The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

  Artie stands from where he kneels in a corner. “Well, what do you think?” He gestures at the windows. “They have shades, though we’ll make better ones for nighttime. We’d build the heater in the middle and vent it toward Tenth Avenue, where someone’ll be less likely to see any smoke.”

  “Some furniture and stuff, and it’ll be really nice,” Julie says. “There’s a ton in Chelsea Market.”

  “We can sleep here until I’ve worked out heat for the rooms upstairs. You want to see them?”

  We trail Artie up a dark stairwell to a dim hallway lined with white doors embossed with giant, glossy white numbers set sideways to denote the room number. Artie pushes open the door to room 04.17, where the key card lock has been disassembled down to its electronic components.

  “Took me a while to figure that out. They’re battery-powered, and we have no way to make new key cards.” He wiggles the handle. “Now it’s open unless you lock it from the inside.”

  Manhattan hotels aren’t known for their spaciousness, and this is no exception, but the simplicity of the white walls and wood accents give it an uncluttered feel that brings to mind a boat or fancy RV. The bathroom sits to the left of the short foyer area and is open to the rest of the space, tiled in black with an open shower and a giant bathtub that looks into the bedroom area through a cutout in the wall. Wooden slats in the cutout close for some privacy, though spaces for peeping remain.

  Artie turns on the sink. “Cold, but it’s water.” He opens a door to the toilet area across the foyer. “Toilets flush, too. I had to do a little finagling in the basement with the water pumps, but the water’s working fine now.”

  Past a wooden hutch-type thing, which we’re told housed the now-empty mini bar, is the main living space. A queen-sized bed sits only feet away from the floor-to-ceiling window that makes up the entire far wall. The white covers and pillows look infinitely more comfortable than couch cushions on a hard floor.

  “I always wanted to stay here,” Indy says.

  Leo jumps on the bed while Paul sits at the cushioned bench seat built into the corner, where a table and a modern chair make up a lounging-slash-work space. He motions to the open slats of the bath area. “I hope no one wanted privacy.”

  “Some of the rooms have a shower where the tub is, and a glass window into the room,” Artie says. “You’d better be comfortable with your roommate in that case.”

  “You heard about this place when they first opened, right?” Indy asks. “People were…” she glances at Leo, “doing hotel things without realizing people could see in the windows.”

  “I remember that,” I say. “And then some people did realize, so they became exhibitionists.”

  “Exhibitionist!” Leo yells. “That’s me. You said I’m one!”

  I catch him mid-jump and drop him on the bed, where he sinks into the pillows with a grin. “Yup, though maybe a little different.”

  I turn to the glass. Even on the lowest floor of rooms, we’re high, and the view of the High Line’s concrete-plank path, the terraced levels of the Whitney, and the Hudson River is amazing. Burned and slowly sinking Lower Manhattan is a dark, jagged outline against the gray clouds that are rolling in.

  “Some rooms face uptown, some this way,” Artie says. “The other side’s set up a little different. There are king rooms, too. We can sleep in them until it gets too cold.”

  I used to love having my own room. Between Grace and Eric, I haven’t slept alone in a year and a half. I’m not sure I want to anymore, but I also don’t want to share a room. Insomniacs do not make good roommates.

  I finger the curtains. “Do you think we can have lights at night?”

  “They’re blackout shades under the sheer,” Indy says. “We can tape the outer edges down.”

  We don’t want to broadcast our location. Though we have nothing of value to steal, worth is in the eye of the beholder. Our limited ammo and few weapons would be an arsenal to someone with none. I don’t foresee anyone getting too excited by our food supplies unless they’re starving. Once again, we’re going to starve if we don’t build up a cache. We can’t fight Walt on empty stomachs.

  Leo lies on the bed, looking out the window. He gives me the little smile where the corners of his mouth deepen and his cheeks plump up. For him, I’d steal. I’d figure a way into StuyTown and take what I could. I’d stick up Central Park or commandeer one of their trucks. I’d ask first, but I’d kill for him if they refused and he was going to starve. Maybe it’s wrong, but I’d also share with someone’s starving child, even now with next to nothing. Ethics are tricky in the apocalypse.

  “Love you, squirt,” I say.

  “Love you, Syls.”

  Droplets of rain hit the glass and obscure the view. Thunder cracks, still distant, and lightning zips over the water. “That’s cooking up to be one hell of a storm,” Artie says. “We should probably stay here after we collect our stuff.”

  Indy and I volunteer to help move. We head downstairs, leaving Paul and Artie to open the doors of our new home.

  We got wet doing it, but we brought all our belongings to the hotel along with furniture we covered for the trek. My office wasn’t quite as zany as the ones in Chelsea Market, though Bryce did organize quirky team-building events which I avoided whenever possible. Say what you will about zany corporate America, but the commitment to a non-traditional workspace means our thrown-together safe room is stylish and cozy.

  Indy deserves most of the credit, since she both chose the furniture and directed its placement. On one end is a dining area of reclaimed wood tables and chairs, and a long table holds various carafes and dispensers that we hope to fill with food. On this side is a living area of luxurious aqua sling chairs, two couches, and armchairs with rotating tables built into one arm. We’ll starve to death on comfortable designer furniture.

  One of the distressed wood coffee tables holds our pile of ammo, with weapons laid out alongside. Kate sits in a chair, massaging her temples, while rain lashes the glass on the river side of our box. “I thought it would make me feel better to see it all.”

  Paul and Casper didn’t have time to retrieve their guns from where they were stashed. Jorge had to give his up. Louis and Artie were stripped of their weapons. Kate has hers, Brother David his, and Chris and Julie have their two guns and one rifle, though only two magazines’ worth of ammo for the latter. For ammo, we have two boxes from Eric’s BOB, plus the box each Indy and I had, which work with all six of our pistols. That doesn’t include the .22 and a corresponding brick of ammo.

  I fit the purple gun into my thigh holster and wave at my 9mm. “Someone else use that one. Lavender and I go way back.”

  “You named your gun?” Indy asks.

  “Just now. Like it?”

  Indy pats my leg, which could mean yes, no, or that I’m losing my mind. Jorge hands my 9mm to Paul, who takes it reluctantly. “How about you?”

  “You have Leo with you,” Jorge insists. “You may need it.”

  Paul slides it into his holster, expression as gloomy as the weather. “Anyone have an idea of where we could find some weapons?”

  “The storage area at StuyTown,” Louis says with a wry smile. “We did our jobs too well.”

  “You couldn’t have slacked off this once?” I ask.

  “We thought one day there might be someone out here looking to use the weapons against StuyTown.” Chris spins a finger in a circle to encompass the room. “Basically, we were hiding them from us. This would be the part of the movie where we jump in the time machine and go back to warn ourselves.”

  I snort. Chris grins and sets his elbows on Julie’s shoulders. She sits tucked between his legs on the floor, likely because it’s cold and getting colder. We’ve brought down blankets from the beds, as well as dark bathrobes which make those of us who wear them look like Brother Davids in training.

  “I made a list.” Kate tosses a legal pad covered with sloppy handwriting on the table. “Some ideas, none of whi
ch are particularly good. I do think, after seeing what we have here, that we should look for the components for IEDs. Maybe enough to throw a truck off course, do a little damage. Blow a gate or two if it comes to that. I wish we could get our hands on some Semtex.” She taps her fingers on her thigh and watches the rain’s assault on the windows. “What we should do is take Central Park. We’d have everything we need. We’d have leverage.”

  I’m not sure if she’s serious. After Teddy sending us away and threatening to hand us over to Walt, I honestly don’t care what happens to him.

  “We need to find Mo,” Louis says. “Teddy says he’s gone, but Charlie says he isn’t. I trust Charlie.”

  Kate nods. “Charlie might know where Mo is, if he’s seen them since that last time. But where do we find Charlie?”

  “I might know,” Casper says. He’s barely spoken in the last couple of days, though it’s more due to quiet observation than impending freak-out. “We used to talk a lot, and he mentioned some places he liked to go.”

  “All right, you think of as many of those places as you can.”

  “What if I went into StuyTown?” Brother David asks. “I might be able to sneak the kids out with May and Elena. Micah, Lucky, and Harold would help.”

  “You’re planning to waltz in there and get them out through the one exit?” I ask.

  “There’s a chance Walt would let them go,” Brother David says. “If he’s not hurting anyone now, maybe he’s open to talking. He’s talking to Central Park.”

  “He talked to us, too.” Jorge’s expression is mild, but his hand grips the arm of his chair. “He likes to talk. The problem is you can’t believe a word he says.”

  “Do you want to end up like Debra?” Indy adds.

  “We’re not sending you in except as a last resort,” Kate says. “If he suspects you’re against him, you’re dead, and that habit won’t protect you more than anything else will.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Brother David says. This is taken as agreement by the others in the room, though I’m convinced it’s a calculated response to shut us up.

  “We’re not really going to take over Central Park?” Artie asks.

  “We’ll do whatever we need to do,” Kate replies. “Right now, that’s locate Mo. Gather what we need for explosives. And we’ll take turns watching StuyTown to see if there’s a pattern to their movements. We have to acquire more weapons somehow. Sadly, there’s a shortage of arms dealers in the world, but taking the enemy’s weapons is a close second.”

  “Kate, you’re scaring me a little,” Chris says.

  He’s only half-joking. The fervor in Kate’s eyes and the line of her mouth are unsettling until she dispels them both with a motherly smile. “I told you about my past.”

  “It didn’t seem real until you started talking about Sem…whatever,” Chris says. “What was it?”

  “Semtex,” Kate says. “Similar to C-4.”

  “Of course. How could I forget? Semtex, C-4, TNT, they’re like old pals.”

  Julie rolls her eyes while I laugh. “Sylvie thinks I’m funny,” he says to Julie.

  “Sylvie doesn’t hear it twenty-four hours a day.”

  “True.” Chris points at me. “Sylvie, you get two hours max of Christopher per day. That way you won’t get tired of me.”

  “Like I ever could,” I say with a wink.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Julie says. Chris mouths Encourage me, then joins in the continuing conversation.

  My smile falls. I shouldn’t be smiling. The only thing I should be doing is plotting revenge. I should’ve listened to what Eric said about Walt on the roof that day at StuyTown—he’ll do it again, to somebody else. Only it wasn’t somebody else.

  We should’ve stormed Sunset Park as soon as it was feasible, no matter the cost. I was so afraid to lose Eric, and I lost him anyway. I don’t want to lose anyone in this room, but I won’t let fear stop me again. I’ll die trying, if only to teach Walt you can’t hurt others without repercussions. It doesn’t mean I want to die, only that some things are worth dying for. I once told Eric I would never get tired enough to give up. I got my long nap, and I’m ready for a fight.

  55

  Peter Cooper Village is StuyTown’s little sibling apartment complex. Set across 20th Street, it’s smaller and not as well-outfitted with amenities or garden space, likely why it was abandoned last year. The taller buildings allow us to keep an eye on the comings and goings of StuyTown, though, after two days, there’s nothing to report.

  There’s also no water. Dead pumps can’t refill rooftop water tanks, and some high-rises don’t have water on the first six floors for reasons I have yet to learn. Restocking our water means a trip down many flights of stairs to a smaller building and a water-laden return trek. Therefore, Indy, Jorge, and I drink sparingly while we alternately sweat and freeze. The daytime sun is warm, though the nighttime temperature drops low enough that it takes forever to warm up in our found sleeping bags.

  We have a view of Stuyvesant Cove Park and the river path, where a few of Walt’s people have been out and about. Our two patched boats bob merrily in filthy water alongside Walt’s more seaworthy vessels, one of which is suspiciously reminiscent of the boat Eric and I rode to the city. The fenced part of Avenue C is also in view, though the long strip of asphalt is quiet but for the occasional person inspecting the fence line. A few stories down and across the street, two guards stand on a roof.

  It’s the same roof from which I watched Eric go into the river. Watched him die, my brain whispers. “Shut up,” I hiss.

  “What?” Indy pauses in her current task of opening a can of stew, which will be Second Meal for the three of us.

  I shake my head and watch the water, sure to keep myself hidden. I can’t stop looking for him, as though he’ll break the surface, gasping for air, and climb the concrete riverbank. It’s been just under two weeks. It feels like a decade, and yet it doesn’t feel real. I could wake from this dream at any second, Eric sleeping beside me. Or wake to find I’m late for work at Blaze, and I never had any of this to begin with.

  “Come eat,” Indy says.

  I sit on the tar paper with my plastic cup and spoon. The cold meat is chewy, the gravy viscous, the carrots mushy, and I would eat two more cans if I could. In Brooklyn last year, we looked into the future and predicted we would starve if we didn’t find more food. Now we are starving. Six hundred calories a day keeps us alive enough to hear our stomachs growl. At times, my hands shake, or I get dizzy from hunger. We switch watch tomorrow, and I pray the people looking for food found some in the past two days.

  Indy sets down her cup and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was disgusting. And delicious.”

  “You should blog this meal for sure,” I say. “Nothing beats congealed canned stew on a roof.”

  She grins and leans back, propped on her elbows with her eyes closed. “That sun feels good. Too bad we’re not plants.”

  “Why’s that?” Jorge asks.

  “Photosynthesis. We could make our own food.”

  Jorge dumps half his stew into her cup. He begins to tip the remainder into mine, and I push it away. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “You’re hungry. I know you are.”

  “So are you.”

  “I’m old. You ladies need to eat.”

  “So do old men.” Indy sits up and returns his food to his cup. “Sylvie’s not taking care of that baby for you, so you’d better eat.”

  Jorge’s chuckle cuts off at the sound of an engine. Over the ledge, we watch two trucks disappear under the elevated road of the FDR, then reappear on the entrance ramp to the north. Once they’re out of sight, Jorge says, “Wonder where they’re going.”

  Movement on Avenue C catches my eye. I know that leather jacket and dark hair well enough that I don’t need my monocular. Still, I raise it to my eye to get a good look at Roger crossing the intersection. Head down, boots scuffing asphalt. He opens the gat
e and reemerges on the other side of the FDR, where he leans on the railing at the river.

  I’d give anything to hold him under that water until he got a good lungful, and only the fact that we’d lose the element of surprise keeps me from firing one of our precious rifle bullets into his back. The entire time I thought we were friends, he must have hated us. I told him things that he used against Eric—against me. I’ve never wanted a do-over so badly in my life.

  I back away from the ledge when my deepest inhalation won’t touch my breathlessness. I tell myself I’m breathing, that I’m not truly asphyxiating, but panic takes hold regardless. I throw open the stairwell door and drop to the top stair, concentrating on the feel of my feet touching the floor, the cool step beneath, and the stale smell of a building that comes with disuse. Anything that will distract me from the awful, suffocating truth.

  The door opens. “I have her,” Jorge says to Indy. “Keep an eye on the street.” She squeezes my shoulder before the door closes.

  Jorge sets himself on the step. Close enough to be comforting but not claustrophobic. After another minute of breathing, when my heart has calmed, I say, “I can’t keep doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Watching. Waiting. Panicking. Like I didn’t have enough problems? Now I have panic attacks?”

  “It wants to come out, and you won’t let it, so it finds a way. Like water through a hole in the roof. It follows whatever path it can to get in, so you get a leak in the living room when the hole is over the kitchen.” Jorge exhales. “I’d trade places with Eric if I could. I’m sorry for letting this happen.”

  I can’t bear the thought that he would take the blame, or think I blame him. “I don’t want you to trade. It shouldn’t have happened because people like Walt shouldn’t happen.” I keep my gaze on the landing, where dim gray turns to black, as a tear finds its way through the hole. “I’m the one who told Roger that Eric wouldn’t agree to a truce. That’s probably why Walt came and…why Eric is…”