“Was?” Roger lifts one dark eyebrow. “Good.”
“You really haven’t had a drink?”
“Really,” he says. “I’m not saying I’m not going to, so don’t start with the AA thing. But I won’t when I shouldn’t. And the pills are gone.”
“Congratulations,” I say, this time sans the sarcasm.
69
Brother David wrote a note before he snuck out to StuyTown early this morning. I’m not as shocked as everyone else, and I have an inkling it was his way of saying he trusts me to do what needs to be done. I feel better that he’s there, as I know he does. He’ll get them out if he can.
We took a break from our hunt for food to stop at the Mid-Manhattan Library. It isn’t a treasure trove of survival handbooks, but we’ve found a few. There are plenty of books on urban homesteading and canning, though food would make the canning books a bit more relevant for our situation.
Julie is our living, breathing card catalogue, yelling out possible call numbers for us to visit. We carry flashlights to locate anything that may be of use, including the chemistry books Kate requested. We stack the books by the second-floor windows, both to pick and choose the best and keep watch on the street. As of now, there’s a small gang of Lexers far down the block.
Once the books are organized, we lift our weighty packs. “If only this were food,” I say. With Roger’s assistance, we’re not losing more weight, though we’re not gaining any, either.
Indy peeks out the window one last time. “Wait. Those weren’t there before, were they?”
We crowd the glass. Two Lexers lie on the sidewalk across the street, holes in their heads. The blackish fluid on the concrete is wet. “I didn’t see them,” Chris says.
Jorge pulls his pistol. “Wait here.”
Indy and I drop our packs and follow him to the escalator, guns in our hands. He spins, shakes his head, and doesn’t say a word. Downstairs, the silhouettes of two figures, one small and one large, stand in the light shining through the entry doors.
“I liked your bomb,” a man says, the hint of a New York accent coloring his words. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Who wants to know?” Jorge asks.
Indy and I flank him, guns raised. They’re a hundred feet away, and I can’t see what weapons they have, if any. The large figure raises his arms, fingers splayed so we can see daylight through them. “My gun is holstered. I’m coming in. Okay?”
Jorge nods. The man walks to the tall desk at the front, and we move forward until light from the street illuminates his coppery skin, dark eyes, and wavy dark hair that just reaches the collar of his leather coat. He smiles. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mo.”
He looks as Charlie described, though our weapons don’t lower. We haven’t told Roger about our hunt for Mo, or that we know he’s alive, so it’s doubtful it’s a trick of some kind. Still, trusting people was never easy, and that was before the world turned upside down.
The smaller figure approaches the desk. She could very well be related to Mo, though her dark hair is bound in a messy bun. “After we got your notes, we had to check with Carmen to make sure you were who you said you were. She told us about your visit to Central Park and said we should help each other. She wanted to tell you then, but she said Teddy and some new jackass guy ruined the moment.” Indy sniffs out a laugh.
“There’s a pod moving down Fifth,” the woman continues, using the same word Jerry did for what we call mobs. “Maybe we should get out of here? Uptown’s no good right now, but we could go to your place. The Standard, right?”
They’ve been watching us. Jorge bristles for a moment and then relaxes, likely coming to the same realization I have: if they know where we are, and they mean us harm, they would’ve attacked before now. He lowers his weapon, and Indy and I follow his lead.
The woman smiles and extends a slim hand. “I’m Farina.” We shake hands. Though she’s small, her grip is iron.
“Kate’ll kill us if she doesn’t get to meet you,” Jorge says. “Let’s go.”
“The world-famous Mo,” Kate says. Introductions have been made, and she sets the tables in The Box with the one thing of which we have plenty: water. “There are a lot of people gunning for your demise.”
Mo laughs. He’s mid-thirties, about ten years older than Guillermo was, though his friendliness—and muscles—are similar. But with age comes a demeanor that speaks of experience and cynicism. On the trip here, as we walked the length of the High Line, we learned Farina is Mo’s sister. We also learned that Carmen has been on their side all along. And that, under cover of darkness, they took the food from the building where we blew up Denise.
“They haven’t caught me yet,” Mo says. “Carmen told us you’ve joined the exclusive club.”
“Lucky me,” Kate says. “But I’m happy Carmen isn’t with Teddy on this. I like her.”
“Me, too,” Farina mutters, and Mo says, “Carmen is Farina’s wife.”
“Why isn’t Carmen with you?” Kate asks. “What’s she doing there?”
Farina had seemed vibrant, enthusiastic about the idea of joining forces, but now her excitement dims with her sigh. “She volunteered to stay. It was only supposed to be for a month or two. But Teddy trusts her, and we need to know what he’s doing.”
“What happened in Central Park?” Louis asks. “Teddy told us you tried to strangle him and blew up a gate before you left.”
“Did you believe him?” Mo asks.
“Why wouldn’t we?” I say. When his mouth tightens, I add, “You need a better PR team.”
Mo throws back his head with a laugh. “Yeah, hook us up with that.” He takes a drink of his water. “It’s a long story.”
Mo tells us how he, his wife Pilar, Farina, and Carmen started the Central Park Safe Zone. They blocked the entrances as best they could, then set off a truck alarm in the center of the Great Lawn, knowing that space to farm would be important, especially since they already had rabbits, guinea pigs, and chickens in their care. Six hours later, and with very sore arms, they had a rudimentary Safe Zone, and they invited anyone they found to join them. The first few dozen people lived in the castle and tents, in vans and trucks, while they learned the rules of this new world.
I remember those days. First in the hospital and then the brownstone. Unsure of where the world was heading and almost as afraid to live with strangers as I was to live with Lexers. Jorge smiles at me, and I hold back tears as I return it. We’re the only two who remain of our original four, and what we both wouldn’t give for one more night of dominoes with Grace and Maria.
“When Teddy showed up, he was almost dead,” Farina says. “Lauren dragged him the last part of the way. That was, what, two weeks in?”
Mo nods. “He and Lauren stayed in their penthouse apartment, waiting for a helicopter that was supposed to rescue them. He got better fast, once we fed him, and then he started taking charge. Taking over. I didn’t mind at first, we needed all the help we could get. Then things started going missing, and guess where they turned up?” He answers before we can, “My place. People were scared of being on the streets, and they believed I had a plan to get rid of them now that we had enough stored away.”
“But why would they think that?” I ask. “You made the Safe Zone in the first place.”
“He rewrote history. Most people weren’t there the first weeks. Teddy turned them against me with that explosion at the gate. Mohammed equals terrorist. That’s all he needed to say.”
“And yet you want to use a bomb now,” Farina says.
“It wouldn’t be dangerous if we warned Carmen.”
Farina shakes her head. “Not happening.”
“Might as well, right?” Mo shrugs and looks our way. “We had a grenade. Teddy set it off at the gate and sent Lexers through. He said it was me, and that it showed that I was willing to risk Central Park’s safety for power. He killed ten people. Our people. Good people.”
Mo’s hand grips his water g
lass, his cool expression turned stony, though it seems less like anger and more a tactic to stave off grief. It’s clear he wants his Safe Zone back—I don’t blame him, since I wanted Central Park the minute I saw it—but I think, more than that, he wants justice.
“We understand,” Kate says.
Mo nods once and turns to the window. After a couple of breaths, he says, “We left Central Park right before you guys had problems in StuyTown. Hugh and Jeff—Walt—visited Teddy a few times—”
Kate groans. “No, tell me that’s not true. We didn’t know about you then.”
“Hugh knew all about us, but I guess he didn’t tell you.”
“Teddy knew?” Kate asks, her voice frigid. “He knew they were going to attack us?”
“Maybe. Carmen isn’t sure, and anytime she tried to bring it up afterward, he played dumb. So we stayed out of your way until the day we took your trucks by mistake. Once, I saw that guy with the bleached hair with Walt and Hugh. When I saw you with him later, I thought maybe you were in on it.”
“We didn’t want to take the chance,” Farina says regretfully.
“The bleached guy? Roger?” Louis asks and shifts to Kate. “Do you think he knew what his brother was doing?”
My brain can’t keep up. If Roger knew his brother planned to attack StuyTown and did nothing, we can’t trust him.
“I don’t know.” Kate looks despondent enough to cry. “But, no, he fought them with us. Remember how shocked he was? You can’t fake that.”
“Do you have a plan to take back StuyTown?” Mo asks.
“Not yet,” Kate says. “We wanted to ask you for help, and we’ll help you in return. We would’ve helped you last year. I despise Teddy, always have.”
“We all do,” Chris adds. “We’re a regular I Hate Teddy Club.”
“You should,” Mo says. “He’s who bombed Uptown.”
“What?” Louis’ voice is severe. “How?”
“Teddy was rich, but he was also connected,” Farina says. “Lauren told me he called in a favor from somewhere up high. A few planes went out of their way and dropped extra bombs. She said he was afraid they’d be robbed, as if anyone gave a shit about his original Picasso. That’s why he waited for the helicopter until they almost starved to death. Lauren told me this when they first arrived, thinking he’d die. When he was better, she begged me not to say anything. She said he regretted the bombs. Maybe she did, but I don’t think Teddy did.”
“Rich white men are the worst,” Kate says. “I mean, Christ, what is wrong with them?” No one disagrees. She draws in a breath, as though she’s remembered something important, and places a hand over Louis’ fist on the table. “Oh, no. No.”
Louis’ jaw is tight. He rises, teeth grinding, and marches out the door.
“His family,” Kate whispers. “He lived uptown with his wife and son. He wasn’t sure if they were okay, but he never got the chance to check once the bombs fell.”
Farina watches after him, her hand to her lips. “We wouldn’t have been so glib about it had we known. I’m sorry.”
Outside the window, on the High Line, Louis could be made of bronze for how still he stands. Kate leaves and a minute later appears beside him, putting an arm on his shoulders when he softens and then hugging him close when he turns to her. Some people are good at grief, and Kate is one of them.
“I’m sorry,” Farina says again. “I wish we’d known. We could’ve stopped Teddy. Stopped Hugh before any of this happened.”
There are so many ways this could have gone but for one seemingly insignificant thing or another—one unsaid word, one missed note, one rich white man. As Eric might’ve said if he were here: For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost.
70
Micah is on a roof at First Avenue. I didn’t recognize him at first, since he wears a slim leather motorcycle jacket and has cut his emo hair somewhat shorter, in what I assume is an attempt to appear less emo. The kid who always walked with his head down stands ramrod straight, rifle in his arms and eyes behind dark sunglasses.
He’s barely moved in the hour he’s been up there, except to smile at his watch partner’s jokes. We know they’re jokes because his partner cracks himself up as he tells them. But there’s not a crack in Micah’s veneer, and I hope he’s only pretending to be someone different.
“God,” Indy says. “He’s scaring me. He’s like a robot.”
“Seriously,” I say. There’s been nothing else of interest to report. Except that I’m freezing, I want to take an axe to my burning feet, and my knee hurts from climbing twenty flights of stairs yesterday. But none of that is interesting to anyone but me.
Our old workplace, the store, sits below, and my stomach growls at the thought of all the goods contained within. It’s impossible to do anything about my hunger, but maybe I can help my feet. “Do you have those toe warmers?” I ask Indy.
“In my bag.”
I limp to her backpack and pull out the package, then sit to remove my boots. I don’t take off my socks, as my feet are truly a terrible sight to behold. I rip open the toe warmers—small semicircular-shaped pads of a chemical that heats when exposed to air—and place one in the toe of each boot, then I pull them on and resume roof-watching with a sigh.
“Chilblains?” Indy asks, though she remains dubious of my diagnosis. I’m sure of nothing but that this is not athlete’s foot.
“Yeah. Or maybe I’ve got a touch of the ague.”
“Could be dropsy,” she says.
“Don’t forget consumption.”
Slowly, the heat in my boots increases until I can think of something other than how uncomfortable I am. From up here, we have a view of the Oval where people move to and fro, talking and laughing the way they always have. Though they’re weaponless, they’re no longer escorted by armed guards.
“I’m kind of offended,” I say. “I know Roger told them we said not to do anything stupid, but everyone looks fine and dandy while we’re starving to death.”
“We’re not starving to death,” Indy says. “I’m glad they’re listening. Listening was never Lucky’s strong suit.”
“Will you let me be dramatic for ten seconds? You’re pretty undramatic for an actress, you know.”
She laughs. “Roof door opening.”
I train my binoculars on the roof. Rissa appears carrying a bag, which Micah walks to retrieve. They talk, though Micah is as stiff as ever. His partner watches for a minute, then resumes observing the street, after which Micah leans to whisper in Rissa’s ear. She laughs up at him, then steps back with their hands still linked. He holds on, arm outstretched, before the tips of their fingers separate. Though Micah stands in profile, his smile is easy to see.
That affection, the way they held on as though they couldn’t bear to let go, triggers an echo of that feeling in my chest. If I were there, I’d tell them to hold tight. Snuggle when snuggles are on offer, even if you fidget and drive the other one crazy. Make fun of each other and love each other and try not to be afraid. Because when it does end, it’s so much worse than all those hours you wasted imagining.
I try to push him away, but the file drawer has flown open and Eric is everywhere. His teasing smile and his tender eyes, and the way they said I choose you. “Stop,” I say aloud.
“Stop what?” Indy asks.
I shake my head. But it worked—Eric is nowhere to be found. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Rissa and Micah are a thing,” Indy says. “Aren’t they cute?”
I nod and raise my binoculars. Micah has returned to the roof ledge. He digs in the bag and hands the other guy a container, then scans the street with his pre-Rissa expression. Now that I know real Micah is under there, I want to hug him. It takes a lot of nerve to do what he’s doing.
“Rissa practically had hearts for pupils,” Indy says. “I want someone to look at me like—”
She cuts herself off in silent apology. But Eric is back in his drawer, and he’s not coming out. I prete
nd not to notice. “Can’t you and Paul just get together already?”
Dead silence. I lower my binoculars to watch her instead. She keeps hers raised, and her throat moves with her swallow. “Well?” I ask.
“He puts me in headlocks, Sylvie. I know what having a brother is like. And he’s still married. He wears his ring. He’s not looking for anything.”
“He wasn’t, but maybe he found it anyway.”
Indy can’t see a thing with the way her binoculars are squashed into her face, but they remain in place nonetheless. As someone who’s avoided these types of conversations a million times, I see it for the avoidance tactic it is. She’s the Sylvie and I’m the Grace in this situation, and, I have to admit, being the Grace is way more fun.
“You’re scared,” I say. “So is he.”
Her chest rises with a long breath, and we both jump when the door behind us opens with a bang. Roger steps onto the roof, panting from the walk up the stairs. He takes in our wild expressions and my hand on my holster. “Shit, sorry.”
My heart still beats erratically, but Indy smiles as though he’s the person she’s been waiting for all her life. “Hi, Roger! What are you doing here?”
She’s never given him such a warm welcome, and it’s all because he’s saved her from having to answer. I shoot her a look, and she sticks out her tongue.
“You guys need to leave,” Roger says. His pupils are huge, and his breath comes in gulps, as if he’s in a panic rather than breathless from the stairs.
“Why?” Indy asks.
“You just do. They might see you.” Roger grabs our packs. “C’mon.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s happening?”
Roger pales at shouts from the street. “You don’t want to see.”
We might not want to, but we have to. Indy and I approach the ledge, shoulders touching. There’s not the crowd of last time behind the gate on First Avenue, though the crowd of zombies outside is the same or larger. The people behind the gate are all armed, all Walt’s. I grab my binoculars and stay back from the ledge, where no one will spot a reflection in the glass.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 48
