We didn’t know it was ticking down with Walt either. Which means it might be ticking again, even as we speak.
25
Sylvie
Jorge and Eric spent the past days repairing two boats. All the holes have been filled in and sanded, and the two stand beside them looking proud of their achievement. I poke at the white spots, of which there are many, and try not to appear dubious. “Isn’t Bondo for cars?”
“This is like Bondo, but for boats,” Eric says. Either he’s extremely confident in his and Jorge’s patching abilities, or he’s putting on a good show.
This trip won’t solve our ammo problem, but, if Grace is right and there is karma in the world, Sunset Park has been overtaken by zombies and all we’ll have to do is clear them out. I won’t hold my breath.
Indy, Paul, Eric, and I will ride in a rowboat not nearly as luxurious as the one Eric and I took down the Hudson. Jorge, Brother David, Micah, and Harold are in the second. If one tips, we could all cram into the other, assuming the water doesn’t kill us first.
We set out just before low tide. It will give us plenty of time near Sunset Park before we use high tide to return to StuyTown. Indy hasn’t yet been on the water, and she sits beside me on the bench in the stern, staring into the morass with a curled lip.
“Thirsty?” Paul asks from the bow.
“It’s even worse once you’re in it.” She pulls a bandanna from her pocket and ties it over her face like a bandit.
“That why Shakespeare didn’t come?”
“I didn’t invite him. And stop calling him that.”
“Kids,” Eric says in warning as he pulls the mismatched oars, “don’t make me turn this boat around.”
“Are we there yet?” Paul whines, and Indy snickers.
The stench of the water has changed from rotten teeth and putrefaction to a swampy, murky death scent. There’s more poop and toilet paper. And while the human bodies have broken down, been eaten by sea creatures, or sank, the zombie bodies remain.
The older ones are bloated and pale, no matter their skin tone before. A few faces are so swollen that they resemble giant, amorphous jellyfish rather than humans. A pale tongue protrudes from one’s mouth. At the sound of our voices, it bites down hard enough to sever the tip.
Indy groans as the lump of flesh sinks beneath the dark water. “Okay, that was disgusting.”
The newer ones are the usual Lexers—gray, snapping, and bent on our destruction. Unfortunately for them, we’re not in the water. Some wear spots of that black moldy stuff, which Eric points out. “Maybe they’ll disintegrate.”
“And then we’ll only have to worry about murderers,” I say. “It’ll be like Heaven on Earth.”
A shout comes from Jorge’s boat. A Lexer has gripped the side, and Brother David spears it with the metal point of his staff. Jorge works the oars, moving around various chunks of boat and debris, to pull alongside us. He drips with sweat—the day is overcast but so humid that the minute you leave the shower, you want another.
Harold and Micah sit on the double seat, with Brother David in front. “Why aren’t you lads rowing?” I ask them. “Are you trying to give Jorge a heart attack?”
“He wouldn’t let us,” Micah says.
“Old man’s trying to prove something,” Harold adds.
Jorge aims a dripping oar Harold’s way. “Watch out. I’m gonna get plenty of chances to throw you overboard before the day’s over.”
“You sure it’s safe to be out here?” Harold asks.
Eric shrugs. “No. But as long as we don’t go for a swim, it’s probably fine. There’s still time to bring you back if you don’t want to go.”
Harold watches the shore for a few seconds, where Stuyvesant Town rises above the broken FDR and Julie, Chris, and Roger stand by the railing.
“No way.” Harold brushes his hand over his short black hair. “Those fuckers deserve to die, and I’m going to be a part of it.”
I catch Brother David’s attention at those words. He lifts his hands like I tried.
“You’re going to do what we tell you,” Indy pulls down her bandanna to say. “Don’t make me wish I’d left you at home with Lucky.”
She hasn’t been bossing her boys around, likely because she’s never there to do it, but Harold nods quickly. Lucky was not happy with being left behind, especially when he found out he was babysitting Jin and Leo.
“I promised Rissa I’d look for Guillermo,” Micah adds. “I mean, I know it’s dumb, but she—”
“But she gave you those puppy-dog eyes and you couldn’t say no,” Harold finishes.
Micah lowers his head while Paul and Harold hoot. “It’s not like that,” he mumbles.
They’re together much of the time, though Brother David reports Micah is in his own bed every night. Yes, I asked. Indy’s not the only nosy one around here.
“How about we do some rowing?” Jorge asks. “Before we sink.”
Eric pulls at the oars and Jorge keeps time. Before long, we’ve floated under the Williamsburg Bridge and are quickly heading for the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges with the tide’s assistance. We stay in the center where the bridges are blown, so the Droppers can’t bash in our heads.
On a map from above, New York City seems manageable: a river represented by a blue line on either side, narrow enough to be easily crossed, and a simple grid of streets on an island smaller than many cities. But, in the midst of it, you find the water choppy and full of teeth, stretching for what seems like miles, only to end at more teeth on the shore. The streets are a grid of mobs and burnt buildings. Dying seems not only easy but also imminent.
As we move between Governors Island and Brooklyn, Paul takes over rowing, until we navigate the debris and pull to a pier whose edges have crumbled into the water. We’re somewhere around 42nd Street, only avenues away from Sunset Park. Lexers wander other areas of the shore, though this section is part of a defunct factory whose eight stories could use some rehab but whose fencing is solid.
Eric jumps to the concrete and drags us to land, and then we step onto Brooklyn soil for the first time in months. I don’t know what I expected—a bolt of lightning, some supernatural force that would allow me to storm Sunset Park, Grace waiting to greet me—but all that comes is anxiety and a sadness that weighs down my feet.
Indy observes the factory, her index finger to her mouth and teeth nibbling. I pull her arm to her side, and she chews her lip instead. Worrying about her gives me something to do. “Are you okay?”
She nods. I intercept her left hand rising for her mouth, and her laugh is short. “We could do this all day.”
Jorge and the others join us on the pier. Fledgling trees have sprouted through cracks in the stone, and grass carpets one section. “Ready?” Jorge asks.
We travel the courtyard behind the factory and peek through the gate onto First Avenue. If the Lexers in our vision are an example of what we’ll have to traverse, we’re unlikely to get close to the park. Moans announce another group the next street over, and we retrace our steps to regroup behind the building.
“Maybe if we move down the water some,” Eric suggests. He scans the building’s fire escape. “Let’s check if any streets are clear from the roof.”
I’m not a big fan of fire escapes on any day, and eight stories of fire escape on a building that’s had no upkeep in decades is definitely not on my list of Things I Look Forward To. But I climb, praying the flaky paint still combats rust, and I inspect the bolts in the brick at every level like I have a clue of what one looks for in terms of bolt integrity. Try as I might to push it away, fear tightens my legs with every step. All I need is a roach skittering across my foot to make this pure torture.
Eric stops on the third level and waves everyone by, then situates himself at my back. “If we fall, you’ll land on me.”
“Or I’ll protect you from the four stories of iron that land on me.”
I glance over my shoulder to find him grinning. “I was
hoping you wouldn’t think of that possibility,” he says. “I won’t let you fall.”
“You have no say over the rusty bolts of the world.”
He pouts like a toddler. “How do you know?”
Eric may have no control over rusty bolts, but he knows how to talk me down from a panic. I concentrate on one foot at a time and make it two more flights. “Fifth floor,” he says, when I hesitate at a particularly rusty stair. “If we fall now, it’ll be a long and torturous death. You may as well go higher so it’s over fast.”
“Thanks for that,” I say, but I climb two more steps, bypassing Old Rusty. “Please don’t tell me you had plans to be a therapist in your old life.”
“It worked, did it not?”
I shake my head so he can see, though he can’t see my smile. Finally, I make it up the ladder to the roof, Eric on my tail, and stop at the sight of Sunset Park four sloped avenue blocks away. In the foreground are roofs of smaller buildings, then the church spire that sits two blocks below, and, lastly, the peak of the park where it flattens out between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, shaded by leafy trees.
My throat sticks when I swallow. I sat under those trees, I raked their leaves, I helped to remove some to build the greenhouse that glints in the few shafts of sunlight that pierce the clouds. The lower garden and finer details aren’t visible from this far off, but I can picture it all in my mind.
Paul turns from the ledge at First Avenue. “Nope. Bodies as far as I can see.”
Eric unzips his backpack and produces a gigantic pair of binoculars. He absorbs the view without a word, moves for the water tower perched atop the eight-foot tall bulkhead—the rectangular brick enclosure that houses the roof door—then climbs the ladder to the base of the water tower, where he leans against the metal and scans back and forth.
Jorge and Paul follow, each taking the binoculars in turn, with glum expressions afterward. Micah, Harold, and Brother David go next. Jorge returns to me and Indy. “They’re there. They have a lot of people.”
We don’t answer. All of this was foreseen, but that doesn’t quell my disappointment. We can’t get through the zombies. Even if we could, we brought all the ammo we have, which is nowhere near enough to take back a Safe Zone that contains profuse amounts of ammo—our ammo.
Indy gnaws at her thumb, eyes fastened four blocks away. Eric calls to us. She doesn’t move, but I climb to where he stands. He hands me the binoculars, which weigh a ton, and shows me the focus dial. “Go slow and get your bearings.”
After a few seconds of jerky vision, the park comes into view. The very topmost of the garden is visible, plants green and lush, due in no small part to Eric’s meticulous tending of the soil. The magnification is such that I could be under the trees with the people who wander and sit on the benches where I once sat. A few kids play with a ball, watched by two smiling women, and I wonder how they justify the slaughter of children other than their own.
I see no one of ours, though, if they have them, they likely wouldn’t be wandering free. Figures stand on the roofs surrounding the green space, and I almost drop the binoculars when Emilio’s face materializes on a roof by Fifth Avenue. His dark hair has grown out some, and he talks animatedly before his mouth opens with a laugh.
“Emilio?” Eric asks.
“Yeah. Is Walt there? Kearney?”
I hope Kearney isn’t alive, and I want to see Walt. I’ve heard him described—medium height, brown hair, plain as can be—but I’ve never seen him myself.
“I didn’t see either of them.” Eric releases his breath. “Well, that’s our answer.”
I don’t know what the question is, and I’m not sure I want to. I watch a minute more. Emilio, the people who go about their day as if the park is theirs—I hate every one of them with a slithering, crawling rage that has nowhere to go and nothing to do but chew me up inside. I force myself to hand the binoculars to Eric. He holds them to his face but drops them after a few seconds, his jaw working in time to the pulse in his neck. This is the person I saw in our bedroom—someone who might be as calculating as Walt if given the chance.
“You know what Brother David once said to me?” I ask. “Impotent hatred is the worst of all emotions; one should hate nobody whom one can’t destroy.”
He smiles thinly. “But we’re going to destroy him.”
“How?”
Eric shrugs like this isn’t the most important detail. I know how badly he wants to right what he perceives as his wrong. We stand close enough to Sunset Park that I can almost touch it, and it’s killing me that this is as far as we can go. But seeing it has made me realize that Brother David is partially right.
“What good will it be to live in Sunset Park if everyone I want to live with is dead?” I whisper, searching his closed expression. His cheek spasms before he breaks eye contact.
I want so badly to destroy them for what they took from us. Those things are gone, the park and the people, but I still have everyone who stands on this roof. I don’t know how to balance my desire for justice with the need to keep these people safe, and the person I most want to discuss it with won’t listen. “You said we’d do this together, and you won’t even hear me out.”
“I do hear you, but we can’t let him get away with it,” he says. “He’ll do it again. Maybe not to us, but to someone else.”
I don’t want to consider that. I don’t want the future actions of a lunatic hanging over my head, as though I bear the responsibility of saving the world. Eric wants to save the world—I want to save my world. Maybe that’s selfish, but I finally have good people in my life, and I’ve lost too many to be cavalier about losing more.
“We’ll try when it freezes, if not sooner,” Eric says like our conversation didn’t happen.
He climbs down the ladder, and I follow, wishing everything in life was as easy, as black and white, as he’s made it out to be.
26
Eric isn’t in bed when I wake, as he hasn’t been the past few days. We don’t see eye to eye on this, and maybe we never will. While I’d love to kill Walt with a missile strike, I’m fresh out of missiles. The other option is a war we’re destined to lose, and I’m not for it without the likelihood of our safety. With the way Eric’s acting, I don’t think he cares much about his. His anger has superseded his reason, for once, and it would be amusing how we’ve switched places if it weren’t so distressing.
And then there’s everyone else. We can’t ask Jorge to leave Jin, Paul to leave Leo. We have too many parentless kids as it is. There’s a point when enough is enough. Revenge is so easy in movies. The good guys get the bad guys and justice prevails in the end. The sacrifice is worth it. But tell that to the kids left behind—maybe they believe it, but dead parents don’t soothe nightmares or patch up skinned knees or smile on Christmas morning.
I wash up and head to the kitchen for food before my watch shift, since I’m not in the mood to see people at breakfast. Paul and Leo are in the living room, though they’re on their way out.
“Will you talk to your best friend?” I ask.
Paul hands Leo his shoes, then sits on the couch to pull on his boots. “Eric’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. But I’ll punch him if you want.”
“Real helpful. Thanks.”
He finishes tying his boots and gets to his feet. “I tried, Sylvie. A while ago. But as long as we’re in this city, Eric’s not going to let it rest. You know him—you’re the one who calls him Golden Boy. Sometimes our best parts are our worst, too.”
He takes Leo’s hand and waves as they leave. Only Paul would toss something profound into a conversation so offhandedly that you could miss it. What I love about Eric is what’s pissing me off, and what the hell do you do with that?
Roger arrives two minutes late for watch and closes the door behind Marshall, who spent that entire two minutes bitching about Roger’s tardiness. “Damn, it’s warm in here. Wouldn’t you rather be at the store?”
It’s hot outside, but the Avenue
C guardhouse is under a shady tree, which makes it bearable. I raise my feet to the counter. “No way. No one wants to buy anything weird, or haggle on a price, or convince me that somehow there’s been a mistake and they actually have three thousand more credits than the binder says.”
Roger sits in the other chair. I catch the usual faint scent of cigarettes and alcohol, but it smells of last night rather than this morning. “So, Brooklyn wasn’t a go, huh?” he asks.
“It was not.”
“Eric told me some. He’s pretty pissed.”
I nod but stay silent.
“Sorry,” he says. “Not open for discussion?”
“There’s nothing to discuss. We can’t get close even if we did have the firepower or the people. Eric wants to be ready to roll on our first freezing day, but we won’t be any more prepared then unless we stumble on an arsenal.”
Roger scratches his chin. “Won’t they be expecting you?”
“They probably think we’re all dead. Most of us are.” I don’t feel comfortable talking to Roger about this, but I also don’t know anyone who’s unbiased the way he is. “What would you do?”
He stands and gazes out the window. “I don’t know. But maybe you guys should try to make some sort of truce first. People can be reasoned with.”
“Can you reason with someone who kills kids for fun?”
“It doesn’t sound like it was for fun. For gain, maybe. Or maybe it took on a life of its own. People make mistakes.”
I stare at his back while his words replay in my mind. He actually called the slaughter of children a mistake. Like, Whoops! I’ve loosed a truck full of zombies on unsuspecting children and shot them while they tried to flee. Who knew it would end that way?
“Does it fucking matter?” I ask.
Rather than punch Roger in his kidney, I leave the guardhouse. I’m not supposed to traipse around out here, but I don’t care. I open the river gate and walk past Stuyvesant Cove Park, which is now a small vegetable garden, and I stand at the railing along the river.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 17
