My blood pressure skyrockets. I can’t be in this room and stay calm. He put this whole thing into action. Without him, Walt wouldn’t have gotten his foothold at Sacred Heart. He hid Walt’s plans from Kearney, who trusted Emilio before Walt arrived. Emilio brought in people from Queens, likely food from Kingsborough, and I wouldn’t put Wadsworth past him, either. The two were an insidious cancer, growing silently until they metastasized and overwhelmed the body.
“He’s useless,” I say to Guillermo. “Get rid of him.”
Emilio tilts his head. “How’s your girl, Eric? Or did she get caught in the zombies we brought in? Sylvie, right?”
Anger flares in every cell. He doesn’t get to say her name. He’s the reason I’m here and she’s there. Though I’m aware he’s trying to get a rise out of me, it doesn’t make it any less enraging. Guillermo steps forward when my hand goes to my knife. “Eric. Leave, man. Just go.”
I turn for the door I can barely see through black rage. My hands vibrate with it, and every scrap of pain has been obliterated by the fierce pulse of my temper.
“Sylvie was hot,” Emilio says. “I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that ass. Looked like she’d tear shit up in bed.”
I lock eyes with Kearney. His are the gray of a stormy sky, and he dips his chin once.
“Grace, though.” Emilio chuckles. “I know what happened to Blondie. You want to know? She was sweet—”
Two strides across the floor and I’m there. This is a good knife—a great knife—and it slips between his ribs with ease, slicing through fascia and muscle and organ meat. I don’t want to know what he did to Grace, if anything, and he’d lie just to fuck with me. I don’t want Sylvie to know. I want her to imagine the very best ending she can for a life that ended in a heartbreaking way. I want to protect Sylvie’s heart, and Grace’s memory, and I want Emilio to die before he says another word or smirks one last time.
This is too good for him. He deserves to die a hundred times over. As painfully as possible. I look into his streaming eyes, at his gaping mouth, and I twist my knife a little more. Dig it in deeper. Cut along the bone.
Liver, gall bladder, lung. I’m well-versed in abdominal anatomy these days, and I make sure there’s no chance Anaya could ever save him.
88
Sylvie
Walt is not a happy camper. Ever since black smoke appeared in Brooklyn just under a week ago, and a boat trip to the Brooklyn shore revealed a partially burnt Sunset Park Safe Zone full of zombies, our benevolent dictator has been less benevolent and more dictatorial. He hasn’t sent anyone over the fence yet, and everyone is keeping their heads down to ensure they’re not the unlucky excursionist.
I doubt Guillermo planned the fire, but it did an excellent job of covering their tracks. The belief here is that the fire was accidental, which drew zombies, and either zombies or fire killed everyone. Walt’s anger is less about the people and more that his items—our items—stored in the rec center will be looted by the time he sets foot inside.
I’m filled with a mixture of elation and worry. They took down SPSZ, but someone may be hurt. Eric wouldn’t sit back and watch it unfold, and his injuries mean he’s no longer as nimble as he was. I’m annoyed that I’m worried, though hoping he’s safe doesn’t mean I forgive him.
Indy and I sit at the inner Avenue C gate with Roger, who’s put himself on most of our shifts. The one time we did a shift with Freddy, he spent the four hours explaining how to kill zombies as though he hadn’t watched us do it ourselves when we Qualified.
I open the gate when Ed and April return from the river, where he took her as a treat. It is a treat now, since the Verrazano has moved enough that much of the debris has gone out to sea. I have a feeling some of the thunder we heard that rainy day was actually nitro.
Once they’re through, Ed cleans April’s mouth with his tongue in an unnecessarily gross PDA, smacks her ass, and strides off. He’s thirty-three, cavorting with a nineteen-year-old, and even Roger gives the back of his slimy head a grimace.
April plops on a bench. “The water’s so clean.”
“How about you being clean?” I ask. “Are you being careful with Ed? You don’t know where he’s been, and you don’t want a disease. Or to get knocked up.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“There’s no choice these days,” Indy adds. “Your choice is baby, baby, or baby.”
April emits a long, throaty groan. “Oh, my God! The great thing about your parents being eaten by zombies is that you don’t have any parents.” Indy covers her mouth in apology after she laughs, though April only grins. “They were assholes. I barely spoke to them since I was fifteen. Lupe was more of a mom to me than mine was.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But just remember that people care about you. We want you safe.” April raises an eyebrow, and I amend my statement. “As safe as possible. Stop acting like a sixteen-year-old.”
“I already got this lecture from Rissa, who says you gave it to her.”
“What can I say? I’m the Birth Control Fairy, sprinkling pills and condoms throughout the land.”
“You really are,” Indy says. “Speaking of pills, mine are going to run out. Do they have any here still?”
“You can have mine. I have two packs.” If we get to The Standard for a night or two, she’ll need them. It’s not like I do, and access to hot running water makes monthly cycles less of a chore.
“Cool, thanks.”
I notice Roger attempting to become invisible. “Anything to add, Roger?”
“Nope. I’ll just be here wondering what else you gals talk about when you’re alone.”
“You don’t want to know,” April says.
Roger taps a cigarette from a pack and passes it to me. April holds out a palm until he places one there, but only after I nod. The girl is sleeping with Ed, she needs it. I’ve asked her what she hopes to accomplish that having Roger on our side doesn’t, but she has no answer except to say it could be helpful somehow. She won’t be talked out of her Mata Hari routine no matter what we say.
She scampers away when she sees Walt coming. I wish I could. When he reaches us, he asks, “Staying warm, ladies?”
Indy and I smile and nod. It’s our automatic response to him this week. Unless it doesn’t fit the situation, in which case there’s Serious Nod and Nod with a Frown.
Walt lowers a brow at Roger. “Rog, they used to be cheery. Push the envelope by asking me for things they couldn’t have. What happened?”
I have no idea where this is going, and I sidle closer to Indy. Roger takes a drag of his smoke, hesitating, then says, “You haven’t been so cheery yourself.”
Walt raises his chin, eyes distant as though reviewing recent days. “You’re right. I’ve been on edge. Why didn’t you tell me?” Roger shrugs. Walt faces us, smile in place. “It’s been a bad week, but all is well. Have you ever let your anger get the best of you?”
“Every day,” I say.
“A kindred spirit. I had some important things in Brooklyn that belonged to me, and now who knows where they are? I trusted the wrong person to watch them, and that makes me angry.”
“I hate when people take my shit,” I say to the man who’s taken more from me than anyone else, ever. I run the moonstone along its chain, feeling it bump at every link. “It’s infuriating.”
“Then you understand. Broken trust is unforgivable, and missing things take a while to get over. But I’m over it now.”
That makes one of us, I don’t say. “Does this mean we can go back to asking you for things we can’t have?”
“No need,” Walt says with a chuckle. “I’ve come to tell you that your request is granted. You can go with Roger next week.”
I don’t think it was his intention when he arrived, but I’m not about to argue. Indy squeezes my arm. “Thank you!”
“Thank you.” I don’t fake a smile because he’s smarter than that. “Need anything while we’re out? Gallon of milk? Butter?”
“How do you do that?” Roger asks me.
“Do what?”
“Make him like you.” His tone is wistful.
“I guess I know what he’s thinking,” I say with a shrug. But a thought has begun to form, and I freeze where I stand when it comes to fruition: Walt is evil me.
Indy has just finished laughing her ass off, and now she sips at her glass of wine on our couch. “Walt is not evil you.”
“Close enough.” I put out my cigarette and pull my head in the window. I’ve been chain-smoking since we started drinking an hour ago. “Bad mother, trust issues, wants things that belong only to him because he never had anything. But he takes shit and kills people because of it. He thinks the world owes him, and he gets cranky and vindictive when it doesn’t go his way.”
“And you went the other way.”
“For the most part. I’ve been known to have issues.”
“Damn.” She swirls her wine in her glass, shaking her head. “That’s crazy.”
I sit on the couch. “You’re supposed to say, No, Sylvie, you and Walt have nothing in common.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Thanks.”
She kicks my leg. “It doesn’t mean you are him, it means you’re not him and never will be. But how do we use it against him?”
“We keep doing what we’re doing. Make him like us. I have no useful information to impart other than that scary fact.”
Indy downs the rest of her glass and pours another. Roger has plenty, kept in his other hiding place in the city somewhere. There’s a knock on the door. Micah, Rissa, Lucky, and April enter. “Come drink!” I call.
Indy doesn’t say a word about Lucky being underage. If you’re old enough to get on a roof, you’re old enough to drink.
“How long have you been drinking?” Micah asks.
“Since you were a wee bairn,” I say in a Scottish accent.
“She’s crazy,” Lucky says.
“She’s wasted,” Micah says. “Next she’ll tell you she loves you.”
“I love all four of you. How did you know?” I poke Indy. “I love you, too.”
“No,” she says.
“You know you love me.” She doesn’t answer, and I sing, “You love me!”
“You’re okay.”
“Maybe you haven’t had enough to drink.” I pour more wine into her glass. “There.”
She drinks half the glass, then assesses me with a squint. “You’re still just okay.”
Micah brings glasses to the coffee table, and the four sit on the floor opposite us. Lucky pours April a glass and she smiles in thanks, her face softening so that she looks like the teen she is rather than the spy she aspires to be. I wish she’d hook up with Lucky instead of engaging in whatever crazy intrigue she’s cooked up with Ed.
“Walt’s letting Indy and me leave for a couple of days,” I say.
Micah spills a few drops of wine. “Really?”
“We’re looking for my boyfriend, whom Sylvie has told everyone I ditched in a mob of zombies,” Indy says with a sigh I find amusing.
Lucky does, too, based on his clamped lips. “You mean Paul?”
“Does it matter? It’s all a lie. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
I let my head fall back. She’s worse than me. “Lucky, she likes him. And you should see the way he looks at her.”
“I saw it before you left,” Lucky says, then fastens a firm gaze on his aunt. “Paul’s cool. Why do you have to date assholes all the time? Can’t you just like someone who likes you back? For real, though.”
Indy fidgets with her wine glass. “Anyway. Does anyone have a message they want us to bring?”
“Can you take a note for Guillermo?” Rissa asks. “For when he gets there.”
“I think they search us on the way out,” I say. “I can memorize whatever you want to say and write it down after.”
Rissa colors. “Um, well, I want to tell him not to beat up Micah when he sees him. You know, because we’re…”
Micah is cerise, and Rissa is crimson. I laugh until I cry. Actually cry. Suddenly I’m sobbing and can’t stop. Tears are everywhere, and a heavy weight is on my chest, though I’m still half laughing. I have officially and publicly lost control of my emotions.
“I’m okay,” I say between sobs. I lower my head between my knees and breathe. Every now and again, that sobbing feeling takes hold in my chest along with a chuckle. “Rissa, I think…Guillermo…will be…fine…with it.”
I exhale and lift my head to stunned expressions. “What the hell was that?” Indy asks.
“I’m losing my mind,” I say, though I have a suspicion that the tears I refuse to cry over Eric, over Grace, have found a way to sneak out. A hole in the roof.
I fill my wine glass to the rim, and Indy raises hers in a sarcastic toast. “Good idea. More alcohol usually helps with crying.”
May, Elena, and Brother David enter with the kids, who are wired from treats at the movie night they still hold weekly as part of Walt’s benevolent dictator scheme. I direct them to the candy drawer in the kitchen. Roger brought a bunch the other day. For once in my life, I haven’t shoved it into my mouth as fast as I can.
“Just what they need,” May says. I slosh wine into a cup, hand it to her, and receive an appreciative smile for my efforts. “Just what I need.”
Brother David takes one, but Elena shakes her head. “You’re sure?” I ask.
“Can I go to bed?” Elena asks Brother David.
“Of course,” he says. “Want me to walk you?”
“No, I’m fine.” She smiles, her eyes lost in dark circles, and leaves. Elena has gone from withdrawn to fragile. A brittle kind of fragile.
“Is she okay?”
“No,” May says. “They put her on Prozac and let her sleep most of the day at work.”
“Shit,” Indy says.
“Ooh, bad word.” Lincoln enters the living room, a bag of Sour Patch Kids in his hand. “Can I have these, Sylvie?”
“Of course,” I say. “Leo calls those Spicy Jelly Men. I had no idea what he was talking about the first time he said it.”
I don’t wish Leo were here, because he’d be here, but I miss his sweet face and the funny things he says. My chest catches and my eyes fill. I leave for my bedroom before anyone notices, sit on my bed, and wipe my face with my sleeve. Ordinarily, I’m able to push unwanted emotions aside, but this sadness and fatigue are all-consuming.
After a knock, Indy walks in. “Again?”
“Am I really going crazy? I could sleep all day, too. I’m turning into Elena.”
She drops beside me and puts her arm around my shoulders. “No, you’re not. It’s hard to spend all day pretending you’re someone else.”
“You do it.”
“Not as much. You have Roger to deal with. And you get right in Walt’s face and soak up all the attention so I don’t have to try as hard.” She bumps me. “Stealing the limelight.”
“You can have it.”
“No, thanks. You didn’t eat much dinner. Want me to make you something?”
I tear up again at the offer of what I know to be love. “You know what I want? An avocado.”
“You want an avocado? Just an avocado?”
“Yeah, and I don’t even like avocados unless they’re guacamole.”
Grace would eat slices of them on bagels instead of butter, and she swore it tasted better. I was not as impressed, but now I imagine the soft green flesh with its nutty, creamy taste, and I want one more than anything. Even candy. Fresh, green food of any sort sounds delicious. I am going crazy.
“Sorry. Your choices are canned beans, stale bread, crackers, and peanut butter.”
“All of that sounds awful.”
“Right? Let’s buy good food tomorrow.”
I lean my head against hers. “Maybe I’m crying because you won’t admit you love me.”
“Fine,” she says. “I love you, dumbass.”
89
Tomorrow, we escape for The Standard. Today, we sit in the Public Safety office with the rest of Walt’s gang. Roger seldom hangs out in the office, or throws his weight around, though his status as Walt’s brother means he could. He barely seems to like them, and I’m with him on that. I resisted fraternizing at first, but you have to join the group to bring it down. This is where Indy shines. I’m known as the cranky one, which works out well since my normal crankiness has increased with my exhaustion.
I can’t wait to get out of here. The only place that feels safe is our apartment. In other places, someone is watching, and I’m not being paranoid—I’m staring at a few screens right now. The solar panels that used to power other buildings now power cameras in various parts of outdoors. They were here before zombies, though no one thought them necessary after zombies until now.
“I didn’t think they’d get them to work,” Micah mumbles beside me on the couch.
There are a few desks, including a long, curved one that holds a row of flat-screen monitors, but they’ve cleared much of the office space to bring in couches and chairs. It’s where Walt’s people hang when off-duty. The café brings them food and drink, so they don’t have to dine with the lesser folks. When they first took over, they posted guards everywhere, but that tapered off once everyone fell into line. Hundreds of people sent over the gate was an unambiguous warning.
Regina enters and sits in her chair. It’s always empty, waiting for her to drop into it. “Anything good?”
Lori turns from the monitors. She wears her usual sunglasses, slicked back ponytail, and attitude. “Nothing.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 60
