The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

  “I don’t know, somewhere with Walt.”

  “Tai got to go with CP to those buildings at 59th,” the big guy complains. “You know he’s gonna come back loaded with shit.”

  I assume CP is Central Park, and that we won’t acquire any of those goods now. I don’t care, as long as these four never make it to The Standard. My hand hurts from clenching my pistol so tightly, and I loosen my grip.

  “Want help looking?” Paul asks. “We could get it done faster.”

  “Good idea,” the older man says.

  The big guy murmurs something that makes Paul bristle instead of watch him with cool detachment. I already didn’t like the guy, but I’m glad to know Paul agrees. The woman smacks the big guy’s back. “Stop being a Neanderthal, Freddy. Like Wyatt said, we’d love help. Maybe we’ll have time to search for some stuff after.”

  I duck as they turn to walk in my direction, and I wait to catch up once they’re under the next building a block down. The path splits again, separated by a thick wall. I stay to the right and situate myself in the shadows when they step into daylight on the other side.

  The woman points at The Standard just ahead. “That’s next.”

  Paul stops walking. “You can’t get in there from up here,” he says, his voice carrying on the breeze. “The entrance is downstairs. We were there already. Nothing. Nothing in the museum, either, and that’s all that’s left.”

  The man with the beard—Wyatt—motions at the hotel. “I remember you can get in off the tracks somehow. Those curtains were open the summer before last.”

  “Well, they’re closed now,” Indy says with a shrug. “But it’s empty.” She angles herself so that they don’t see her hand on her pistol.

  “Let’s check it out,” he says. “If they were there, maybe they left a clue of where they went.”

  “There was nothing like that,” Sylvie says. “Hey, I know a townhouse in the West Village where someone stocked—”

  “I’m not coming back on another day,” Freddy interrupts Sylvie, though he glares at Paul. “We check it out now. You don’t want to go, stay here.”

  “What’s that?” Wyatt points to the stovepipe that barely sticks out from the far corner of The Box. “That wasn’t there for sure.”

  I know what’s coming by the way Paul’s back tenses, and I move from behind the wall as he grabs the machete at his waist and slams it sideways into Freddy’s neck. Freddy lumbers to the side, face a mask of shock and blood streaming over his shoulder.

  Sylvie and Indy yank their guns seconds before Wyatt and Ponytail do, though Ponytail’s neck is Paul’s next strike. Sylvie’s and Indy’s shots echo before Wyatt can fire. The wiry guy circles around rather than run, heading for Sylvie and Indy, likely to take one hostage. I reach him two feet away from their backs, yank him by the throat with the crook of my arm, and jam my knife into his spine between his scapulae. I pull it out and do it again, this time in a kidney. He falls to the concrete, facedown but breathing, and I pin him there with my knee.

  There’s no reprieve for him. This isn’t a fucking movie, and, if he doesn’t know why he deserves to die, he doesn’t deserve an explanation. I plan to push my knife into the back of his neck the same way I would a Lexer, but he gasps once and goes still.

  Indy and Sylvie have spun around, guns raised, and Paul’s machete searches for another victim. It happened slowly, yet all at once. I get to my feet, ignoring the pain in my side where the guy must have elbowed me.

  “You okay?” I ask everyone.

  Nods all around. No one says anything, and our labored breathing is the only sound as we take in the carnage. Freddy slumps against the railing, head half taken off. Ponytail lies on the ground in a pool of blood. Wyatt is beside her, blood mingling with hers, with two holes in the chest of his coat. It would be worrisome how easy it’s gotten to kill if I gave a shit about any of these people.

  Guillermo and Jorge skid to a stop a few feet away. “Jesus,” Guillermo says. “Guess you didn’t need our help.”

  I put my arm around Sylvie. If he’d gotten to her, held a gun to her head, I would’ve lost it. She gazes at the puddle of blood and bodies. “Lori could be annoying, but she was nice to us.”

  I assume she means Ponytail, and I realize this will be different for her. To me, they’re all monsters. But, for Sylvie, they’re people she’s come to know, and she’s seen sides of them I never will. “Don’t feel bad. She would’ve killed everyone inside.”

  Sylvie’s eyes are hard, and her hand rises to Grace’s moonstone. “I know.”

  I needn’t have worried.

  103

  Sylvie

  The bodies were deposited with Denise and the others in the Javits Center. The truck was driven to an underground garage and left in a dark parking space where it will never be seen again. And we’re heading to StuyTown. I’d hoped to stay another night, but we don’t know who or what is coming next. If we’re in StuyTown, we can find out and warn them.

  Paul gingerly dons his pack, into which he’s placed two packages. We’ve said our goodbyes at The Standard, and now we’ll leave Chelsea Market.

  “I can’t believe we’re giving bombs to the man we want to blow up,” Eric mutters.

  Indy points to Paul. “Blame Golden Boy.”

  “Oh, I do,” he says.

  Our bikes wait for us downstairs. At the front door, Jorge squeezes me tight. “Take care of yourself.”

  I kiss his cheek and move to Eric. I know what he wants to say, and I’m thankful he doesn’t say it. My disinclination to walk through StuyTown’s gates is at an all-time high. He folds me in his arms, lips to my ear. “I fucking love you,” he whispers. “Steer clear of Paul in case he blows up.”

  I laugh and gaze into the hazel eyes that still make my heart skip a beat. I know brown eyes usually triumph, chromosome-wise, but I hope this kid wins the genetic lottery.

  I kiss him softly. “We’ll come as soon as we can.”

  I keep the feel of his lips on mine all the way back to the Avenue C gate, where we relinquish our weapons and the bombs in the guardhouse. Regina is there with Anthony, who stands from his chair and sidesteps to the wall.

  “What the fuck you want me to do with those?” he asks, patting his spiky brown hair. He could be a neighborhood dad with his potbelly and chest hair that peeks from his shirt collar, except he helped kill his neighbors at Sunset Park. I heard him mention it one day.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not taking them in,” Paul says. “Walt’ll cut my balls off.”

  “I’m not carrying them,” I say. Indy shakes her head vehemently, like we had nothing to do with their creation.

  Regina hasn’t run from the two boxes, but she isn’t leaping up to inspect the contents, either. “He just got back a little while ago.” She lifts her radio. “I’ve got Paul, Sylvie, and Indy here with a package for Walt. What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Hang on,” Tai’s voice squawks from the speaker. A minute later, the radio clicks. “He says send them to the café building.”

  “You heard the man.” Regina waves a hand at the boxes.

  Paul salutes her, returns them to his pack, and we head through the outer gate. On our way to the inner gate, I imagine setting them off now. We could bring down at least part of the café building and rid ourselves of a good bit of our problem. But Elena is likely at Walt’s apartment, and innocent people work the kitchen.

  Instead, we meet Walt out front, and he leads us to the basement. “We moved the storage lockers down here,” he says.

  He switches on the light to reveal a corridor of floor-to-ceiling white metal lockers with blue rolling doors. The paint is scratched and chipped where they unbolted the structure for relocation, and all doors are padlocked.

  Walt holds a ring of keys. He matches the number on one to a corresponding locker number, then unlocks the padlock and slides up the door. “Let me see how they work. I was going to ask you to bring them to my place, but Elen
a would kill me.”

  He wears a you-gotta-do-what-the-wife-wants smile. Paul opens one of the boxes and pulls out a bottle. He shows Walt the wires and detonator, explaining how to set it off with electricity.

  “How do you know?” Walt asks.

  “I was a firefighter,” Paul says. “We know shit like this. What do you plan to do with them?”

  “Not sure yet. The day with Central Park went well. We’re friends for now.” He slips the bottle into the box and places it in the locker with the other. “Thanks for this. I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t sure you would deliver. Or return. But here you are.”

  “Here we are,” Indy says.

  Walt scrutinizes me, head tilted. “You’re unusually quiet. No sparkling wit tonight?”

  “Tune in tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll be back at it.”

  Walt motions us through the door, and he keeps pace with me while Indy and Paul walk the stairs ahead. “I think my brother missed your wit more than I did.”

  I cringe inside but keep my face neutral. “He’s a good friend.”

  “I see. Far be it from me to pry, but I think you’re good for him.”

  We killed four people today. To say I’m exhausted is an understatement, and the thought that I’m responsible for Roger makes me want to nap on the stairs. I don’t want to be good for him. I don’t want him to need me, or to think he does, in order to do the right thing.

  “Can I be honest?” I ask after Indy and Paul disappear through the lobby door. Walt stops on the landing and nods. “I like Roger. I encourage him to take care of himself, and I think he’s a good person. But I’m not looking to be someone’s reason for sobriety. I tried for years with my mother, and it’s doomed to fail.”

  I probably shouldn’t have said it, but my acting ability only stretches so far. I’m banking on the fact that Evil Me has been there before—his unsuccessful attempts to save needy women reveal as much. If I lie and tell Walt I can’t wait to hop into bed with Roger, it wouldn’t ring true.

  Walt is silent for a minute. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he finally says.

  “And yet the brochure was so glossy and enticing.”

  Walt grins, small teeth on display. “There’s that wit.”

  He adds nothing more, but, on a positive note, he hasn’t called for my immediate execution. “Well,” I say, “have a good one.”

  When I reach the door, Walt says, “Sylvie.” I turn to find the usual charm gone from his features, leaving something like grief in the sag of his mouth. “I understand, better than you think. Thanks for being his friend. Go home and get some well-deserved rest.”

  “Thanks,” I say. For once, I told the truth, and the craziest part is that I think Walt does understand.

  The morning after we returned, we were sent out. Not to look for Freddy and the others the way some were, but to drag and bulldoze the frozen zombies into piles and set them ablaze. After three days, black smoke hangs over Manhattan and I fear I’ll never get the stink of roasting flesh from my nostrils.

  Micah has climbed off the final mound of Lexers in Union Square after dousing them with flammable substances. He spies Paul sitting happily in the heated cab of the bulldozer and calls, “What’s that? Oh, no, we don’t need any help. But thanks!”

  Indy snorts, as do the others. Paul rolls down the window. “What’s going on?”

  “Get your ass out here and help us,” she says.

  He steps out of the truck amiably enough, slapping her butt as he strolls past, then grabs a large can of some liquid and mounts the pile. It takes a conflagration to kill them completely, though a partially burnt Lexer is better than an unburnt one. You can’t walk on crispy legs.

  This job is so big they’ve put residents to work under the watchful eyes and guns of people Walt trusts. I’m not sure where Indy, Paul, and I fit into that hierarchy, as we have no weapons but are allowed to do as we please.

  We have ten groups from StuyTown and the same from Central Park, and the groups not on fire duty have the job of stabbing lone frozen zombies in the eye with a pointy object. This doesn’t mean we’ve killed the Lexers within our gates or in the sewers—Walt’s added more, in fact, to make up for those who will succumb to the cold and those on whom the black mold is advancing—but many on the streets are going down.

  Beside me, Brother David finishes murmuring to himself, and I ask, “Praying for their souls?”

  His smile is sheepish. “I’m sure their souls are long gone, but one never knows.”

  “True,” I say. “Things that seem to have no soul can surprise you.”

  I’ve told him about Walt’s admission the other night, mainly because it made him seem human for a moment. It freaked me out. For someone who doesn’t like the church or Confession, I spend an awful lot of time telling a priest my innermost thoughts.

  He gives me a sidewise glance. “There is always the possibility for repentance.”

  “You never stop, do you?” I ask, and he laughs. I can’t imagine Walt atoning for anything, but Brother David has a way of making you believe the impossible.

  Paul and Indy light the pile while Rissa and April watch. The two girls dragged bodies all day, taking furtive glances at the outside they haven’t seen in months. Those of us in the know are thinking of how close the High Line sits. I hope they stay quiet in the hotel and allow the Lexers to be pulled from the streets. The closest fires to them today would be the ones up the West Side Highway, since Roger made sure we pulled duty by the High Line the other day. Once this is finished, they’ll have more room in which to wander, though Teddy and Walt will have more room in which to hunt them.

  The Jersey shore is quiet and the mainland is accessible. I still wouldn’t escape to it, though, unless there was no other option. Even if only half of that mob thaws in a few days, it will be a fuckload of zombies.

  Regina nears, and Brother David is smart enough to find something else to attend to. She doesn’t like him, or religion, and she hates that other people do. Indy arrives in time to hear Regina say, “Still no sign of Freddy and Lori. They probably got so busy looting they forgot to search for Mo, and now they’re scared to face the consequences.”

  “Lori once said she was looting Tiffany’s the first chance she got,” Indy says. After so many nights, where they could be is a hot topic, and Indy is lapping it up while adding to the theories.

  “Figures,” Regina says. Her lips thin more than usual, and she departs for the other side of the pile.

  “Did Lori really say that?” I murmur.

  “She liked diamonds,” Indy says with a devious grin, and I laugh.

  Roger appears at my side. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing really,” I say.

  Paul calls for Indy, and she leaves the two of us to watch flames race up the Lexers’ clothing and exposed skin. I feel Roger turn his attention to me before he says, “You seem happy.”

  “Maybe freedom and fresh air are good for me. I’m feeling a little less tired, too.”

  “That’s good.”

  I take my eyes off the fire to find I’m still under Roger’s scrutiny. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “We haven’t really spoken about, you know.” He dips his head. “I was wondering how you felt about stuff.”

  I don’t know what stuff he means, exactly—his desire to play baby daddy, or my reluctance to have a kid, or his brother’s insanity—and there is no way in hell I’m asking him to clarify. “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “But is it fine?” Roger cracks a smile. “You do seem different.”

  He studies my face, and I study the flames, afraid that Eric’s name might appear on my forehead. This is more difficult than I anticipated. I feel guilty for giving Roger even an iota of hope, though it’s less that I give him hope and more that I don’t outright extinguish his. I feel guiltier for not extinguishing Roger’s hope out of loyalty to Eric, though Eric did nothing to make me feel this
way before I left. I’m not sure I could’ve been as composed were the situation reversed. He’ll always hold the Golden Boy title, even if I don’t tell him that.

  The fire has caught hold and now blasts us with heat. “Do you think everyone would want to run into a few stores?” Roger asks.

  “Really? They’d love it.”

  “We’re not officially allowed, but I know all of you. You won’t run, right?”

  “Would you stop asking me that? No one’s going anywhere.” I keep my voice lighthearted, though I feel pinned down by his neediness. The last few days, he’s everywhere I turn, like he can sense I have one foot out the door.

  His attention is caught by where Ed talks furtively into his radio fifty feet away. Ed uses his finger to count the people in our group. He shakes his head as he speaks again, then drops his radio to his side and strides forward. “We’re going home. Everyone in the van! Now, or I’ll start shooting.”

  Brother David hurries over to where our eight workers have formed a small, cowed huddle. “What the hell is his problem?” I ask Roger. “If he shoots them, I’m using your gun to shoot him.”

  He shushes me and pulls me over to Ed. “What’s going on?” Roger asks.

  “There’ve been a few escapes,” Ed says quietly.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Did they catch them?”

  Ed shakes his head and opens the back door of the van. I smile at Rissa’s worried glance when she climbs in, then Roger and I get in the front to drive them to StuyTown.

  “So much for going to the store,” I say.

  Roger watches the road, brow wrinkled. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  I shrug. I feel sorry for the people in the back of the van, not me. I’m glad someone tried to escape, and I’m thrilled they succeeded. Roger holds the wheel one-handed and smiles my way. I realize I’m smiling, and he thinks it’s because of a trip to the store rather than the fact that people have finally gained the courage to escape.

  By dinner, it’s common knowledge who bolted—Coby, Noli, and Lydia, along with a couple of others—though no one says a word where our jailers can hear. There’s a new spring in the step of many people, and Brother David’s eyes are a joyful Caribbean blue across the table. He couldn’t be more pleased people are getting antsy. Maybe they already were, but now you can practically see them trying to shake off their nooses.