“Are you going to plant any food?” I ask.
Jerry pulls at his mustache. “I guess we’ll get around to it. We’ll walk you back to the barracks. Like I said, we still have water, though the pressure’s gone down. Must be a break in the lines somewhere. You know New York City water is gravity-fed?”
I nod. I did know that, although it didn’t stop my parents from storing a barrel in the basement of our garden apartment. I want to sit him down and tell him exactly what I think he needs to do: fill cisterns because if there’s a leak in the line somewhere, water might run out soon. Even if it doesn’t, the pipes will freeze in the winter. Get that fence built while the rest of the residents tear up grass for gardens. Find seeds somewhere, anywhere. It’s spring, so it shouldn’t be hard. If they’re heirloom seeds, great. If not, try to find some for next year and focus on food for this one. Maybe the Lexers will be gone by then—maybe not—but, either way, winter is going to be cold and people will be hungry. But he doesn’t strike me as a dumb guy, so I bite my tongue and follow him across the grass of a courtyard in the rectangle.
I can’t stop thinking about it, though, and I lose the battle with silence. “If you don’t start preparing the ground now, the harvest might be too late in the fall. It’ll take a lot of work to rip up that grass. The soil probably isn’t great, but if you can fertilize you might get a decent yield.”
“We’ll get to it,” Jerry says offhandedly. Blake’s eyes slide my way as if he has something to add, but he doesn’t speak.
Summer is the time to eat what grows and can’t be preserved. All that food with far-off expiration dates should be saved for lean times. But it’s not my place to lecture him. I want a shower and a good night’s rest, that’s all.
“Eric will bunk with you,” Jerry says to Blake. “Try not to kill him in his sleep, Petty Officer Rush.”
“Yes, Chief,” Blake says.
Jerry shakes my hand. “I’ll see you in the galley.”
I thank him and follow Blake a few steps before I turn back. “Why’d you let me have my weapons? I could’ve been lying about my sister.”
“Son, when was the last time you looked in a mirror?” Jerry asks. I think about it and then shrug. He shows teeth as white as his beard. “You look like a fellow who spent the week trying to get to his family. You’re a goddamn mess, now go clean up.”
Chapter 43
I saw what Jerry meant when I looked in the bathroom mirror. That chunk of Outerbridge left a gash and bruise on my forehead. My hair is so greasy it’s no surprise I stopped having to push it out of my eyes days ago. I haven’t been short of food, but my dirty, newly-bearded face looks leaner. Overall, not so bad. Except for the gash, I could be backcountry hiking.
The shower was cold, but the soap lathered enough to shave and everything rinsed down the drain. It’s probably feeding into the water that surrounds New York now that the sewage treatment plants are offline, but I’d be more concerned about the untreated sewage going straight out to sea. I prefer not to think about what was in the Arthur Kill this morning.
I put on the clothes I found on my way here. After considering the effluent in the Arthur Kill, I plan to toss the clothes that got wet. I can always find new ones, and it’ll lighten my pack for tomorrow.
Blake rests on his bed and drops his issue of Maxim when I emerge from the shared bathroom. The room reminds me of a college dorm: institutional single beds, though one has been removed and given to their refugees, desks and dressers and assorted pictures and posters tacked to the wall.
“What you said about the gardens,” he says, arms folded behind his head, “you’re right. But the Commander is more concerned with getting the fence up.”
I pull soggy clothes from my pack and pile them on the floor. “So why aren’t you out there digging?”
“Dude, I just got off a fifteen-hour shift. I’m eating and going to sleep. But I’ve been thinking about the best places to plant.”
“You know about gardens?”
“I’m a farm boy. Born and raised in Iowa. Did a lot of weeding for my mom.”
Blake rises from his bed and walks to his desk. He hands me a sheaf of papers covered with drawings of the park, including where the new fences will stand. Inside and outside the fences are sketched-out areas labeled with plant types. It’s a thoughtful effort that considers incline and sunlight and access to water.
“Did you show these to Jerry?” I ask.
“Nah.”
“You should. You couldn’t do much better than this.”
“What do you know about gardening?”
“I’m a city boy who did a lot of weeding for his mom. It looks great. Don’t forget you’ll need some good-quality inputs—I’m sure the soil is poor. You might want to add in the possibility of using fish as fertilizer, since you’re near the water.”
Blake cocks his head. “That sounds like more than someone who did some weeding.”
“I’m interested in that stuff. I took a few years off to travel, so I started late, but I would’ve had a doctorate in Environmental Science one day.”
“One day?”
I hand him back his papers. “Pretty sure I won’t have a chance to defend a dissertation.”
Blake’s laugh is hollow, and he sits at the edge of his bed. “Yeah. We’re pretty much fucked.”
“But we’re alive. Fucked, but alive.” I pick up my clothes. “You guys have a laundry? Someone may want these clothes once they’re clean.”
“We can throw them in the pile on the way to the galley.”
Blake leads me down the hall. The rooms hold men, mainly, but I catch sight of a few women here and there. I think of Rachel when one with a knot of dark blonde hair looks my way. I could’ve left Rachel here while I went into Brooklyn. She would’ve been safe.
Blake punches my arm. “C’mon, loverboy. An hour here and you’re already looking for some?”
I didn’t realize I’ve stopped to stare. She’s cute, but now that I’m clean I barely have the energy to walk to the galley, much less woo someone into my bed. A bed I don’t have. I shake my head. “She reminded me of someone.”
We walk in silence to the front door. My boots are bogged down by the thought of Rachel. It’s a failure I’d rather keep to myself. As archaic as it might be, I felt duty-bound to protect her, and I didn’t. There’s a fine line between being called chauvinist and chivalrous these days, but Dad was old-fashioned that way. He never doubted my mother and Cassie could kick ass—he just made it clear he would do everything in his power to ensure they didn’t have to. It rubbed off on me somewhere along the line, and since Rachel—a feminist down to the tiniest bone in her body—never complained, I must not be a total jerk.
Blake shows me a large bin in which to dump the clothes and we make our way to the end of the line outside the galley building. Jerry beckons us to where he stands with another man, this one wearing a full Coast Guard uniform.
“Damn,” Blake says, “the Commander.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“Nothing. He just scares the shit out of everyone.” I laugh and walk on.
“Commander Riley,” Jerry says, “this is Eric Forrest. He came in today and is leaving tomorrow for Brooklyn.”
The long-nosed, pale-skinned man evaluates me with a raised brow. “That’s a dangerous trip.”
“I know it is, but my sister’s there.”
“Coming back here when you’ve found her?”
“We’ll head upstate to where our parents had a house. It’s set up with food and water.”
“I suggest you come here and wait until it all blows over. The roads are bound to be impassable.”
This guy is commanding; I’d be a little afraid to disagree with him if he were in charge of my life. Since he’s not, I say, “I think it’s the best place for us, and we’ll plant a garden right away. Speaking of which, Blake’s drawn up some plans for a garden that I think you should see.”
Bla
ke’s eyes turn circular, and he gulps when they turn to him. I continue, “He has plans for where specific plants would thrive. You could probably find seeds and soil amendments at the closest home improvement store. It’ll help you get through winter.” I eye the line growing behind us. “You’ll need it.”
The Commander takes in the quiet crowd and then fastens shrewd eyes on Blake. “Have those plans on my desk at 0800 hours,” he says. “I already ate, so I’ll leave you to it.” He strides away, long arms swinging.
“Fuck,” Blake says to me with a groan. “You threaten to kill me and now you do this?”
“What?” I ask, already well aware. But Blake needed a nudge, as did the Commander.
“I’m going to be up all night. So much for sleeping.”
Jerry pounds Blake’s back with a square hand. “You’ll be fine. I’ll give you time off for a nap tomorrow.”
“You’ve got solid plans,” I say. “Just clean them up a little. Make them pretty. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s looking at.”
“You’re not sleeping tonight, either,” Blake says, finger to my chest. “No fucking way are you leaving me alone with this.”
“Well, I did get you into it. Who needs sleep?”
Blake punches my arm. “Good man.”
The galley is a circular white room set with windows, which is a nice contrast to the darker halls and rooms. After I’ve settled in a plastic chair at a row of tables, I find the food isn’t bad, either. The meat is fresh, thanks to the generator, but I’m not that hungry. Maybe it’s the thought of tomorrow, or Rachel—both weigh heavily on my mind.
Blake and I discuss his garden plans and his family, most of whom live in Iowa. Or did live in Iowa; he’s no longer sure. “If you find your sister,” he says, “give her a big hug from me.”
“I will.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend or anything?”
“No.” I push my plate away. I hate to waste it, but his question has dropped a stone into my stomach. “You want to finish this?”
“Are you kidding? They’re starving us here.” Blake inhales my food in three bites and then stands. “Okay, let’s go, Dr. Forrest. You have a lot of work to do.”
Chapter 44
Blake and I were up late. And the sleep I did get until dawn—a floor with a blanket—did not make for a restful night. I’m tired but not tired enough to call off my trip. I had to force down my breakfast of toast and peanut butter. Maybe it’s nerves.
The Verrazano looks extremely long and high from the top of the concrete anchorage, where I stand with Blake and Jerry. They climbed the rise of the triangle to keep me company and say goodbye. I appreciate feeling as if I’m not entirely alone. Someone, at least, knows I’ve made it this far.
Where only the upper roadway is gone, the lower roadway is covered by rubble, like scree on a mountain, only much more likely to bury me under a mountain of metal and concrete than a talus slope is to bury me under loose rock. I don’t have a solid plan yet. I won’t know until I see the damage close up. Wadsworth blocked off the roads to the bridge to stop what they call Droppers—Lexers that meander onto the bridge roadway and fall to the park below—so I don’t have to worry about being eaten until I get to the other side of the hole in the bridge.
“Have you seen Manhattan?” Jerry asks.
Between helping Blake and the almost-shootout, I haven’t had more than a short look. I saw enough on TV. But I take his binoculars and attempt to see past the haze that shrouds the city. It’s still on fire or is blowing ash. The tops of some buildings are shorn off. Things that were once square are now rounded. We’re upwind, however, so I’m left to imagine the smell. Probably similar to 9/11, times a thousand, with Lexers mixed in. It isn’t as easy to see the effects on Brooklyn, since it lacks skyscrapers, but a haze hangs over it as well.
It’s only concrete and steel, and it goes against the natural order from an environmental standpoint, but it’s my city. I took class trips to the World Trade Center and Empire State Building. I roamed the halls of The Met and The Museum of Natural History with my sister. When we weren’t upstate, I grew up among the trees and plants in Prospect Park. I ran there, I played baseball and Frisbee and made out with girls there. It’s one of my most favorite places in the world—an oasis of green in a desert of concrete.
It hurts somewhere deep, maybe because it’ll always be my childhood. I take a breath. Everything else can be burnt to a crisp and I’ll get over it, but I want my sister.
I hand the binoculars to Jerry and shake his hand. “Thank you.”
It’s thanks for the night’s accommodations and the MREs they gave me for the trip, but most of all it’s thanks for his humanity. Just as I thought, people are banding together, and that’s given me more energy than a night’s sleep and food ever could.
“Come back here if you can’t get close,” Jerry says. I nod, and he inspects my face with a frown. “You sure you’re all right? You look tired. Brooklyn will be there tomorrow.”
“It might not be,” I say, and watch the dust clouds. “I’m fine. Your officer had me burning the midnight oil, that’s all.”
Blake slaps my back. “Thanks for the help. You’ve got a job here if you come back—digging.”
“How could I resist that? You’ll do great today. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Be safe.”
I jump to the six lane road. The asphalt is patched and the metal pockmarked with brown rust stains. The bridge’s paint looks more gray than blue now that I see it up close in slow motion. The first of the two towers looms ahead and, close to a mile behind that, is the second. Approximately a third of the distance between the bridge towers is the long stretch of no roadway. But the bridge still stands. I don’t know much about suspension bridges, but I think they’re meant to sway and move; the main cables are the real workhorses. I look over the edge as I walk. Vertical cables connect the swooping main cables to the roadway and attach in groups of four to the short steel beams that jut perpendicular from the bridge. Those perpendicular beams are connected by another beam that runs parallel the length of the bridge. That beam is intact to the Brooklyn anchorage, and it may be my only choice for travel up ahead.
That would make this easy, except the parallel beam sits five or so feet away from the roadway. Where the perpendicular beams attach to the parallel beam, I’ll have a handhold or a way off the bridge. The fifty feet between those points means a tightrope walk on a thick beam hundreds of feet above water. The gentle breeze down below is a strong wind up here. One gust and I could be done.
It’s either along that beam or up onto the thick, round main cables. Those have ropes to facilitate walking, but they also involve a 600 foot climb, where I’ll hit a dead end unless there’s an open door into the tower, which I highly doubt. On the bright side, I’m able to entertain the possible ways I could die without zombie involvement, since the road is barren.
I turn, but Blake and Jerry have gone down to start their day. My footfalls and the wind are the only sounds. Past the first tower, the road is cracked, and I rest a hand on the guardrail. The first missing piece of road comes up, but I make it around the gaping hole on the metal base of the rail. The road is chewed and cratered where it’s not gone entirely. I don’t trust it to hold me.
The water is barely visible beneath the wreckage that floats and bobs a couple hundred feet below. A container ship hit the bridge broadside and beached itself on the base of the tower—lucky it didn’t take the bridge down. Another ship is on its side at the other tower’s base, as stationary as the first and locked into metal that looks a lot like pieces of bridge. Smaller boats, or chunks of them, float around and inside the twisted metal. Some sort of fibrous stuff—rope or sails or fiberglass, maybe—has locked many of the capsized boats into several large islands of debris.
A solid sea of wreckage stretches up the harbor toward Manhattan and Jersey. Small splashes, possibly bodies, flash white and disappear. Maybe the debris islands
obstruct it all from washing out to sea. Whatever the case, the open water beyond the bridge is only dotted with wreckage. Crossing the bay by boat looks dangerous if not impossible.
The sun shines on Manhattan, but it must be dark below the smog. Eventually it’ll settle, and I wonder what will remain under that. I look back at the fort, a stone edifice built into the hillside near the water, and wave. I think I see the sentries who stand up top wave back. They may be the last humans I see for a while.
I know it’s coming, but it’s still nerve-wracking when I hit the spot where I’ll have to leave the safety of the road. Ten feet ahead, the guard rails are gone. Some of the cables in the distance appear to have separated from their attachments. I ignore the question of how many have to give before the bridge collapses, step onto the perpendicular beam and force my grip to loosen on the cables. Maybe this part is doable, but the fifty feet of beam I’ll walk along until the next handhold makes my stomach clench. I take a breath and remind myself that I don’t suddenly fall to the side when I walk in a straight line, so why would I do it now, even on a beam hundreds of feet above the water? It’s a reach as far as logical arguments go, but I won’t head back to the fort with my tail between my legs.
I think of Cassie and lift a foot to the other side. Another lunge and I’m looking down at the water while I rest my back against the grouping of cables. The parallel beam is only steps away. Zombies and dead bodies float in the water. I can’t tell which is which from this height, but Jerry said the Lexers wash up on shore and move inland, hence the need for sentries on the old fort. It’s a far enough drop that if I do go down, I’ll be dead before the ones in the water can eat me—a depressing yet comforting thought.
I move forward to test the wind. It’s enough to send me off balance, particularly with my pack. My stomach upends itself. Breakfast is still in there, undigested, and I’d like it to stay in there. I’ll crawl along the beam. It’s not as heroic-sounding or looking, but it’s a hell of a lot safer. I sink down. The rivets of the beam dig into my knees. A hand, a knee, another hand, the other knee, and I’m three feet from the perpendicular beam. I don’t look at the water, only the length of beam to travel.
The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious Page 25