I laugh and hear hers echo from the back. The tide is carrying us, so movement isn’t the problem—it’s getting where we need to go. To arrive as close to Prospect Park as possible, we need to curve between Lower Manhattan and Governors Island.
We practice our new arrangement. Indy becomes adept at responding to my calls to move a bit right or left, depending on what floats in our path. The moon reflects off the water and the glass of intact office buildings. Manhattan is on our left, and the Statue of Liberty is far ahead to the right, her torch a small, dark shape against the moonlit sky. I use a larger flashlight to inspect the waterlogged graveyard that was once Lower Manhattan. Tops of trees protrude from the water in Battery Park. It’s almost time to turn left.
“We’re getting close,” I say. “We’re gonna hang a Louie soon.”
“You did not just say Louie.”
“I did. Wanna make something of it?”
Indy snorts. “Eli used to say that to annoy me.”
“I’ve never said it before in my life.”
“It was him,” she says quietly. “He’s here, watching out for us.”
I recall the sunlight through the stained glass of Brother David’s church, how I felt Grace in that moment, and then I’m positive we’ll make it to Brooklyn okay. After that, who knows what we’ll find, but we’re safe on the water.
“Thanks, Eli,” I say. Indy is quiet. “You okay?”
“Yeah, he’s gone now.” She sniffs and leans for the flashlight without rocking the boat, then shines it on land. “That’s the end of the island.”
We steer left, then straight, paddling like mad to cross the current once we make it past the tip of Manhattan to where the East River meets the bay. The pull of low tide has lessened, and we land between two piers at a small, low dock. It’s gated to protect us from roving Lexers, as though Eli truly did guide us to shore.
We pull Pilar’s and Mo’s folding bikes from the boat and eat while we wait for dawn. In our supplies, we find two Snickers bars courtesy of Kate and Artie, who must have called a draw on their bet to supply them. Indy passes me a cup she’s poured from the thermos. I sniff. “Coffee? They gave us coffee?”
I gulp it down. It’s still hot, sweetened with sugar and creamy with non-dairy creamer, of which they used the last few crumbly packets. I wish I could thank them. We need this taste of familiarity, this act of support, as much as we need the warmth. The pain in my feet is nearly unbearable, even with two pairs of wool socks.
“Do you hear that?” Indy asks.
“What?” I whisper.
“The nothing. I think they’re down.” She stands to examine the pier ten feet away, then crouches beside me. “I see bodies on the ground.”
We wait longer, since we’d be morons to leave in the dark, and doze fitfully under our silver emergency blanket, which doesn’t do much to warm us. When dawn is close, I say, “Let’s check.”
Indy hands me the flashlight. I cast off the crinkly blanket and shiver while I flick the switch. We’re outside Pier 6, Brooklyn Bridge Park, and though I can’t see past the wall into the park, the concrete path and benches are littered with bodies that fell where they stood. Most are still, aside from a couple who groan or lift an arm. They’re frozen enough.
Half an hour later, we’re gliding past downed zombies and the familiar streets of Brooklyn. I pump my pedals and remind myself that Indy isn’t as driven as I am and must be tired after last night, but she keeps up without complaint, intent on the street and obstacles in our path.
I’m not sure how to get to the Vale except the way Eric brought me. We enter Prospect Park and cycle the road. Like the High Line, the taller grasses have browned, and the ground is littered with dead leaves, though a few tenacious trees provide subdued color.
We veer onto the footpath and stop at the top of the staircase to the Vale. I spot the fountain below through the trees, but I’m as frozen as the Lexers. There’s not enough air—not in this park and maybe not the world—for my lungs.
Indy drops her bike. “I can go if you want.”
It’s what I offered to do for Grace when we searched for Logan, and I shake my head the way Grace did. Some things you have to see for yourself, however much you might not want to. No matter how frightened you are of the answer.
Indy moves with me down the stairs. At the bottom, she says, “Wow.”
The paths around the circular fountain are covered with leaves instead of snow. Rainwater has collected in the fountain, and the foliage hasn’t yet been swept from the bushes by wind, protected as it is in this valley. The probability of a note is so small as to be insignificant, and I know I shouldn’t hope the way I do. I have to be prepared to say farewell.
We approach the curved stone walls that edge the gardens in the fountain. I step onto the thin layer of ice that’s formed, hardly caring when my boots break through into the water beneath, and head straight for the stone I feared I wouldn’t remember. I lift it to find nothing but a bug that scurries away in the dirt. There must be a word that could describe the way my anticipation withers into nothing, but all I can think is defeat.
Indy splashes farther, into ankle-deep water, while I stare at the blank space. “Sylvie! Over here.”
I slog to her in boot-sucking mud. She pulls a Ziploc bag from under a stone around the curve and hands it to me. A folded white piece of paper is inside, with a simple, dark S on the front. My numb fingers won’t work. I tear the plastic with my teeth and open the note with shaking hands.
At Annunciation. Love you.
Indy lifts wide, dark eyes to mine. “Is it him?”
I nod. It’s the handwriting I know well, the way his O’s tip to the right and his N’s have a little lift on their lower right side, as though they’re about to kick a foot up. But it can’t be true. This can’t be real.
“It’s real,” Indy says. “I’m freezing my ass off too much for this to be a dream.”
“I said that out loud?” I ask.
She laughs her giant laugh, head tilted to the sky, and I allow myself to believe. Indy yanks my sleeve. “Why are we still standing here?”
We circle around Sunset Park, adding time to our trip but keeping ourselves alive. I can’t feel my feet, but they’re pedaling, and that’s all I ask. We zip past avenues, streets, and frozen bodies, until we’re a block away and closing in on the monastery. They’ve fortified the wrought iron fences out front with metal and wood. We can’t see in, but someone in the bell tower will alert them to our presence. If Eric wrote the note, it must be safe.
I pound on the barrier, my slim patience evaporating, then climb onto the brick pillar that borders the entrance gate, sit atop the wood, and jump to the ground. Indy drops beside me, and we walk the driveway to the parking area.
“Hello?” I call.
The wood door on the side of the church opens. A man in a winter coat steps out and comes toward us. “Can I help you?”
Time slows as I take in the man’s mustache and purposeful stride. Eric was here. And now Kearney is. I didn’t kill him after all. In fact, it looks as though I didn’t hit him once. But I have a bigger gun this time, and I didn’t even have to think about pulling it—it’s already drawn.
Kearney stops short, face ashen. Good. I want him scared, I want the last thing he feels to be horror and pain and so much fear he’d almost die without a bullet.
“What did you do to him?” I scream. Beside me, Indy has her gun out and her legs planted wide.
Kearney raises his hands. “Hold on! Calm down.”
“No!” Anger rips through my body, my vocal cords. I’ve lost my grip, but sanity seems so distant and unimportant when I’ve found another person only to lose them again. “What did you do to him?”
I know if I don’t run, this will be where I die, but I need an answer. Kearney opens his mouth. Another voice yells, “Sylvie, stop! Stop, don’t shoot!”
Guillermo rushes across the asphalt. Dark hair, barely-there beard, and his
usual smile replaced by apprehension. “Guillermo?” Indy asks, her voice full of wonder.
He stops in front of Kearney. “Don’t shoot!”
I loosen my trigger finger in confusion. Guillermo wouldn’t work with Kearney. He wouldn’t betray his sister and mother that way. Guillermo saves lives, he doesn’t take them.
“Sylvie,” Guillermo says. “Put down the gun before you shoot someone. Let me explain.”
My hands lower, but not because of his words. The door to the church building has opened and someone on crutches has exited, looking so much like Eric that I think I might be dreaming after all.
78
Eric
She’s so skinny. Skinny and pale and shivering in the weak November light. Her gun is at her side, and she barely notices when Guillermo moves forward to take it from her hand. Her eyes stay locked on mine, but she doesn’t move a muscle. I curse the stupid crutches that keep me from running to her.
“Sylvie,” I say, my voice a croak from tears I suppress.
She snaps from her trance and runs for me, knocking me back three feet when she hits. My crutches land on the ground, and I balance on one foot to crush her sobbing body to my chest. She’s here, she’s alive. Worse for wear, but alive.
I press my face to her hair. Indy talks, Guillermo answers, but all I care about is in my arms. Sylvie looks up at me, face streaked with tears and wonderfully, beautifully happy. Her mouth moves, and her voice comes in fragments between gulps and sobs. I have no idea what she’s trying to say. I take her face in my hands and kiss the lips I’ve thought about a thousand times a day. Sylvie kisses me back and then pulls away, touching my arms and face as though reaffirming my realness.
I look into her eyes. Chocolatey brown, glowing with joy. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says, and her smile is like the sun.
Joe, Guillermo, Kirk, Susan, and Dennis were readying themselves for the trip to the city, planning to leave after dawn to travel across the bridge and to the High Line. A missing truck key held them back an hour, and only when Guillermo finally found it did we get the alert that people were coming.
And now Sylvie and Indy sit in the parlor, sipping hot tea and eating like their lives depend on it, which it looks like they might. Sylvie limped badly when we came inside. When she took off her boots, I wrapped her icy bare feet in a warm blanket and asked Anaya to look at them when she has a chance, and to check on Indy, who’s as thin as Sylvie, though she says she’s fine otherwise.
“Her feet get better and then they go crazy again,” Indy says.
“It looks painful,” I say, and try not to let on how worried I am.
Sylvie points at me. “Stabbed in the liver and broken leg. You win this one. I thought I was the fall guy.”
“I do the big things. Dysentery, stabbings, broken bones. Go big or go home.”
She smiles through a mouthful of food and grabs my hand with her free one, giving another glance to where Bird sits in a corner. He won’t come near, though he won’t take his eyes off her, either. She cried when she saw him, and when she hugged Guillermo and Susan and Dennis, and while she gave Keith and Kenneth giant kisses on their cheeks, and then she laughed as they wiped them off.
We’ve had a brief rundown of events, stories spilling from them between bites of food. What they know of StuyTown is only what they’ve heard through Roger and seen themselves. I was ecstatic to hear Louis and Artie did escape, Susan has relaxed as much as she can with the knowledge that Emily is alive but in StuyTown, and Guillermo might be worse now that he knows both Rissa and Elena didn’t make it out.
Sylvie sets down her spoon. “Rissa is fine. But Roger says Elena isn’t doing so well. I think it’s been too much for her.”
Every time I hear Roger’s name, I bite my tongue and douse my rage with the idea that there’ll be time for that later. For now, he’s kept his word by keeping their location safe and bringing food, but when Sylvie handed me my knife and said Roger gave it to her as a kindness, I almost flipped the fuck out.
Anaya walks in, cutting the conversation short. “Hi, I’m Anaya, the doctor. Who’s Sylvie?”
Sylvie raises her hand.
“Let’s have a look.” Anaya waves at the door. “Everyone out.” They protest, and she asks, “Is there anything to be done at this moment that’s worth her losing her feet?”
At the grumbles of no, she flips a hand. “Goodbye, then.”
They file out the door like errant children. “Stay,” Sylvie says to me. She looks a little frightened.
Anaya lifts her eyebrows in a very clear no. “I’ll be right outside,” I say. “You’re in good hands.”
“Don’t go far?” Sylvie pleads.
I move to a chair outside the door. Anaya asks them questions about their diet, their bathing, and bodily functions. Sylvie laughs at the question of whether she could be pregnant, but Indy pauses a moment. “I’m on the pill, but I have a sort of boyfriend.”
“You don’t have a sort of boyfriend,” Sylvie says. “She has an actual boyfriend, Paul, who jumps her bones every chance he gets.”
“We’ll go with not pregnant,” Anaya says with a laugh I’ve never heard before.
I smile and give Paul a psychic clap on the back. Somehow, some way, Sylvie got the two of them together. Or they got themselves together. I wish I’d been witness to that.
They tell her about their masonry heater heating system (Sylvie shouts to me that it’s like a rocket mass heater and I’m going to love it) and how they spend a good bit of time in the cold. They have a lab for some reason they don’t explain, they do watch shifts, and they’re always hunting for food. Unsuccessfully, much of the time. No showers or hot running water, though they wash up as best they can.
“You should see the hotel,” Sylvie says. “Every room has a glass wall that looks out at the city. The bathtubs are useless without hot water, but Artie thinks he can make it happen.”
“Artie can make anything happen,” Indy says. “Except dinner.”
Sylvie laughs. “He’s better than Kate.”
I know they’ve barely gotten by while I’ve had three squares a day and recuperated in warmth, but I’ve missed that feeling of camaraderie. While we have it here, it’s not the same. They’ve been working toward something instead of doing nothing the way I have.
“The good news is that your feet aren’t going anywhere,” Anaya says. “The bad news is that you have chilblains.”
There’s a dead silence, followed by a guffaw from Sylvie. “You heard that!” she yells. “I know you did, Indy!”
I rise to stand in the doorway, wondering what could be so funny about chilblains. Indy sits in a chair, shaking her head. Finally, her laugh fills the room. “Good thing it’s not dropsy.”
Sylvie giggles as Anaya examines her feet. There’s an entire world out there I’m not a part of, and, though I hate feeling this way, I can’t deny I’m somewhat jealous. Sylvie motions me in to sit beside her, rests her head on my shoulder, and takes my hand in both of hers.
I kiss the top of her head and ignore the aroma of what can only be New York Bay. “What do you do for chilblains?” I ask.
“Basically, the treatment is to stay warm and dry,” Anaya says. “I have some creams that can help with the itching and burning. Don’t scratch—that makes them worse. They should go away in a couple of weeks as long as you make sure they don’t get cold and move around to increase circulation if they start to. You’ll be prone to them for a while, so you’ll need to be extra careful.”
“They went away and came back,” Sylvie says. “I guess I’ve been outside too much.”
I take a closer look. There are angry-looking welts on her toes, along with flaky skin, swollen pink patches, and blisters. My feet hurt just to see it. “Sexy, huh?” Sylvie says.
I kiss her palm. “Always.”
She cups my cheek in her hand, the softness in her eyes and smile warming me from the inside out, though I can tell she’s weary
. I know I am. My side hurts like a bitch from all this standing and sitting, though I’ll never admit it after she’s traveled so far on those feet to reach me.
“I can’t believe you’re right here,” she whispers.
I think of all the nights I prayed that she was okay. To have her with me is more than I asked for. A band forms around my throat and my breaths grow shaky. Sylvie drops her feet from Anaya’s lap and draws me to her, where I bury my face in the soft skin of her neck.
“I’m sorry I stink,” she says.
“I’m sorry you do, too,” I say, and feel her throat jump with her giggle.
“You need to wash your feet,” Anaya says. “I’m prescribing an immediate shower for both you and Indy. That bay water is dangerous, especially with broken skin. Your friends can wait to talk.”
I nod and struggle to my feet, placing a crutch under each arm. “I’ll show them the bathrooms.”
Anaya assesses me with the doctor stare I’ve come to suspect is part x-ray vision. We both know I need to rest, but instead of her usual admonishment, she nods as if she knows I need to pretend to be stronger than I am, if only for a few hours. “Thanks, Eric. I’ll find them some clothes.”
79
Sylvie
I’m full and I’m warm and I’m sitting next to Eric wearing the craziest pajamas I have ever worn in my life. Anaya handed me the floor-length white nightgown with buttons up the front, an empire waist, eyelet, and puffy sleeves, along with her apologies. “I asked Sister Frances for something warm,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t have asked a nun. I’m afraid she’ll be insulted if you don’t wear it.”
I may look insane, but it’s toasty warm in my yards of cotton, and I have thick, fuzzy socks to complete the look. When I emerged from the bathroom, Eric covered his mouth while his eyes laughed, and Sister Frances gave an approving nod. I’d planned to invite him into the shower, but she foiled my plan by lurking outside. Annunciation has a boiler, and the hot water running into every crevice of my body was so much ecstasy that I didn’t need Eric in there after all.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 53
