85
Eric
Anaya stands in my doorway, foot tapping the wood floor. “As your doctor, I’m advising you against this.”
“Duly noted,” I say, and unstrap the velcro of my boot.
“You can bear weight on it now. Give it a couple more weeks in the boot before you move to regular shoes. Your liver is just barely healed.”
“I’ll take it easy.” I inspect my leg. It looks a hell of a lot better than it did fresh from the cast, but it feels stiff and weak.
“Do you know how many people I haven’t been able to save?” I look up at Anaya’s quiet voice. “In the past year and a half, I’ve watched people die because I didn’t have the means to save them. But, against all odds, I saved you. You should be dead, do you understand that?”
This admonishment is different than the usual. Her crisp doctor facade has been replaced by a discouraged air. I set my hands in my lap. “I know that, and you have no idea how grateful I am. But I’m not dead, and maybe that’s because I have to be there. Have you ever done something you regretted and didn’t have the chance to take back?”
After a half minute of silence in which her eyes go shiny, she says, “When I was a resident, I didn’t want to ask to leave the hospital. I thought my father had more time, and I never got to say goodbye.”
I didn’t get to say goodbye to my parents, and I can’t imagine how I’d feel had I been given the chance but not taken it. “I’m sorry, Anaya,” I say. She shrugs, facade in place again. “This may be my only chance. If I wait two weeks before I’m walking in a real shoe, I won’t be ready in time.”
“I’m not going to tell you it’s fine,” Anaya says. “But my guess would be it wasn’t a bad fracture, though there’s no way to tell. It’s highly possible, after this length of time, that you won’t reinjure it, but I still recommend you don’t take the chance. Pain level to a four is okay, anything more than that and you rest. Keep on with those stretching exercises. Now that the boot is off, you’ll find they’re more useful.”
“Thanks,” I say with a wink. She stares me down, face impassive, before she leaves for the hall. I love her for saving my life, but the woman has no sense of humor.
My ankle cracks when I rotate my foot, and my calf muscles are tight as a drum. There’s a good inch difference in the circumference of this calf compared to the other. I rise to standing and set my foot on the floor, then gingerly allow my weight to shift to that side. Pain is a three, maybe a four. I take a few steps and it stays the same.
Bird sits at a window in the hall, where he likes to keep an eye on the grounds. He lets out a long, plaintive meow—he’s cried for Sylvie since she left.
“I’m working on it,” I tell him as I pass. On the way back, the pain nears a six. Bird follows me into the room, where I sit on the bed. “That was pretty pathetic.”
He jumps beside me, extending his paws and arching his back.
“Good idea,” I say. “Stretching time.”
“You talking to that cat again?” Guillermo sticks his head through the doorway. “He’s a good listener. You have a minute?”
“Guillermo, minutes are all I have. Come on in.”
He sits in the chair, throwing one leg up on the desk. He makes it look so damn easy. I will never take a working body for granted again. “We’re thinking of going for Sunset Park soon. They don’t have enough people to cover themselves, and no one’s come back to help.”
The Lexers have moved enough for Kearney, Dennis, Kirk, and Guillermo to take shifts staking out Sunset Park for the past week. They’re undermanned, likely because of the mobs by the Brooklyn shore, and we’ll take the advantage. Or Guillermo will. I throw as much enthusiasm into my nod as I can, hoping it hides my disappointment that I’m not included in the mission.
“If it doesn’t freeze, we move the Lexers if we need to,” he continues. “I want to get to the city, but I don’t want to leave the kids here unprotected when we go. Plus, they might have boats.”
Walt and his group reached the city by boat. Many were StuyTown’s boats, taken last year—and, according to Sylvie, one that matches our boat’s description—but they might have left one or two behind. It’s worth a shot.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say. “Let me know what I can do, if you think of something.”
“I know exactly what you can do. I need you on a roof with a rifle. I wanted to run all this by you before we a have a meeting. What do you think?”
I gauge his expression, but he looks genuinely perplexed that I’ve counted myself out. “There’s that building on the corner of 44th. I should have a clear line of sight on the school and the roofs at Gate 6A. A couple blown gates will get them scared. And scattered, most likely, since they have fewer people. Getting there might be tough without a freeze, though we could try enticing bodies away with some nitro.”
He nods, finger tapping his chin. “I like it. I’m not going to cry if a few Lexers get into SPSZ, are you? We haven’t seen or heard any kids, so they’re probably at StuyTown.”
“We’ll leave it up to the weather,” I say. “Does this mean I should get to the lab?”
“Let me get my coat. I’ll come with you.”
I put on my boot before we go. Anaya would be proud.
After five days, I can go all day without the boot, though my leg throbs come nighttime, and my side aches. I’m painfully slow, both literally and figuratively. The playground equipment is a good place to get in a workout, with the dubious benefit of a throng of kids counting my chin-ups, which makes me both try harder and want to ask them to kindly shut up.
I’m stretching my side when Anaya passes by on her daily walk. “You have a lot of scar tissue,” she lowers her scarf to say. “Try some lotion and gentle massage.”
“Thanks,” I call after her. She raises a hand and continues walking.
Christian, one of the residents, comes to where I stand. “Are you and Anaya…?”
He’s single dad to two girls who were both students at the school, and the fact that he thought we were together shows just how long he’s been out of the dating scene.
“God, no,” I say, and his mouth flattens like I’ve sullied her honor. “I have a girlfriend. Anaya yells at me, doctor to patient, but that’s it.”
“She does that,” he says, smoothing his wavy hair. “You think she’s open to something?”
“I’d ask her, but I want to live.”
“I’ll feel her out. Maybe one of the girls’ll get a cold soon.”
He’s one-hundred-percent serious. I hold in my laugh; he might be her perfect match. “Why don’t you join her on her walk? She might like company, but she’d never ask for it.”
Christian watches her for a minute, then inhales and sticks out his chest. “All right.”
I return to stretching and chin-ups. As I head up the porch stairs, I see the two of them walking the path contentedly, brows furrowed in conversation. It takes all kinds, I suppose. I would find that thought heartening but for the fact I found my perfect match and fucked it up royally.
All at once, every ache comes front and center. I’ve been down, maybe even depressed, and the intensity only worsens when I ruminate on the things I can’t fix as fast as I’d like. I’m not sure there’s a God, but I’m about ready to ask the sisters to intercede on my behalf with whoever’s in charge. All I want is a chance to fix this with Sylvie. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask for, and I’d keep the limp and the pain in trade.
Guillermo opens the back door. “Hey, I was looking for you. Temperature’s dropping. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day?”
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get ready.”
86
Sylvie
Three days at my checkstand, and it’s like I never left. Except for the Sacred Heart people, who range from a few families with kids to Walt’s soldiers. The former live in a building connected to ours, away from the rowdiness of Walt’s childless gang but separate from us prisoners. The l
atter have cleaned out the grownup section, leaving dusty bottles of peach schnapps, port, and crème de menthe.
Noli stands at my counter holding a bottle of schnapps. Her eyes dart around. “Hey. How’s everything?”
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“Do you know what happened to,” she leans in and whispers, “Artie?”
I press my lips together and shake my head. I’m not sure how much I should tell anyone. I have no idea whom to trust. Her shoulders drop. “Anyone else? I’ve been worried about Leo.”
Her disappointment is real enough, as is her agitation at the prospect of being overheard. “Don’t worry about that,” I say.
She wiggles her lip ring with her tongue, searching my face, before a quick smile appears. “Thanks,” she says, and lifts her bottle. “Maybe we should have a drink soon. This is the best we have left.”
Sharla leans over her counter. “And who do you think gets the good stuff?”
Kitty, beside her, nods. “Back in the day, they wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. One call to my Uncle Tony and—”
I shush them as a few of Walt’s gang enter. Noli tosses her bottle to Sharla, signs the binder, and disappears out the door. The other StuyTown residents retreat into aisles and corners, browsing intently with their heads cocked as if listening for signs of danger. Kitty, to her credit, does not. I’ve seen what Brother David mentioned—the anger, the fear below the surface. The lowered eyes and dread that to rock the boat will send them into zombie-filled waters.
Walt’s people number around seventy-five. Seventy-five people with guns versus two hundred without. Around fifteen are female, the rest male, and the oldest of them all is a sixty-six-year-old woman named Regina. Gray hair, tall, with thin, downturned lips that broadcast her disgust of everything.
I avoid staring at their weapons while they wander the store. It’d be so easy to grab one. The hard part would be not getting killed immediately by the others. I see now what Roger meant when he said taking out Walt wouldn’t be the end of it. They have a vested interest in the status quo. Regina would likely claim the seat of power, and life would continue on. Scarily enough, I think life would be worse. Walt seems to enjoy his role of benevolent dictator, whereas Regina has taken her name to heart and would be a bloodthirsty queen.
She steps to my counter—of course her name can’t be somewhere between A through P—and plunks down a six pack of no-name Dr. Pepper. “You’re out of the real stuff.”
I nod in a sympathetic manner and flip open the binder. Yesterday, she was out of credits. Today, magically, fifty have appeared on her page. There’s no signature, no nothing to give them authority, and she waits for me to say something. I deduct the credits and pass her the binder for her signature without a word.
She signs, and I say, “Have a great day.”
The inequity kills me, but these are the people I’ll need to get along with on guard, and not getting a spot on guard will kill me more. It’ll kill all of us. My newfound ability to shut up is coming in handy.
“Next time, I want the real stuff,” she says.
Behind her, a woman named Ginger laughs. Tai and Freddy shake their heads and smirk at her brazenness. She’s not leaving without a fight. You’d think one would’ve outgrown bullyhood by age sixty-six.
“I’ll just pop out the gate and grab some,” I say. “Want to loan me your gun?”
It’s not the best instance of shutting up, but I’ll never get on guard if I’m meek. I’ve been bathing in stress chemicals for a week, and I believe I’ve finally plateaued.
“Would you know what to do with it?” she asks.
Shoot you in the face is the wrong answer. “I’d manage,” I say.
“Honey, do you know what happens to people who go outside the gates?”
Indy creeps up behind the group with a can of San Marzano tomatoes gripped in her hand. I’m not sure what she plans to do if this goes south—distract them with a gourmet meal, perhaps—but I appreciate the support.
“Which gate?” I ask. “It seems there’s only one gate through which one might want to leave.”
The corners of Regina’s lips lift into the soft folds of her cheeks. “That’s the truth,” she says. “You’re Roger’s friend.”
I’m not pleased with her emphasis on the word friend, but I nod. Regina taps the counter twice. “See you around, Roger’s friend.”
She turns to her hangers-on, behind whom Indy sets the tomatoes on a shelf and straightens merchandise like a proper stockgirl. They file out, and Indy races over. “What was that?”
“You passed the test,” Sharla says. “She likes to do that. If you fight, she makes your life miserable. If you crumble, same thing. If you’re tough but smart, she likes you. She was an English teacher before. Probably smacked the kids’ knuckles with a ruler.”
“What did you do when she tested you?” I ask.
Sharla tosses her braids behind her. “I didn’t know, so I fought. She moved on to someone else after a while. I think Roger stepped in. I told him I have two kids and no time for bullshit, so, if she was going to come at me, to get it over with already.”
“She didn’t try with me,” Kitty says. “I wish she would.”
“I’ll bet you do, too,” Indy says, and Kitty snickers.
Sharla leans closer, winking. “So, you’re Roger’s friend now?”
“Not that kind of friend.”
“Listen, if you can get some adult recreation and protection, you’ve got yourself something good. I’d do what it takes to keep it. It’s not like Roger’s some butt-ugly dude. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.”
“Thank you, Sharla, for that image.”
“You know I speak my mind.”
“It’s what I like best about you,” I say. “Truly. But don’t fill my mind with images of Roger in my bed with cracker crumbs on his chest.”
“I’d lick them off,” Kitty says. She follows it with a cackle, and the three of us join in.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” Indy says, bouncing on my bed.
I groan. “There are two types of people in the world. The people who say that, and the people I like.”
Indy flops across my bed. “How about the people who say it to be annoying because they hate it?”
“I like them the best, just not when they do it to me.”
She pulls at my covers. “What’s the matter with you? Up all night?”
“I slept fine. I’m just exhausted.”
Insomnia is gone. The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out and don’t wake until I have to. Still, in the afternoon, I’m dragging my ass. I almost took a nap at my checkstand yesterday.
“You’re depressed,” Indy says. I close my eyes and drift toward the sweet cocoon of sleep. “But this is how we’re going to get you out of depression, and everyone out of here, so you have to get it together.” She flicks my forehead. “Are you asleep?”
“I was resting my eyes!” I yell, and fling off the covers to warm air. One nice thing about here is the heat. My feet are wonderfully un-itchy and un-red. My heart and my emotions are raw, but my feet are back to normal.
The water in the shower is warm, too, and I let it loosen my muscles while I wake up. Indy and I Qualify today. It’s happening fast, thanks to Roger, and thanks to Regina, who took it upon herself to put in a good word when Roger brought it up. She tested Indy a day after me, and she laughed her ass off at Indy’s use of a Shakespeare quote in a clever fashion. Shakespeare in the Park brought us Landon, but it also has its good points.
I get dressed while I wonder how they’re faring on the High Line. I miss them. I miss being me. Though I tell myself it’s mostly those two things, I can’t deny I want to check for news of Brooklyn. I never wanted to look up an ex on social media, but, here I am, hoping to employ the post-apocalyptic version of mild cyber-stalking. It kills me to admit it, but I’m dying to know what Eric is doing. How he’s doing. If he misses me at all.
“Maybe he’s Instagramming all his dinner dates,” I mutter as I enter the living room. I’m spending too much time on this when I should be mentally preparing myself for a day with Walt’s buddies.
“What about Instagram?” Indy asks.
“Nothing.” I close our apartment door, along with the topic of Eric.
At breakfast, Micah kisses Rissa goodbye and says to us, “I’ll be rooting for you. See you later.”
He ducks his head as he leaves the café. Rissa watches him worriedly, sees me watching her, and smiles. It’s one I’ve never seen before—loving, concerned, and resigned beyond her years. Guillermo won’t recognize her.
“He needs some friends with him,” she says. “So do your best?”
I squeeze her hand. “Of course.”
It’s as easy as last time, and I don’t limp, though the first zombie knocked my knee when it fell and running a mile on it afterward didn’t help. We’re in, though we don’t get to carry weapons unless on watch. Until some indeterminate time in the future, our watch team will be made up of three people instead of two, at least one of whom won’t hesitate to blow our heads off.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you…” Walt says. We avoid Walt as much as possible. In fact, we were escaping the gate when we saw him coming, but he stopped us on the loop.
“But you don’t trust us,” Indy says with a shrug. “I wouldn’t trust us, either. We don’t trust anyone.”
“Not even Roger?” Walt asks me.
The question throws me into high alert, until I notice the jesting slant of his lips. “Trust issues,” I say. “Caused by subpar parenting.”
“Ah, we have that in common. Well, he trusts you. And I think anyone who can sober up my brother for over a day is remarkable.”
“I don’t think that was me.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 58
