The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (16 page)

The white curtains on the two street-facing windows are drawn and every so often a shadow passes by. Rachel’s eyes flick that way every time one does. Finally, she whispers, “Please go.”

I take a deep breath. “You might not be infected.”

“Eric…” Rachel looks as if she pities
me
. “I knew it would happen. I did. I half-wanted it to, I was tired of waiting for it.”

That’s her calm. The worst has finally happened. I rip open the bag of pasta and try not to choke on the lump in my throat. How can you want to die, no matter how bad it is? I never want to reach that point. Don’t think it’s possible.

“Hey,” she whispers, “look at me.” She wears a gentle smile. The one from years ago. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. “I don’t want to live like this. My brother, my parents, Nath—I don’t want it.”

A band works its way around my chest, tightening and tightening until I gasp for oxygen. Rachel stands and leads me to sit on the couch. Her arm snakes around my waist, her head on my chest jostled by my short sobs. It’s impossible that she’s given up. That being one of them is preferable to the promise of life. Of
something
.

We hold each other as the street becomes shadowed, the air grows chilled, and Rachel grows warmer. “Eric?” she whispers. I make a noise and she continues, “I don’t want you to do it. To me. I’ll do it.”

As much as I don’t want to consider it, I’ve done nothing but that for the past hours. Waiting until she dies,
if
she dies, is the only way. Maybe there’s a moment between death and rebirth. I’ll wait. If not, I’ll take care of her after she turns.

She winces when I shift. She removed her coat as the fever rose and, when I check, even the dim light is enough to see the dark purple skin around the wound.

“Before I’m too weak,” she says.

“No, I will, when…” I say, and search for words that say she’s dying without actually admitting it. There are none. I’m not protecting her from anything she doesn’t know, but I still can’t make it real.

She tenses but says, “Okay.”

***

I keep an ear on her breathing as the night passes, my hand on her side to feel the expansion of her ribs. She’s so hot. Burning up and letting out a soft moan from time to time. It seems painful but also peaceful, at least this way.

Eventually, morning light fills the room. I ease out from under her, and she opens her eyes. “Bathroom,” I say.

She nods and pulls herself to sitting with an effort. Sweat has darkened her hair to brown. “Hand me my bag?”

I place it by her on the couch. “Are you okay for a minute?”

“Of course,” she whispers.

When I reach the door, she whispers my name. Her eyes are shockingly blue from the blush of her face. “Remember how I said you were amazing and loyal?” she asks. I shrug. “Well, I said some other stuff, too, and I’m sorry for that. Don’t ever change, no matter what. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known, Prat.”

I choke at the nickname. It’s a thank you for Grant. She closes her eyes. “Go, before you pee your pants.”

A small laugh escapes as I walk into the yard, although I can’t find my voice. I want to tell her that she’s a good person, too. That I’m sorry we parted ways, even if it was for the best—even sorrier that we have to part this way.

Soon enough, she won’t understand a word I say. Dread weakens my legs at the thought of those blue eyes turned pale and hungry. I’ll tell her now. We’ll talk until she can’t and then I’ll hold her until she’s gone. I refuse to envision the step after that—I’ll deal with that then.

I’m on my return when a shot echoes out the back door. I freeze in the silence that follows, in the moment before the groans on the street resume in earnest, and then drag my feet to the doorway. Maybe she did it to save me from the chore. Maybe because of my angry words in Grant’s basement. Because of them, I’ll never get to say my final words. The important ones.

The already dim room goes black. I want to jump the fence to the street and tear the heads off the motherfuckers that moan and pace, safety be damned. But revenge only works with humans, and they aren’t human. I kick the doorjamb and scream. The zombies gurgle and choke even louder.

“Fuck you!” I scream, my throat burning. “Fuck you, motherfuckers!”

She died alone while I pissed in a backyard in Philadelphia. It doesn’t make it any better that she wanted it this way. The mess that covers the wall behind her and the thought of her trembling finger on the trigger are infinitely worse than putting her to rest quietly. And, worst of all, I didn’t say goodbye.

I didn’t want to do it, but I would’ve. And now I know that it would’ve been preferable to the crushing guilt that whispers for me to find Rachel’s gun and follow her lead. But I won’t—even surrounded by death, I want to survive. I don’t want to be alone, no matter if it involves people and loss and hard choices. I won’t shrink from this choice again. I won’t let them see my doubt. I’ll say what I want to say before it’s too late.

I try to hold back the sobs that threaten to escape, try to forget Rachel is in there. But the zombies on the street won’t stop; they won’t allow me to forget. Their hisses rebound off the old brick and through the yards until it becomes a cacophony. I sink to the patio with my head on my arms and cry—for Rachel, for Grant, for myself, for everyone else. Maybe the zombies can hear me over their own noises. Maybe they can’t. It doesn’t matter—it’s either cry or turn the gun on myself.

Chapter 22

I’ve sorted all the essentials into my pack without looking Rachel’s way. I want to bury her, but the yards are the hard-packed dirt of the city. Even with my small spade in soft earth, it would take hours to dig a hole large enough. I consider burning the house down. But I don’t know who, if anyone, hides nearby, and smoking them out of their hidey-hole and into the arms of zombies would be a dick move.

In the end, I wrap her in a sheet from upstairs and set her deep in the ivy to let the earth do its job. That’s what she would have wanted, anyway.

I want to say
I’m sorry, Rach
. I want to thank her. But, if she can see me from wherever she is, she already knows. Tears well up, but I’m done crying. Done with the guilt. She’s given me a gift. I’m sure she knew it was, and I’m going to accept it. I would have done the same to myself to spare her the job, and I would be pissed if she wasted it whining about the fact that she didn’t get to kill me. In her last act, she’s rescued me the way I spent the past days rescuing her.

I clip the buckles of my pack and test its weight. Heavy, but I’ve carried heavier. I find my way to the roof and walk from house to house until I’m down the block, then turn back to where dozens of zombies wander the narrow street near my bike.

I clear my throat. “Hey!” Gray heads swivel. I knock a stick on the side of the building. “I’m going to leave now, on my bicycle, so if you’d all move down here so I can do that, it would be much appreciated.”

Feet shuffle my way. Their eyes lock on me, mouths agape. “Yes, yes, I know, delicious human up here. Come and get it.”

I think of Rachel. She wouldn’t have liked my joke, but now that I know why, I think it’s even more important that I make them. If you live waiting to die you
will
die—a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I wait until they’ve assembled below and then hightail it back across the roofs to the carriage house. I pad through the quiet rooms and hardly breathe as I click the locks. Once outside, I’ll have to move until I’m out of Philly. I need to cross the Delaware River at some point, so I’ve decided to do it sooner rather than later. Philly’s western bridges still stand, which leads me to believe the ones in North Philly do as well. New Jersey is a crapshoot, so I want to be on the right side of the water. Brooklyn is a known quantity in terms of bridge destruction, but I’ll have to see the extent of the damage before I can make a decision of how, or if, I can get onto the island.

I ease the door open. My bike is where I dropped it on the brick sidewalk. The zombies keep watch on my previous rooftop perch. It won’t be long until they notice movement. Sometimes it seems as though those translucent eyes see just as well as they ever did. Maybe better. Possibly because they’re on the hunt for one thing—they’re not distracted, they don’t fear anything. Movement is where it’s at. Any movement that might mean a meal.

Ten feet across the cracked brick sidewalk, one bend for the handlebars—slippery in my sweaty hands—and then I’m seated and pedaling before they’re on their way.

***

My dad always said I had a good sense of direction. It comes in handy, for sure, but what good is it if the zombies block you from going the way you
know
you should go? I want to head northeast, that much I can remember from the map in my pack that I can’t stop to peruse at the moment. Northeast means a couple of bridges to get me to the Jersey side of things. But a block over and two blocks up is all zombie. Five blocks north is all zombie.

The day is sunny and warm. Warm enough to heat the layer of rotten air over the city. There must be clear, fresh air up near the clouds, but it doesn’t break through the thick stench that saturates everything. The main avenues are full of roamers shambling in the broken glass amid cars. My backpack is glued to my back. Everything aches. I’m so thirsty. What I need is a good night’s sleep. But, first, I have to get away from the smell, the death, Rachel.

I pedal along streets embedded with metal rails, past discount stores in old buildings that face newer, uglier construction. I don’t know these neighborhoods, but I know north. Eventually, I’ll either be eaten by a zombie or cross the Delaware River. Come hell or high water, respectively.

A laugh sounds over the whir of the bike’s crank. Up ahead are a few dead, who aren’t known for their sense of humor, and a whole lot of ground to cover. I glance back for the source—there’s no one. Me. I’m who laughed. I’ve lost my damn mind.

The stores are upscale now. The cross streets widen. This street becomes a short tunnel under a stone and glass building. You don’t have to be a genius to know that tunnels are a bad idea. My hand brakes squeal at the intersection, and I scan left and right. The bodies that look up with interest are certainly worse than a short tunnel. I can see daylight at the other side. The light at the end of the tunnel has finally appeared—and here I thought things were bad.

At least this time I know the laugh is mine.

Chapter 23

The neighborhood changes to parking lots and chain-link fences, mismatched rowhomes and old industrial buildings that will never be converted to luxury condos. Trash-strewn lots where the trash was strewn before the virus. I can see what’s coming on the next corner, and the answer is not much. It’s time to look at the map and regroup.

I stop on the steps of a church. If only these were vampires, repelled by crosses and holy water. But that would suck, too. Vampires are smart.

“Shut up,” I mutter to myself. Debating the merits of vampires over zombies, even silently, is another sign I’m losing it.

I’ve moved a tad east, a good bit north, and I’ve missed the first bridge. On the map, the river is a thick blue line that grows progressively thinner until it reaches the next bridge. I’d bet I could swim the river if it’s not too loaded with bodies, as long as I can float my pack on something. The triathlon I did last year involved just over a mile of swimming, and I doubt the Delaware is a mile across in that spot.

I hop on my bike. The neighborhood seems to change street by street, from run-down to well-kept. Finally, after cruising down a street patched with six different shades of aged asphalt, I hit the industrial area. The long access road is clear. The river sits to my right. Shipping containers and fences block my view, but it’s there. The bridge is just ahead. Bridges, really, since there’s also a railroad bridge.

I stop just before the Betsy Ross Bridge, which was supposed to be deliverance but upon closer inspection looks more like certain death. It’s chock-full of stopped vehicles and the roving bodies of the people who drove them. To my right is an inlet. One quick jump and I could be in the river, swimming, but one quick jump and they could be, too. Not to mention the bodies already in the water. I can’t afford wet gear, wet guns or the possibility I’ll lose both in the current. I’m a good swimmer, but those are risks I’ll take when my life depends on it.

Cassie would be proud. For as long as I can remember, my sister has been on me about risk assessment. If she wasn’t an artist, she’d work for an insurance company. Why climb to the roof of the treehouse and then so far above the forest floor that one false move would mean a long fall? Why climb a mountain when you could be safe on the ground? Why trust your life to a rope, an axe, crampons? I’ve never found a good answer, but I always invite her up to see the view, to which she replies she’d accidentally kill us both on the way up. It’s true; if anyone could manage it, she could.

Once again, the train tracks will have to come to my rescue. It’s either that or try my luck with the next bridges. I turn back. A bird in the hand and all that. I carry my bike up the metal stairs set into the grassy incline of the railroad tracks.

I planned to walk the bike rather than jounce across the river on the ties, but as I near the bridge, I see the metal grate that spans the area between the tracks. It’s an empty half mile across the bridge, with no hidden spots for a zombie to lurk. For the first time in hours, maybe a week, I take a deep breath that isn’t strangled and then hop on my bike.

It’s like flying, or as close to it as I’ll get for a long time, maybe the rest of my life. American Airlines won’t be up and running anytime soon. The metal trusses whip by and the wind cools everywhere but under my pack. The Delaware runs below. Philly stands in the distance. The clouds float in a blue sky. I stop mid-river and turn my back on the Betsy Ross Bridge, where I’ve caught the eye of several dozen of them. Their moans are faint, just reaching me on the wind. If I don’t look down at the floaters in the river and concentrate on the trees, the low houses, and the skyline, I could believe this is all a dream.