The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (22 page)

I poke Grace first. She leaps out of bed to her feet, arms flying every which way, before she freezes with her legs spread and hands in what I presume is a fighting stance. I laugh while she blinks and lowers her arms.

“What the fuck?” she asks. “That’s not funny!”

“It was like a combination of jazz dance and martial arts.” I jiggle my hands in the air. “Jazz hands!” Her pillow hits me in the face. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were going to go all Cabaret Kung Fu on me. Go pee while I wake up Maria and Jorge. I have good news.” She goes still. I shake my head—she probably thinks I’m going to say the zombies are dead. “It’s about water.”

“Oh. It’d better be good.”

“It is.”

I rouse Maria and Jorge. They come to the kitchen disheveled and half-asleep. Maria stops grumbling when a hot cup of coffee is shoved into her hand.

“What’s all this about?” she asks.

“Hot water heaters still have water in them. It doesn’t flow out when the power goes off,” I say, and fight the impulse to do jazz hands. “There’s a valve on the bottom to drain the water. Like, from twenty to eighty gallons worth.”

“The houses have water in their basements,” Jorge says. He slaps a hand on the counter and shakes his head. “Of course they do.”

“We would’ve died of dehydration surrounded by water,” Maria says. “Good God.”

“We have a tankless water heater in our building,” Grace says. “Don’t forget, some might have those, too. They don’t hold any water.”

I remember Logan talking my ear off about the energy savings on their co-op maintenance and try not to contemplate what that might mean in terms of his survival. “But if only twenty of the houses in this square block have a hot water heater, and even if they’re the smallest capacity, which I doubt, that’s still four hundred gallons of water. That’s three months of water at a gallon a day for each of us. We’ll get rain before that runs out.”

Jorge’s deep laugh fills the room. “Damn, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Never once occurred to me.”

“You might’ve just saved our lives, Sylvie,” Maria says. I know she’s said it to make me feel good, but I’m a sucker—it works.

“And wherever we go, we can find water,” Grace says, beaming. “It’ll be less to carry when we leave.”

I nod, although I can’t reach the same level of enthusiasm. Days ago, I feared we’d die no matter what, but now a few months of life dangle before me like a carrot on a stick. And we’re going leave the carrot for miles of zombies.

“You’re not going anytime soon, are you?” Maria asks.

Grace looks to me, but I say, “That’s up to you.”

“I don’t know,” Grace says. “My arm feels okay. I guess once we know what’s happening, we’ll figure out when it’s safe to go. I know we should wait, but I don’t want to wait too long. They could be out looking for me.”

Maria’s face tightens, but she doesn’t say a word.

While we eat breakfast, Jorge pulls out the battery-powered radio we found. Every station was static yesterday, but Jorge optimistically moves the tiny bar up and down the radio dial and then switches bands. Static, more static, and then a man’s recorded voice:

“...lower Manhattan below Canal Street. Do not attempt to walk the tunnels. Stuyvesant Town Safe Zone entrances are located on First Avenue and 16th Street and Avenue A and 14th Street. The Grand Central Station Safe Zone is closed due to flooding. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, located on Fifth Avenue and 51st Street, is accepting refugees, as is the New York Public library located on 42nd Street. Madison Square Garden is no longer accepting refugees due to infection. I repeat, Madison Square Garden is closed due to infection. All other designated Safe Zones in all boroughs are no longer in operation. Please be advised that there is limited food at all locations, and that all persons wishing to enter a Safe Zone will be searched and quarantined. All of New York City should be considered extremely dangerous for travel.”

I barely breathe so I don’t miss anything the muffled voice says. It sounds almost bored as it tells us that most of the city is crawling with dead people.

“FEMA food drops are unavailable. We estimate survivors to be one-half to one percent of the population of New York City. We have not been able to determine a date by which the virus will end. Reports of the infection’s length range from months to years. Please stand by while this message is repeated.”

A long beep sounds before it starts again. The part we missed warns there are no safe bridges and the water is unsafe due to zombies, pollution and crushing debris. It advises us to avoid flooded subway tunnels.

We listen to the whole loop again before Jorge turns it off. “A half to one percent. Almost nine million people.” He leans against the counter, calculating. “Anywhere from 45,000 to 90,000 left.”

It doesn’t look as though that many people are alive from our admittedly small corner of the universe, considering that Brooklyn was home to around 2.5 million. “That means Brooklyn might have around 25,000 people or half that,” I say.

If the broadcast is correct, there are a lot of hungry people out there vying for limited resources on islands surrounded by zombie-filled water. Of course, the broadcast could be days old. More people might have died, but they’re hungry in a different way. It’s a lose-lose situation.

“I can’t believe those are the only Safe Zones,” Maria says. “There were over fifty treatment centers on the list, and Bart said they were switching them to Safe Zones. They chose the safest places in the city.”

“So they brought healthy people to where they were quarantining the infected?” I ask. I’m not the director of the CDC, but even I see the gaping hole in that plan.

“They were supposed to kill them first, but…” Maria shrugs. We all saw the hospital, so we know how easily it can get out of hand.

“They’re full of infected,” Grace whispers.

She’s taken the radio news well, considering, but now her lips tremble. Once food ran out and water stopped flowing, her parents might’ve risked a Safe Zone, if only to check for Grace. Even if they didn’t go there, they could’ve left to find water. Getting to a river is no walk in the park. A walk in the park is no longer a walk in the park.

Grace stands, head down and hands pressed to the table. Maria and Jorge look to me for guidance. I touch her shoulder. “Gracie?”

“I just need some time, okay?” she says faintly, and leaves for the living room.

We listen until her plodding footsteps reach the hall and fade away. Sunlight pours into the kitchen. The windows of the other houses are empty again, since the zombies have forgotten about yesterday’s entertainment with the hammer. I take advantage of their stupidity and go into the yard.

Everything is dead, possibly even the hope Grace harbored. It’s four of us against a gazillion zombies. I think about the kids in the street, the people on the roof. Maybe we should try to befriend them. It’s not my usual instinct—wanting people around is a disturbing new trend.

Maria steps into the garden area. The dandelions and grass are thick, but when she pulls a few, the soil is a soft, crumbly dark brown. “We should get seeds so we can have a garden. There’s a garden store in Bay Ridge.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if she hasn’t had the impossibility of reaching her daughters confirmed.

She walks into the shed. I hear something drag across the floor and the rattle of gardening tools. A curse is followed by three solid thuds. I rush to the door, thinking she’s hurt herself, but Maria leans on the shelf built onto one wall, breathing hard. A garden trowel is jammed half an inch into the wood next to two V-shaped gouges. She’s fine, or as fine as you can be when you’re upset enough to attack a shed with a trowel.

I back up, hoping she hasn’t seen me, but she says, “Sorry.”

“I once threw a dresser drawer into my wall. It happens.” It isn’t a particularly helpful comment, so I add, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

I’ve taken two more steps when Maria says, “I’ve always done one thing right, and that’s take care of my kids.” She removes the trowel with a vicious tug and drops it on the shelf. “And now they’re God knows where. The worst part is that I don’t know.”

She stares into the distance as though it offers a clue. When it doesn’t, the look of utter misery that crosses her face makes me want to both comfort her and escape. I move closer; Grace would be proud.

“You did take care of them,” I say. “You told them to leave.” I’m sure it won’t make her feel better, but this is when normal people say something consoling. Plus, it’s true. “You did the best you could do.”

“I should’ve had them leave earlier, without me. I didn’t know they were going to blow up the bridges, but I knew…” She looks me in the eye. “I knew the infected were zombies. I knew for hours. I wanted them to wait. I told them to get ready to leave, but I didn’t tell them to go. I kept them here for me.”

If there has ever been someone who doesn’t need to beat herself up for selfishness, it’s Maria. I’m living proof of that.

“You say Ana’s a lot like me, right?” I ask. Maria nods. “If you were my mother, I would’ve waited until the last possible second. I wouldn’t have listened unless I had no choice.”

“That’s Ana,” Maria says with a small, reluctant smile. “Penny wouldn’t have, either. It would be the one time they’ve ever agreed on anything. They didn’t want to go when I called, but I made them promise.”

“See? And they did. They’re lucky to have you.”

Her eyes are still sad, but the anger has abated. I hope the blame has. For once, I’ve made someone feel better instead of worse. Maria comes to the doorway and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“
De nada
,” I say.

“Oh, we’re speaking Spanish now?”

“If all we ever say is thank you, you’re welcome, and hello, then sure. Oh, and a few curses I picked up here and there. Yiddish might have curses, but all I know is
tuchas
.”

Maria smirks. “Butt? Ooh, tough girl.”

I suck my teeth. “I’ll pound that
tuchas
if you don’t watch out.”

Maria’s laugh is loud as we move toward the house. An answering moan from the street carries over the buildings. “
Vete pa’l carajo
, motherfuckers,” Maria mutters, and then glances at me. “That means
go to hell
. I think you know the last word.”

I repeat the words with a laugh. It’s a lot more satisfying than
tuchas.
Look at what you learn when you stick around.

Chapter 34

Jorge is on the fire escape, plotting the yards on his hand-drawn map. I’m in the kitchen, assessing Cassie’s knife collection. They look to be good-enough knives, but they’re made for cutting through carrots and cheese, not skull. The skinny knives feel flimsy and the weighty ones are too wide for an eye socket. I swung the poker around for three minutes before admitting defeat. It’s too long, too heavy, too un-pointy.

I open a drawer filled with cooking implements—I can whisk them to death. I look through a small drawer that contains assorted junk and a few basic tools. That’s when it hits me: I’m an idiot. I pick up a long screwdriver. Like Maria’s ice pick but thicker and sturdier. The slim metal will plunge into eyes and mouths and ears, and it’s the same length as a knife. I’ve been thinking kitchen utensils and hunting gear when it comes to weapons, but it’s time to get creative.

“Can I use this?” I ask Maria.

She stands at the counter and dumps pasta into a pot of water to soak. The theory is that it cooks faster, thereby limiting fuel usage and time spent in the yard. We’re saving the freeze-dried food because it’s light and so easy to prepare that we can take it with us if we leave.

“Of course,” she says. “Why, you have a loose screw?”

“I have a screw loose,” I say. She laughs, probably in agreement. “No, I think it’d be a good weapon.”

“It’s all yours.”

Grace walks into the kitchen, eyes puffy. I show her my screwdriver. She takes another for herself then turns it over in her hands.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Do you realize I haven’t killed one yet?” she asks, ignoring my question Sylvie-style. “How do I think I’m going to get to Brooklyn Heights when I haven’t even killed one?”

“We might be able to find a zombie for you to kill. I can’t make any promises, but maybe if we look hard enough…”

Grace gives me a light stab with the screwdriver, along with a slight smile. Outside, we climb the ladder Jorge sets by the fence and drop into the next yard. It’s mostly grass, like ours.
Ours
—the word makes me cringe. None of this is mine.

We have an idea of what lurks on the upper floors of the houses, but the garden apartments are a mystery. Jorge knocks on the back door a few times before he breaks the glass, and we walk into a kitchen that hasn’t been remodeled since the 70s. Avocado green everything.

“Hello?” Maria calls.

It’s silent as a tomb. Which is a horrible metaphor for this world, and I pledge not to use it in my head ever again. We open the kitchen faucet, as both Tom Brown, Jr. and Jorge recommend, then walk through the tidy apartment and call into the basement. I go first, screwdriver raised, with Grace shining the flashlight over my shoulder. An eighty-gallon water heater sits beside a furnace in a roomed-off area in the musty basement. The valve turns with the help of my trusty screwdriver for leverage, and water spills into my cup. I give Grace a V for victory. Eighty gallons is twenty more days of water.

The next few houses are fairly empty of food, but we find more water heaters, clothes for Jorge, and batteries. The two yards at the top of the block parallel the backs of stores on the avenue. One of the yards ends at a brick wall. The other has two tiny courtyards behind its fence—back entry to a couple of the stores.

“I think we can get into those stores from here,” Jorge says, after he takes a look. “You know what else I’m thinking? If we clear out the houses on the blocks around us, we’d only have to cross the street and then go through the yards to get to the next block. We could make a whole route to get around the neighborhood.”

It’s brilliant. Cross the street into a building, walk the block through the yards, then cross the next street and do the same. Less opportunity to get eaten is always the superior choice.