The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Grace makes a Shut Up Sylvie cough, but I think Father David will be amused. As expected, he chuckles. “Still working on feeding the multitude.”

  “Well, maybe soon. You do have a beautiful church.”

  “It’s not my church—I’m not a diocesan priest. I’m a Franciscan monk. Father Brennan is…gone, and I was asked to step in. I was visiting from Boston along with Sister Constance.”

  “How much food do you have?”

  “About a week. We’ll find more.”

  He looks so sure that I don’t argue, although I think he needs a better plan than that.

  “Father David—” Grace begins.

  “David or Dave, please,” he says. “Or Brother David if you want to be formal, but I’m all for fewer syllables when there are Eaters outside. I was only just ordained, and I can’t quite wrap my mind around the Father thing yet.”

  “Why do you call them Eaters?” I ask.

  “Revenants seemed a little pretentious.” We laugh, and he winks. “The elderly folks find zombies a bit…jarring.”

  I suppose it’s the same as Lexers. More to the point, too. “We’ll call you Brother David.” Maybe it’s the Catholic schoolgirl in me, but I can’t call a priest David.

  “I’ll leave it up to you,” he says. “How’s the leg?”

  “Not too bad.” It really has loosened up, so I turn to Grace. “Honestly, I think I can go. If we leave now, we might have enough time.” Grace scrunches her nose but doesn’t say no. I glance at Father—Brother—David. “We can always come back here, right?”

  “You know where to find us.”

  “C’mon,” I say to Grace. “C’mooon. It’ll be fun. Do it for me.”

  “You’re sure?” I nod, and Grace’s tentative smile widens.

  We say goodbye to Brother David after giving him Guillermo’s location as well as ours. He takes a weapon—a knife that’s been fastened to a short pole with duct tape—and leads the way into a small courtyard, then helps to hoist our bikes over a fence into the yard of a house that will put us a block over from the church.

  “You can get through there. Head over and then across Atlantic. After that, I can’t tell you where to go, since I’m not that familiar with this area, but come in this way if you need to. I’ll be in the rectory all night and keep an ear out for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It was nice meeting you.” And it was, aside from being knocked from my bicycle. I think Brother David’s heart is burning quite nicely with a love of humanity.

  “I’m glad to have met the both of you,” he says. “I hope I see you again. Don’t hesitate to come if you need help, or even if you need company.”

  “We can debate the finer points of Christianity,” I joke. Grace throws her head back, eyes closed, as though she’s given up on me forever. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

  He grins, ocean-blue eyes alight. I don’t think he’s been having too much fun in recent weeks, even for a priest. “I’m looking forward to it, Sylvia. Godspeed.”

  Chapter 58

  We have to backtrack and then swing wide to find a promising entry into Brooklyn Heights through the tall buildings of Downtown Brooklyn. The thoroughfare to the Brooklyn Bridge has few cars on its six lanes until we round a bend to find the road packed. Why someone would’ve headed to Manhattan is beyond me, as is why the powers that be blew up the bridges connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn. The exits to Jersey and upstate make sense, as they’d allow nine million people to leave, but all these bridges do is connect two islands full of people who are completely screwed.

  We turn at an imposing white marble building to reach Cadman Plaza—an expanse of walkways and grass that, with other small parks, forms a mall from the municipal buildings to the bridge. Brooklyn Heights is edged on one side by the plaza, by the Brooklyn Bridge on another, and Atlantic Avenue on the third. The fourth side, and one farthest from us, is the East River.

  Zombies line the flagstone of the mall. The bodies stretch for blocks, ending at the marble columns and tall steps of Borough Hall. They trip on the grass and rustle the bushes that line the flagstone, separated from us by a short two-rail fence that might as well not exist with all the capability it has to keep them penned in.

  “Which way?” I whisper as we draw to a stop.

  Grace looks ahead, then left and right. I thought if we were motionless we’d have a minute before we were noticed, but the closest fall over the top rail, hit the ground, and rise on the concrete. The walkways don’t have a fence, and both sides of the mall are on the move. Their clamor rebounds off the tall buildings and vibrates in my eardrums. My chest hums along, heart drowned out by the hundreds, if not a thousand, grunts. I’ve never heard it like this.

  Grace turns right. I follow, squelching the fear that we’re backing ourselves into a corner. They’ll close in and we’ll be trapped. My bag slaps my hip with every turn of the pedals. I know this neighborhood well; Grace knows it like the back of her hand, and she races two blocks up, turns left under a pedestrian bridge and then down another side street. It ends in zombies. We wheel back the way we came, hit a store-lined street and dodge around a pack.

  They’re ahead and behind. We can’t go back to the plaza. We can’t go further in. We’re trapped.

  Two high-rise apartment buildings sit above sidewalk level just ahead of the next group. Grace pulls a sharp right after a produce market’s shredded green awning, jumps off her bike and carries it up a short flight of stairs to the buildings’ concrete quadrangle. I’m just behind, sure that any moment something will catch hold of my bike or bag. Two cupcakes and some cookies in a couple weeks is practically a juice fast as far as I’m concerned, but it’s done nothing to ease my breathlessness at the thought of adding my own screams to the ones we’ve heard.

  There’s no respite; they’re up here, too. Grace leads me past a building, through a square, and over the pedestrian bridge we rode under. We whiz past the backyards of smaller houses, where only a few zombies stumble, then around the back of another high-rise and into a rectangular concrete courtyard which, thankfully, is empty.

  The courtyard ends at a chain-link fence overlooking a street. But we’re not cornered as I feared—the courtyard is on the second-story level, and the second floor balconies are more like patios. We can hop the short concrete wall and get into the apartments through their sliding doors, then exit the building at ground level. Assuming nothing inside eats us.

  Grace leans her bike against the fence and hugs her waist. “We need to go back. I shouldn’t have made you do this.”

  It’s costing her to say it, though. The happy rosiness of this morning is gone. I think of Logan, of her mom and dad, and then I want to tell her that we should keep going. But it’d be insanity. There are too many. We’ll die.

  “We’re going,” I say. “We can make it.”

  Fuck it. So we die. It’s not that big a deal.

  Grace peers over the fence at the sidewalk below. The street curves back to Cadman Plaza, and many of the zombies are still on the move to where we stood fifteen minutes ago. The other end of this street is out of view, but, if it leads to zombies and the ones at the plaza follow, we’ll be surrounded.

  I won’t be the one to say it. I gnaw on my cheek and wait for Grace. A few Lexers stumble into the courtyard and pick up speed when they see us; they must have forgotten we were their mission in the first place. I move for the woman wearing a sparkly tank top and stop, one hand out at chest level. She stumbles into my hand, clawing the air, and I slam the chisel into her face. A preteen boy in a LEGO shirt, hair plastered over one eye, is next. The knife Eric gave Grace must be sharp because she pierces the space beside a man’s ear in one smooth motion, then takes out the next in the back of the head after she’s knocked it to the ground.

  They’re down, but the groans of unseen zombies grow louder and nearer. Grace looks up from her last body and says, “Home.” I wait, unsure of what she means until she adds, “Sunset Park
.”

  We drag our bikes to the balconies. When nothing comes to the sliding doors of one, we break the glass and walk through an apartment scattered with the odds and ends of a hasty departure. One flight down and we’re in the lobby, watching the zombie parade on the plaza from behind tinted glass doors. A tattered paper on the floor directs people to a food drop location somewhere in the plaza, which could explain the parade.

  “There weren’t any food drops, right?” I ask.

  Grace has sunk against the wall with her head on her knees, and she nods without raising her head. I try to decipher why people would’ve gone when there was no food and come to the conclusion that they needed food so desperately they went outside to wait. It’s as good an answer as I’m going to get, so I turn it into historical fact.

  I sit beside Grace. A couple hours pass. We eat the food Maria packed—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with cold pancakes serving as bread. “Should we stay here the night or try to leave?” I ask Grace.

  “We shouldn’t try for Sunset Park. Maybe the church?”

  I stand to look out the glass. We can probably make it. Many have moved, and those who linger are busy doing things such as staring at nothing and walking in circles. I understand Dawn’s desire to live in the bathroom forever because I sure as shit don’t want to retrace our steps. She should’ve stayed in the bathroom for all the good running did her. A thought occurs to me—one I probably should have had before now.

  “Do you think Kearney killed Dawn, at the hospital?” I ask.

  “Why?” Grace squints into space. “Clark tried to say something about her but Kearney didn’t let him, right?”

  It’s a chaotic jumble of memories, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened. “I think he did the same thing to her he did to Clark, or else we would’ve gotten hit from behind. That’s his MO. He Kearneys people to get away.”

  “What a dickbag,” Grace says, awestruck. She pushes her shoulders back and cracks her neck, then stands. “All right, let’s try for Sunset Park.”

  “Right now? What changed?”

  “I’m going to Kearney you if we get stuck somewhere. Seems to work great.”

  “Not if I Kearney you first.”

  ***

  Because of our circuitous route, it’s almost dark when we reach the neighborhood, and we stop at the closer safety of the park. Guillermo welcomes us with open arms. Literally. After he’s done hugging me, I straighten my clothes and offer a hand to Carlos, who looks like he’s coming in for one, too. Micah pulls me in anyway. Grace drops her bag on the ground with a long exhalation.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Guillermo asks, hand on his heart.

  “We went to Brooklyn Heights,” Grace says. “We couldn’t make it in, so we came back, but we didn’t want to go the rest of the way in the dark.”

  Guillermo watches Grace for a moment, then touches her arm. “Maybe next time, you know? Everyone’s inside. We were sitting out. You can sit with us or I can find you a bed.”

  It’s a lovely spring night and a few candles are lit in the yard. Grace points to a grouping of candlelit outdoor chairs and heads that way. “Be right back,” Guillermo says.

  I drop in a chair beside Grace. “We’ll go again. Maybe we can move them somehow. Maybe they’ll move on their own.”

  She lifts her shoulders as Micah and Carlos join us. “You went all the way down there by yourselves?” Micah asks me. His and Carlos’ eyes widen at my nod. “That’s badass.”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty badass. How far have you guys gone?”

  “I’ve only been a few blocks so far,” Micah says.

  “He’s doing good,” Carlos says. “We’re going out again soon, right?”

  Micah nods, and they do one of those complicated handshakes I always fumble. It looks like this unlikely duo have become friends, and I think it’s to both their benefits. Micah could stand to be bolder and Carlos could use a little common sense.

  Guillermo appears from the shadows. He sets down a twelve pack of bottled beer and a stack of cups, then spins a big crystal bottle in his hands. The cuts in the glass sparkle and throw off soft light. “Special bottle of Absolut. You know how much it cost?” We shake our heads. “Thousand bucks.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “Didn’t people have anything better to do with their money?”

  “Not rich people.” Guillermo pulls up a chair. “Beer first.” He hands out beers to me, Grace and Micah.

  “Let me get one?” Carlos asks.

  Guillermo leans back in his chair, lips puckered. “You’re not legal, son. I’m not giving you my beer.”

  “What? That’s not right!” Carlos yells, and beefs up his shoulders with a glance at me and Grace. “C’mon, G.”

  Guillermo relents. Grace guzzles her bottle, throat moving rhythmically. In the time that I take three sips, she finishes, sets it down with a belch and says, “Thanks.”

  Her nonchalance is met with three incredulous expressions.

  “Grace can drink,” I say. “I don’t know where she puts it. We went to the Heineken Brewery and she won the chugging contest against a gigantic German guy.”

  Guillermo hands her another. “Do that again.”

  He rests his chin in his hand to watch. When she’s finished, he rustles at his feet and produces another. Grace drinks half of the new bottle and says, “Okay, I have to pace myself.”

  “Damn,” Guillermo says. “I wanted to see if you’d keep going all night.”

  We sit in silence while I drink my second beer and Grace finishes her third. Guillermo cracks open the crystal bottle and sets the cups in a line. “Time for shots.”

  I count the cups and nudge him with my sneaker, then tip my head at Carlos. Guillermo sets out another cup and says to Carlos, “Only because Sylvie told me to.”

  Carlos looks self-conscious, then thrilled, and I pray he doesn’t try to hug me again. Micah takes his cup and holds it aloft. “What should we drink to?”

  Guillermo raises his cup Grace’s way. “To family.”

  Grace blinks long and slow, then nods. The vodka burns on its way down. We laugh as Carlos chokes. “A thousand dollars and it still tastes like rubbing alcohol,” I say. Guillermo agrees, but that doesn’t stop him from lining up the cups again.

  My mother loved vodka. I have no idea why, except she thought it didn’t stay on her breath the way other liquors did. She smelled like a distillery, so it’s not clear where she got that idea.

  We clink and drink. It tastes better the second time and, after a few minutes, my limbs loosen. The third is almost tasteless. My knee is no longer stiff and the discouraging events of today begin to seem very far away—more than likely the reason Mom loved vodka.

  “So, do you guys do this every night?” Grace asks, face aglow with candlelight and alcohol.

  “I wish,” Micah says.

  “We need clear heads,” Guillermo says. “But Grace needed a cloudy head, so we’re helping her out.”

  Grace bangs her cup on his. He takes it and pours more in. “You sip that one, though.” Grace nods, tosses the whole thing down and holds it out again. He dumps in another shot with an admiring shake of his head.

  “Grace is on a bender,” I say. “Which means I’ll be holding back her hair at some point tonight.”

  “What?” she yells, affronted, then holds up a finger. “Liquor then beer—wait, no. Beer then liquor, never been sicker…oh. Shit.” Our laughs bounce off the backs of buildings.

  “Anyone want to play charades?” Micah asks. We turn to him, speechless. “What? I like charades.”

  “Fuck it,” Guillermo says. “Let’s do this right. Carlos, go get something to mix with this. We’re gonna need another bottle, too, especially if I have to play charades.”

  Carlos leaps to his feet and moves into the darkness. A moment later, we hear a crash and a thud. “I’m all right,” his voice comes, which sets us off again.

  “Carlos,” Guillermo says, and closes h
is eyes briefly.

  “He’s a good kid,” I say. Carlos means well, he’s just young. I lean to tousle Micah’s hair. “How are you, buddy? You seem better.”

  “I’m okay.” Micah forms the words with concentration. “I was totally freaking out for a while, but I like it here.”

  “That’s really great.” He’s a good kid, too. Grace stares into her cup. I wish I knew the right words to say to her. Maybe there aren’t any. “I love you, Gracie.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder. “Love you, Syls.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you home. I swear on everything we’ll try again.” I cross my heart and take a sip of my newly-refilled cup. “Don’t let it ruin you. You’re the best person in the whole world. Isn’t she the best person in the whole world?” I ask Micah. He nods. “See?”

  Grace raises her head and tries to focus—something that’s proving difficult on my end, too. “No, you’re the best. You came all that way with me.”

  “Of course I did. Because I love you and your family. Just promise me you won’t lose hope. You’re the one who says the world is beautiful no matter what and I’m the one who tells you not to do naked fertility rite dances, but you do them anyway and I love that about you.”

  Grace gives an extra-solemn nod. She looks ethereal in the dim light with her corona of blond hair and the dirt on her face. “I won’t. I still believe that.”

  “That’s my Grace.” I pat the side of her head a little too hard. “Ooh, sorry.” She hiccups.

  Guillermo is busy pouring drinks for everyone while his own waits to be consumed. Just like he created this place and took people in when he could’ve kept the Key Food for himself. I don’t know if anyone has remarked upon his selflessness, or told him how impressive it is that he manages to keep his beard meticulously trimmed while he does it all.

  “Willie!” I shout. He jumps and knocks over an empty cup. “You are amazing. How many people would do this? You’re making a Safe Zone. A Safe Zone. All by yourself! And your beard is so tidy.”

  Micah’s head bobs. “Guillermo’s the best.”

  “Right? Everyone’s the best.”