The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  The main entrance of a church sits on the opposite corner, with its length running the side street. That zombie-free street is our destination. We take our handlebars and walk our bikes as fast as possible. The three zombies spot us, but they can’t move over obstacles as quickly as we can. I do my best to avoid bodies with my feet, but my bike rolls over legs and torsos and through dried puddles of viscera. The hem of a coat tangles in my spokes and I bend to yank it free. Because of decomposition, it’s impossible to tell if they were men or women unless you inspect their clothes. I raise my eyes. I don’t want to know.

  The seafood market behind us adds a rotten ocean odor to the mix that makes me gag along with Grace. It’s in my mouth and nose. It seeps into my pores. I turn at a scuffing sound to see zombies streaming from the market’s open door. They’ll trip over bodies to get to us, but they’re on the move.

  “Shit,” I whisper. “Go, go, go.”

  We reach the end of the bodies and hop on our bikes. My sneaker is untied, but I can’t stop now. I glance down as I pedal to make sure it won’t tangle in the chain and thud into something solid that wasn’t there before. The world tilts. My hip and knee hit the concrete first, and then I skid along the pavement in a screech of metal. My leg will hurt later, but Ana’s coat has saved my arm.

  “Sylvie!” Grace screams.

  Whatever sent me down was yielding and human-like. Alive or dead, it’s bad news. I scramble from under my bike and struggle to my knees for a weapon, but there are wide holes in the wicker where my chisel and screwdriver were. Grace swings a man into the church’s iron fence by the hem of his black coat. He lands on his knees, shouting above the oncoming groans. A person.

  Grace is doing her best, but I don’t think either of us is a match for a good-sized man with a weapon. I open my bag. Like Eric said, the gun could scare someone. That someone is probably only going to be me, but if you want to kill me, I’ll do my best to kill you first. I don’t remember where the safety is or how to turn it off, but I aim it two-handed at the figure in black.

  Grace pulls me to my feet. He staggers up and turns around—a man with a clerical collar and two hands in the air. A priest with raven hair and vibrant blue eyes. “Come inside! It’s not safe.”

  We were already aware it’s not safe. I drop the gun in my bag and pick up my bike—I have no intention of going inside—but the chain hangs, the wheel is bent and the zombies have passed the corner. My hip aches and my knee stings.

  Grace looks from my bike to the priest, who gestures at the driveway of a narrow brick building attached to the rear of the church. “We have to,” she says.

  I hate rectories and I hate convents and the only way I would ever step foot in one again is if zombies were after me. We allow him to lead us into the driveway and latch the gate. He turns and hands me my runaway chisel, maybe as a gesture of good faith.

  “Leave your bikes here,” he says. We follow him up brick steps that rise to the second floor and through the open door.

  Chapter 56

  We stand in a kitchen with old wood cabinets and a gold Formica counter. The priest locks the doors, then draws the chain for good measure. I can barely hear the hissing. Only the jangle of metal makes its way through the thick old wood.

  He turns and wipes his face with a handkerchief he produces from somewhere. “I’m sorry. I thought you were looking for help and—”

  “We weren’t.” Grace stands with fists at her sides and cheeks striped red. She looks like a volcano about to burst. “We were trying to get home. But now we can’t, thanks to you.”

  The priest’s mouth curves down in apology. All the priests I’ve ever known were middle-aged or old. This one is somewhere in his mid-thirties, handsome with his symmetrical face, thick dark eyebrows and a cleft in his chin. His dark hair isn’t short, as I thought, but pulled into a low ponytail. He’s probably one of those priests who attempts hipness in order to lure young people into the fold.

  “Sit down, please.” He gestures at the door to a living room furnished in stodgy old-fashioned furniture. When Grace doesn’t move, he walks past and stands at the couch. “Please?”

  I don’t trust the clergy for the most part, but he gives off a benevolent vibe. Grace stalks into the room and perches at the edge of an armchair. I lower myself to the couch slowly; the sting on my knee has become fiery. My jeans are ripped and the hole edged with blood. I can’t remember the last time I scraped a knee—on the playground, maybe.

  He folds into the chair opposite, elbows on his knees and eyebrows curved like apostrophes. His pants are shredded up one leg from Grace tossing him to the sidewalk. “I really am sorry. I’m David, the priest here. We’ve been trying to rescue anyone who passes by the church. That was the first time we’ve had to rescue someone from ourselves, though.”

  Grace glares, unmoved by his joke and the small laugh that accompanies it. Father David’s eyebrows move up and down in distress. “If it’s only the bike, we can replace it. Are you hurt?” His gaze lands on my knee. “Oh. Let me get something for that.”

  He leaves quickly for the hall that connects this room to somewhere else. I take in the fireplace, old writing desk and pictures on the wall—a pastoral landscape, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus with Sacred Heart, amongst others.

  Minutes pass with the ticking of a clock, Grace’s barely controlled breathing and the steady throb of my scrape. Rivulets of blood tickle my shin. Jesus’ Sacred Heart is on fire, and mine burns with resentment we’re here. Father David returns with an older woman who wears a nubby brown and white habit instead of the black and white of Sister Jean Marie. She kneels at my feet without a word and opens a first aid kit.

  “This is Sister Constance. She’ll clean you up,” Father David says and disappears.

  “Remove your pants, please,” Sister Constance says in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “I can do it myself,” I say in a tone that could stand to be a little nicer.

  The nun hands me the kit, stands with a nod, and leaves the room as quietly as she entered. I pull up the leg of my jeans, tear open a cleansing wipe and place it on my scrape. “Christ!” I yell at the burn.

  Grace giggles. I look up to find her pointing at Jesus on the wall. “Yes, right here. Now you’re in trouble. Maybe you should add in the others so they don’t think you took his name in vain.”

  I laugh, dab at my scrape and point to the image of the Virgin Mary. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Then I point to the landscape and add, “Bucolic landscape!”

  Grace belly laughs. “Decorative plates!” she says, while pointing at some very hideous biblical plates, then gestures to a painting of a robed man with a long beard. “Bearded dude who…isn’t Jesus?”

  I lose it. I don’t care if the zombies outside hear. The absurdity of this happenstance and the tension of the dead city and the disappointment at where we’ve found ourselves have combined into a jumble of emotions that have to come out somehow. I point at a small frame on the desk—a Precious Moments drawing of a creepy, big-eyed angel and puppy on a pink cloud, but I can’t speak through my laughter. Grace howls. The wipe slips from my hand and I put my head to my knees to stifle my hysterics. We quiet at a loud, deep laugh from the hall and stare at each other, wide-eyed.

  “The bearded dude who isn’t Jesus is Saint Paul,” Father David’s voice comes from out of sight. “Are you decent? May I come in?” We say he can, and I brace myself for disapproval, but he strides in smiling. He’s changed into a brown monk’s habit with a rope knotted around his waist.

  “Decent,” I say, “but, obviously, not decorous. Sorry.”

  “I used to curse like a sailor. No one was safe, not even Jesus. I’ve had to get creative these days.” He turns to Grace. “I am truly sorry. I have another bike being brought up now. You can leave as long as it’s safe.”

  Grace slumps—she’s terrible at holding a grudge. “It’s okay. You thought you were helping.”

  He bows his head in gratitude
and lowers himself into a chair. “Like I said, I’m David, and you are?”

  “I’m Grace. That’s Sylvie.”

  “Nice to meet you both, although I’m sure the pleasure is all mine,” he says. I laugh and the cleft in his chin deepens. He must lure the girls in, at least. “Where were you heading?”

  “We’re trying to get to my family in Brooklyn Heights,” Grace says.

  “I’m not sure you can get near there right now. It’s full of Eaters from the hospital.”

  Grace looks away. My heart sinks. If her parents and Logan are surrounded, we’ll never get in and they’ll never get out.

  “But you could try going around,” he says. “No one here has tried it, but a scout came from Grace Church in the Heights, said she got past okay.”

  “A scout?” I ask.

  “A small group of people are living in Grace Church. They have food for a few months. The woman from the church said Brooklyn Heights didn’t have as many fires, but it was tricky getting in and out.”

  “That’s not so bad,” I say to Grace, whose expression has lightened considerably. “Maybe we can get in.”

  “I have a list of names. People who are at Grace Church. Do you want to check it?”

  Grace Church isn’t far from Grace’s house—her family could be there. Grace nods and taps her fingers on her knee as he shuffles papers on the desk, then scans the paper he hands her. It quivers before she gives it back with a shake of her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Father David says to her, then points at my knee. “I think we should bandage that. You don’t want to smell any more human than you already do. I’m not sure it makes much of a difference, but you shouldn’t take the chance.”

  The cut that wasn’t so bad has opened up again. I press gauze to it. Figures that the Catholic Church would trip me up.

  Chapter 57

  My knee is bandaged and we drink iced tea, sans ice, which I have renamed tepid tea. It’s close to afternoon, and if we don’t make it to the Heights soon, we’ll be heading home in the dark unless we find somewhere safe to stay. I tap my finger on my wrist. Grace nods and says, “Well, I guess we should be going.”

  I stand; my knee feels stiffer than the size of the cut would have led me to believe. My hip must be bruised. Twenty minutes of ice would help, but there’s no ice to be found in this world. I haven’t really thought about that, and now that I have, I realize we’re doomed to lives of lukewarm drinks like tepid tea, except in winter when we won’t want cold ones. The apocalypse is the gift that keeps on giving.

  “Your leg hurts,” Father David says.

  “It’s fine.” I throw him a look that says to shut up. I’m sure once I’m moving it will loosen up, and I am not ruining Grace’s trip.

  Grace stops with her hands on the buttons of her jacket. “Can you ride a bike?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I walk a few paces. I’m not limping, but I have to get off the leg quick. I open my arms. “Ta-da!”

  “You’re limping,” she says. “Just tell me if it hurts too much and we’ll wait.”

  “It’s fine.” She looks at me steadily; Grace can tell when I’m lying. “Grace, I was specifically not limping.”

  “So you admit you want to limp?”

  “I admit nothing. Look into my eyes: I’m fine.”

  Grace opens her jacket slowly, one button at a time, and drops it behind her on the chair. “We’re staying for now.”

  “I am not fucking this up for you.” I look to Father David. “Sorry.”

  He shrugs off the curse. “It’s one night. Stay here and you’ll have all day tomorrow to travel.”

  Grace settles into her chair, which makes me want to cry. “Grace, we can really go. Let’s go.”

  She shakes her head, mouth in a line. I plop on the couch and wonder if Eric’s been waylaid by a well-meaning priest or if he sailed right to his friend’s house. I’m sure Golden Boy sailed.

  “This is my fault,” Father David says. “I wish I could fix it, but the least we can do is feed you and make you comfortable for the night.”

  “We have food,” I say, unable to hide my irritation. “And we had knees and bikes that worked.”

  “Well, you’ll save your food for your trip. I can’t do anything for your knee except apologize. And I am very sorry.”

  He does look sorry, and tired, and beleaguered by another thing that’s gone wrong. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm the jumping, angry impotence inside, and to stop the tears that sit behind my eyes. Grace’s normally creamy skin looks rough and her eyelids have a pink cast. She turns her head to the side, studying the artistry of the Precious Moments angel.

  “It’s okay to hate me,” I say to Grace. “I would.”

  “I think I’d be the better choice,” Father David says. He raises his hands. “Don’t be afraid to hate me just because I’m a priest.”

  Grace sighs. “I don’t hate anyone. I’m just…really disappointed.”

  “Grace doesn’t hate people,” I say. “It’s the Buddhist in her.”

  “An admirable quality,” he says. “Grace, how about I give you a tour while Sylvie rests her leg?”

  The only thing worse than being trapped in this room is being trapped here by myself with religious icons staring me down. “I’m coming.” They start to argue, but I cut them off, “I’m hardly dying. It’s a scrape and it’s a little stiff. Let me take the tour and I’ll sit if it feels worse.”

  They give in. Grace and I follow him through the rectory and into a hall past offices and meeting rooms that contain bedding and the aroma of body odor, and then into the back of the church, where we come out by the altar. The cavernous space smells okay, although close to forty people sit in the pews that have been moved to form areas more like living rooms than spectator benches. Almost half the people are elderly and the rest are families.

  The chandeliers are dark, but it’s bright with the windows, white ceiling and gold gothic arches that span the space. I can appreciate the beauty of a church, even the sanctity, if not the dogma, and this one is gorgeous. People look up at our approach, smiling at Father David, who, rather than act all priest-like, jokes with them and describes how he made me crash to the street.

  “So, all in all, I really messed up their day by trying to save their lives,” he says, and even I have to smile.

  He excuses himself to attend to something while Grace and I wander past the church’s stained glass windows. “I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’d actually been looking where we were going, we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

  “And we would have ridden right into zombies on Atlantic Avenue,” Grace says. “That would’ve been a good time.”

  “Stop trying to make me feel better.”

  “Okay, you suck. Why don’t you look where you’re going next time?” Grace pushes me with her hip. “Stop being a martyr. There aren’t enough in here for you?” I laugh as she points to a window. “That one’s beautiful.”

  It’s Mary, surrounded by green vines and leaves that are striking against the blue of her robes, with golden rays at her feet. “It’s the Assumption of Mary into Heaven,” I say.

  The next window is Jesus, kneeling beside a boulder with his hands upturned to an angel who offers him comfort. “The Agony in the Garden,” I say. “When Jesus knew the Romans were coming for him. He was afraid, and an angel came to comfort him.”

  “You know your stuff,” Father David says from behind us.

  “Not really, but I always liked that story. Even Jesus had his human moments.”

  His eyes meet mine, shining with a light that could be a reflection of the glass. “Jesus was very human. Some argue that he didn’t fear, but I think he was afraid. He was going to suffer mightily, and he knew it. He went through with it because he was willing to sacrifice himself for the good of mankind.”

  Sister Jean Marie screamed at me when I said Jesus was fearful, although I didn’t see it as a weakness. I thought it made the story better—
in order to sacrifice, you need to lose something, to hurt in some way. I’m not running out to join the church, but knowing a priest agrees makes me dislike it a little less.

  “Wow, what’s going on there?” Grace asks, pointing to a window of a heart on a cross, topped by flames and wearing a crown of thorns. Rays of light burst from behind it, lit bright orange and yellow by the sun.

  “The Sacred Heart,” Father David replies.

  “I never really got that whole thing,” I say.

  “The fire represents Jesus’ love for man, so total his heart burns with it. The cross and blood are how he suffered for us. The thorns how our sins pierce his heart.” I snort, and Father David asks, “Not a believer?”

  “I feel guilty enough without worrying about whether or not I’m sticking a thorn into Jesus’ heart.”

  His laugh echoes through the arches, and he puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “It’s love. All of that aside, it’s how we should strive to emulate that love for mankind. That’s all.”

  I could improve in that department, but I’m still better than Sister Jean Marie, whose heart was a shriveled old ball of hate.

  “You don’t want to get into a theological discussion with Sylvie,” Grace says. “She’s not a fan of religion.”

  “Is that right?” he asks.

  “Catholic school beat it out of me,” I say. “I’m a hybrid—baptized Catholic, Jewish mother, practice nothing.” I’m considering agnostic humanism, if Eric doesn’t mind me joining his sect.

  “This is where I’m supposed to talk you back into the Church,” Father David says. He glances at the windows and then cups a hand to his mouth. “But I have more important things to do, like figure out where we’ll get more food.”

  “You can’t turn a few loaves of bread into a thousand?” I ask.