The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Chapter 46

  Sylvie

  I once read that when people lived by sunrise and sunset, there was an in-between time during the night. A first sleep and a second sleep, split by a period of calm wakefulness. In those hours they would talk or read or pray or have sex or even visit their neighbors. The sex part is not happening now. Neither is the wakeful calm. I don’t pray, and my neighbors are zombies. So reading by the light of the windup lantern it is, although every once in a while I do get back to sleep.

  I’m floating in that half-asleep point when a noise from the foyer thrusts me into wakefulness. It could be Jorge or Maria, or the tail end of a half-formed dream, but I reach for my newly-sharpened screwdriver on the bedside table. A thump is followed by a low groan. A zombie. There’s a zombie in the house. I resist the urge to hide under the covers and rise from bed, then carefully step on the floor in the spots that by now I know don’t creak.

  A man in soiled clothes kneels on the entry rug, gray in the dawn light that comes through the door window. His head is dipped and his face hidden by hair as filthy as the rest of him. The smell of blood and death is overpowering. I raise the screwdriver and step into the hall. I’d like to scream for assistance, but it would draw his attention and this should be easy. He’s on the floor, and one quick strike of my screwdriver through his temple or eye will do it. I’ve done it plenty by now, but I feel more vulnerable while dressed in pajamas in the hall of my borrowed home.

  He looks up, and I’m taken aback at how human he appears. Close to my age under all the grime, with solid facial structure and light eyes. But his eyes are dazed. Fresh blood is smeared around his mouth and across his cheeks. Maybe he’s a new zombie who got in through the yard. Maria and Jorge. I would’ve heard them scream. I know I would’ve.

  I raise the screwdriver. His arm comes up, a black gun in his hand, barrel pointed at me. He’s worse than a zombie, and although he looks feeble, it can’t take much to pull a trigger. He’ll kill me, then Grace, then Maria and Jorge if I don’t stop him.

  He mumbles and blinks as if blinking takes effort. Maybe he’s dying. Good. His hand dips to the rug, and I use the moment to grab our gun from the hutch shelf, where Jorge put it so everyone had access. I laughed when he did that, never dreaming I would actually want the heavy, cold piece of metal in my hand. Jorge said you aim and pull, no safety. I’m pointing it the right way; I hope that’s all I need to know.

  His mouth moves under blood and stubble. I can’t tell if he wants to speak or get in his last breaths.

  “Just get out,” I say. My voice is shaky. The pistol quivers in my hands. “There are other people here. They’ll kill you if you shoot me.”

  Noises come from the street. There’s no way he’ll willingly go into what’s out there. I wouldn’t if I was hurt the way he is. I’d die this way rather than that. His arm moves, but instead of raising the gun, he drops it to the floor.

  “Jorge!” I scream. “Help!”

  The guy closes his eyes and falls back against the door, but I’m too afraid he’ll rally one last time to lower my guard. Jorge’s footsteps pound from the other side of the house. The bedroom door flies open behind me. “Sylvie?” Grace calls.

  “Stay in there!” I scream.

  Grace races into the hall anyway. Jorge takes the revolver from my hand and shoves me behind him. The guy doesn’t stir or open his eyes when Jorge moves his gun out of the way with a socked foot.

  Maria pushes through us and stops short. “Oh my God, Eric!” She drops to her knees. His head lolls in her hands. “Help me get him to the bedroom.”

  He can barely stand. I strip the blankets off the bed and they lay him on the sheets. Sheets we’ll have to burn after this—the smell that wafts off him is eye-watering in its intensity.

  He blinks up at Maria when his head hits the pillow and whispers, “Hola, Maria.”

  Maria lets out a soft laugh. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Were you bitten?”

  “Sick. Maybe river.” He spins onto his side, entire body shuddering. Bloody liquid spews from his mouth to the blue sheets. The smell of shit hits the air, and I gag along with him. Grace tries for stoicism, but she covers her mouth with her hand and backs to the hall.

  “Shh,” Maria whispers, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “It’s okay, mijo. You’ll be okay.” Without looking up, she says, “I need scissors, hot water, towels and soap, and the medicine bin. Sylvie, get a quart of drinking water and add six teaspoons sugar and a half teaspoon salt, then bring it to me with a spoon.”

  He’s something to her. Mijo means my son. I throw things around in the kitchen, repeating her instructions in my head until I find a pitcher with a quart measurement. Jorge is outside getting a pot of water on the stove, and Grace is already down the hall with the medicine bin from the basement. I add in the salt and sugar, then head back. Maria takes the pitcher with a nod of thanks. “He has to drink. He’s very dehydrated. Prop him up a little?”

  I gently lift his head and wedge a pillow in the space. My hand comes away covered in dirt. Maria holds a spoonful of liquid to his mouth. “Eric, you need to drink.”

  He feebly slurps at the spoon. I watch as Maria does it repeatedly, intent on only him, and I finally ask, “Can I do anything else?”

  “Here.” Maria stands and hands me the pitcher and spoon. “You can take over while I look at the medicine. Just one spoonful at a time.”

  I perch in her spot on the edge of the bed and put the spoon to his lips. I do want to help, but I’d love to help in a different room. Zombie-tinged air will smell delightful after this stench. The liquid trickles out of the corner of his slack mouth. I turn to Maria. “I think he’s asleep. Who is—”

  The bed shakes. Warmth soaks into my legs. I would like to pretend he did not just throw up on me, but one glance at the dark liquid on my jeans and I want to throw up on me, too. Maria’s eyes are big brown circles when they meet mine. “All right, Sylvie, wash that off. Take off your pants in here and I’ll throw them out. Use some of the warm water if it’s ready, with soap and antibacterial gel. It could be contagious.”

  It seems as though all I’ve smelled in the past weeks is blood: fresh blood, old blood, dried blood, congealed blood with meaty organs thrown in and, now, vomit blood. I take off my pants and head for the backyard in my underwear and shirt. It’s like a bathing suit, and Jorge is like a big brother.

  Jorge whistles when he sees me. “Looking good, mami.”

  “Shut up. He puked on me.”

  Jorge groans, though his grin stays in place. “Damn, that’s harsh. The water’s warm. You want some?”

  I head for the bathroom with a bowl of water and clean off in the tub. I want to dunk myself in a vat of antibacterial gel and then drink what’s left. When I return to the bedroom for new pants, Maria once again spoons liquid into his mouth. She now wears latex gloves. Too bad we have no latex pants.

  “Is he getting any?” I ask as I pull on a pair of jeans.

  “Probably. If they throw it up, you’re supposed to wait five to ten minutes and then give them more. Some will soak in.”

  “Did you find any medicine?”

  She glances at the bin. “It could be anything if it’s from the river, but if it’s a specific kind of E. coli, then antibiotics could make it worse. His kidneys could fail, especially if we put him on antibiotics.”

  Jorge and Grace enter with the water and soap.

  “Let’s clean him up,” Maria says. She points to the box of gloves. “Everyone wears those and everyone washes hands after.”

  She cuts his pants with the scissors and peels the dirt-crusted fabric from his legs. I didn’t think it could smell worse—I was wrong. Grace bends to catch her own puke in her gloves. I pat her back; she has the touchiest gag reflex ever.

  “Grace, why don’t you go put on some more water?” Maria asks. I watch with envy as Grace leaves the room coughing. I could swear I saw Maria gag. “Sylvie, go help her. I only need Jorge.” />
  I bound from the room and find Grace in the yard. Her lips are pale and curls damp. “God, I can’t do shit like that. It’s the smell.”

  I add water from the barrel into the pot on the stove. “Who do you think he is?”

  “He’s Cassie’s brother, Eric. Maria told us while you were washing off the puke. I don’t know how you didn’t throw up after that.” She shudders.

  It’s the guy from the photos. I can see that now. Shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes just like his sister. My hand rises to my mouth with the realization that this is his house, and I threatened to shoot him. I tried to send him out into the zombies. I hope a side effect of his illness is amnesia.

  “What’s wrong?” Grace asks.

  “Oh, nothing, I just pointed a gun at him and told him to get out of his own house.”

  Grace bursts out laughing. “Welcome home, Eric! Nice work, Syls.”

  “Shut up.”

  Jorge steps outside, rubbing antibacterial gel into his hands. “Sylvie, Maria wants to talk to us.”

  “How about Grace?”

  “Nope, and if you throw up, she’ll know you’re faking. We cleaned him—it’s not so bad now.”

  Maria jumps to her feet when we enter. “We need to get IV fluids into him.” She’s close to tears and as frantic as I’ve ever seen her. It’s less in her voice and more in the way her eyes bounce around the room, as if looking for something that will save him. “There’s an animal hospital a mile away. You don’t have to go, I don’t want to have to ask b—”

  “Of course we’ll go,” I say. I would go anyway, but now that I know who he is, I want to save him for Maria’s sake as much as his. And Cassie’s—he’s all she has left, if she’s alive.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “We’re going,” Jorge says. “Tell us what to look for.”

  “Those clear plastic bags with solutions in them. The kind you hang from an IV pole. Sodium Chloride or Lactated Ringer’s Solution are both good. Bring back anything you see like that. Also, we’ll need needles: 16, 18 or 20 gauge. Get all of them if you can. And tubing.” She looks to Eric, then me, then bites her lip. “It’ll be better if I’m there. I know what I’m looking for.”

  It could be she’s afraid no one will watch him as carefully as she will. It’s gross, but at the end of the day, it’s only bodily fluids. The bodily fluids of a live human being, for a change. “I can stay with him.”

  Maria rubs at her creased forehead.

  “Just tell me what to do. I promise I’ll take good care of him,” I say. I owe her that much and a lot more.

  She tries to smile through a jaw clenched with worry. “I know you will, sweetie. Keep on with the liquids. Try to catch the vomit in a bowl. I’ll have Grace mix up some more water. I put a garbage bag and towel under him in case—I don’t think we can get him to the bucket or outhouse in time. Put everything in the big garbage bag if it’s soiled.”

  My knees give a little bit at the thought of that chain of events, but I take the spoon from her hand and sit on the chair she’s moved beside the bed like I have everything under control. “Don’t worry. He’ll be okay until you get back.”

  “I know he will.” Maria pats my shoulder and then turns to Jorge. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Grace insisted on going to the animal hospital, so it’s just me and Eric. A mile can be a long way, even on bikes, and especially with zombies. I work extra hard on getting the liquid into him. I promised Maria he’d be okay. He is not allowed to die on my watch.

  Eric has thrown up once more, in the bowl. Thankfully, I haven’t had to change the towel. The sheet sticks to him even though the room is cool. He’s clean-ish, and from what I can see over where the sheet is pulled up, a nice physique was hidden under all that dirty clothing—muscular and athletic but not I live at the gym. I can’t help noticing, even though it feels creepy to have noticed at all.

  “All right, sir,” I say. “I’ve got another treat for you. This one is flavored with the essence of sugarcane and lightly dusted with Himalayan salt.”

  I raise the spoon to his lips. I think I saw a flicker of lucidity when I made an airplane noise before, so I’ve begun to make ridiculous comments every few sips. It’s so quiet, too quiet, and I have to break it up somehow. Otherwise, it’s just me and the urgent need to keep Eric alive a little bit longer while I worry that the others will never return. If he dies and they die, I’ll be alone. I could always go to Guillermo’s, but they could all die, too. The thought of being on my own in this world is distressing, to say the least—absolutely terrifying is more apt. I’ve always liked being alone, but that was when there was a world going on around me. When it was an option.

  Eric writhes in a way that makes it clear he’s in agony. His muscles are corded and clenched.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  The smell comes next. Holy shit is right. Or holy blood. I do my best to clean him up without looking beneath the sheet too much. I would hate for this to be me, so I distance myself from the job like a good nurse. Jorge brought some old towels from a neighboring house, and I put one under him over a fresh plastic bag. That done, I wash up and try to get some more liquid in. He bats at the spoon, eyes closed.

  “Don’t get all lively on me, Mister,” I say. “You have to drink this, and you’re going to drink it. You can die when Maria gets back, but I’m not taking the fall. So drink.”

  He does and then lapses into sleep. I hope it’s sleep. I watch his chest rise and the flutter of his heart in his neck. He probably needs rest, too, so I’ll let him have twenty minutes. I read my latest survival book and make sure he’s alive every ten seconds.

  He groans and pukes, but I’m there with the bowl even though it involves tossing my book on him. “Thought you could beat me? I’m too fast for you. Fastest puke bowl in the east.”

  I wipe the pink liquid from around his mouth with a wet rag and decide it’s a good sign it looks thinner and lighter than before. His eyes flicker open. Hazel golden-green for sure, with dark eyelashes that are completely wasted on a guy. His lips move.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Next time,” I think I hear him whisper. He shows me a tiny glimpse of bloody teeth. It’s cute in a vampiric way.

  I laugh. “Did you just say next time?”

  His eyes are already closed. I watch him a minute more, but he doesn’t answer. I spoon water into his mouth, which he obediently swallows, and look at the watch I found in a neighboring house. It’s been three hours since they left and the morning has become another bright day. It just won’t rain. I’m going to have to ask Grace to do her naked rain dance.

  Eric groans and twists, necessitating another bed change, which I handle with aplomb. I feel like a nurse; nothing can faze me. Bring it on. I spoon in more liquid and make silly comments. I think he can hear me. Maybe he likes it. Maybe it’s driving him crazy. But I find it entertaining, and he can’t complain.

  Just when I’m feeling super-efficient, Eric whimpers, arms rigid by his sides. His eyes open enough for me to see the irises roll back, and his entire body tremors. I jump to my feet. I am not a nurse, and he’s dying. He’s dying in front of me. I rub his arm with my gloved hand and make useless noises and try not to scream for Maria. Finally, his body eases. I plop in my chair, as covered in sweat as he. Maybe more. His hand searches for something across the bedsheet.

  “What? What do you need?” I put my ear near his lips, desperate for him to tell me what to do. If he does that again, I think he will die.

  “Hand,” he mumbles.

  “Your hand is right here.” He shakes his head. I take it in mine. “See? Right here.”

  Eric pulls me close. “Hold…please.”

  I pull off the latex and take it up again. It seems wrong to grant what could be his last request while wearing a glove. I didn’t hold my mother’s hand. I barely touched it. It’s possible that I’m an absolute piece of shit to have let her go that way, as selfish as
she always said I was.

  My sob is all the louder for being unexpected, and his eyelids lift just enough to peek at me. “You’re okay,” I whisper through my tears, even though it could be a lie. “Just hold on. I promise I won’t let go. Plus, you still haven’t beaten me with the puke bowl.”

  He squeezes my hand weakly before he fades into what I hope is sleep. I watch his neck flutter and will him to live. In my book, anyone who makes a joke on his deathbed deserves to live.

  Chapter 47

  I wake on the pullout couch where I sleep with Grace and then head to the bedroom. A bag of liquid hangs from the long nail Jorge pounded into the wall and runs into Eric’s arm the way it has for twelve hours now. The veterinary hospital was looted of anything resembling a painkiller, though what we needed wasn’t in high demand. Maria is in the chair, chin drooping to her chest, but she leaps to check on Eric when I enter. “I just fell asleep.”

  “Maria, you’re exhausted. Go sleep with Grace and I’ll watch him. I’m up, anyway.”

  “He hasn’t thrown up, but he might—”

  “I cleaned him while you were gone, remember?”

  “I know, but you can wake me if—”

  “Go. I’m fine. I’ll get you if he does that convulsing thing, though, believe me.” It hasn’t happened again, thankfully. I held Eric’s hand until Maria set up his IV and only left when she took my place.

  “I can’t let anything happen to him, and he’s so…” She looks old in the lantern light. A tear creeps down her cheek.

  “He made a joke, I think,” I say, in an effort to give her some hope. “I talked to him a bunch while you were gone. When I said I was a quick draw with the puke bowl and he couldn’t beat me, it sounded like he said next time.”

  She gets to her feet and I move to let her pass, but she wraps her arms around me instead. “That sounds like him. Keep talking.” I nod and wait for the hug to end. She steps away, eyebrow raised. “It wouldn’t kill you to hug back.”