The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (54 page)

Harold sticks his head in the back door. “Street’s crawling, Indy. We’ll tell you when it’s clear.”

“Thanks, Harold.” India turns to us. “I should feed you. Lucien, see what we’ve got.”

We sit at the long wooden table. The wood floors, counters and antique porcelain gas stove gleam. India runs a tight ship. The cupboards Lucky opens are pretty bare, especially for a group of teenage boys who can eat half their weight in food in a day.

“What’d you do for a living before this?” Sylvie asks.

India rests her elbows on the table and shows us perfect teeth. “I was an actor. And I had a food blog—it was pretty popular.”

“A food blogger? This must suck for you.”

“It’s the seventh circle of Hell,” India says with a theatrical groan.

“How’d you end up with these kids?” I ask.

“They’re from the neighborhood. My brother and I volunteer at the teen center on Fridays, and we knew some of them would show up even though it was closed. We were going to make sure they got home, but we got caught in a group from the hospital and ended up bringing them here. By the time we could get outside, everyone was gone. Dead or at Safe Zones—which are probably the same thing now.” India’s gaze lands on Lucky, who’s selected a few cans from their paltry stash. “Lucien’s our older sister’s son. I thought there was no way…I saw him Friday morning at the hospital and said I’d be back later. Eli tried to go there a few times but couldn’t get close.”

“Where’s his mom?” Sylvie asks in a low voice.

“God only knows. My sister’s an addict. She managed to stay clean most of her pregnancy. After that, not so much. He stays with us most of the time.”

Sylvie watches Lucky the same way she watched the cat under the fence this morning. I probably wasted that strip of beef jerky on a cat who won’t return, but Sylvie slumped when the cat took off. She looked so resigned to the disappointment that I had to try something.

Lucky heads to the backyard balancing the cans on a pot. Sylvie waits until the door shuts and asks, “What did Lucky tell you about the hospital?”

“Not much,” India replies. “He said you had food and water and that people were nice. And how he got out, of course.”

“Did he tell you about how we chose numbers?”

“Numbers? Oh, yeah, he said you chose numbers for the order you were going to leave, right?”

Sylvie nods. “That guy, Craig, picked the highest number and freaked out—he had kids and didn’t want to go last. Lucky gave him his number and said he’d take his place.”

India blinks as she watches the yard through the window. “He didn’t tell me.”

“He’s a good kid.”

India turns to Sylvie. I’d swear both their eyes are moist, and India reaches out to squeeze Sylvie’s hand. “I know. But thank you. I don’t get to hear that often enough.”

Lucky sets the pot on a camping stove and opens a can, oblivious to our observation. “I’m not very hungry,” Sylvie says. That can’t be true. She didn’t eat anything this morning after she left her uncooked oatmeal in the kitchen.

I’m less than eager to take India’s food after seeing what’s behind their cabinet doors. Every bite we eat puts them one bite closer to having to scavenge again. I can tell these are decent people, honest people—excitable teenage boys notwithstanding. I don’t want to send a bunch of frightened teenagers into the world any sooner than I have to.

“Me neither,” I say. “We should get back. Everyone’s probably worried.” If we wait much longer, my stomach will start a racket that’ll belie my words. “We can leave from the other side of the street.”

“It’ll mean an extra block with that cart,” India warns.

Sylvie catches my eye, looks to the cart and then flicks her eyes India’s way. I have an idea of what that cart of food means to her, and she’s willing to give it up. She beams when I nod. If Paul could see this, he might be a little kinder, and he might realize that he and Sylvie are more alike than either of them would care to admit.

“Why don’t you keep that?” I say. “We got a lot today.”

“No.” India raises a hand, palm out. “No, we are not taking your food.”

“Well, you
were
going to steal it,” Sylvie says, and India laughs even as she cringes. “Please take it. You need it.”

India eyes the cart. She wants the food. She doesn’t want to seem helpless or needy, especially on our first meeting.

“Allies help each other,” I say. “Think of it as a food drop in war-torn country.”

“Great, so we’re the third world?”

“Operation
Chowhound
,” Sylvie says and, when I laugh, shakes her head. “It was a real operation in World War Two where the U.S. dropped food in the occupied Netherlands.”

“That makes the zombies the Nazis,” I say. “Sounds about right.”

“Take it!” Vinnie yells from the living room.

“Shut up, Vin.” India rubs her forehead. “We could really use it.”

“Think of all the things you, a food blogger, could do with it,” Sylvie says, waving her hand at the food. “Cheese-less pizza. More cheese-less pizza. I’m out of ideas. Just take it.”

India bows her head. “We’ll take it, but we’ll pay you back somehow. I don’t like to take without giving.”

“I get that. We’ll say you owe us one.” Sylvie grabs the messenger bag she insists on using instead of a backpack and pulls out a box of tampons. “I’ll bet you could use some of these.”

“
That
I won’t refuse. You believe these boys are still too embarrassed to carry a box of tampons? They don’t even have to pay for them and they still won’t do it.”

Sylvie sets the box on the table. “You should ask Eric. From what I hear, he’s bought more tampons than every other man in the world combined.”

India raises an eyebrow at me. “Good for you?”

I laugh despite the fact that Sylvie is a royal pain in my ass. The more I get to know her, the more of a pain in the ass she becomes, but the more I like her, too. It’s not the normal course of events, although most things that have to do with Sylvie don’t fall into the
normal
category.

“I’ll take you across the yards,” India says. We head into the yard, where Sylvie and Lucky exchange a sweet but awkward half-hug, and then India leads us through fences to the corner house. She touches her hand to her heart. “Thank you for the food. I don’t know that I seem as grateful as I feel. For them and me.”

“All that testosterone flying around can’t be easy,” Sylvie says.

“And I never wanted kids.”

“And now you have, what, six?”

“If you count Eli.” India closes her eyes. “And, believe me, you have to sometimes.”

Chapter 69

Sylvie

Eric and I leave with our weapons and nothing but the knowledge that a few more people have our backs, which is more reassuring than an extra cart of food. I have no doubt India could fend for herself, but she has the added chore of keeping a
Lord of the Flies
situation at bay while she feeds a bunch of teenage boys. I’m not giving them my orange Skittles or anything, but I don’t want them to die. Especially not Lucky. Or India, who didn’t want kids but stepped up to mother her nephew before the zombies and then added four more to her brood after. She shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Partway down the next block, Eric says, “I hope they come.”

“Me, too.”

I clutch my chisel tighter at movement ahead, but it’s only a body stuck on a fencepost, loose shirt billowing in the after-rain breeze. The next block is empty. Maybe they all left for the car alarms. It would be a comforting idea, except now it seems I have to be on the lookout for people who shoot teenagers, which is worse than zombies. Eric’s eyes haven’t stopped roving our surroundings since we left.

“This is almost like a regular stroll down the street,” I say. “Except for the murderers and zombies lurking in the shadows.”

Eric produces a small smile at my bad joke. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I glance at him, but his attention is focused on our route. He said that so easily, almost offhandedly, like it goes without saying. My natural inclination is to balk at the idea that I need protection—and it’s doubtful Eric could fight off a group of gun-wielding men on his own—but I like that he’s watching out for me. I feel the same about everyone in our house. Although I might have to weigh my options when it comes to Paul.

“Want to hit a bar on the way home?” Eric asks.

“God, yes. I’m going to get the kind of plastered where you make out with sorority girls to impress the jocks and dance on the bar.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s your kind of plastered,” he says, and side-eyes me. “Maybe more of a laugh uncontrollably before you pass out kind of plastered? Or maybe you’re a crier?”

“I am so not a crier.”

“Whatever it is, Guillermo says it’s a sight to see.”

I envision the mix of burning love for humanity with attraction for one guy and conclude that drinking with Eric is not a good idea. “Well, you’ll never know, will you?”

Eric laughs. He doesn’t seem angry about earlier. I should probably apologize for threatening to kill him—for the second time, if you count our first meeting—but I decide to leave it alone.

We enter our yard. Grace looks up from where she pours a smaller bucket into a larger, lidded one, and drops the empty bucket with a shriek. She runs to grab me in a hug and yells, “Where the hell were you guys?”

“We were kidnapped, sort of,” I say.

“What?”

“It’s fine now—”

Before I can say more, Jorge spins me around. I can hardly breathe in Maria’s embrace. Leo leaps like an overexcited puppy, and even Paul mutters something that sounds faintly agreeable. Eric takes it as his due, as if it’s customary to be congratulated on being alive, but I’ve never been so warmly greeted in all my life. I focus on how Maria clutches my arm and how a laugh bursts out of Jorge every couple of seconds as though his gladness can’t be contained. Even my brain can’t claim they’re faking this.

We sit in the yard under newly blue skies. The rain has dampened down the dust in the air and washed it from most surfaces. We eat Girl Scout cookies while we tell them about India and Eli and Lucky, whom they are astounded and happy to hear is alive. They’re a bit less joyful about the men by Bay Ridge. They explain how they went looking for us, which we heard in the bakery, and how Jorge and Paul have just returned from another search.

“We hoped you were hiding somewhere,” Jorge says. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry,” Maria points a finger, “just don’t do it again, or else you’re grounded.” I laugh, although being grounded sounds pretty good.

“Is everyone cool with taking them to Guillermo’s?” Eric asks. “Sylvie and I can do it.”

“You’re sure we can trust them?” Jorge asks.

“I’m sure.” Eric glances at me for confirmation, looking as exhausted as I feel. At this point, only dirty trumps tired, although hungry battles for a place at the top.

“Yes,” I say. “But you can decide for yourselves tomorrow.”

“Hungry?” Maria asks. Everyone nods. “I’ll make dinner. The first pot of water is probably hot for whoever wants to wash up.”

***

A few hours later, I’m the cleanest I’ve been in weeks. I mixed cold water into the boiling water and stood in the bathtub while I soaped myself up, hair included. I made friends with a razor again. And though not the equivalent of a steamy shower, I have that luxurious all-over clean feeling that used to be part of daily life. Grace’s hair has dried to her natural blond instead of greasy blond-brown. We wear pajama pants because there’s no reason anyone should ever not be in pajama pants when they could be.

Leo races from the bathroom into the living room, buck naked and dripping. Paul calls to him, but Leo is too busy jumping around to care. “Hey, squirt, you an exhibitionist or something?” I ask.

He stops, head cocked. “What’s that?”

“Someone who likes to run around naked.”

“Yep, I’m an
exabintinist
!”

Grace laughs. “Your daddy’s calling you. You should go back in there before you get in trouble.”

“All right.” Leo runs back to the bathroom. “Hey Daddy, I’m an
exin
—” The door closes as he mangles the word again. When they emerge a few minutes later, the exhibitionist and his dad wear clothes. Leo throws himself between me and Grace on the couch.

“Glad to see you’re dressed,” I say.

“Clothes suck big time,” Leo says.

Paul frowns. “Leo, watch that mouth. Where’d you hear that?”

Eric stands in the kitchen doorway eating a Second Meal tortilla, and his eyes are trained on me. It could be worse, but it’ll score no points with Paul if he finds out.

“Daddy, sucks isn’t a bad word. Aidan at school says shit!”

“Leo!” Paul says in a deep voice, but Leo only grins. “I’m going upstairs for a minute, but when I come down, it’s bedtime.”

Eric shoves the last bite of tortilla in his mouth, waits until Paul is gone, and winks at Leo. “Don’t tell your dad where you heard that and I’ll give you a treat, okay?”

Leo points to me. Grace rolls her eyes. “Of course it was you.”

“This is why I should never be put in charge of kids. When I was a teenager, I worked in a store when everyone else babysat. I know my limits. Kids don’t like me.”

“I like you.” Leo’s pouty bottom lip says he’s offended I think otherwise. He leans close and whispers, “Maybe you can teach me more curse words.”

I tousle his damp hair. Of course that’s why he likes me. “It sounds like you’ve already heard them from Aidan.”

“I know almost every curse word in the world. And I have every superpower in the world. You want to hear them?”

If this is anything like the weapons soliloquy, we’re going to be here all night, so I close my eyes and listen to his assortment of superpowers until Paul returns during the riveting discussion of Leo’s Finger of Fire. They head upstairs after a lengthy goodnight process that involves blowing kisses and pretending to eat them. I feel like an idiot doing it, but Leo says he can’t fall asleep if he hasn’t had one from everyone.

I stand from the couch with a groan. The energy renewal from my bath is gone, but the dishes should be washed before it’s dark. I bring them and what’s left of the warm water outside. Soapy water goes down a drain, but rinsing water is reserved for the garden. I’m rinsing the last of them when Eric sits in a chair at the dish-washing table.