The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (27 page)

“They were almost dead, but they’re fine now. Idiots wanted to eat them right away. Because they can’t think ahead.” He taps his temple. “We have four goats. They can make goat babies, you know what I mean? We got two roosters with the chickens. Why would you cook them up when we could have more chickens? I’m telling you—
people
.” He shakes his head.

“We were thinking of trying to get seeds in Bay Ridge,” Maria says. “We’ll get some for you, if you want to plant in the park.”

“Hell yeah we want. We can come—just let me know when.”

Maria nods. Guillermo jumps from the wall, leads us around the corner to the limestone three-story homes that face the park, and bounds up the steps of one.

He leads us through rooms similar to our parlor floor: living room, a smaller room, and then the dining room alongside the kitchen, although his has a back door onto a deck. The fences have been razed and the yards are a checkerboard of grass and concrete like ours. Close to twenty people clear debris or hammer on the two outhouses being built at one end. Two chickens peck under a table. The goats are penned in one yard by repurposed fencing, although Guillermo tells us they bring them to the park to graze.

An older woman with long brown hair waves and comes our way. Maria walks down the deck stairs to hug her and then does the same to a teenage girl with the same full lips and light eyes as the woman.

“This is Lupe and her daughter Marissa, Guillermo’s mother and sister,” Maria says once we’ve joined them. She turns to Lupe. “Guillermo’s really taken charge.”

Lupe nods and then says, “He’s a real estate mogul now. Thinks he owns all these houses, don’t you,
mijo
?” She pinches his cheek, which has reddened slightly, but it’s obvious she’s proud.

“Hey, they came cheap, Ma,” he says.

Lupe gives him an indulgent smile and says to us, “Make yourselves at home. Are you hungry?”

We decline her offer of food and wander the yard. Guillermo points out the barbecue areas, where they’ve set up cooking stations, and brings us to a heavyset man who fusses with a rectangular black and yellow contraption that must be a generator. Guillermo explains who we are, and the man’s already sun-wrinkled face creases in welcome.

“Name’s Gary. USMC, retired.”

“Gary’s getting the generator working,” Guillermo says.

Gary nods and pulls his sweaty t-shirt away from his ample stomach. “Lot of gas in the cars out there. You can cook by throwing a little gas on sand and lighting it up, but you could also blow yourself straight to hell. With this, we could cook on hot plates. Maybe get some lights going.”

I’m immediately jealous. We need a generator. Jorge must agree, because he eyes it as if it’s a pinup girl.

“You’ll figure it out,” Guillermo says, and claps Gary’s shoulder. “I’m keeping my eyes open for another. If we ever get to that Home Depot, we’ll have more generators than we know what to do with.”

We continue the tour. I sometimes think we make an unlikely foursome, but this is a cross-section of Brooklyn. Older people, younger people, a spectrum of ethnicities and types—from an older woman with a headscarf to a young guy with a fauxhawk and skinny jeans. They’re up to thirty-two residents now.

“Did all these people live on this block?” Grace asks.

Guillermo shakes his head. “Most went with the Guard. Sixteen of us are from my apartment building. We stayed there until it died down some and then we moved here together. Didn’t know all of them before, even though I saw them all the time.”

I knew all my neighbors before my father left and we moved around too much for me to get to know anyone. Nowadays, you nod hello and get into your apartment as fast as possible. Or I do.

“You should move here,” Guillermo says. “All of you.”

“Well, Grace and I are going to Brooklyn Heights soon,” I say.

Grace flashes me a grateful look. Maria goes still. She is not happy about this, which is partly why I reminded her. I have a feeling no time is going to be a good time for Maria. And the truth is I don’t know if I want to leave, but we will at some point, so I remind myself of that fact every time we find an unopened box of cereal or can of soup. I try not to think about how I’ll miss Maria and Jorge when we do.

“Think about it,” Guillermo says in the awkward silence and waves his hand at the yard. “Maybe we’ll be a Safe Zone like Stuyvesant Town soon.”

“What do you know about that place?” Jorge asks.

“Not much,” Guillermo says. “But I bet they have walls. You ever been there?” Jorge nods and the rest of us shake our heads.

Guillermo continues, “I have a friend who lives there. Big apartment buildings with their own streets. Playgrounds and stuff. The city had water when we didn’t. You know it’s all gravity-fed? Manhattan might still have it, but have you seen the bridges?” This time we all shake our heads. “Fucked up. I mean, maybe you could get across, but I’m not trying that shit.”

I agree with that statement wholeheartedly. Guillermo introduces us around, and either Guillermo’s lucky, people suck less than I think, or the zombie apocalypse has motivated everyone to get along, because every last person is exceptionally friendly.

Micah, the kid with the dark fauxhawk, is twenty-two and from somewhere out west. He tugs on the legs of his skinny jeans. “Can you believe this? It’s totally crazy.” His voice is slow and languid even as he rocks nervously on the balls of his loafer-clad feet.

“Yeah, it’s pretty crazy all right,” I say, to which he nods emphatically.

“So, are you guys, like, staying?”

“No, we’re just visiting. We’ve got our own place.”

“Cool.”

I move two steps and he follows. I back up and he keeps pace. I don’t think he has the hots for me; he’s a lost puppy. “Do you know anyone here?” I ask. “From before?”

“No. My roommate went to his girlfriend’s. I didn’t want to go, and then it was too late. I’ve only been in Brooklyn for two months. I wish I’d stayed in Oregon.” His brown eyes moisten and he gnaws his lower lip.

I look around for Grace, but she and Maria stand with Lupe and Marissa, having what appears to be a normal conversation. Why Micah decided to seek solace in me, of all people, I have no idea. I pat his head and then realize I’m patting his head as though he
is
a puppy, but he seems to like it and I don’t know what else to do. “Hey, you don’t know what it’s like out west. It hit there first. You might be safer here.”

“You really think so?” he asks in a small voice.

I give him an extra-good pat and drop my hand. “Definitely. This place is great.” Jorge circles his finger in the air. “We have to go. But hang in there, okay?”

Micah nods and throws his arms around me. I pat his back and look to Guillermo, who watches us with a giant grin. When I’ve extricated myself and we’re out of earshot, Guillermo says, “Sorry ‘bout that. Micah.”

“I didn’t expect a hug, that’s all.”

His laugh is full and loud. Everything about Guillermo is exuberant and enthusiastic in a way that makes you want to be a part of it. “Micah hugs everyone. He’s all right, though.”

Carlos comes up from behind. “He needs to grow a pair.”

Guillermo speaks to Carlos in rapid-fire Spanish, and, by the end of it, Carlos studies his shoes. Guillermo winks at me. “I asked Carlos who pissed his pants first time he killed a Lexer.”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t tell me. Lemme guess. You?”

Guillermo roars with laughter and glances at Carlos, whose cheeks burn with mortification. “That’s right. Me.”

Chapter 38

I haven’t yet gotten around to building the solar oven. Maria and I have conspired to design a dinner menu that requires we boil water, in order to brew coffee for the morning. But, as we run out of pasta and the weather warms, we should use that sunshine to cook food and, one hopes, brew coffee. Even if most edibles are gone from the surrounding houses, the coffee remains. And there are boxes of cake mix in the basement that have just passed their expiration date. So far, Maria has resisted any attempt to make cake on the stove, but she’ll have no excuse with an oven. I want cake so badly I can taste it. Or I can’t taste it, which is the problem.

Armed with my instructional tome, cardboard boxes, duct tape, glue and tinfoil, I sit in the upstairs living room. Jorge comes down the stairs from the third floor, where he was checking the roofs. “You need help?”

“I don’t think so. It looks pretty easy.”

He sits on the couch anyway, watching me fit one box into the other and shove newspaper into the empty space between the sides. “Insulation,” I say, and tape the space closed.

I glue tinfoil into the oven space inside the smaller box. I’m not a big fan of fake flowers and hot glue guns, but survival crafting is fun. I can already smell the coffee brewing.

“Let me do something,” Jorge offers.

I hand him the pieces of cardboard I’ve cut to size, along with the roll of tin foil. “These need to be covered on one side. They’re reflectors.”

He pulls out a sheet of tinfoil. I’m happily gluing when he says, “I was a junkie and an alcoholic.”

I press down a bubble before I look up. Jorge watches me cautiously. “Okay,” I say. “I figured it was something like that.”

Maybe I’m supposed to run screaming from the room, but it seems as if half the world was an addict at one point or another. The Jorge I know is what’s important.

“That’s why I don’t know where my son is,” Jorge says. “I fucked up his life and he never forgave me. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

I nod. His kid is a better man than I am. “How long sober?”

“Ten years. Today.” He pulls a bronze-colored coin from his pocket. I know those Anonymous coins that mark length of sobriety well, although Mom only ever reached 60 days. “Looks like I won’t get my ten-year coin, though.”

“Congratulations. And he still wouldn’t talk to you?”

Jorge shrugs, but his eyes are as shiny as the foil he’s unknowingly crumpled in his fist. “I was a shitty father. Left him and his mother to fend for themselves. I stole and lied. I did whatever I needed to do for my next shot. I couldn’t see past my addiction, but I never stopped loving him, not for one minute.”

My pulse speeds up and I accidentally tear a rip in my foil. If this is an attempt to get me to see things from Mom’s perspective, it won’t work. She doesn’t deserve a perspective. “Maybe that’s true in your case, Jorge. But, honestly, I don’t give a shit if my mother
loved me
when she locked me out for the weekend when I was nine, or when she sold our food stamps and I had no dinner for a month.”

I clomp to the hall for the picture frame I plan to use, pull out the print and drop it to the floor. What I need is the frame and glass. What I also need is people staying out of my business. I take a few deep breaths and reenter the living room as Jorge tosses his crumpled foil into a wicker basket across the room.

“Two points,” he says with a peacemaking smile. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was telling my story, not your mom’s. Believe me, I’ve seen some parents who couldn’t care less about their kids. I’ve been wanting to talk to you since you said that about her cooking up a shot. I asked Grace, and she said she died an addict. I guess I wanted to check in.” He gives a short laugh. “But I’m not doing a good job of it.”

I remind myself that I’m angry at one person, and that person is not Jorge. He only told me so I’d know he gets it. I’m sure he wants to celebrate his ten years with someone who would understand what an accomplishment it is. It took nerve to tell me about his past, knowing what he knows about me, and I gave him shit in return. Jorge doesn’t deserve that.

“I’m sorry, Jorge.” He lifts his hands as if no apology is necessary, but I find that this one is easy to make. “No, it wasn’t fair of me to jump down your throat. It’s a bit of a sore subject, as you’ve probably gathered. I know you always mean well—I’d be dead if not for you.”

“We all help each other out.”

I think of Kearney; that’s not true in the slightest. “But we all don’t run back into a hospital full of zombies to save people we hardly know.”

“We all don’t get a dialysis machine for someone we hardly know, either,” he says, eyebrows lifted, and I shrug. “You should’ve seen me—down to a hundred-twenty pounds, living on the street—it’s a miracle I’m still alive. When I got clean, I promised myself I would try to do the right thing to make up for all the wrong I did. The rest of my life felt like borrowed time. I didn’t want to waste it.”

“I think you’re more than even. The hospital alone has to be worth a couple past murders.”

Jorge’s shoulders jump with a laugh, but his eyes don’t lose their sheen. “I thought he’d forgive me one day. I could wait him out, even if it took twenty years. But now,” he shakes his head, “not much point.”

Jorge hides his pain, and shame, well. I sink to my knees beside him. It would be futile to say his son might be alive, waiting to forgive him—the chance of that is infinitesimal.

“The point is
you
. And you don’t know—maybe he would’ve forgiven you eventually.”

“Would you have forgiven your mom?”

“If my mother had gotten ten years, I…” I stop to consider. “I don’t know, really, because I can’t even imagine ten months. But I like to think we would’ve worked things out eventually. She had her mean moments, but she was more of the neglectful type. Did you…” I try to imagine Jorge hitting a wife or son. I can’t, but, as he said, people do whatever they need to for that next shot.

“God, no. I stole and lied, but I never hurt them that way. Neglectful is a good description.”

“And an awesome childhood experience,” I say brightly, and bump his knee when he tries not to smile. “C’mon, if we can’t joke about child neglect, what
can
we joke about? At least he had his mom, right?”

“Thank God for that. She forgave me, at least. I tried to do right by them when I got clean.”

“But you’ve been doing the right thing for you, not just for him. And what you do matters because
you’re
still here.”

“I know.” Jorge pats my shoulder. “Here I am, wanting to check in with you, and I made it all about me.”