something not often seen these days—with long brown hair that hangs around his face.
He hands Card Man a small paper card, which is duly punched, then turns to me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about pushing you.”
His face is pleasant and bashful, and his stature is stooped as though he feels his existence is unwarranted. I admit I might be reading too much into it, but there are people you meet with whom you immediately feel a connection, and he is without a doubt one of those people. I want to take him home like a lost kitten.
“It’s my fault,” I say. “I used to move faster. I’m not used to all these people.”
“I thought you looked new. Where are you from?”
Before I can answer, a hand claps his shoulder from behind. It belongs to a leather jacket-clad punkish guy in his early thirties, though the lines around his eyes say he might’ve lived a little too punk-rock a few of those years. “Casper, move it along, would you? Some of us have to get back to work. You’d think, out of everyone, you’d be dying to get some lunch.”
He re-musses his mussed bleached hair. Casper’s face reddens. There are people you meet whom you immediately want to punch, and Punk Rock is without a doubt one of those people. I would love to tell him off, but I will never live down starting a fight in my first ten minutes out of the apartment. Instead, I smile at Casper. He shuffles forward with a parting wave, revealing a short sword strapped to his side. Punk Rock raises his eyebrows at me as if to say Some people, huh? I give him my blankest stare until he shrugs and moves along.
I’d forgotten about the nuances of living in a large society, but it’s all coming back to me now. Bullies and rejects and cliques and pettiness. In my utopian fantasy, I reside on an island with people who have agreed not to be assholes, and we all live happily ever after. Preferably a tropical roach- and zombie-free island rather than this shithole.
I retreat to the wall, where Indy watches me with a crease between her brows. “What was that?”
“That was why I don’t like people. This one guy—”
“Hiya,” Kate says at my side. She lifts a cloth sack in the air. “Lunch. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
We follow her outside to a tree-shaded cluster of benches midway around the Oval. Like Sunset Park, a few have stone chess tables. She drops her bag on one and motions for us to take the opposite bench. It’s nice enough to enjoy the coming spring’s air, but I didn’t anticipate a lunch date where I’d have to make conversation.
“Don’t we have to work?” I ask.
“You can’t work when you’re hungry. We’ll sign you up after we eat.”
I sit beside Indy and set my bag at my feet while Kate pulls out plastic containers and three spoons. The top of one comes off to reveal quinoa salad, something I recognize due to Grace’s love of the stuff and Indy’s penchant for recipes that involve it.
Kate lifts one of the spoons. “Dig in.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Sharing a container with someone I don’t know is weird, made weirder by the fact that I’d be eating quinoa.
Indy picks up a spoon and takes a small bite. “This is good. Cilantro?”
Kate nods and reaches into the bag again. “Hungry for a cookie? There’s always room for cookies.”
For a reason I can’t quite fathom, I hear myself say, “No, thank you.”
Indy stares like she’s never seen me before. Kate places a cloth-wrapped item on the table, then splays open a corner of the napkin to reveal the round edge of a chocolate chip cookie. “We’ll leave it there, just in case.”
My mouth waters at the browned crispy-chewy baked good. Who says no to a cookie they desperately want when a perfectly nice person offers them one? Me, that’s who. And now that I’ve refused, I can’t change my mind.
Kate spoons in quinoa and watches the gardens behind us, then meets our eyes, her lips squashed in sympathy. “Eric told me about Eli and Grace. Everyone else. I’m so sorry.”
We both nod. Indy clears her throat but doesn’t say anything.
“Well,” Kate says, “what do you think of this place?”
“It’s busy.” That did not sound like a compliment, so I add, “But nice.”
“Sometimes it feels like Hell on Earth, but it’s better than the alternative. Let me tell you a bit about us and what’s expected, then I’ll take you to the concierge.”
“The concierge?” Indy asks.
“Yes, the concierge. It was the name of the office that arranged services for the residents of StuyTown—dry cleaning, housecleaning, things like that—before. The scheduling office is there now, but the name stuck.”
Kate goes over the rules while she and Indy eat quinoa. Every adult works forty-two hours a week to gain work credits, which are in turn traded for punch cards and credits that can be used for food of your own and general merchandise, both of which are sold in the store. They have a store. The kids get one, too, along with a few credits for treats. All jobs hold the same weight, whether it’s guard or laundry or childcare or gardening or animals or utilities or any number of positions she spouts off.
“At first, some people complained, thinking they should get more credits for guard or another job.” Kate wears a sneaky smile. “So, we gave them full-time childcare duty, and they changed their minds fast. If you have enough people, there’s always someone who wants every job. Believe it or not, some people actually enjoy cleaning.”
“I’d rather clean than do childcare,” I say. “Actually, I’d rather do anything than childcare.”
“There you go. Any new rules are voted on and passed by a modified consensus, which takes weeks of discussion and is a huge pain in the ass, so we try not to do it much.”
“How about personality clashes?” I ask, thinking of Punk Rock in the café.
“There’s no avoiding it.” Kate drops her spoon into the now-empty container. “Not with this many people. We have mediators if the parties can’t figure it out on their own. Usually, it’s worked out in a way that everyone is happy—or pacified.”
From her jacket pocket, she pulls what looks similar to the cards the counter guy punched and then slides them across the table. “One for each of you. This week’s meals. Don’t forget to put your names on them.”
The cards have been dated with a rubber stamp and initialed. Another stamp forms a grid of boxes, seven across and three down. Three meals a day, seven days a week. The other side says Burnbaum & Associates, along with contact information for a law firm in Midtown.
“There are a million business cards out there, so we’ve put them to use,” Kate explains. “As for meals, buildings usually eat together to cut down on traf
fic, unless you’re working during your scheduled meal time. You also have scheduled days to send your clothes to laundry. Your free time is your free time, and you can use it however you want, but you can’t leave the gates unless you Qualify.”
“Qualify?” Indy asks.
“Use a knife on a zombie, shoot a gun reasonably well, run a mile in under ten minutes, lift fifty pounds, that kind of thing. And then you only leave when given the okay, and with at least one partner who can vouch for your safety. That way, the gates stay locked and we stay human.”
I don’t imagine people are begging to go out there, but to be locked in and told you can’t leave makes me uneasy. Indy must feel the same, since her chewing has abated and her brows have lowered.
“Oh, you can leave even if you don’t Qualify,” Kate says, “but getting back inside isn’t as easy as walking out, unless you enjoy body searches and Quarantine. Believe me, there are a few people here I’d like to send on a jaunt into the undead.”
I snort as she packs up the food container. It’s impossible not to like her, yet I feel myself resisting the connection she seems willing to make. I don’t want to like her. Maybe life is a series of hellos and goodbyes, but I’m done with hellos at the moment. All I want is not to say goodbye to the people I have left.
“When can we Qualify?” Indy asks.
“We’ll check when the next trial is after we get you on the schedule.” Kate hovers a hand above my cookie. “You really don’t want it? Eric said you wouldn’t be able to resist cookies.”
“I’m stronger than he thinks,” I say aloud, and then to myself, And infinitely more awkward than he realizes.
“One day, men will learn not to underestimate the will of a woman, but that day hasn’t come yet.” She pulls another two cookies from the bag, stacks them on the first, and rewraps them. “One for both of you, and one for Leo. Okay, mademoiselles, let’s get you over to the concierge.” She says it in a snooty French accent to make us laugh. It works.
5
Our job choices are limited, since they’ve already worked out the schedule for the remainder of March and all of April. As newcomers, we get what jobs are available, and that is how I’ve become a cashier in a post-apocalyptic convenience store. I was supposed to stock shelves, which no one likes because you have to climb stairs, bring an armload down, and then head up again, but someone named Melody flaked on her shift and I was pressed into service.
People stroll in and out the back door of the Stuyvesant Town leasing office that faces First Avenue. Not that I can see First Avenue. When they turned the giant office into a store, they also boarded up the lower two-thirds of the glassed-in storefronts. Light comes in, yet zombies don’t. Every now and then there’s a thump that rattles the metal security gates they bolted outside the glass—a reminder they’re out there.
To the left are racks of clothing, housewares, office supplies, and all the items one might need but can’t find. Shelves salvaged from a grocery store are loaded with toiletries and packaged food. Over in the right corner, behind a short metal barrier, are cigarettes and liquor and all the things on which I would like to spend my coming work credits.
Jorge winks as he passes through the store entrance, on the way to his next load for restocking. Indy makes a nyah nyah face, and I give her the finger just in time for my next customer to arrive at my checkstand: an elderly lady whose mouth turns down at the corners.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was not meant for you.”
She sets her purchases on my non-working conveyor belt. They relocated the checkstands from a store to the rear of this space, sans registers. “I’ve had worse.” Her face may be lined, but her voice is steady and full of New York. “The name’s Rita, but everyone calls me Kitty.”
I open up my binder labeled Q-Z, find her by her first name on a loose-leaf sheet under R, and ask, “Rita Esposito?”
“That’s me. Do you know when they’ll restock the soft toilet paper?”
“Sorry, I didn’t even know they have soft toilet paper. This is my second hour here.”
I lift the price list encased in a clear plastic sleeve, where the credit cost of each item is divided by item type, and tally up her purchase of sucking candies, air freshener, and a Hershey bar.
“I don’t like that rough paper,” she says. “Call me a frigging primadonna if you want, but I’m not wiping my ass with a rag like my mother did back in Italy.”
I nod, holding back my laugh, subtract her credit amount from her previous balance, and have her initial her new balance. Close to two hundred credits, which could buy anything. I checked my name just before, and I’ve been given ten credits to start me off. Going by the price list, it will buy some candy and chips.
“You’re all set,” I say. “Thanks.”
She leans across the counter, face still set in a frown. “Why don’t you let me know when the toilet paper is in?”
There’s no way to refuse, so I say, “Sure, where do you live?”
“Building Eleven. Ask anyone, they can tell you where Kitty lives.”
“Okay.”
She rips open the bag of sucking candies and pushes two across the counter. “Have a candy,” she says, and walks away.
I call a thank you after her, which she doesn’t acknowledge, then rip open a cellophane-wrapped butterscotch. My line now stretches down an aisle out of sight—I’m going to need the sugar.
After my line dies down, Micah appears at the side of my counter. Next to him is someone my brain insists is Brother David, though he’s dressed in jeans and t-shirt with a flannel shirt over top. Between his dark beard, ponytail, and the jeans that fit him well, he looks so un-priestlike that I gape.
“You look like you should live in Portland and make something artisanal,” I say, once I can formulate words. “Or ride a fixie bicycle, at the very least.”
Brother David’s warm eyes sparkle. Just like that, he’s once again the monk I know. “Micah dressed me. The boys all agreed the habit was more of a rag. This is the new me, at least until I find a replacement.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t give you a man bun.” I turn to Micah, dressed in approximately the same outfit. “Is there a hipster section in the store?”
Micah laughs. “No, but there are hipster apartments upstairs from ours. That’s where we got the clothes.”
“What are you buying?” I ask.
“Coffee,” Brother David says. “We’re on janitorial duty this week, and being up before the sun makes coffee a necessity.”
“Being alive makes coffee a necessity.”
“True.” Brother David steps aside for a customer browsing past, though that customer appears to be browsing Brother David rather than anything on the rack beside my checkstand. I clamp my lips when she trips over the rack’s metal leg and then saunters casually into an aisle.
“Are you off for the day? How was it?”
“Yeah,” Micah says. “It was fine. I don’t have to talk to people.”
“Pretty much what I look for in a job,” I say.
“You’re in the wrong line of work,” Brother David says, and I spin to see three people waiting. “We’ll leave you to it.”
The job took five seconds to master, but by the end of the day my feet ache and I don’t want to talk to anyone ever again. There are the rude people, the people who try to argue about their credit amounts, and the older man with the leering grin who thought it cute to ask how many credits I cost. The answer to that was fuck off.
I shut my binder and bend over the counter to stretch my back. Sharla, the cashier at my neighboring checkstand (names I through P), snaps her gum like a teenager instead of the forties she must be. “You did better than Melody, and she’s been here a month. I’m going to see if we can get you on full-time.”
“No, you really don’t have—”
“I don’t mind. Right, Benny?”
Benny, a rail-thin, perpetually harried-looking gray-haired man, and the keeper of the A through
H binder, says, “Sure, whatever.”
She swings her braids over her shoulder. “I’ve got to get my kids. See you tomorrow.”
Sharla strolls out the door. Benny shrugs. “It’s better than a lot of jobs. And incompetence is more prevalent than one thinks. See you tomorrow.”
I wave goodbye as he heads out, then wander the aisles I didn’t get to see before. The shelves are lined with a wide assortment of items. There’s candy and canned goods and a few homemade baked goods. Toilet paper and cleaning supplies and shampoo and conditioner. Soaps and lotions that must have come from fancy spas next to an entire rack of potato chips. I run my finger along a bag of barbecue chips.
They have pork rinds. Bird loves pork rinds. Loves. Present tense. Because if anyone survived the attack, it’s my skittish cat. The question is how long can he live without a steady supply of food?
“Funny that we had so many we didn’t want to eat them, and here they’re special,” Jorge says from behind me, though his quiet tone is anything but amused.
I link my arm through his. “Speak for yourself. I ate them every day.”
“True, mami.”
His smile is old Jorge, but he’s lost some of his shine. After all that’s happened, and a day of this, I feel like a dull pile of crap. “How was restocking?”
“Better than cleaning up hospital waste,” he says. “I want to get a couple of things. Can you ring me up?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the checkstands in a few minutes.”
I walk to the gated area, where Artie locks up the glass counter. In this section, you get a slip and bring it to the cashier. Once it’s marked as paid, you return for your goods. He waves me in. “Tell me, have we already driven you to drink?”
“I was wondering what it all costs.”
“Take a look,” he says, sweeping an arm.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 4
