The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (45 page)

Fifth Avenue is a little tricky, but no more so than anywhere else. Stores looted, bodies on the asphalt—the usual. I’m growing accustomed to this horror show, but it’s not as if I have a choice. Acclimate or die, just the same as when you climb Everest. Not that I’ve climbed Everest. I prefer to stick to the quieter mountains, or at least ones most humans can climb without supplemental oxygen. It’s fun to test Mother Nature’s patience at times, but it seems there are some places she doesn’t want us to go.

I scope out the storefront from the side street. So far, no one has thought the gardening store worth their time. That’ll change if anyone is around to get hungry once all the food is gone. There’s still food in the city, even if it means a house to house search. There’s a supermarket stocked and waiting in Fort Hamilton, and that can’t be the only place people have missed or can’t reach.

I once heard—and maybe I’m wrong—that the average large supermarket holds enough food to feed a single person for about 50 years. Perishables will rot, so that cuts into the supply, but the rest will last a while. Maybe until after these creatures finally die, whenever that is—years, tomorrow, never.

The metal hatch set into the sidewalk out front is a good way in, but once in the basement with the hatch closed behind me, getting out will be tricky if zombies congregate on the sidewalk. I need a way out. It says they have a nursery out the back door right there on the store’s sign. That’s my best bet.

Other cities have alleys, which provide another route for travel or escape, although at this point they may be zombie highways. Where there should be an alley in New York, there’s an additional store or the side of the building or a gate that leads to the backyard of the corner house. On this street, it’s a one-story shoe repair/key maker/tailor shop—talk about covering your bases. I set my bike behind the gate of the apartment house next door, throw the panniers to the shoe repair’s roof and climb up after them via the stoop’s railing.

At the edge of the roof, I stop at the sight of a few hardier plants on the metal shelves set in the store’s yard of pea gravel. It hadn’t yet been warm enough for vegetable starts to survive the night when the virus hit, and any inside will be dead from lack of water and light. I lower myself to hang from the roof and drop. Rocks crunch under my boots on my way to the back door.

It’s unlocked. Someone is in there. Definitely dead, by the smell, although that’s no sure indicator of whether or not I’m in danger. The light coming in the store’s front window allows me to see a shadow move. I use a terracotta planter as a doorstop and step back with my knife. The woman, older than me with long, dark hair and chin so torn apart it hangs four inches lower than it should, trips over the doorjamb and falls to the gravel. I get her in the back of the head, thankful I won’t have to see her mangled face again, then wipe my knife on her shirt, pull out my light and walk inside.

It’s the motherlode, apart from the dead plants and one dead body. Seeds, so many seeds. Fertilizer and hydroponic systems. We have no electricity, but a passive hydro system works well with greens and would allow us to save the soil we do have for tomatoes and fruiting plants. I run a hand over the jugs and containers as I walk through the jam-packed aisles.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

I can’t get it all home. Not the large containers of nutrients nor the vermiculite or stones or anything else I may need. I don’t know all the ins and outs of hydroponics, but the books on the shelves must. I shove the three that appear most intensive in my pack. If we return, I’ll know exactly what we need.

I grab many packets of seeds but stand undecided about whether or not to take every last one. I now have enough in my pack for a few years—most are non-hybrid, which means the seeds from their fruits can be saved and replanted—but I still want them all. Not only would they be good for barter, but these paper envelopes mean life. Food. Survival.

Other people may show up at some point, desperate to grow food, only to find an empty rack. I could’ve shown up to an empty rack and left disappointed. In the end, I leave a few of each type, which gives me more than enough to share with Guillermo, as well as for bartering, and then drag myself away from the rack. This is what happens when the future is uncertain—you want to take it all. It never feels like enough. But this is enough.

I grab small boxes of fertilizer for the undernourished soil of the yards and the smallest bag of soil for starting seeds. Some good, well-fitting leather gloves which can be used for gardening and zombie killing, unlike the loose canvas we have at the apartment, and a few other incidentals go in before my bags are full. I linger over the large bags of soil amendments. They’re for another day. Another day with a truck.

The couple in here had a supply of food and, although most of it is empty packaging, I find candy at the bottom of one bag. Starburst, Skittles, gummy candy and a Blow-Pop. The dark hair of the woman, and the candy, make me think of Sylvie. This is probably what her survival food would look like.

I find my way back to Paul’s, where they’ve cracked open the other MRE. I wave away Paul’s offer to share and crunch on peanuts, which I manage to get down without gagging. I won’t ask about Hannah in front of Leo, and, since he’s glued to my side, I haven’t. She must be dead or missing—she would never leave Leo. Hannah’s tough, but I also see her in Leo’s mildness and gentle spirit. His obsessions with ninjas and spies and superheroes is just as endearing, although somewhat obsessive and definitely not Hannah’s influence. I put an arm around him and he beams up at me, chewing like a cow.

“Were you raised in a barn?” I ask. He shows me his chewed food and then laughs until he chokes.

The sun has dipped low. We’ll stay the night and take Paul’s truck as far as we can in the morning. The seed store took longer than I thought, and I’m tired enough that I don’t trust myself to get Leo through the worst of it if I don’t have to. Paul looks better already, but he could use a night to fully digest the food that sits unsettled in his stomach.

After dinner, I dump the candy I found on the couch. Leo’s eyes grow round. “I thought you might be able to help me,” I say to him. “I have a friend who loves candy. And she really, really loves orange candy.”

“I love red candy,” Leo says. “Orange is okay, but it’s not my favorite.”

“You have good taste. What we need to do is to open all these packages and pick out the orange ones. Maybe some other flavors, but no blue.”

“Why?”

“She hates blue.”

“I love blue!”

“That’s what I said, but she doesn’t like it. Can you help?” Leo nods, gaze locked on the bright-colored packages. He’s taken to stroking a bag of Skittles with his index finger, too well-mannered to ask what I’m doing with the remainder of the candy. “Oh, I almost forgot—you can have what’s left.”

He squeals with happiness.

***

Leo sits on the couch with his toys and candy while Paul and I pack their things. Clothes, mostly, along with a few pictures and weapons. Paul produces a black baseball bat from the side of the bar and swings it through the air, then passes it to me. “Check this out.”

It’s just under three feet and made of heavy plastic, with a weighted striking end. It could definitely do some damage. White lettering on the side says BROOKLYN SMASHER.

“Polypropylene,” Paul says. “Guaranteed unbreakable. I kept it by the bed for self-defense. Works great. One good swing and—” he makes a squishing sound while he swings an imaginary bat at a head. “Got a Halligan, too.”

He produces a steel tool about two-and-a-half feet long. I’ve seen it at the firehouse and know it’s for prying doors, but I didn’t know its name. On one end of the central bar is a slightly curved two-prong fork. The other is an adze, with a spike jutting out at a 90 degree angle. He trades me the bat for the Halligan. After the lightweight bat, my hand dips with the Halligan’s bulk.

“Heavy,” I say.

“About ten pounds, but that ten pounds works to your advantage on skull.”

“I’ll bet.” I hand it back and point to the Glock 19 on the bar. “Where’d you get that?”

“Off a dead cop. I have a SIG, too. You know how many guns there are out there? NYPD had about forty thousand officers, and even if they weren’t on duty, they sure as shit had their pieces on them.”

That could make for a brutal war, at least until the ammo is gone. I’m surprised I haven’t heard more gunshots. But, then again, I haven’t seen many people.

We manage to fit everything into Leo’s school backpack, a backpack of Paul’s, and a duffel bag. The duffel bag holds things that can be left behind if necessary, and I notice Paul carefully tucks a couple of pictures of Hannah in his pack. By the time we’re done, Leo is asleep on the couch. Paul says he wakes easily these days, so we’ll have to share the mattress on the floor unless I want a kid bouncing off the walls into the wee hours. We sit on the mattress, where he shines the flashlight on Leo to be sure he sleeps, then says, “Thanks, bro. I think I’m finally full.”

“Why didn’t you go to the apartment? You know there’s food.”

“I wasn’t sure it was still there. Wasn’t sure I’d make it with Leo. After Hannah—” He chokes on her name and rests his forehead on his fist.

I want to ask where she is, but part of me doesn’t want to know. I lay a hand on his shoulder. He drags in a few breaths and pats my arm with his, then raises his head and continues, “I got home Saturday morning, after the bridges were down. Once that happened, we all left the firehouse. No one was going to leave their family unprotected. Fuck that. We’d just made a Costco run, so we split the food. I got home, filled the tub with water and went out for some supplies. The streets were nuts. Cars everywhere. People looting and cops shooting and shit. I got some more food and figured I’d go out again once it quieted down.”

He gazes at the door, where faint remnants of orange are visible in the sky above the garage. “Next day was pretty quiet. We still had radio, but the power was out in some neighborhoods. They said there was flooding all over Brooklyn and they were shutting off water but that even if they didn’t, we were losing pressure, so to fill your tub and every container you could find. You know they said there’d be food drops?”

“I know it didn’t happen.”

He gives a short laugh. “Nope, and they promised us water trucks. Didn’t happen either. I told the neighbors about their water heaters,” he shrugs, “but we heard them a couple days later. Fighting each other. I went outside. Some of them were out of food, so I said I’d help out. Mrs. Connelly and Mr. Henry were too old to go for themselves, and I was thinking I’d get some more for us while I was at it. Stupidest fucking idea I ever had.”

His fist connects with his thigh. His teeth crunch.

“Paul, you did what—”

He shakes his head, almost snarling, though it isn’t directed at me. “I was talking to this one neighbor, Ricky, about how much food we had left. No big deal, everyone was, and I lowballed it. And then half of us got stuck behind some zombies. By the time I got back, Hannah was gone. The front door was open and there were zombies in the driveway. Leo said Ricky knocked on the door and said I’d sent him, that I was hurt. She put Leo in the basement and told him not to move while she checked. He was our neighbor—of course she believed him.”

His voice has sped up, trying to get this over with. “Leo won’t tell me what happened, says he doesn’t know, but when I got back she was gone and all the food was gone and the fucking blood…”

His big shoulders quiver. I pull him close, glad I only ate those peanuts with the way my stomach tightens. Hannah, possibly torn apart, most likely a zombie, over food she would’ve shared with the guy if he had only asked. The same way Leo offered to share his cupcake. And now Leo doesn’t have a mother. Paul’s mom died of cancer before I met him, and I know he has to be feeling this on many levels. It’s just him and Leo the way it was just him and his dad. My mom always gave Paul extra attention—a big hug, advice, a kind word, and a kick in the ass when he needed one. He even called her Ma. Leo doesn’t remember her, but she spent plenty of time doting on him when he was a baby.

“God, Paul, I’m so sorry.” I have to force the words through my tight throat.

He wipes his face on his sleeve. “I should’ve let them all die.”

“Paul—”

“Don’t fucking say it, bro.”

I shake my head, although I want to shake
him
and scream that it’s not his fault. I know Paul, he’ll only get pissed. He’ll figure it out at some point, but he won’t do anything if forced.

“I fed him to the zombies.” His top lip curls. “I found Ricky the next day and tied him to a fence. Blew a whistle until they came, and then I watched and took that bat to his head when they were done.”

Instead of a sick feeling at the image of that body on the fence down the block, satisfaction courses through me. Ricky had only himself to blame. “Good.”

He nods once. “Everyone left for one of the Safe Zones after that and never came back. We were waiting in case Hann…” He shakes his head. “And that’s the story. I’m not going to talk about it again, all right?”

“All right. I’m so sorry, Paul. You know how I loved—”

“I do.” He gulps from a water bottle, sets it down, and his eyes clear for the first time since I arrived. “Thanks for coming, bro. I wasn’t kidding. You coming here was a miracle.”

I half laugh.

“No, really, it was. I was going to drop Leo off at the monastery. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. I don’t know. I kept putting it off.”

“What? What monastery?”

“You know, the one with the nuns and the wall.”

Close by is a monastery where a group of nuns live and teach. It takes up an entire city block, with the church building and school in front and I have no idea what in the back. A wall, maybe twenty feet high, starts at the buildings and circles the block at the sidewalk—a little piece of the Middle Ages that time traveled to present day. When we were young, we’d wonder what the nuns did in there while we played handball against the wall.