Armed with my instructional tome, cardboard boxes, duct tape, glue and tinfoil, I sit in the upstairs living room. Jorge comes down the stairs from the third floor, where he was checking the roofs. “You need help?”
“I don’t think so. It looks pretty easy.”
He sits on the couch anyway, watching me fit one box into the other and shove newspaper into the empty space between the sides. “Insulation,” I say, and tape the space closed.
I glue tinfoil into the oven space inside the smaller box. I’m not a big fan of fake flowers and hot glue guns, but survival crafting is fun. I can already smell the coffee brewing.
“Let me do something,” Jorge offers.
I hand him the pieces of cardboard I’ve cut to size, along with the roll of tin foil. “These need to be covered on one side. They’re reflectors.”
He pulls out a sheet of tinfoil. I’m happily gluing when he says, “I was a junkie and an alcoholic.”
I press down a bubble before I look up. Jorge watches me cautiously. “Okay,” I say. “I figured it was something like that.”
Maybe I’m supposed to run screaming from the room, but it seems as if half the world was an addict at one point or another. The Jorge I know is what’s important.
“That’s why I don’t know where my son is,” Jorge says. “I fucked up his life and he never forgave me. He wouldn’t talk to me.”
I nod. His kid is a better man than I am. “How long sober?”
“Ten years. Today.” He pulls a bronze-colored coin from his pocket. I know those Anonymous coins that mark length of sobriety well, although Mom only ever reached 60 days. “Looks like I won’t get my ten-year coin, though.”
“Congratulations. And he still wouldn’t talk to you?”
Jorge shrugs, but his eyes are as shiny as the foil he’s unknowingly crumpled in his fist. “I was a shitty father. Left him and his mother to fend for themselves. I stole and lied. I did whatever I needed to do for my next shot. I couldn’t see past my addiction, but I never stopped loving him, not for one minute.”
My pulse speeds up and I accidentally tear a rip in my foil. If this is an attempt to get me to see things from Mom’s perspective, it won’t work. She doesn’t deserve a perspective. “Maybe that’s true in your case, Jorge. But, honestly, I don’t give a shit if my mother loved me when she locked me out for the weekend when I was nine, or when she sold our food stamps and I had no dinner for a month.”
I clomp to the hall for the picture frame I plan to use, pull out the print and drop it to the floor. What I need is the frame and glass. What I also need is people staying out of my business. I take a few deep breaths and reenter the living room as Jorge tosses his crumpled foil into a wicker basket across the room.
“Two points,” he says with a peacemaking smile. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was telling my story, not your mom’s. Believe me, I’ve seen some parents who couldn’t care less about their kids. I’ve been wanting to talk to you since you said that about her cooking up a shot. I asked Grace, and she said she died an addict. I guess I wanted to check in.” He gives a short laugh. “But I’m not doing a good job of it.”
I remind myself that I’m angry at one person, and that person is not Jorge. He only told me so I’d know he gets it. I’m sure he wants to celebrate his ten years with someone who would understand what an accomplishment it is. It took nerve to tell me about his past, knowing what he knows about me, and I gave him shit in return. Jorge doesn’t deserve that.
“I’m sorry, Jorge.” He lifts his hands as if no apology is necessary, but I find that this one is easy to make. “No, it wasn’t fair of me to jump down your throat. It’s a bit of a sore subject, as you’ve probably gathered. I know you always mean well—I’d be dead if not for you.”
“We all help each other out.”
I think of Kearney; that’s not true in the slightest. “But we all don’t run back into a hospital full of zombies to save people we hardly know.”
“We all don’t get a dialysis machine for someone we hardly know, either,” he says, eyebrows lifted, and I shrug. “You should’ve seen me—down to a hundred-twenty pounds, living on the street—it’s a miracle I’m still alive. When I got clean, I promised myself I would try to do the right thing to make up for all the wrong I did. The rest of my life felt like borrowed time. I didn’t want to waste it.”
“I think you’re more than even. The hospital alone has to be worth a couple past murders.”
Jorge’s shoulders jump with a laugh, but his eyes don’t lose their sheen. “I thought he’d forgive me one day. I could wait him out, even if it took twenty years. But now,” he shakes his head, “not much point.”
Jorge hides his pain, and shame, well. I sink to my knees beside him. It would be futile to say his son might be alive, waiting to forgive him—the chance of that is infinitesimal.
“The point is you. And you don’t know—maybe he would’ve forgiven you eventually.”
“Would you have forgiven your mom?”
“If my mother had gotten ten years, I…” I stop to consider. “I don’t know, really, because I can’t even imagine ten months. But I like to think we would’ve worked things out eventually. She had her mean moments, but she was more of the neglectful type. Did you…” I try to imagine Jorge hitting a wife or son. I can’t, but, as he said, people do whatever they need to for that next shot.
“God, no. I stole and lied, but I never hurt them that way. Neglectful is a good description.”
“And an awesome childhood experience,” I say brightly, and bump his knee when he tries not to smile. “C’mon, if we can’t joke about child neglect, what can we joke about? At least he had his mom, right?”
“Thank God for that. She forgave me, at least. I tried to do right by them when I got clean.”
“But you’ve been doing the right thing for you, not just for him. And what you do matters because you’re still here.”
“I know.” Jorge pats my shoulder. “Here I am, wanting to check in with you, and I made it all about me.”
“That’s all right. I think you needed a meeting.”
“I did. Thanks.”
“We’re not done yet,” I say. “Hang on.”
I find a stray piece of cardboard and go to work with the scissors, foil and glue. When I’m finished, I have a circle of cardboard covered with silver foil, about the same size as his old coin, but a lot less attractive. I scratch a 10 into the foil with the tip of the scissors and ask, “Anyone here have ten years?”
He raises his hand. I pass it to him and then applaud while he turns my artwork over. “I know, it’s pretty hideous,” I say, and it’s only when he meets my eyes that I see his mouth twitches from withheld emotion.
“Thanks, Sylvie.”
I shrug as though I spend all my time creating meaningful gifts, but I’m astonished that I managed to dampen the fire of my knee-jerk reaction. And then, instead of second-guessing every word that came out of my mouth, I let them flow and it didn’t end in tears and recriminations—a first. I go for broke and say, “Any time you need a meeting, I’m here. I can’t promise my sobriety, God willing we can stock up on alcohol in this godforsaken world, but I can talk about it.” I point at his uneven, slightly lumpy coin facsimile. “And, obviously, I’m quite a crafter.”
Jorge laughs his big laugh, places it atop his other coin, and slides both into his pocket. “It’s my favorite so far.”
“Maybe you’ll let me make the eleven year one, too.”
If there’s anything I know, it’s that you can’t force someone into sobriety, but perhaps if he has someone to hold him accountable, he’ll have another reason to keep on. I want him to keep on so badly that my chest tightens. He did what my mom couldn’t: found the strength to love himself. And there’s a lot about Jorge to love.
“Count on it,” he says.
“Some lucky junkie got to the opiates before us, anyway. So you’re shit out of luck in that department.”
&n
bsp; Jorge guffaws. “I don’t know how much of it was your mother, but you turned out all right, you know that?”
“Jorge, I’m messed up beyond belief, but it’s nice of you to say.”
“If nothing else, it made you a survivor.”
“Eurytopic,” I say, and answer the question on his face before he can ask. “It was yesterday’s word, means able to survive in a wide range of environments. It’s more like an animal or plant that can tolerate different habitats, but I think it kind of fits us now.”
“It does. Don’t sell yourself short, Sylvie. A lot of kids would be out there following in their mother’s footsteps.”
“My mom could barely walk straight. That’d be much too difficult.”
Jorge chuckles at my levity. I responded with a joke, but his saying that means a lot to someone who’s spent her life branded as far from all right, and I don’t want this moment to end on that note. I hesitate, feeling silly, before I hold out my hands. “So, I feel like we should say the Serenity Prayer or something? If you want.”
Jorge nods. His hands are warm and solid as we recite the familiar request for serenity, courage and wisdom. And, for the first time I can remember, they’re not just words.
Chapter 39
Eric
Where the hell is a motorcycle when you need one? Nowhere, that’s where. I’ve cut east, which will put me at the Outerbridge Crossing, a bridge connecting Jersey and Staten Island, early tomorrow—if I can find a motorcycle, and all the motorcycle-less garages I’ve encountered aren’t making me optimistic on that score. If I can’t find one, it’ll be two days on a bicycle. There’s no way I’m walking with all these bodies. No matter where I go, there’s a zombie. I always knew the suburbs of Jersey would kill me, though I’d thought it would be the crushing monotony that did it.
A neighborhood of large houses (and overpriced, according to the asking price of one For Sale sign) looks promising. I park in the middle of the block to start my search. I’d say maybe two out of every eight garage doors have windows, and a few have a window on the side wall, but the majority have neither. It would be time-consuming to break into every house to see what’s in the garage if someone hadn’t already done it for me.
I traipse through the shattered doors of houses that have been cleared of food. A few have bodies. Dead, unmoving bodies. It makes for a nice change. Finally, in lucky house number thirteen, I come upon an old Triumph. It’s a beauty; I know enough about motorcycles to know that much. The chrome gleams—it’s either been restored or babied.
I always harbored a fantasy of being a motorcycle kind of guy, but my mother forbade it, as I suppose any sane mother would. All through college I insisted I should have one. She said as long as she paid my tuition, I would drive my shitty car for which she also paid the insurance. Flawless logic. And, as it turns out, by the time I left college and supported myself before grad school, I was more of a modify-my-diesel-pickup-to-ride-on-vegetable-oil kind of guy. It’s cool.
And so is this bike. I find the key on the keyring of the dead guy in the living room and lift the garage door. My gear is ready to throw on my back, but I want to make sure it starts first. Now comes the part I’m glad no one is around to see. Drew, a friend in college, had an old Triumph and spent many an hour fussing with that thing to get it started. I can barely remember the sequence, and coming at this as someone who rode his friend’s bike only a few times, I’m bound to get it wrong.
I take a minute to stare at the bike and envision the steps. There’s the fuel line and the carburetor and the choke and the kickstart and the hope the battery isn’t dead. I run through them all, one by one, and then I give the kickstart lever what Drew called a mighty prod. I try it again and again. Nothing.
I circle the bike. I might have missed something. It takes me a full minute to figure out what it was. “You are a moron,” I say, and turn the key in the ignition.
In my defense, I did put the key in, but Drew always waited until just before the final kick to turn it. Which is what I was planning to do, until I forgot. A couple kicks later, she roars to life. By the time I’ve reached the Jeep, I’ve gotten the hang of it again. I throw on my pack and sunglasses, although I won’t need the sunglasses for much longer. It’s time to find a place to sleep before the sun goes down.
“Sorry, Mom,” I murmur under the engine, and ride my new bike north.
***
When I said rivers were a pain in the ass, I wasn’t on a motorcycle. The small bridges are packed with vehicles this far north, but it’s an easy weave through traffic. Avoiding zombies is a bit more difficult. I almost skid out twice but manage to hold my shit together, which pleases me to no end. I don’t think my mother would be as thrilled.
Near the Outerbridge, I slow to peer down streets of close-set houses on tiny lots, looking for an empty street and the perfect house. I find an unassuming brick and vinyl-sided one, pull through the unlocked gate and shut off the bike in the backyard. It’s great to travel fast, but I can’t hear a thing over its rumble.
A distant groan sounds from the next street. Another from down the block. I wait for the dragging footsteps, the closing in. When they don’t come, I step onto the back deck and chance the sound of breaking the door glass. No one is home and the tap is dry. I find the water heater in a closet, where I fill my bottles from the drain at the bottom. I’m hungry. Starving. I forgot to eat most of today and I’m not sure if I ate last night. I recall opening a freeze-dried meal with Rachel, but I can’t remember after that. It will have to remain a mystery because I’m not thinking about Rachel.
I haven’t seen the Outerbridge yet, but I’m sure I’ll need a good reserve of energy to cross it—if it’s crossable. That means food and sleep. I set up my backpacking stove on the granite counter near an open window, and the freeze-dried chili mac goes down easy, although it isn’t the steak and fries I’d like. I scrape the final bite from the bag, brush my teeth and settle on the leather couch with a blanket from the bedroom.
I stare into the fading light and say what one could call prayers—that Cassie is okay, that I make it to Brooklyn in one piece, and that this ends soon. They’re all selfish petitions to whatever is up there, I realize, which might work against me. It would be to everyone’s benefit if the zombies dropped dead tomorrow but, as an added bonus, I throw in the old standby: world peace. The universe has to have a sense of humor—it threw zombies at us.
I miss Rachel. I miss people. The world outside feels huge, and not in a good way, as it does on a mountain or in the woods or an expanse of desert. This world is a giant void waiting to swallow me up, with no one left to hear me scream. Fear claws its way up my throat before I tell myself to chill the fuck out. I acknowledge the fear because it’s real, and because fear is sneaky like that: if you don’t let it be heard, it finds a new way in. But I won’t let it control me.
Chapter 40
I must have been insane for thinking this was doable. This is Crazy with a capital C. There are zombies everywhere. There’s no time to get my water bottle from my pack. I drank a good bit this morning before I left, but my mouth is dry and all these zombies aren’t helping that situation any.
Route 440 sits below the streets, and it’s from my vantage point on the only zombie-free overpass crossing the highway that I get a drink of water and full confirmation of the Crazy. Traffic is stopped in both directions. Cars sit at angles on the shoulders and grass where they tried to skirt around. I assume many passengers fled up the exit ramps, whether turned zombie or not, but plenty of the zombie kind are still there. I turn off the motorcycle and the silence fills with the roar of hisses and moans from upturned heads. They’ll call everything my way as sure as the engine will.
At some point the road rises to become the bridge, and I’ll have to find the very last entrance rather than commit suicide by sharing the road with this number of zombies. First, though, I want to see the condition of the Outerbridge. If it looks impossible, I’ll head for the Goeth
als Bridge.
I take the streets to the river, which has the slightly foreboding name of Arthur Kill, and stand under the highway that rises up on concrete supports until it curves into the bridge. A gated industrial area houses giant cylindrical storage tanks and a road that leads to the water. I use the Triumph’s seat to scale the fence and walk down the road. It doesn’t look good as I close in, and, when I finally get a full view, I come to a halt.
There is no bridge. The middle is gone, obliterated. All that stands are two pillars of concrete that once supported the road and the steel trusses above it. That steel is now intricately twisted metal that hangs to the water. I’m going to have to try the Goethals or find a boat.
But, as I stare, a route begins to emerge. I drop my pack to the ground and pull my small monocular from its pouch. If I can get to the end of the roadway, assuming it doesn’t collapse under me, I can make it down the metal. There’s a lot of floating debris, including something wide and metallic—an overturned boat or submerged car, maybe—that could support a brief walk to the next section of hanging trusses, where I’ll climb up the Staten Island side. If it doesn’t crush me, at worst it’ll mean a swim in the polluted Arthur Kill. What’s a little industrial waste compared to zombies? I don’t see the point in worrying about the radioactive waste that might have leached out of nuclear power plants and fuel rod storage areas. If it’s in there, it’s in the air, and I’m already a dead man.
There are a thousand things that could go wrong, a hundred ways to hurt myself. I’d give anything for a boat to cruise around Staten Island and dock in Brooklyn only blocks away from the apartment in Sunset Park. If I could make a single call, it would be to Cassie. Where are you, Cass? Tell me where to go.
I jump the fence at the water and walk down to the shore, just to be certain there’s not a boat handy. Long brown grass stretches up to dark water. Shipyards stand empty. A few bodies are partially submerged—something else I’ll have to look out for.
The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious Page 22