“Okay, but maybe we can try?” she whispers. Her hand swipes a tear from her cheek, as if I won’t notice if she does it fast enough.
I don’t know whether it’s her tears, or because I hate to say no to Sylvie, or because I hate feeling this way, but I nod. “And then what?”
“And then…I don’t know. We go on. We figure it out.”
“What about Walt?” The thought of killing him keeps me sane. I imagine it numerous ways—a gun, a knife, a bomb, my hands—and all end with the satisfaction of him dead.
“I don’t know that either. What I do know is that I want you with me, whatever it is. Together, like we promised.” She lets go of the rail and steps closer. “You were only trying to help people, the way you always do, and they used it against you. I know it hurts.”
I don’t want to talk about it. Every time I think I have it beat, the heavy fog of shame winds its way into my head and gut. All it takes is a word, a thought, and I see our people dying. I see Guillermo about to be eaten, while I stood helpless. I see Maria’s body, and Sylvie’s tear-stained face, and Jorge’s grief when he learned the news.
“It’s what I love most about you,” she says. “Don’t let them win.”
I watch the park below. Even on a gray day like today, it cuts a soft swath of green through the corners and angles of the city. On the path thirty feet above the sidewalks, I don’t feel trapped. When I raise my gaze, Sylvie stretches out a hand like a lifeline to pull me back to her, and I take it in mine because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Aside from brief searches for anything interesting, we’ve spent the day enjoying ourselves. Playing. Sitting. Talking. Paul and I watch Sylvie, Leo, and Indy play hide and seek from our spot in a row of wooden lounge chairs. They have wheels that roll along metal tracks to move them closer or apart, in what I assume is a nod to both privacy and the park’s history.
I see why Sylvie came here on her lunch breaks, though I imagine that, unlike now, it was crowded. Part of me wants to dislike the High Line, since Kate explained it was the driving force behind replacing the old neighborhood with luxury buildings no one from the old neighborhood could afford. It’s the same old story of greed that plagued the city for the past two decades, but, now that gentrification is a moot point, I can appreciate the beauty of this rusted heap of track-turned-park.
“Would you be willing to move?” I ask Paul.
“Move where?”
“I don’t know. Here?”
“Here?”
He thinks I’ve lost it, and I likely have. But a quick look around the Chelsea Market offices showed they could serve as housing, or maybe that hotel down the way. “It wouldn’t be for a while,” I say. “Maybe we should try for a Safe Zone this winter. If that doesn’t work out, we could move here next spring.”
“How would we live? Can we plant enough? What about animals and all that?”
“Chelsea Market has running water. Some of these buildings have tanks we could fill.” I motion to the four tanks on the Whitney alone. It’s no Central Park reservoir, but we’d have a cushion if the aqueducts run dry. “Maybe we could trade for rabbits.”
I want a plan. I’ve never been good at staying in place, either mentally or physically. I need to do something besides wait for zombies to move, wait for Walt to come into my sights, and wait for every day to end so that I’m one day closer to…nothing, and that’s the problem.
“We owe you for the seeds,” Kate says from my left.
My face warms. She was out of earshot a minute ago. “No, you don’t. I don’t want you to think we’re not appreciative of—”
“Oh, stop.” She waves a hand and nudges a lounger until it’s a foot away. “I don’t blame you. In fact, I might want to come along.”
“You’d start over, with nothing?”
She settles on the edge of her chair, hands between her knees. “It wouldn’t be nothing. I have a lot of credits. If I use them quietly and store the stuff in the storage rooms, we’d have a nest egg set aside. The rabbits, well, I keep four in my apartment as pseudo pets. If Declan and I learned anything in our lives, it was to have an escape plan in a precarious situation.”
Paul folds his arms over his chest and gives a considering nod. “It’s not like Leo’s getting an education.”
“True,” Kate says with a snort. “With the right planning, this would make a good Safe Zone. Only Central Park would be better. And since we’re…” She contemplates the tracks, lost in thought.
“Since we’re not planning to overthrow them yet?” I ask.
Kate grins. “You’re no fun. Since we’re not welcome there, I say we seriously consider this.”
Jorge has come to listen to the last bit of conversation. Now he strokes his ponytail. “I like it here. Where you go, I go.”
Kate’s eyes dodge around the three of us. “Honestly, there are no hard feelings if you want this to be yours alone. I can name a few people off the top of my head who would come. Julie, Chris, Casper, and Artie, to start. But I don’t want to hijack your plan, and I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone either way.”
“The more, the merrier,” Jorge says, as he usually does, and Paul and I agree.
20
I jog in place while I wait for Casper to catch up, keeping the stopwatch by my side so as not to hurry him along. If he suspects he’ll likely make the ten-minute mile, it’ll invariably slow him down. It’s happened before. Something about Casper screams defeat, as though he’s lost the will to put concerted effort into anything.
He pulls up, puffing, and we run the final length to the inner gate. Casper rests his hands on his knees, winded, but less so than in the past. His head already moves side to side in expectation of his failure.
“It’s better,” I say, holding back my smile.
“I don’t know why I bother.” He hides his disappointment behind the bandanna he uses to mop his face. “Eric, it’s never going to happen. The fat kid will always be the fat kid, no matter—”
“Casper!” I hold up the stopwatch. “Nine minutes, forty-two seconds.”
“Really?” A smile starts at the corners of his mouth and grows at my nod. “Really? This isn’t a joke?”
You’d think after weeks of running with this kid, day in and day out, he’d believe I’m not part of an elaborate plot to embarrass him. But Casper’s mind doesn’t work that way.
“No joke,” I say. “Congratulations, you did it.”
He grabs me in a sweaty hug, and I clap him on the back before he pulls away, grinning ear to ear. “Qualifying is in a week. Can we practice more?”
“You want to go another mile?” I ask.
“No way. But tomorrow for sure.”
I punch his arm as we head for our building, and he returns it hard enough that I rub the spot. “You’ve got a good arm.”
What was the fading pink of exertion on his cheeks flares back to life as embarrassment. “I’ve been practicing with my sword.”
“Sylvie’s still waiting on those lessons.”
He watches his sneakered feet hit the path. “I want to be better before that, you know?”
“Sure. Whenever you’re ready, she is.”
Casper looks everywhere but at me. I suspect he has a little crush on Sylvie, whom he adores and possibly idolizes. If I mentioned it, Sylvie would laugh her ass off at the idea of someone putting her on a pedestal, though she would never laugh at Casper. It doesn’t bother me—honestly, I can’t blame the kid.
I like to think I’m not a Neanderthal, but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t have jealous moments. Landon has a friend who cozied up to Sylvie despite the fact he knew of my existence, and though she shot him down, I couldn’t help my flash of anger or gritted teeth. Thankfully, she didn’t notice. Paul did, however, and he had himself a good laugh.
“If I can get to nine minutes, then I’ll definitely Qualify,” Casper says.
“You’ve got it in the bag. You worked your ass off and look a
t what you accomplished. You should be proud.”
“Thanks.” Casper pulls his hair from his ponytail. “I could run by myself from now on.”
“Are you kidding? I’m looking forward to that extra mile tomorrow.”
“You run before I get there.”
“I like the company.”
After a few scuffing steps, he says, “I had to get new clothes. Again.”
“I thought you looked dapper.”
“The others were too big. I’ve lost over a hundred pounds since last year, ten in the last month.”
“That’s quite a feat.”
“But I still feel like I’m a hundred pounds heavier.”
Much of the past weeks have been spent with Casper out of breath in my company, but I’ve learned about him through a comment here and a joke there—all self-deprecating. We’ve reached the door of the building, and we’ve also reached the heart of Casper’s problem. I stop on the steps and take him in. He’s a big guy, broad, and not bad-looking. Those self-deprecating jokes are funny, so I know he has a sense of humor.
“You have to lose the mental weight,” I say. “You can run a mile in under ten minutes, and, level with me here, I’d bet you’re better with that sword than you’ll admit.”
“I’m pretty good,” he says with a bit of self-conscious pride. “I still have a lot to learn, though.”
“Don’t we all,” I say.
I prod him into our apartment, where Sylvie sits at the table with our housemates, staring disdainfully into a mug of faux coffee. I gave up on that stuff two weeks ago, and only saving my credits to buy supplies for our possible spring move has prevented me from buying the real thing. When Casper tells her about his run, she jumps up and down while the others congratulate him.
“Just in time for next week,” she says.
“Not that we can go anywhere,” Paul mutters.
A mob has moved downtown, effectively surrounding us. We could take the FDR uptown, but our only safe destination would be an unenthusiastic reception at Central Park, and the last time didn’t end so well. We did take a truck southbound to the Brooklyn Bridge, and I walked the pedestrian path to the middle of the broken roadway. The mobs remain downtown, and Brooklyn remains impassable.
I wouldn’t mind being stuck here half so much if I wasn’t eager to return to the High Line. We could ready the gardens for next year and inspect Chelsea Market’s heating and water systems. We could get serious about the best ways to secure the place, something I’m not willing to leave to fate.
“We have all we need here,” Landon says, and stands from his chair. He bends for a kiss from Indy, then strokes her cheek. “I’ll see you later, love.”
Indy raises her fingers to her cheek as Landon strides for Casper, hand outstretched. “Good show, Casper.”
He clasps Casper’s hand in a firm shake, his voice booming and tinged with a British accent. Paul smirks, and I chew my lip to keep from laughing; Landon is from Ohio. Only I hear Sylvie’s sigh as he makes a swift exit out the door. She says Landon never walks—he strides and dashes and hastens.
“I do say, good show, old chap,” Paul says in a British accent once the door closes.
The rest of us snicker, though Indy’s snicker is aimed at Paul. “Your jealousy’s showing,” she says.
“Jealous of who?” Paul spins to the door, then back to Indy. “Shakespeare?”
“Yes, Landon. He’s everything you’re not.”
“Thank God for that,” he says.
Indy growls. They’re back to their old tricks. Paul is a master of indifference, but I’m unsure if he’s as indifferent as he makes out. The fact that she rejected his friendly overtures threw him. If he’d been coming on to her, I think he’d have gotten over it—but, whether she knows it or not, she spurned his friendship, and that hurt his feelings.
I’ve seen his eyes follow Indy around the room and soften when she plays with Leo, which makes me think he wouldn’t be averse to something. But what I suspect, and what Paul would never admit, is that when it comes to females, he’s nervous as hell. He married his high school girlfriend at nineteen, which means he’s never been in the dating pool, much less gone for a swim.
“Settle down, kids,” Jorge says. He feeds Jin a last bite of something green and runny, then hands him the spoon to bang on the high chair’s tray. “Casper, you did good.”
“Now you’ll be on guard,” Sylvie says. “Put yourself on my shifts.”
Casper shrugs. “I still have to pass—”
“You’re going to pass, and you’re going to shove it in Roger’s face, and it’s going to be beautiful. Envision the world you want to live in.”
She’s joking, and only I see the moment where she searches for Grace, who would’ve sighed at the unsuitable co-opting of her worldview. Sylvie’s smile wavers. In these moments, I can’t see allowing Walt to live. He’ll hurt other people—I’m sure of it—and I refuse to let someone else lose their Grace or Maria if I can help it.
I’m still pulled in two directions. I’m just better at hiding it.
21
Sylvie
May is hot, especially when you’re doing guard on a building’s roof. From our spot on one of the unoccupied buildings at the east side of StuyTown, we can see the FDR in both directions, the East River, and the path they closed off along the river by Stuyvesant Cove Park, where I’m told boats were once tethered to the railing.
The narrow park is a nice escape, when you’re allowed in. With the zombies that surround us, noise outside the confines of the Oval is discouraged. For now, we sit in our brick cocoon, waiting to become butterflies. I’m not sure I mind—the wall of Lexers keeps me from making choices I don’t want to make. Eric checks them daily like one checks the weather report. Though he flippantly announces there’s a one-hundred-percent chance of zombies, I’m not fooled. Two things I love about Eric are his compassion and his commitment to doing the right thing, and they’re also what make me sure he’ll hatch a plan to go after Walt if the chance presents itself.
No chance means no dead Eric or Paul or Jorge or Indy. I hate myself for thinking that way. Maria and Grace deserve vengeance, as do the others. The time for a decision will come, but, since I dislike both choices, I’m allowing the universe to decide for now.
“Guess what Landon said?” Indy asks from my side.
“I don’t know, but did he say it in a British accent?”
“You need to stop with that.” Indy releases a sharp breath and annoyed noise, then leans on the roof ledge. “I get you don’t love him, but you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
“Sorry, I’m hot and cranky.” Indy ignores me. I tug at her arm. “My bad. Forgive me. Apologies. Lo siento.”
“Fine. Anyway, he said he could see himself falling in love with me.”
It’s the most cliché line in the world, and I half want to toss Indy off the roof for buying it. With the exception of my previous comment, I’ve tried to keep my thoughts on Landon to myself—meaning Eric gets to listen to me bitch about him.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“What does it sound like? He’s falling in love with me.”
To me, it sounds like what you say when you have no plan to fall in love with someone. I could point out the part where he said he “could see himself falling,” as in future tense, but Indy is closed to any and all attempts at reason on this topic.
Thankfully, Casper chooses this moment to come over. “Your turn, Sylvie.”
Indy, Casper, and I switch out sitting in the shade of a pop-up canopy so we don’t melt, and I gladly take my leave before I piss off Indy again. She works hard to keep Landon’s attention, even if she doesn’t know she’s doing it, and it must be exhausting.
I sit in a chair and guzzle half a bottle of water. The roof door opens, and our relief shift of Julie, Chris, and Roger steps out. “Hey,” Chris says, sinking into a chair beside me while he pants. “Kill anyone today?”
; “The usual couple people, no biggie,” I answer.
“Those stairs kill me every time.” He takes a deep breath. “Exercise-induced asthma. Give me a flat surface any day.”
“Why don’t you stay downstairs?”
“My other half says she likes it up here.” Chris points to Julie. “I think she’s trying to do me in for the insurance money.”
“Or escape you.” Julie wipes at the bangs that stick to her forehead with sweat. “God, it’s hot.”
Roger walks past us to the roof ledge. Indy makes her way to the canopy, and we wait for Casper to sheathe his sword. Roger says something, which I can tell isn’t a compliment by the way Casper’s body shrinks a few inches.
Casper reaches us, head down. “What’d he say?” I ask.
“Nothing. Please can we go?”
I avoid everyone except the twenty-five people I like, which is how I planned to get through my tenure here, but this is how bullies become thieves and murderers—no one stops them before it escalates. I glance at where Roger stands, looking out over the city with his arms crossed over his leather jacket. One push and he’d never bother Casper again.
“Sylvie, don’t,” Casper says.
Roger doesn’t hear me coming, and every molecule of anger in my body coalesces into enough rage that I could shove him off the roof. What would they do? Banish me? There are no laws, no justice. It’s why Kearney and Walt could do whatever they wanted. It’s why they’re getting away with it.
I stop instead, four feet away. Roger turns, arms still crossed. “Help you with something?”
“You can help yourself by not fucking with Casper one more time,” I say. “If you do, I swear to God I will fuck you up.”
Roger puffs air out his nose in a laugh. “I’m just messing with the kid. He’s going to need to be tougher if he wants to stay alive in this world.”
“People like you are the reason why this world is the way it is,” I spit. “People like you are the reason people kill themselves.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 14
