I needn’t have worried; all eyes are on the spectacle of someone struggling in the arms of two men, who hold him tightly between them. The struggler stops and lifts his head. Harold. I remember his fierce stance the last time we saw him, how he fought to remain still while Debra died. He might have fractured beneath the burden.
Micah and his partner crane their necks, attempting in vain to see the other end of the loop. He doesn’t know what’s about to happen because his face never moves. Not even new Micah could remain that composed.
I can’t make out the words Harold screams, but the men finally let him go. He steps back, hand extended and palm up like he waits for a weapon. The two men, one dark-skinned and the other pale, cross their arms and shake their heads like clones. Yin and Yang.
Harold shrugs and turns to the gate.
“No,” Indy moans.
The roaring in my ears prevents any speaking and all thought except please let him make it. Harold is strong and fast, with a seriousness beyond his years. If anyone can do this, it’s him, now that his leg has healed. He disappears behind the fence to reemerge at the top of the wall, where he steps off a ladder and balances easily on the brick.
“Sylvie, don’t,” Roger pleads. He yanks my coat, and I smack at him without turning.
Harold has over nine lanes to cross and two hundred zombies to elude. His head swivels, he takes a breath, and then he sets off with a quick, light run along the top of the wrought-iron outer gate, followed by a leap to the ground before the Lexers realize what he’s done—exactly what I envisioned when Debra was in the same predicament.
He lands in a crouch and springs up as the rear of the mob swings out to meet him. More converge down the street, but he has a head start. Fists pumping, legs working, he hits the sidewalk that separates the parking lane and service road from the main part of First Avenue.
Six lanes to go.
Because the boarded-up stores would take precious time to open, his only options for escape are the fenced side streets, and he cuts diagonal for the one that sits closest to us and across from Micah. He puts three lanes and a quarter of a block behind him. Four lanes and a half block. He dodges five Lexers who close in, then slows to shove another from his path.
I drop my binoculars and hang over the ledge. No one is looking up right now. Five lanes down. One more and he’ll be at the sidewalk. Another quarter-block and he’ll reach the fence, which he’ll climb as easily as Leo climbs stairs.
A gunshot cracks, its thunder rebounding off concrete and brick up to our ears. Harold hits the ground, then staggers to his feet before the dozen Lexers who circle him arrive. Indy and I cry out when he goes down again, dragging himself along the asphalt of the last lane. He flips on his back as the first zombie falls and shoves it off in time for the second. But he’s no match for the third and fourth, the fifth and sixth.
Rather than watch the feast, I turn my head. Yang—the pale one—stands behind the iron gate, rifle pointed at where Harold was last seen. When Harold doesn’t rise from under the zombies, Yang steps down. There was never a chance that Harold would live. They don’t play fair, even in this.
“Shit,” Indy gasps. Her binoculars are trained on the loop, where three figures run toward the gate. Brother David’s habit is easy to recognize, and my glasses magnify April and Lucky alongside him, mouths open in horror.
Brother David reaches the people at the gate first, who shove him back while he pleads. Lucky grabs April’s coat when she races for them with her hands in claws. He locks his arms around her chest, speaking into her ear, until she drops her head and her heaving shoulders are the only sign of distress.
“Go in,” Indy whispers beside me. “Go back in, Lucien. Please.”
Lucky pulls April back one step and then another, talking in her ear the entire time. Brother David watches the street while Walt’s men push at him, then he bows his head and joins Lucky and April. The three plod toward inner StuyTown.
Indy and I fall against each other in a mixture of relief and shock. On the roof below, Micah watches the street, where Harold lies with one Lexer still feeding on his middle. He lifts his rifle slowly, as if in a daze, and takes careful aim. I expect the shot, but I still flinch when it comes. It jolts me from my stupor. I spin to where Roger stands and shove him the way they shoved Brother David.
“What did he do?” I scream. I ram him again, hard enough that he stumbles. “Tell me what he did!”
When he doesn’t answer, I move forward. I’ll shove him off the roof if necessary. Roger grabs my wrists with surprising strength. “He tried to leave. He called my brother crazy. I swear to God I tried to stop this. I asked to put Harold in Quarantine. I begged him.”
Walt will take everyone from us while we stand outside the gates and watch it happen. I let my arms fall, though Roger doesn’t release his grip.
“I’ll help you.” Roger’s hands move to my gloved fingers. His eyes are bright amber, almost crazed. “I have to find my insulin, and then I’ll help you get rid of him and everyone else.”
“You’ll help us kill your brother?”
Roger’s intensity wavers, his grip loosens. His mouth opens and closes, though no sound emerges. I jerk my hands away and wait for his answer. “I won’t stop you,” he finally whispers.
Cold, hard rationality seeps in, and it demands I protect whoever’s left. “Will he punish Micah for shooting Harold?”
Roger shakes his head. “He’ll understand.”
“Will Lucky and the others be punished for trying stop it?”
Roger blinks, thinking, then shakes his head again. “It wouldn’t look good. Everyone likes Brother David. If he kills a priest without a good reason, people won’t be happy.”
“Can you make sure he doesn’t?”
“Yes, I swear I will.” Roger glances at the roof door. “I have to get back. Will you go home? I’ll be by as soon as I can, when everything settles down.” He looks to Indy. “Lucky will be fine. I promise.”
Indy plants her feet wide, her hand on her holster. “He’d better be.” Roger nods, then takes his leave with slumped shoulders.
Once he’s gone, we cry. And, after that, we plan.
71
I don’t know that we’ll be able to use bombs again, but I’ve set to making nitro until I can no longer stand the cold, and then I rest by the heater until my feet thaw. They’re marginally better than they were, likely because of the toe warmers I stick in my boots whenever I can justify the use. Indy and Casper have taken to bombmaking with me, and we close up shop after a productive day. But our productivity has a cap, and we’ve almost exhausted our supply of raw ingredients.
“If we can find a boat, we can get more in Jersey,” Casper says as we walk from Chelsea Market to The Standard. “Jersey’s full of chemical factories.”
“So that’s why it always smelled so good,” Indy says.
I laugh harder than merited, if only to cheer up Indy. And myself. The past few nights have found us both awake until late, playing cards or a board game instead of staring glumly into space with Harold on our minds. Now we glumly play a board game with Harold on our minds.
The Box has a celebratory air when we enter, and it must be due to Roger, who has loaded a table with cans of food and bottles of liquor. It’s the first time we’ve seen him since Harold, and he comes straight to me and Indy. “Everyone is fine. They say hi.”
Indy exhales, her shoulders lowering after days of tension. “Thank God.”
He holds out a folded piece of paper. “From Lucky. I snuck it out for you.”
“He tucked it under his nut sack,” Paul calls from where he opens a can.
Indy’s nose wrinkles. Roger laughs, though embarrassment colors his cheeks. “Thanks, Paul.” He sighs. “It was in a plastic bag.”
Indy unfolds the paper and scans the message. “He says he’s fine. No one’s in trouble.”
I let out my breath while I head for a couch, where I unlace my boots and stret
ch out my feet. Leo hops beside me. “Syls, if flamingos ate bananas, would they turn yellow?”
“Of course,” I say. “Pink for shrimp. Blue for blueberries. Brown for poop.”
He falls into my lap with a laugh. “No, really.”
“I don’t think so, but the next time we come across a flamingo, we’ll feed it bananas and see.” I brush his hair off his forehead and lean to kiss it. When I raise my head, Roger is sitting in an armchair watching me. It’s unnerving, and I offer a polite smile in return. “Thanks for bringing stuff.”
“Sure. You want something? I can make you a drink.”
“In a minute, maybe. Thanks.” I want seven drinks, but I don’t want him to do anything for me. I hate being dependent on him, and there’s no escaping the fact that we are.
“Puppy in your lap,” Indy says. She stands at a table beside Paul, watching me with an evil smile.
“Scaredy-cat,” I retort. She flips me the bird.
Casper, who stopped off in the bathroom, sets his sword and scabbard against the wall. “Hey,” he says to Roger.
“You learn to use that thing yet?” Roger asks. I give him a warning look he doesn’t acknowledge.
“A little.”
“Cool.”
Casper swipes his hair behind his ear, possibly as unsettled as I am by Roger acting human, and heads for Indy and Paul in the kitchen area. The rest of our group, minus Louis, traipses past on the High Line. A minute later, all five spill through the door, issuing the customary groans that come when one enters our heat after a day spent outside.
“Adult beverages!” Chris exclaims. “Who do we have to thank for this?” He sees Roger and tips his imaginary hat. “Much obliged, sir.”
Roger lifts a hand. While Indy fills them in on the news that everyone in StuyTown is okay, Roger leans toward me. “Where were they?”
“Out looking for anything useful.”
The truth is they were with Mo. I assume Louis stayed to talk strategy about Central Park. I want to ask for details, but we’ve agreed to keep Mo’s existence from Roger for the time being. Loose lips sink ships. Now that Eric’s not around to say these ridiculous things, my brain has decided to fill in for him.
“Ow!” Leo yelps. “You pulled my hair.”
“Sorry.” I force my hands to relax. It’s been over a month since I learned Eric was dead. It feels like a year or five minutes ago, depending on the time of day or the color of the sky or any other arbitrary thing. I’ve stopped searching the water for him, though a voice whispers that if there was even a miniscule chance of survival, he found it. I shove that voice in the drawer with the rest of it. There’s no time for fantasy when reality wants to kill you.
“You okay?” Roger asks.
“I’ll take that drink.”
He heads for the tables. Everyone thanks him for the haul, and Roger shrugs under the praise, his smile verging on shy. Maybe he wants to belong to something as much as anyone does—as much as I did—and I guess I can’t fault him for that. At the same time, we have no choice but to thank him, to smile, because we fear saying the wrong thing could drive his assistance away for good.
Leo reaches up from my lap and pats my cheek with his soft hand. He’s going to break hearts one day, though I don’t think he’ll do it on purpose. I don’t want to leave him, which makes what Indy and I plan to do that much harder.
“Promise me something,” I say. “Always stay this sweet. Even when you’re big and hairy and stinky. Okay?”
He nods as Roger brings me a glass of something red. “Thanks,” I say. “What is it?”
“Taste it.”
It’s Kool-Aid and vodka, which is no Pink Drink but surprisingly palatable. Leo sits up to take the glass Roger offers, also filled with red liquid, and guzzles half of it. “Yum,” he says, then uses his tongue to remove the pink ring around his mouth.
“I only put a little vodka in his,” Roger says.
“Nice.” Paul plops down on the couch with us. “You’ll sleep tonight, Buddy.”
We sip our drinks while Indy and Jorge whip something up on the cooktop. I’m on my second by the time the rice and beans are served. “It’s our Puerto Rican-Jamaican fusion,” Indy says.
Jorge chuckles. “I thought coconut milk wouldn’t work, but it’s good.”
Although rice and beans gets old sometimes, I never tired of Maria’s, and while this is different, it’s still delicious.
“It’s great,” Kate says. “I’m so happy someone here likes to cook. I hate it with every fiber of my being.”
Artie lifts his glass. “Thanks to Roger for the food. It’s not often we get a meal this plentiful.”
“Or alcohol this plentiful,” Chris calls out.
We raise our glasses and drink. Roger sets down his fork. “You’d be eating this in StuyTown if it wasn’t for me. I brought you a few fucking cans of food that were yours to start with. You don’t have to thank me for it.”
Glasses lower in awkward silence. No one argues with him because it’s the truth, though their expressions suggest they’re as surprised as I am that he’s said it aloud.
Finally, Jorge says, “You’re making amends. It’s the first step.”
“But not the first step,” I add.
Jorge, Kate, and Roger laugh, which brings a smile to the other faces, and the moment passes. Once dinner is over and everyone is a few drinks deep, Indy nods to give me the go-ahead. I take a breath. “Roger, do you think Indy and I could come to StuyTown? Would they let us in?”
Roger’s eyes go circular. Before he can answer, Jorge says, “Are you crazy? After the other day?”
“How else will we get them out?” Indy asks. Her voice is soft in a room that’s gone so quiet I can hear Leo breathing six feet away. “Harold’s dead. I’m not waiting for Lucky’s turn.”
Paul twists his head from me to Indy. “No way. That’s a terrible idea.”
“How is it terrible?” I ask. “Because you don’t like it?”
“Because Walt will kill you both,” Paul says, voice tight.
“Then come up with a better idea. He doesn’t know us the way he knows everyone here. We’ll say we left because we were scared, and now we’re back.”
Paul rises and stomps for the door, pulling Leo behind him. I watch until he’s gone, then turn to Jorge. “You’d do it if you could.”
He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either. Kate clears her throat. “We didn’t hear from Roger yet. Would he let them stay?”
Roger gulps his whiskey. “I think it’d be fine,” he says slowly. “I’d vouch for them. But you never know when he’ll snap.”
“Awesome,” I say. “You’ve gotta love that about a person.” Kate lifts her brows my way, effectively saying shut up when I’m trying to help you.
“After a bad snap,” Roger continues, “he’s usually nice for a month or more.”
“Which means we should get in before the next snap,” Indy says.
“But the others are worse in some ways,” Roger says. “You can’t just come in and kill him. You won’t have weapons, first of all, and they’d just as soon kill everyone in there if he were gone.”
I shiver. Yin and Yang didn’t look like masters of compassion. “We wouldn’t do that anyway. We need to find your insulin first.”
Although he shrugs, he seems relieved I’ve brought up the subject. Kate watches Roger intently. “I think it’s the best idea we’ve got. I’d go in if I could.”
Everyone except Jorge nods. “I thought there’d be a bit more resistance,” I say, “but you guys can’t wait to get rid of us.”
Jorge sniffs, his mouth crooked. I stand and wrap my arm around his waist. “If you’d seen Harold the other day, you’d know it’s the only thing to do.”
“I just wish it wasn’t you two,” he says, to which I silently agree. But no one can talk me out of this. Not after seeing Micah and Rissa together, or the way Lucky rushed to protect April, though it could have cost h
im. They might be forced over the gate any minute.
“Let things calm down a little,” Roger says. “If I don’t think it’s safe, I won’t let them in. I promise.”
Artie breaks the silence with a clap of his hands. “Who wants a drink?”
People follow him to the alcohol. I tighten my arm around Jorge. “It’s the only thing we could think of.”
“Do you trust him with your life?” Jorge murmurs, watching Roger. “I don’t.”
I shrug. “It’s not my life I’m trying to save.”
Jorge sighs, a deep exhalation that seems to shrink him an inch or two. “Mami, do me a favor?”
“Anything,” I say.
“Drink one for me. I need it.”
“I know. I’m sorry we’re giving you agita.”
Jorge smiles. “Haven’t heard that word in a while.”
“It’s the word for today.”
“It’s the word for you.”
I laugh and slurp down the remainder of drink two, then walk to the tables to prepare drink three. I’m already sweaty with fear, and we haven’t even come up with a solid plan. Indy joins me, dumping straight vodka into her cup and shaking her head at my offer of Kool-Aid.
“So,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer.
Indy downs her drink. We’ve just made it real, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s afraid.
Paul and Leo toss a basketball back and forth in the dim light of a lantern on the terrace. I make my way over on wobbly legs, drink number four sloshing in my hand.
“Look, Syls!” Leo dribbles the ball twice before it hits his foot and rolls away. He chases it to the corner, where he gets three dribbles in before the same thing happens.
I give him a thumbs up. “Kid’s got game,” I say to Paul. He ignores me. “You’ll feel guilty for not speaking to me when I’m dead.”
“I’m speaking to you.” He crosses his arms. “I just have nothing to say.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 49
