The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

  “How did Hannah put up with you?”

  Indy throws the door open and stumbles to a stop. “Sorry. Private talk?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Paul’s being obstinate.”

  “Of course he is.” She points at him. “Come have a drink.”

  He doesn’t move. Leo leaps into her arms, and Indy touches her nose to his. “Why’s your daddy so stubborn?”

  “He’s a big, stubborn bull,” Leo says. “That’s what Mommy called him.”

  Indy’s drunken laugh likely attracts a hundred zombies to the street below. “Thanks, kid,” Paul says.

  “Leo and I are having a drink inside.” She pulls open the door. “See you in there.”

  Paul makes a move to follow, then plants his feet and refolds his arms.

  “Go,” I say. “My God, just go. You don’t understand Indy. That was her practically begging you to hang out with her.”

  “She doesn’t like me,” he says. “She likes Leo.”

  “Indy hates kids. Besides the fact that Leo’s better than the others, part of the reason she likes him is because he’s yours.”

  Paul grunts. I give him a push to start him on his way. He opens the door and mumbles, “Don’t die when you go, Rossi.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  After the door closes, I light a cigarette and sink to the cold concrete behind a post. Being brave is demanding work, but at least Indy and I will walk through the gates together. Brother David went alone. I wonder if I’ll be able to control myself when I see Walt. I didn’t get a good look that day at StuyTown, and all I have to go on is Eric’s description of a completely bland and unremarkable man.

  I gulp my drink. I’ll know soon enough.

  “Hey,” Roger says from my left. He motions questioningly at the ground, and I scoot over to make room. He pulls out a cigarette, and his lighter brightens the space before he exhales smoke. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I know he’s watching me, and I shrug. “I might be a teensy bit scared of your brother.”

  “I’m scared of my brother. I love him. And I hate him.”

  “He raised you, right?”

  “Starting at ten. He dropped out of college to get a job. I’m not sure he ever forgave me for that, especially since I was such a fuckup. He thinks if I’d never been born, his life would’ve been better.”

  “My mom felt the same way.”

  “So did ours, and Jeff got the worst of it. She beat us both bloody, but he still tried to take care of her, even when she’d tell him he’d always be a nothing piece of shit.” His laugh is short. “And then she killed herself and left him no choice but to take care of me and become nothing.”

  “He could’ve gone back to school,” I say. “People do it all the time.”

  “I guess,” he says. “But he still gave up eight years for me. I owe him for that. Even when he was an asshole, he paid the rent and made sure I had my meds. He could be the best brother, too. One time, he took me to Disney World, and he bought me everything I wanted. He made it like it was us against the world.”

  “Except, when he was an asshole, you felt that much more alone,” I say quietly. “And when he wasn’t an asshole, you were overly grateful for any crumb he threw your way.”

  He takes a long, brooding drag and blows out the smoke. “I never thought of it like that.”

  My mother did the same thing, and I stopped playing along when I was teenager. I suspect Roger is still in the game. That could make this trickier, because while he may feel some allegiance toward us, he feels more for his brother.

  “Doctor Sylvie, here to psychoanalyze you,” I say through chattering teeth. The icy wind has finally permeated my drunkenness. “It’s freezing. Ready to go in?”

  He nods. I grab the lantern as he gets to his feet. At the door, he turns with a genuine smile. “Thanks.”

  “For the psychoanalysis?”

  “For letting me help you. For not hating me even though you could.”

  It might be the alcohol, but I don’t hate him at this moment. Having had a similar childhood, I understand the reasons for his actions, even if I don’t agree with them. I haven’t forgotten what Brother David said about Roger wanting my forgiveness, my encouragement, and I’m doing my best to pretend he has both. I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive him for causing Eric’s death, even if he didn’t mean to, but it does seem he wants to make it right.

  “You’re okay when you’re normal,” I say. “People like that better than jerkiness.”

  “Is that one of those life hacks?”

  “Yup,” I say with a laugh. “Along with how to make an IKEA Billy bookcase into a refrigerator.”

  Roger’s smile brims with what seems uncomfortably close to hope. Before I can react, his lips are on mine. I freeze, aware of everything at once: whiskey and cigarettes on his breath, his hand gentle yet insistent on my neck, and how every cell in my body rebels at his touch.

  With a prayer it won’t break, I drop the lantern, then rush to where it rolls to a stop ten feet away. I bend slowly, bile rising in my throat, with the nausea made worse by the idea of throwing up four glasses of bright red liquid. I have to say something to dissuade him, something not too harsh. I can’t burn this bridge before we’ve crossed it.

  Roger crouches beside me. “Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

  “It’s okay. We drank a lot.” I keep my gaze on the ground and try to sound nonchalant, but I’m shaken that he misinterpreted ten seconds of goodwill for an invitation.

  “I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

  I don’t answer. To add to the already unbearable situation, his touch has reminded me of how much I miss being touched. The file drawer is open, papers scattered around the room. I didn’t realize it before, not fully, because it’s just hit me that from now until eternity, whomever I kiss will not be Eric. If I wake in a bed with someone, it won’t be him. If I laugh or flirt or feel stirrings of desire, it won’t be his eyes I look into.

  “Sylvie?” Roger says softly. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  I swallow my tears. Force the ache away. There are important things on which I need to focus, and none involves crying for two days straight. Lives hang in the balance. Living people. If I can keep anyone else from feeling this way, it’ll be worth the effort.

  “I can’t do this now,” I whisper. “I hope you understand.”

  His shoulders are hunched, and he runs a shaky hand through his hair as he nods. I expected anger, or for him to deny us his assistance if I denied him this, not the worry that’s deepened every line on his face. It makes it easier to be kind, and it tells me I have more power here than I imagined. I would be surprised by this pragmatic, morally questionable thought, but, as Roger once said, I had to learn how to hustle. If it comes down to it, I’ll do whatever is necessary to enlist Roger’s help in order to save the people still inside.

  “I know.” Roger takes the lantern, his face solemn in its glow. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can we just forget it? If you bring it up again, I’ll have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve rewound the tape.” I spin a finger in the air, then point at him. “But not far enough that you’ve been re-jerkified.”

  Roger smiles as we rise to our feet. “Life hack installation complete,” he says in a robotic voice.

  I’d laugh at anything he said in order to keep the peace, but this laugh is real. “It even comes with a sense of humor. I didn’t think it was possible.”

  Roger gives me a gentle push, and I pretend not to notice how he holds on a second too long.

  72

  Eric

  My thigh-high cast has been replaced by a boot. Not a cool, shit-kicking kind of boot, but one made of plastic and Velcro straps that immobilizes my lower leg. Anaya says I should count myself lucky she didn’t put me in another cast, which she threatened to do if I didn’t follow her orders.

  Access to the city is still a pipedream. I wish
it would freeze. Not that it would do me any good, as I couldn’t safely lumber across the bridge, but the plan is for Guillermo and the others to cross to the High Line and see if anyone’s there. Scope out StuyTown, if they can. And, if there’s time, take care of Sunset Park, though our inability to watch their daily schedule makes planning that attack impossible.

  Not knowing is the hardest part. Hoping. Likely, it only feels that way; if I find out Sylvie is gone, it will be worse than I can bear to consider at length. I’m not sure what I’d do in that case except go on a suicide mission and kill Walt with my bare hands.

  I’ve played dominoes and checkers to death. I’ve watched the grounds change from autumn to winter. I’ve tried to believe that sheer force of will has the power to make me heal faster. So far, that last one’s a no-go. My side and my leg straight-up hurt. There’s no getting around it.

  Guillermo leans back from the table where we sit, having won our latest game of dominoes. “Were you even trying?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “C’mon.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside.”

  I stand, get my coat on and my crutches beneath me, then follow him from the parlor to the porch. The sun set hours ago, and only a few lights glow in the windows. They have limited power, and they don’t waste it. Bedtime comes early when you live with nuns who wake before the sun.

  Bird streaks past my feet into the dark, chasing something only he can see. I hear the unmistakable pop of a soda or beer can being opened, and then Guillermo passes the can my way. I take a sip as he opens another. It’s crappy beer, and it tastes wonderful.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Joe has a stash. He doesn’t like the sisters to know.”

  Walt once told us Kearney spent too much time in the church, enough that they called him The Reverend. I thought it was facetious, but he found his faith again after years away from the church, and he credits the sisters with that. Turns out Kearney’s a decent guy, a fact that never ceases to amaze me.

  “I know this sucks.” Guillermo takes a sip of his beer. “I almost lost my mind when I was first stuck here. Same shit, different day, right?”

  “That about sums it up,” I say. “Any words of wisdom on how to put up with it?”

  “Nah,” he says, “just beer.”

  I laugh. “You have any forties over there? We’re going to need more.”

  “I wish. Listen, I know you’re going crazy, but you ending up here was good. You’re alive. We know where people are or might be. It’s winter now, and we’re going to finish this one way or the other.”

  I nod. Guzzle my beer until the can empties. Maybe it’ll help me sleep. I don’t do much of that. Anaya says pain pills are on offer, but I don’t want to depend on them. I don’t want my mind dulled, except maybe at night when I stare at the ceiling for hours.

  Guillermo crushes his can and takes mine. “Another game?”

  “I’m beat,” I say, though it’s not true. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, man. Go ‘head in. I have to hide these in the trash by the gate. Feels like I’m in high school.”

  “Thanks, Guillermo.”

  “Sure.” He moves down the steps and stops. “You know, I knew Sylvie before you did. She’s tough. Joe says she was the same in the hospital. Says he’d have her on his side any day, and he doesn’t say that about many people. I don’t think you have to worry.”

  I smile, though he can’t see. I wonder what Sylvie would make of Kearney’s statement. “I sure hope so.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Guillermo trots into the dark while I limp inside and up the stairs. Once in bed, I lean for my nightstand. Kearney saved the picture of Sylvie—still clutched in my hand—and it sits in the drawer. The plastic lamination is creased, but it’s protected the photo, and the colors remain bright.

  I turn off my lamp, picture in hand, and watch the sky out the window. The world hasn’t lost its gray cast, but, for the first time in a while, I believe it may not be permanent.

  73

  Sylvie

  While we wait for Roger to give us a move-in date, our mission is to collect as much food as we can. Our group will be down two foragers when we leave. And, since they plan to keep two people on watch at StuyTown, and someone has to stay with Leo, they’ll be short of food in no time.

  We’ve climbed the stairs of three office buildings since dawn, and we’ve obtained a single box of microwave popcorn. It can be popped in a pot, but it’s a depressing amount of food in exchange for the calories we burned to find it.

  We take a break in the marble lobby of a glass building. Indy pulls out the bag of tortilla chips and jar of salsa we found off the High Line. “Kate shoved them in my bag.”

  Julie raises her fists. “It’s salsa day!”

  We’ve been saving this particular meal, and it’s just like Kate to forgo it herself in order to give us a treat. Chris performs a completely uncoordinated salsa dance that brings Jorge to tears, then finishes it off with jazz hands and whispers, “Salsa!”

  We quietly applaud while Indy sets out the jar and rips open the bag. Now that Indy and I are leaving, everything feels imbued with importance. It could be the last time I’ll see Chris do anything for a laugh, the last time Julie will act as though she doesn’t love it though it’s plain she does, the last time I’ll soak in Jorge’s big, comforting presence or tug his ponytail when he makes a joke at my expense.

  We pass the bag around, each grabbing a handful, then we take turns with the salsa in the middle. Casper is the first to eat his. A moment after the first salsa-laden chip passes my lips, he shakes his head, hand over his mouth. “No good.”

  At first, the salsa covers it, but eventually the rancid oil of the chip makes itself known. I try another in the hope that it won’t be as bad. It is. Handfuls of chips are returned to the bag one by one.

  “But it’s salsa day,” Chris whines. He follows it with a sad trombone noise, and Julie flops on her back. It’s a common theme in our lives. If it’s past the expiration date, and not canned or similarly packaged, it’s going bad, and the culprit is often the oils.

  “I have pistachios,” Indy says. “They’re okay.”

  I pull out my mini bag of pretzels and a small storage container of peanut butter. Jorge adds a can of fruit cocktail, a can of pinquito beans, and a can opener. The others follow suit until we have a motley buffet of food.

  I check the date on the fruit cocktail. “Three years expired?”

  “They must’ve forgotten it was in their cabinet,” Jorge says.

  “Should we try it?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I open the can and sniff at the contents. It smells like nothing and all the fruit has turned a faded color, the way the Lexer’s clothes have faded over the past year and a half. I pluck out a pale brownish-orange cube. “If I die, feel free to eat me.”

  I set it in my mouth and chew. The texture isn’t too bad, and the flavor is reminiscent of fruit salad, as though fruit salad passed by a while ago and left a trace of its perfume. I shrug and swallow. “Tasteless but okay.”

  It’s all the encouragement they need. We pass around beans and pretzels, pistachios and granola bars, and Casper’s surprisingly gourmet additions of green olives and button mushrooms. These are our emergency rations, and we live in a state of emergency.

  Indy slips a rubber band around the tortilla chips in case we think of a way to save them, then pauses in her crinkling. “Shh, listen.”

  Fast little thumps close in before Mischa rounds the corner. By the time Charlie catches up, we’ve put our weapons away. “Long time no see,” he says.

  “Where’ve you been?” Casper asks.

  “Got caught up in a mob at my place on the east side,” Charlie says. He waves away our concern. “We had food and water, and Mischa did her business off the fire escape
. Right on their heads.” He cackles at the memory. “I saw your trucks out front. Thought you should know I saw that Mo fellow coming this way.”

  “He’s cool,” Casper says.

  “All right.” Charlie spots our empty duffel bags. “You won’t have any luck in these buildings.”

  “You’re about five hours too late with that news,” Julie says.

  “That’s me. Always a day late and a dollar short.”

  “I hear that,” Jorge says. “Any idea where we could find something?”

  “Been a mob of them at the south end of the park for months now, stuck in about five square blocks. No one’s gotten in there, unless they did it last winter. Too many even for me to try it. But, next freeze, I think it’ll be good pickings.”

  It’s a great tip, and we thank him for it, but it doesn’t help our current situation. Mo’s whistle comes through the lobby—two short bursts, followed by a longer one. I stick my head into the hall, where I see him and Farina at the doors.

  As they enter, Charlie eases past and heads for the door at the opposite street. “I’ll see you around. If you get low before the freeze, you come to the apartment and take what you need.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Casper calls. Charlie lifts a hand and glides into the cold, Mischa trotting behind.

  Mo and Farina reach us. “We call that guy Ghost,” he says, watching where Charlie exited. “You know him?”

  “Charlie,” Jorge says. “Yeah, we used to feed him at StuyTown. He helps us out, too.”

  “What are you guys doing here? Food?” We nod, and Mo sighs apologetically. “I hope you didn’t waste much time. There’s nothing in these buildings.”

  He has no idea why we laugh, but he laughs along with us. We tell him about the streets Charlie mentioned, and he says, “We never got to those last year. It was going to be a pain in the ass with all those bodies, and there were other places. How are you until then?”

  “Could be better,” Jorge says. It’s not a morale boost to admit you’re hungry, and he picks a piece of fluff off his shirt rather than look at them. “We’ll find enough.”