A bad penny always turns up.
At a hint of light in the sky, we check 14th Street, then wake Paul and Kate. The first two blocks east are clear, and after that it’s only one more to the next hidden truck. I admire their forethinking with the vehicles. It never crossed our minds at Sunset Park, except to store vehicles in the safe house garage.
We keep close to the buildings on the cobblestone street. At the first corner, I point to a building a few blocks down where the High Line ends. It’s made of gray stone and glass, and it rises in levels like a staircase, with metal catwalks jutting out from the upper stories. “What’s that?”
“The new Whitney Museum,” Kate says. “It sits on the High Line. Great views. I would take you there, but I think you’d rather get home.”
“You think right. Though I appreciate the nickel tour of Manhattan in the past day.”
“Nickel tour,” Kate says. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“Not since Hector was a pup?”
Kate laughs. “Now that’s one I only ever heard my father say. He was Irish, from Ireland. I thought it was just him.”
“My dad said it, and he wasn’t from Ireland, so I guess it got around.”
“What was the other one he always said?” Paul asks. “The one about horses?”
I think for a second. “You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet.”
“That’s it. I’ve been waiting to use that for fifteen years.”
The idea that Dad lives on in his crazy expressions is a good one. I always thought I’d have kids with whom to share those little gems, who would roll their eyes the way Cassie and I did but secretly love them. I didn’t lie to Sylvie—I don’t want kids now, or possibly ever. But I can imagine wanting them in a better world. Or maybe I want the better world where it’s an option.
Ninth Avenue is wide open, and the small group loitering outside the Apple Store spots us immediately. Outrunning them down 14th Street won’t be a problem, but I’m not the only one who groans. Sometimes the mental energy zombies necessitate is worse than the physical energy.
We lope down the center line of the block. If any Lexers hide in the storefronts, we’ll see them coming. The few cars have been looted, so when Kate stops at one with shattered windows set at an angle to the curb outside a parking garage, it takes me a moment to realize this is our ride.
“Camouflage,” she says, then opens the door and pops the hood.
I hold my multitool, but the terminals are secure, and we’re gliding down 14th in less than a minute. Parts of the street burned, and the buildings that didn’t are bright against the dull black of their neighbors.
Clumps of Lexers watch us pass. The gates on the steps of the giant Salvation Army building were likely closed for protection at one point, though now they protect us from the mob inside. Store windows are gone entirely. Kate points out Five Guys Burgers when we zip past. “That’s where we got most of our potatoes. They had boxes of them.”
“Union Square coming up,” Roger says. “It’s usually bad, though we’ve cleared it twice.”
A city bus lays on its side on the corner. A zombie man, in what could be the remains of a blue MTA bus driver’s uniform, stands waist deep in a smashed window. He tracks our passage with his mouth open.
“Missed that one,” Roger says. “He’s stuck, anyway.”
Union Square comes into view. The park stretches between 14th and 17th Streets, a mix of trees, a wide plaza, and park benches. It was home to a lively farmer’s market, subway stations, and a rotation of street entertainers. It’s as packed as it ever was—only the occupants have changed. Hundreds of Lexers move across the paving stones toward us, and Kate hits the gas.
“Here we go,” Paul mutters.
“You have to admit she’s a good driver,” I say.
“She’s a great driver. But she’s crazy.”
That’s high praise coming from Paul, who insists he’s the only person who drives worth a damn. Union Square is behind us and Kate veers around a group that staggers into the street. The buildings here are five-story tenements, the ground-floor stores all obliterated. Another block east, there are no Lexers, and the brick buildings of Stuyvesant Town come into view.
Kate flies toward the Avenue C entrance, then screeches to a halt and points at four dump trucks and an SUV parked a block down Avenue B. They face this way, as if heading to StuyTown when abandoned. “Those are ours.”
It’s barely light, but the sky’s glare won’t allow us to see through the windshields. The first truck has a white paper under the wiper, like a flyer for a car wash or auto detailing. Kate rolls forward. The trucks remain in their spots.
Fifteen feet away, she stops again. “I don’t think it’s a trick.” She glances toward StuyTown. “Should we get backup or check it out?”
“Check it out,” Roger says. “That last group of Lexers will be a while.”
I pull my gun and step into air considerably warmer than last night. The corner laundromat with shattered windows would be a good hiding place for an ambush, but nothing moves as we approach.
The first truck is empty of occupants but full of soil. Rather than read the paper straightaway, we travel the length of the truck to the second, which is the same, along with the third and fourth. Three freshly-killed Lexers lay by one, as if whoever brought the trucks attempted to clear the area.
“They left the trucks and took off,” a man’s voice calls.
I raise my gun in the direction of the corner, but Kate smiles at the man who appears. He’s bulky in layers of filthy clothes, a gray-striped cat tagging along at his heels. “You saw them, Charlie?” she asks.
He treads closer. For all his layers and the pack on his back, he’s remarkably silent. His teeth flash yellow in a face so dirty I thought it was covered by a mask. The dirt has sunk into his skin so that I have no idea what tone it was before. Every crease, every crack is lined with a darker shade of dirt.
The stench hits next. It’s not zombie, not the homeless dude on the subway, but more the smell of dirt and basement. Of musty mummies and old factories. His eyes are friendly, though. Alive and happier than one would think to be out on the streets in this.
“I saw them,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Fast as could be. I’ve seen them uptown, too.”
His cat rubs on my leg, and I bend to scratch behind its ears. It opens its mouth in a silent meow and purrs loudly. Charlie may be filthy, but his cat is spotless and well-fed.
“That’s Mischa,” he says, hand outstretched. “I’m Charlie.”
His hand is as creased as his face and etched with the same layer of dirt. I wear gloves, but I’d shake it if I didn’t. Dad said you never turn down a handshake from anyone who seems decent, and decency pours off him along with his scent.
“Eric, and this is Paul,” I say. Paul shakes his hand. “You live out here?”
“Don’t fence me in,” he says. “Mischa and I get by all right, with occasional help from Kate.”
“And I get the lowdown from you,” Kate says. “We’re even.”
“Indeed, indeed. Did you check that note?”
Kate returns to the first truck and hops up for the paper. She unfolds it, and, after a disbelieving huh, holds out the sheet. Roger reads it, then passes it to me and Paul. It says:
Sorry. We thought you were Central Park. We hope your people are safe. If not, leave a note here and restitution will be made. Again, our apologies for any distress we caused.
Mo
“Mo,” Roger says. “I guess he’s real.”
“I guess he is,” Kate says, scanning the street until she faces Charlie. “You see them a lot?”
“Nope. They’re shadows.” He shows his yellowed teeth again. “But so am I. You want me to find out more?”
“Find out where they are, if you can. Come back with us, Charlie. I have a bag waiting for you at the gate. I was getting worried.” She pats the side of the truck. “Let’s make sure
Louis and the others are okay, then we’ll get these home.”
14
Sylvie
Elena giggles, her hand over her mouth. Chris has been regaling us with stories of the StuyTown residents for an hour now. His imitations are perfection, and he becomes anyone he attempts. Freckled, blowout, whip-thin Chris has Kate down pat, I would’ve sworn his Kitty was an old Italian lady, and his Artie had all of us, including Artie, in tears.
“I should stop,” Chris says. “This is so wrong.”
Everyone protests. “Just do Roger first,” Julie begs.
Chris slumps a little and attempts to pat down his hair. “Why, Jules?” he says, low and drawn out. “You want some of this?”
He moves closer in a saunter-swagger, sneering, then takes an imaginary drag of a cigarette and flicks it away with his thumb and forefinger. Julie screams and covers her eyes. Chris morphs back into Chris, bows, and drops on the floor by the couch to a round of applause.
“So, what’d you think of the Chris Marks show?” he asks and swigs his beer. He’s not only funny, he’s cute, and so personable that I’d keep him in my pocket if he wasn’t twelve feet tall.
“Here’s what I think,” I say. “If Eric doesn’t come back, will you marry me?” Indy howls and shoves my shoulder.
Chris raises his brows at Julie. “You hear that? Marriage proposal for moi. How many proposals have you gotten today? And did you see how she put me one notch below Eric? Eric.”
“Did you see how much she’s had to drink?” Julie asks.
Chris clinks my cup with his bottle. “Yes, and I say keep ‘em coming!”
I love these two. I love everyone in this apartment. From Elena, who has stopped fidgeting, to Lucky, who’s drunk as a skunk, to Brother David, who’s made it a point to check in with me throughout the night, either by words or with a glance.
“Tell us about the other people here,” Indy says eagerly, and Eli’s nickname of Little Miss Nosy seems apt.
“The people who’ve been here longer kind of stick together,” Julie says. “Not that the new people aren’t nice, but after Declan and the others died, we got closer. And then there was the mob.”
“What mob?” Indy asks.
“Last November, the Avenue A gate went down. Almost a hundred people died. It was one of those warm days, and everyone was out.”
Which is probably why those gates are now walls. But her story doesn’t help dispel the fear that if something gets in, it’ll be too late by the time I’m aware. “How’d it happen?”
“You’d have to ask the people at the gate, but they didn’t make it.”
Indy and I murmur apologies. I peer into my empty cup, my conviction that Eric is only delayed evaporating. Maybe there are a million zombies out there, maybe a quarter of that, but all it takes is one.
“You’re depressing the hell out of me,” Chris says. “Give Julie a party and she’ll make it a funeral.”
I need something to do besides entertain that thought, and I yell out, “Charades!”
“What?” Chris asks.
“We should play charades.” I wave at Micah across the room. “Micah, it’s time. It’s time to play charades.”
He laughs. When he realizes I’m not kidding, he leaps to his feet, swaying ever so slightly, and then examines the room. “We need paper and pens. And we have to split into teams. Three teams.” He barks out the orders like a general.
“Geez,” Chris says. “He doesn’t mess around.”
“He’s been waiting for this his entire life,” I say.
An hour later, it’s just past dawn and the room is in hysterics. Watching Louis act out Saving Private Ryan was funny enough, but Brother David doing “I Touch Myself” was video-worthy. Micah is not only badass at the charade part, but at guessing them as well. And he was right: we should’ve played months ago.
I freeze at movement in the foyer and jump to my feet as Paul enters the living area. “You couldn’t wait?”
Eric steps out from behind Paul, weary but very much alive. I run for him, and he squeezes me against the cold canvas of his coat, which smells of outdoors and Eric and the dead smell of zombie. But I don’t care. I didn’t realize how hard it was to breathe until this moment, when my lungs finally take in a full measure of oxygen.
Everyone is on their feet, asking questions, hugging, and talking a mile a minute, but I close my eyes as Eric’s lips press to my forehead. You could offer me all the alcohol in the world, but I never want to wait like this again.
Once everyone but the sleeping pile of kids has left for their respective homes and rooms, I lie in bed and watch Eric strip to his boxers in the light of the dawning sun, which is not something I’d categorize as a hardship.
“Central Park was that nice?” I ask.
He nods as if it’s no big deal. But his deliberate nonchalance is how you act when you want something you can’t have, along with resignation to that fact.
“What would we do with that stuff anyway?” I ask. “Two bodies of water? A couple hundred acres of land? A castle? It’s overkill. And don’t even get me started on the cows and pigs. Like we want cheese. Or steak. And everyone hates bacon.”
He smiles and tosses his clothes into the hamper—another reason to love him—then slides under the covers, where he comes to rest on his side, head propped on his hand. “Hi, beautiful.”
It comes from somewhere spontaneous and sincere. He doesn’t skimp on praise, something to which I’m still unaccustomed. Being loved, and not just by Eric, has changed me in ways I never imagined. This version of me was always inside, but, more than anyone, Eric has coaxed her into the world, and I like her better than Old Sylvie.
I tousle his hair, knowing I should speak aloud the words that tumble around in my brain. “I love you, jerkwad,” is what I say instead.
“I love you, butthead, and you know why?” he asks. “Because everything is better with you, including me.”
I think, not for the first time, that he can read my mind. “Me, too.”
“I’ll let you get away with me, too this time.”
I know what happened out there, but something more than an ambush and a night away occurred. Eric is here in a way he hasn’t been since Walt. He’s not pretending to be happy; he is happy. It may not last, but I’ll take it for now.
He kisses me while one hand travels down my belly, carrying a flood of warmth to my lower abdomen. Before Eric, sex was sex, and it was good—even great—but now it’s everything: Fun, and hot, and at times so tender that my cheeks burn along with my heart. But the fear it’ll vanish runs beneath, a riptide waiting to pull me out to sea when I least expect it.
“I don’t want you to leave without me again,” I whisper.
The words take more effort than I envisaged. I don’t want to force his hand, but I’m already waiting—for Grace and Eli, for anyone who might be alive, for Bird—and adding Eric to that list might drown me.
“Okay. From now on, we go together.”
I nod. Eric tilts my chin his way. He doesn’t appear put out by my request, but I still say, “I know it’s not fair of me, and—”
“It is fair. I feel the same way.” His eyes are somber before they crease at the corners. “But I’ll tell you what’s not fair. That you have a drinking party whenever I go anywhere. I’m around for months and nothing. I leave for a few days, for one damn night, and everyone gets drunk.”
I giggle. New Sylvie giggles, although she and I have spoken about that at length. “Maybe we’re celebrating your absence.”
“Think you’re pretty funny, do you?”
“Yup, and so do you.”
I yank his body onto mine to feel his weight, the utter here-ness of him. I hesitate before our mouths meet, drawing out the anticipation of the softness of his lips, the prickle of scruff, and the taste that might be as unique as his DNA.
We start slow—a brush of lips, a flick of tongue—before the kiss douses my fear and relights the warmth of befor
e. His thigh moves between mine with enticing but insufficient pressure, and his hand skims just short of where I want it to be. I writhe against him and he backs off, mouth still on mine, while I pant with impatience.
“Stop teasing,” I groan, though we both know I don’t mean it. Eric has patience to spare, and, in this case especially, patience is a mighty fine virtue.
“I like teasing you,” he murmurs into my neck. He rolls my earlobe between his teeth and nudges my aching center so that I gasp. I don’t care what he likes, as long he keeps that up. When I say as much, in breathy fits and starts, he drags his thumb across my lips, grunting softly when I graze it with my teeth. “I like you all wanton this way.”
“Good word,” I say, and arch against him.
Eric lifts himself just shy of the molten lava of my lower half, which is torture the way too much cake is torture. Delicious torture. “Do I get today’s point?”
I walk my fingers down the tight muscles of his abdomen. “If you earn it.”
“Salacious,” he whispers.
“Nuh-uh. One point.”
His laugh is lost in our next kiss, and, when he finally brings his body to mine, salacious is the word of the new day.
15
Eric
In the excitement of our found trucks and reaching home, I’d forgotten all about the doll. It’s two days later when I bring it to May’s apartment down the hall. She answers the door, her black hair damp, and her eyebrows plunge at the sight of me. “Eric, is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.” I hold up the box. I like May, but we haven’t spoken much, which is why I’ve incited a mild panic attack. “I got this for Emily when we were out, and I wanted to give it to her.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 10
