The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  “Nothing. Paul, he told me about…” I can’t do it with his eyes on me. No matter how much I dislike him, I don’t want to tell him this. “All I did was hug him and tell him that you loved him.”

  “What did he tell you?” I open my mouth but no sound emerges. “What did he say?” he screams, face mottled.

  “His mom,” I whisper. “He said he saw them…eat her.”

  For a split second, I see Paul as he might be: hurting and lonely and horrified his son saw his mother that way. But even with all of that, he doesn’t look surprised. He knew she was gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “He came to—”

  He cuts me off with a growl. His nostrils flare. “Knowing you, you probably told him that mothers don’t matter anyway.”

  It’s a shot in the heart. More than anyone around here, I’m aware of how much they matter. Everyone thinks you get one automatically, but I know that’s not the case. I swallow to keep the tears at bay. This is why I fight—so I don’t cry.

  “Apologize,” Eric’s voice comes from behind me, low and menacing. “I’m serious, bro. Say you’re sorry. Now.”

  Paul scowls over my shoulder and stays silent.

  “Forget it,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “A-pol-o-gize,” Eric says slowly, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’m giving you one chance.”

  I move out of the path of testosterone. Eric steps an arm’s length away from his friend, feet spread and hands clenched at his sides. Paul’s face spasms, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “You’re going to punch me over her?”

  Eric’s fist comes up so fast and hard that one second Paul is standing and the next he’s bent over, hand to his face. “Yeah, I guess I am,” Eric says. He shakes out his hand and inspects his knuckles.

  I edge toward the back door. Eric calls my name, but I’m already inside. Jorge stands at the window. Maria is beside him, Leo in her arms. “What was that about?” Jorge asks.

  I shake my head. Paul straightens up. I’m sure he’s going to pummel Eric, but instead he lays a hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric puts an arm around him. There’s a minute-long huddle where they talk before Eric pulls Paul into a hug. And, in that moment, it becomes apparent that I will never, ever understand men.

  Paul sits in a chair and closes his eyes, gingerly poking at the flesh on his cheekbone. Eric comes toward the back door, and we all pretend to be busy. He peers through the screen at where I straighten the single piece of paper on the table. Obviously a very important job.

  “Sylvie, can you come here for a second?”

  I walk through the door, my stomach in upheaval. Paul opens his eyes when we get close. “Sorry, Sylvie. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  It’s the first time he’s said my name to my face. I do an awkward nodding-shrugging thing and turn to make my escape. There’s no surer way of making someone hate you even more than by forcing them to apologize. Now Paul will want me dead.

  “Sylvie,” Paul calls, “I mean it. It was a total dick thing to say. I’m sorry I haven’t been very nice. It wasn’t fair.”

  “Fine, okay.”

  “Hey, you want to punch me?” Paul calls. “I’ll give you one free one.”

  I spin around. I would refuse, but the truth is that I do want to punch Paul. A lot.

  He raises his chin and opens his arms. “Have at it.”

  Paul is so sure of himself. He is in dire need of an ass-kicking. But I’m going to have to do this right. He’s a side of beef and I’m not Rocky Balboa.

  “Where do you want it?” he asks. “Face? Stomach?”

  I look to Eric, who shrugs but is obviously enjoying this immensely. I think back to what Esmeralda taught me in the months after our fight—because she and I became, if not friends, then people with a genuine respect for each other. Her mom was a crackhead, too, but she had an uncle who boxed.

  “Stomach,” I say. “I like my hand bones.”

  Paul stands, arms by his sides. He tenses his abs, though not as much as he should, and smirks at the little lady who he thinks will give him the equivalent of a tap. I move my left foot forward and make a fist, hand slightly bent so my first two knuckles lead, and go for just above his bellybutton. I bring every bit of force I can muster, throwing with my torso instead of my arm, and the impact is everything I wanted it to be.

  Paul lets out a gust of air and folds over. “Jesus!”

  I step back, hoping with all my heart that Esmeralda is still alive so I can thank her one day. Eric watches Paul catch his breath and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. You all right, Paulie?”

  Paul looks up, eyes glittering, and I move out of reach. His mouth works before he says, “Nice one. I don’t hit women, but I might make an exception for you. You don’t punch like a girl.” He comes forward, one hand on his stomach and the other out for a shake, which I cautiously give. He towers over me, but it’s different than his usual intimidating way. “We square?”

  “Are you done being a dick?” I ask.

  He still looks like a brawler, especially with the bruise flowering around his eye, but, with this smile I’ve never seen before, he could be handsome. If you were into brawlers.

  “Done.” Paul puts an arm around my shoulders. “Where’d you learn to throw a punch?”

  I tell him about Esmeralda, which sets him laughing as if we’re best friends. It’s a little bewildering how quickly this has happened. I’m not sure I can trust it.

  “I swear Leo just started talking to me,” I say. “I didn’t ask. We were talking about drawing and then he—”

  “He likes you.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “Me neither,” he says with just enough lightness to tell it’s a joke. “But if my kid likes someone, I guess I should, too. Admit it, he’s great, isn’t he?”

  “He’s pretty cool, even with having you for a dad.”

  Paul wraps his arm around my neck then messes my hair with his other hand. “You’re not half bad, Sylvie.”

  “God, you’re making me blush, Paul. Maybe lay off the compliments a little so I don’t get a big head.”

  He lets me go with a chortle and glances at Eric. “I’ll meet you here in a few. I want to talk to Leo before we go.”

  After he’s gone, I turn to Eric. “What the hell was that and why do I feel like I’ve just been adopted as Paul’s little sister?”

  “He knew it was coming, and he knew he deserved it. It’s what we do.”

  “What?”

  “We have a deal. Whoever’s being a dick gets a punch to snap them out of it. I’ve been punched once and I’ve punched him twice. Now three times.”

  I wait for him to say he’s kidding. When he doesn’t, I laugh anyway. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It works, does it not? And he let you punch him, too, which is unheard of. Welcome to the inner circle.”

  “Does that mean I get to punch you?”

  Eric backs away, hands up. “I saw your punch, I’m good.”

  “What’d you guys say after you punched him?”

  “Nothing important.” He pulls his gloves from his pocket, then puts them on and flexes his fingers. “He finally saw sense. What little of it he has.”

  “One punch and suddenly we’re cool? I don’t get it.”

  “Paul’s a simple guy in a lot of ways.”

  “But I really don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to understand,” he says. “Just enjoy it. Once you’ve made it into the inner circle, he’s loyal to the death.”

  The back door slams open. Paul holds it for Grace and then walks past with a grin. “Come on, dipshits.”

  ***

  I’m wary of Paul as we ride our bikes over and up the avenues. I know what Eric said about Paul’s famous inner circle, and he seemed confident, but I don’t see how he could’ve switched gears so quickly. This has to be a trick of some sort, although I can’t figure out the specific
s. He shadows me in the street and makes sure Grace and I are through a tight spot before he follows. Eric does it, too, but I’m 99.99 percent certain he doesn’t have a plan to Kearney me. I’m not so certain about Paul.

  The houses are a mixture of semi-detached houses and small apartment buildings. We can’t travel from yard to yard or roof to roof the way we can on our streets, which is one reason we rode bikes. The other is that we each tow a child trailer in which to carry the loot home.

  “It’s just ahead,” Eric says.

  The car-free streets are great because they don’t block the passage of bikes. However, nor do they block the passage of zombies and close to twenty are moving toward us—too many for the four of us to ride through. We dismount and rest our bikes on their kickstands. Paul opens the front gate of a semi-detached and we move inside the concrete front yard. If they were fewer, we could take them on the sidewalk, but even then there’s no reason to give Lexers an advantage. If there’s a fence around, you can bet your ass I’m going to stand on the other side of it.

  We wait for the torn-up people to bang into the metal. The fence is just over waist-high, so it’s an easy kill. All I have to do is get close enough to let them touch me, then go for a soft spot. The zombies have deteriorated a little, their skin cracking and opening, but we’re past the thirty days they promised and they’re strong as ever. I’m still not used to the way their fingers grip tight when they catch hold, and I’m convinced I can feel their chilled skin through my coat, though it’s impossible.

  My sharpened chisel makes its way through small openings and chips through edges of bone that might stop, or at least dull, a knife. It glides into the soft spot under an old woman’s chin, punctures the eye of a tween, and penetrates through the cheek to the brain of a cop still in her uniform. Grace works beside me, grunting every time her screwdriver finds its mark.

  When they’re down, Eric checks the cop’s holster and shakes his head. But he pulls off her belt with its assorted hanging pockets and tosses it in his trailer. We roll our bikes through the gate and cracked front door of a lone, narrow four-story apartment building in the middle of the next block.

  The lobby is small, with a doctor’s office on the ransacked first floor. It wasn’t always a walk-up, but it is now, so we climb the stairs to the top floor, bypassing bodies on our way. The apartment runs the length of the building, with two bedrooms in the rear and a glassed-in balcony streetside.

  Boxes and cans and bags of food are stacked against the living room wall. Everything from Pop-Tarts to Spam to cereal to mayonnaise and soup—as though someone walked down a bodega aisle with their arm out and scooped off an entire shelf, which is a distinct possibility.

  We’ve brought along plastic bags. It looks like we’ll need them. “Can we fit it all?” I ask, already imagining possible ways I can balance it on my head to get it home.

  “We’ll fit it,” Paul says.

  “We can take stuff out of its packaging. That’s what we did when we went to Maria’s.”

  “Good idea.” His voice holds no sign of sarcasm. “Anyone care if I eat a Pop-Tart?”

  Grace opens the sliding doors to the balcony and shakes her head before she steps out to keep an eye on the street. Eric kneels to pack bags. “Nope, go ahead.”

  “You want one?” Paul asks me.

  “Sure.”

  Paul tears open a box and hands me a Pop-Tart from the foil package of two. I sit on the couch, split mine in half and eat from the middle. Paul lowers himself beside me. I glance over and see he’s done the same thing.

  “Corners?” I ask.

  “Best part,” he says.

  They’re better toasted, but Pop-Tart corners are the best part. He takes a bite of one half, encompassing almost the entire thing, places what’s left of the end on his knee, then inhales the second half, followed by the corners. He must need a shitload of food to feel full. If I’m hungry, he’s hungrier. I split my uneaten half in two and set one piece on his knee. By the time I finish my Pop-Tart, Paul still hasn’t eaten it.

  “What’s this?” he asks, eyes on his knee.

  It’s a peace offering. It means I’d rather be friends than fight. It means I remember the loneliness and hurt I saw on Paul’s face, and I’m going to trust that Eric’s right about him. It means I don’t like to see people hungry, which might also mean I’m turning into my grandma and will insist everyone have a nosh every ten minutes.

  “I’m loading your trailer with all the heavy shit,” I say. “You’re going to need the calories.”

  Paul elbows me. I elbow him back. He swallows the piece in seconds. “Thanks.”

  I’m about to rise and help Eric when Paul says, “Sorry.” It’s so quiet I think I imagined it, but he watches me with a tight expression that conveys regret rather than dislike. “I’m really bad at apologies,” he says. “Eric can tell you.”

  “I’m really sorry about Hannah. I wish you and Leo didn’t have to…” I’m not sure where I’m going with this, so I shake my head.

  Paul blinks a few times. His eyes are moist, but I’m pretty sure Paul would rather rip out his toenails one by one than cry in front of people, which I wholly understand. “That’s part of why he likes you, you know. You remind him of her. She could always make him laugh in the middle of a tantrum. She called him squirt sometimes.”

  Sweat crops up everywhere. No wonder Paul couldn’t stand the sight of me. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t kn—”

  “Don’t stop because I told you. He likes it. I wanted to explain, but it’s not an excuse. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I got carried away with my own shit, but it was never you who did anything wrong. It was all me. I mean that.”

  It’s more than I’ve ever heard Paul say. He hasn’t broken eye contact for the whole speech, and now he waits for my response with the same intense gaze. I shift uncomfortably. I’m as awkward at accepting apologies as I am at making them. “It’s fine. We’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

  “All right, thanks.” Paul claps my shoulder with his big hand, then lifts his brows. “So that was my full apology. How’d I do? I thought it was pretty good.”

  I laugh. I think Paul and I are similar in some ways—number one being we can only take so much profound discussion before we have to break it up somehow. “It was pretty great, actually—I’m terrible at apologies. And I’ve been known to get carried away every once in a while, so I get it.”

  “You can’t be worse than me.”

  “She got kicked out of Catholic school for telling a nun she was going to Hell,” Eric says from the other side of the living room, though he doesn’t look up from where he sets jars in a bag.

  “You’re kidding,” Paul says.

  “It’s true,” I say.

  “Oh, man, I wish I’d had the balls to do that.” Paul’s deep laugh is full of white teeth. “You must be fucking crazy.”

  “That’s what Grace says, and she’s a therapist.”

  “All right, you win this round.” Paul stands, still grinning, and then pulls me to my feet. “Let’s pack this up and go home.”

  Minus the packaging, we fit it into bags that will squeeze into our trailers, and then I step onto the balcony. Grace leans on the railing and gazes into the distance. Anyone who doesn’t know her would think she’s fine, but beneath the calm countenance burns some serious resentment, as evidenced by her opaque eyes. I bump her with my hip. “So we came all this way for Spam and Pop-Tarts. You must be overjoyed.”

  The gust of air from her nose might be a laugh. “If I’m doing something dangerous, then it’s going to be going home.”

  “Guillermo said it’s not—”

  “Nothing’s safe, Sylvie. They move around all the time, and he only saw the side by the bridge. The only way to know is to go. I want to go.”

  I think of good reasons to wait, but none outweigh Grace’s need to finally get home, so I focus on a surefire plan to get us there and back alive. I come up short.<
br />
  “I’m not asking you to come,” she says.

  “Grace, I’m coming.”

  “No, I know you don’t want to. I wasn’t going to ask. I won’t let you.”

  I grab her arm. “Look at me.” She does, and without a flicker of emotion. “We’ll make a plan tomorrow and go the day after. I’m coming with you. And if you think you can not let me, then you’re sorely mistaken. I mean it.”

  She nods, but her eyes remain that polished jade.

  Chapter 73

  I’m beginning to think there’s some law of physics that won’t allow everyone in this house to be happy at the same time. Grace sits in the chair by the living room window and stares into the yard. I’m trying to change, but she’s changing, too, and not for the better. I have hope that once we’ve gone to her house, she’ll go back to her old self eventually, no matter what we find. I’m not sure if that hope should be considered optimistic or delusional.

  “Sylvie,” Paul says, snapping his fingers in my face. “You going or what?”

  Jorge and I are teaching Paul and Leo to play dominoes at the coffee table while dinner is made by someone who isn’t me. I’m now 94 percent sure Paul won’t toss me to the zombies. I even kind of like him. It turns out that when he’s not intolerable, he’s obnoxiously amusing. And he likes Pop-Tart corners.

  I throw down my tile, which blocks him from his next turn, and exchange a high five with Jorge. “Careful what you wish for.”

  “You suck big time,” Paul says.

  “Daddy, you shouldn’t say that to Sylvie!” Leo yells.

  “Why? Sylvie’s the one who taught it to you.” Leo’s eyes get big, but Paul tousles his hair and smiles. “Aidan says shit, right? You can say sucks big time.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say.

  Paul shrugs his muscular shoulders. “He’s heard worse.” Eric enters with dinner, and Paul says, “Finally, some grub. Were you growing the wheat for that pasta?”

  “You need a fourth punch?” Eric asks.

  “I got a fourth.” Paul rubs his stomach. “She punches better than you do, Forrest.”