The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (14 page)

Rachel is hanging in there, her breath catching only slightly when we come upon a stray zombie. We’ve reached the city, and now the tracks run in an open trench below the streets. Its earthen banks are littered with trash that preceded the apocalypse.

When the tracks join a few more rails and the very top of the Philadelphia skyline comes into view, I brake and point to the map I unfold. Rachel looks this time. “We take the tracks until they meet the road to the museum. We’re going to have to move fast.” She nods. “You sure you’re ready? We can rest for a little while.”

“I’m fine,” she says. I must look doubtful because she rests her hand on my arm, face resolute. “Really. I’m sorry about before.”

“Just don’t do that again. You scared me.”

“You got scared? That must have been weird, huh?”

I snort. Rachel likes to say I’m fearless; so does my sister. Anyone who’s fearless right now is an idiot. I’m never completely fearless when I climb or whitewater raft or even hike in the backcountry, forget in these circumstances. Lack of fear leads to carelessness and stupid mistakes.

We continue on. We’ve run into a few zombies so far, but now there are a couple every 500 feet. They’re easily avoided, especially if I stay to one side. When they move my way, Rachel shoots ahead on the opposite side of the tracks and then I follow before they can change course.

We come around a bend where the tracks closely parallel the highway and skid to a stop. Wandering carcasses cover the tracks. The highway is full of stopped vehicles. These might be the people who escaped the cars on the highway and, obviously, some didn’t make it far.

We back out of sight without a word. Rachel turns to me, eyes blue pools of panic. I spin my bike, wait for her to do the same, and we retreat a couple hundred feet to look at the map. A lower roadway also crosses the Schuylkill River. It’s bound to be packed, but Rachel agrees we should try.

“Let’s get our bikes over,” I say quietly.

The only suitable spot to get bikes across requires that we be in sight for as long as it takes us to crash through the underbrush and emerge onto the road. Then we’ll cross the upper highway to the lower one. If we can’t take that road, we’re screwed unless we swim the river. I’m sure I can do it but not so sure about Rachel. And I can’t swim it with a pack and a bicycle, so it’d have to be a last-ditch attempt to save ourselves by leaving everything behind.

We round the bend again. I give the crowd one glance to estimate the time we have and then wheel my bike into the brush that grows along the road. Pockets of zombies move between cars. Some stand in the sunlight. I lift my bike onto the asphalt and rest it against the short concrete wall, then get Rachel’s bike over.

The noise from the tracks increases. The zombies on the highway perk up. I take in our goal that sits six lanes, a divider and a wall drop away. It’s doable. I point out a route between several cars and step onto the road. Rachel doesn’t hesitate, even when one of the cars she threads past bumps from the ones trapped inside. We jump the median and navigate the next three lanes to the wall. I lower myself and our bikes, then catch Rachel by the waist on her way down.

My heart pounds as if I’ve just run a marathon. This road isn’t much better zombie-wise, but the sidewalk for foot traffic is almost clear. Rachel is on her bike first, weaving through cars to the sidewalk like a madwoman. The river flows alongside the road, bodies from somewhere upstream visible in the current. A few are stuck in the small dam, and their arms wave as we pass. Water doesn’t kill them. Only head shots—whether by bullet or blunt force. I’m discouraged but not surprised.

One or two zombies now. Maybe there were more and they left. Maybe not. I don’t care what the reason is; I’m thankful for the reprieve. The road curves to cross the river and we fly up a pedestrian path onto the main road, past the Eakins Oval and the Rocky Steps of the art museum. We ran them as a joke years ago, not caring that we looked ridiculous. Now, people who might have mistaken their height for safety topple down at the sight of us.

A zombie climbed those steps. Maybe it crawled or slithered its way up, but it made it eventually, and then it made more zombies. Their sheer persistence cannot be underestimated. I can never forget that they don’t stop. If I do, I’m dead.

The short distance goes by quickly. The streets narrow to blocks lined with brick houses, but, aside from avoiding a few dead people, we have no trouble. We stop at the corner of Grant’s block. Nothing lurks beneath the trees that line the narrow street or between the quiet rows of cars. The window boxes of the meticulously-maintained homes sprout hardy spring plants. I recognize English ivy and the tulips just beginning to bloom, of course—my mother was crazy for gardening.

Grant called Rachel to say he and some neighbors were sticking together until the streets died down. Whether they left when it quieted is unknown. I’ll give Rachel two chances—one for Grant and one for Nathan—and then we’re out of this city. We wheel our bikes along brick sidewalk that matches the houses. This is old Philly, where the warped glass of the tall, skinny windows is considered quaint and the shutters are painted in shades of Colonial blue and green.

Grant has done well for himself. I can appreciate the beauty of his block and the antiquity of the houses, but I always think of what the money he spent would buy in the country—a self-sufficient house with plenty of acreage, and with money left over for good measure. Plus, he gave the majority of his free time to a corporation to get it all, and I’d live in a yurt in Outer Mongolia before I did that. Truth be told, I might like to live in a yurt in Outer Mongolia, for a couple of months, anyway.

Nothing is smashed or broken. No bodies, either. It’s as if we’ve stumbled into the old world. Everywhere we’ve been, except the woods, has had some glaring reminder of our new world. In a city like Philly, money insulates you from the realities of the dilapidated houses and hopelessness. And, apparently, in this neighborhood it kept away some of the realities of the apocalypse, too.

“Don’t say it,” Rachel whispers. Her cheeks have turned a rosy shade I haven’t seen in days. She’s excited, hopeful, and the white teeth straightened by braces in her youth gleam.

“Say what?”

“How this was all bought with blood money.”

I smile. I joke around, but Grant is a good guy. I rib him about selling his soul and he calls me Prat, short for proletariat, every chance he gets, making sure I’m well aware it rhymes with brat.

Rachel has made a joke. It’s good news. I want her optimism at the empty street to be justified. To all outward appearances, the apocalypse hasn’t touched it, but it feels as though it has. I can sense it in my bones and in the way my skin tingles with apprehension.

We pass another set of marble steps. These have a smattering of dried brown drops that could be blood. I tighten my grip on the knife I clench against my handlebars. At Grant’s house, we lean our bikes against the brick and I look through a window. The living room is dark and the furniture all in place. Rachel unzips a small pocket of her pack. There’s no sense breaking in when she has keys. I’ve brought my keys, too. I keep the Brooklyn apartment and cabin keys on my dad’s old keychain—a compass-slash-thermometer—that they pulled from the wreckage of my parents’ car. Someone cleaned it, although the perpetrator of that simple kindness remains a mystery. When Sam, the sheriff, handed me the envelope with their things and I pulled it out, it shone like it hadn’t in years.

Rachel opens the door to a silent foyer. Grant’s coat hangs by the hall mirror, shoes on the floor, and his other coats hang in the closet. He’s well-ordered and only leaves out the things he wears daily. He hasn’t left if he’s kept to his same habits.

We walk past the silent living room. The kitchen’s marble counters and Thermador Pro appliance suite—I still have no idea what that is, except that Grant was thrilled about it—are the same as ever. The only thing out of place is the back door, which is held open about five inches by a magazine wedged under the bottom. The small landscaped yard is shady and vacant. Grant has a cat, Kiki, and he’s left many large bowls of water and cat food on the black and white-tiled kitchen floor. He never lets Kiki outside, too afraid she’ll be hurt by a dog or car, but she often darts out before he can stop her. It’s possible he fled for safety and was unable to take her with him. Maybe this was his attempt to keep her alive until he got back. But it doesn’t explain the coat and shoes.

The office room, once a pantry, is in order. I follow Rachel to the stairs by the front door. There are two more floors to check.

“Your knife,” I whisper, gesturing to her bag by the stairs.

The pink in her cheeks pales some, but she does as I say. I curse the creaking treads while I climb to the second floor, but the bedroom is empty, the bathroom with its large soaking tub—still not clear on that one; I’m pretty sure all tubs are for soaking—is spotless.

Rachel’s shoulders drop at Grant’s made bed. Her chin trembles. She’s pinned her hopes on her brother, just as I’ve pinned mine on Cassie. A vacant apartment, an empty cabin, will mean I’m alone in the world. My parents are dead, but I’ve always had my sister. Rachel’s parents are on vacation in England, and, barring a miracle, I don’t see how we’ll locate them in the next decade.

I have no idea where Grant might have gone. No comfort to give. There isn’t a way to find him. There were treatment centers and Safe Zones at first, but they fell quickly. Either zombies or—as we saw in the news footage—people, broke in, leaving the Safe Zones defenseless against the zombies that followed.

I brush her cheek with my thumb, curling my fingers under her chin. Each blink of her eyes brings a new tear. I overlook how angry I was only hours ago. Maybe Grant is out there, maybe Cassie is, but right now all we have is each other. “I’m sorry, Rach.”

She closes her eyes. Her tears make tracks on her cheeks like a little kid who’s fallen in the dirt. I draw her close and she nestles her head into my chest. Her hair smells of dirt and death, but I rest my cheek on it anyway and let her warmth soak in. It’s familiar. She’s familiar. I can pretend all the nights when we tried to see a way to a future together, and failed, never happened. I can almost believe we’re somewhere else: hiking, camping, anywhere but in an abandoned house in a dead city. It’s the old days. I need those old days.

A creak comes from the floor above. Rachel doesn’t hear it over her sobs and doesn’t notice how I stiffen. It could be Kiki. I want it to be Kiki. But even a creaky 200-year-old house doesn’t creak that loudly from an eight-pound cat.

When the footsteps begin, Rachel pulls back with a strangled sound. I raise my hand for her to stay put and move to the stairs. The previous owners installed a door at the top of the third floor. Grant uses the floor for storage and a guest space, so he left it there for privacy.

I stare at the dark wood door that matches the rest of the house’s woodwork. A rectangular white shape is stuck to the middle. Between the dim of the partially-walled stairs and the distance, I can’t make out what it is. The wood squeaks under my boots. Rachel whimpers from the base of the stairs, but I don’t turn. I’ll stop if I do. Bad news waits at the top of the steps, I know that much.

I’m quiet but not quiet enough. The footsteps reach the door and shadows move in the gap between door and floor. A brushing sound. A grunt. I close the final three steps and squint at the sheet of paper taped to the door. My flashlight is in my pack. I carefully pull it off and creep down to Rachel.

I hold it out—it’s her right to read it first—but she backs away. It reads:

To whom it may concern:

If you hear something behind this door, don’t open it. I was bitten on the arm. I took every pill in my house before I locked myself up here, but I’m afraid it won’t work. I would’ve used a gun if I had one. If you can, if I’m one of them, please kill me. I can’t imagine hurting anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

If my cat, Kiki, is still here, please take care of her. If this is Rachel, I love you. Tell Mom and Dad I love them. Don’t be afraid to finish it. I don’t want to be like the people out there. Be safe and know that I thought of you all until the very end. You are the best family I could have hoped for. I love you all so much. So much.

Grant

“What does it…?” Rachel asks. Her voice carries up the stairway. A hollow moan filters through the door.

Grant. Sweat streams down my back and legs. I stare at his handwriting. It’s hastily scribbled, especially toward the end, where the letters wobble and slant. As if the words aren’t bad enough, I can
see
his heartache.

“Read it,” she whispers through stiff lips.

I can’t. I can’t say the words and I can’t chance that Grant will hear and moan louder. In what has been a week of horror and misery, Grant’s plea for death is the most horrible thing yet. Even if you kill yourself once infected, you’ll turn. If you have an intact brain, you’ll turn. There are no signs of struggle. He’d known not to leave. And they still got him. Maybe he went out looking for Kiki. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe—

Thump. Rattle.
It doesn’t matter how.

Rachel takes the paper from my hand. I don’t think she notices when she lets out a moan eerily similar to her brother’s. The paper glides to the floor and slides a few feet before it hits the baseboard. Her chest bucks soundlessly.

As I feared, her eyes dart to the door and then to me. I recognize the blue gaze that entreats me to do something. I always have in the past. I’ve painted the house, cleaned the bathroom or went to her parents’ social gatherings rather than do something infinitely more fun. I didn’t mind. She did the same for me many times. Maybe I have my own please-do-this-for-me expression.

But this is too much. It isn’t a simple chore. And, even as I shake my head in refusal, my knife hand rises. I can’t leave him like that.

“Don’t watch,” I say. My voice is gruff and sharp.