“Will he eat it?” Leo asks. The cat looks up warily at the sound.
“We’ll see.”
After many starts and stops, it reaches the food and gobbles it down. I run a single finger along the spiky fur on its head, and it gives me a furtive glance before it resumes eating. I use two fingers the next time. “Yes, you’re a good kitty. We have a nice, safe yard for you here, all you have to do is agree to stay.”
The cat leans in when my fingers get behind its ear. I scratch under his chin and feel the rumble of a purr.
“You want to try?” I whisper to Leo, who nods. “Let’s get him closer so you don’t have to move.” I hold out a finger and it edges near, then I rest my hand in my lap. “Let it come to us.”
It circles around. We don’t react as it bumps my arm, rubs along my back, and then does the same to Leo. After another circuit, it rubs its head on Leo’s chin. Leo scratches its neck. I can hear the purr from where I sit.
Leo laughs. “He’s nice.”
I peek under its tail. It must be neutered because it definitely isn’t a girl. “Yes, and it
is
a he. But still, be gentle.”
Leo’s calmer than I thought a weapons-crazed kindergartener could be. There’s a gentleness, a sweetness that makes being with him easy. I don’t know that I was ever that way as a child. The cat winds around in our laps, falling all over himself and our hands.
“Look at him,” I say. “He sure wanted love.”
“Then why was he scared?” Leo asks.
“Deep-seated kittenhood issues, quite possibly.”
I turn at a laugh from behind. Eric sits in a chair watching the evening’s entertainment. I didn’t know he was there, or that anyone could hear me, but I smile.
“What’s seated kitten issues?” Leo asks.
“It means he wasn’t sure he could trust us. If we forced ourselves on him he might’ve been too scared, and then maybe he wouldn’t have come back.”
Leo is in ecstasy, both hands stroking the cat and kissing its head when it butts his chin. “I love him so much.”
I slide my hand down the black and white fur. I think we have a cat. A cat who could use a serious brushing, since even dry, his fur is spiky. But I kind of love him, too. “What should we name him?”
“Dark Paw?” Leo asks.
“That sounds like a bad guy name,” I say in a diplomatic fashion and try not to laugh. I’m thinking letting the five-year-old name the cat is not the best idea. “Besides, his paws are white.”
Leo nods seriously. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Let’s call him Cat while we decide.”
Eric still sits behind us. I’ve mulled over all the possibilities and come to the conclusion that I need to ask for help, even though I don’t want to. After a few minutes, when moving won’t scare Cat, I make myself walk to Eric’s chair. “It’s the Cat Whisperer,” he says. “Nice work.”
“Isn’t he cute?”
Eric scratches his jaw, eyes on Leo and Cat’s lovefest. “I’m not sure cute is the best word to describe that particular feline specimen.”
“What are you trying to say about my cat?”
“He looks like someone threw a can of black paint at a white cat and then called it a day. In the cutest possible way.”
I laugh because it’s true. “Okay, but he’s still cute. In a nonconformist cute sort of way. Look at his big ears and his eyes. He’s unique.”
“He most definitely is that.”
“I didn’t come over here for you to insult the most handsome cat who ever walked, I came to ask for help.”
“You? Help?” I give him a slow blink, and he raises his hands. “Okay, sorry. What’s up? Meaning tell me in detail what you need and I’ll do my best to oblige.”
This guy is a real smart-ass. “Grace wants to go home. I promised we’d go the day after tomorrow.”
He straightens up while his brow lowers. Everyone will want to talk Grace out of this, but they won’t be able to. Besides, she’s waited long enough.
“I have to,” I continue, “but I was wondering if you and Jorge…” I was going to ask them to come, but this is no small favor. And it puts him in a situation where he seems like a jerk if he says no. I wouldn’t blame him if he said no—it would be the rational choice. Eric stands, about to speak, but I cut him off. “Forget it. Can you forget that? Seriously, I’m not—”
“Sylvie, stop talking,” Eric says, loud enough that I do. “I almost said be quiet, but I thought better of it. Of course I’ll go, and I know Jorge will. I don’t know about Paul, but if Maria stays with Leo, I’m sure he’ll come.”
The heavy, troubled fog that’s followed me all afternoon lifts. I’m not sure I have the right to ask them to risk their lives for us, but I’m so grateful they will. “I really appreciate it. A lot. And Grace will, too. I owe you big t—”
Eric rests his hands on my shoulders. “Breathe.”
I fill my lungs. The warmth of his hands spreads to my feet, and it kicks meditation’s ass. He moves close, eyes vivid enough to send me into cardiac arrest. “I still owe you for saving my life.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“This isn’t for you—it’s help for Grace. Therefore, I still owe you.” I shake my head. He nods. “I like to owe you something.”
“Who likes to owe people?”
“Me.”
I could argue, but I can’t think of a good argument when he’s so near. Plus, as Eric probably says, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth—especially when it’s offering to fight zombies alongside you and give you processed sugar. So I say, “I take payment in cupcakes.”
Chapter 74
Jorge doesn’t so much agree to go as insist. When I tell Grace about their offer just before bed, her lips tighten. “I didn’t want anyone to come.”
I try not to lose my patience with her, since this is something I would say—
would’ve
said—and she’s put up with me for years. I manage, but it’s difficult. She probably deserves a thank you card or something. “They want to, so too bad. Grace, this is a good thing. We have a much better chance with more people. We can make a plan. They can move them out of the way for us to get through.”
“Fine,” she says, and hops in bed without another word.
It takes me longer than usual to fall asleep, but I still wake fifteen minutes before my watch shift, which is the most unpopular time of night and happens to coincide with when I’m already up. It’s pretty much the same thing I did before—listen obsessively for sounds that mean imminent death while reading—only now it’s deemed productive instead of bonkers.
I hear a noise in the yard at dawn. It’s a quiet clunk, but I rush to the back windows of the parlor floor. It’s probably Cat, who wouldn’t come inside no matter how I cajoled.
It’s Grace. She wears a pack and rolls a bike toward Hipster Zombie House. I grab my bag and sneakers and tiptoe-run as fast as I can down the stairs, through the garden apartment and into the yard.
“Grace!” I whisper.
She stops, shoulders hunched, and then faces me. Her nose is pink and her eyes are glassy. I make my way over. My socks are getting damp from dew, so I slip on my sneakers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Going home.”
“But—”
“I need to know, but I don’t need to get everyone killed. I’m going right now. Even if you wake everyone up, I’ll be gone before they can stop me.”
I want to throttle her, but I say, “That’s…insane. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I have to. Don’t make this all dramatic, please.”
“I’m not the one making it dramatic. I’m the one making it
un
dramatic. You’re the one sneaking out to get yourself killed. Grace, listen to yourself. No one wants you to do this.”
She shrugs and wheels her bike a few feet. I grab it by the seat. She looks back. “Let go.”
“No.”
“Syls, I’m serious. Let go.”
“Nope.” There’s only one way this can go. She’s made a decision and woe unto the person who tries to stop her. I won’t argue with the assessment that I do dumb shit or am ruled by my emotions to my own detriment, but Grace doesn’t. Grace is the sane one, and she’s lost it. After all these years she knows how to handle me, but I have no idea how to handle New Grace. I look back at the house, then at her. “I’m coming. Wait for me to get my stuff.”
“No.”
“Did you at least leave a note?”
She nods. I won’t have the time, and I don’t want to leave without them knowing why. I sprint for the house and grab my coat which, thankfully, hangs on the back of a kitchen chair. Her note is on the table beside a pen. I scribble on it without reading her words, then race back to the yard. Grace is gone. I snatch my bike and find her in Hipster Zombies’ house with the front door already unlocked—she had no intention of waiting.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks through thinned lips.
“Because.” There are a lot of reasons, but first and foremost is that she’s my best friend. I’m afraid she’ll get hurt or never return. I have to be there if she doesn’t find them, or finds them as zombies. She might not make it back if that happens. I’m not sure she’ll want to.
I’m unprepared, mentally and supplies-wise, except for what I have in my bag. Which, thankfully, includes my chisel. I take my gloves from my coat pocket and slip them on while Grace carries her bike to the sidewalk. I have a faint hope she’ll change her mind when she sees I’m serious, but we mount our bikes and set off around the few zombies without a word. We already know the route, and, with a few changes for zombie migration, it gets us to Atlantic Avenue by mid-morning.
It’s no longer packed, and it’s wide enough that we can zigzag from one side to the other to avoid who’s left. We dodge Lexers past stores that have been here as long as I can remember—Key Food, a Laundromat, the Middle Eastern grocers—and the newer, more upscale stores, although Brooklyn Heights has always been a pricey neighborhood.
I sideswipe a car with my funny bone when a man almost grabs hold of my bag. My arm grows numb and my brain buzzes with the knowledge that every near miss is an opportunity to take a hit on our return trip. That man will be here. So will the group of five teenage boys who limp after us, their pants hanging lower than they did when alive. So will the woman who was lying under an empty, bloody baby carriage and now drags her chewed-off legs across the sidewalk to flop down the curb. And that’s not all, but in order to keep moving I have to see each of them as an obstacle to avoid rather than a deadly monster that stands in the way of what should be the simple act of taking my next breath.
We turn well before the hospital. The first block into Brooklyn Heights is lined with brownstones. A few are burnt, but they haven’t suffered the large-scale fires of other neighborhoods.
Double wooden doors swing faintly in the breeze under decorative arches, shredded where they once had locks. Clothing and trash have collected at the curbs, the bases of stoops and under car tires. Someone has ripped open garbage bags and smashed car windows in what I assume was a search for food. It must have been before everyone took off. Now, the street is mostly uninhabited. Brooklyn Heights might be surrounded by zombies due to the bridges and hospital, but the interior isn’t bad so far.
Grace and Logan’s apartment is first. Lexers are scattered between us and the tall building at the end of the block. We stop behind an abandoned delivery truck whose metal rolling door has been twisted open for access to its cargo. Grace takes her house keys from her pocket and clenches them in her fist to minimize noise. Her pale face stands in stark contrast to the dark hollows around her eyes. I’ve never seen her so frightened, not even when we made the trip from the hospital.
“I can go,” I say. “You wait here.”
She shakes her head. Inhales through her nose and sends the breath out her colorless lips. Grace, who believes in karma, who does her best not to hurt a fly—she’ll trap it and release it out a window, whereas I smash it with whatever I can find—deserves to find her family. But nothing is fair now. The world wasn’t beautiful before, and now it’s downright ugly.
“W-we can go to the s-side entrance,” she stammers.
I put a hand on her arm. It’s already gory, so the added muck on my glove doesn’t make a difference. “It’ll be okay.”
I don’t know if it will be okay. Grace walks around with an open heart, almost begging to be hurt, and what we find could do her in. We bike down the next street over, going the long way in order to give the zombies little time to spot us before we get in her building. This block burned with a conflagration that took out almost every house and dropped to feast on the vehicles. The odor of charred wood and rubber is welcome after the rotten scent of everything else. The world even smells ugly.
We coast to her corner. Grace’s pale brick apartment building sits across the street. The glass windows and lobby doors are cracked, and a tall, broad-shouldered zombie wearing a tailored jacket stands under the awning. His brown hair hangs in spikes and his arms dangle. He watches the doors, his back to us. I almost expect to see him check his watch.
Dread tingles from my spine out to my hands. I grip my chisel. The gray skin of his neck gives no hint as to his skin tone before. The shoulders, the hair, the clothes—it could be Logan, but the stance is off. Logan always seemed aloof in his big body, about to burst at the seams in an endearing way, and this man has the same slump-shouldered, off-kilter stance as every other zombie.
Turn around
.
Don’t turn around
. I don’t know what to wish for. Grace’s mouth opens. Her keys hit the ground, loud in the silence, and he turns.
A completely different face—squashed nose, small eyes, beard. It’s not Logan. Grace drops her bike and staggers back. She snarls at the man, as though livid he dared impersonate Logan, and swoops to pick up her keys before she runs for him. I watch in astonishment before I drop my bike to fly after her.
She leaps to the brick wall that borders the flowerbeds around the awning, knife in hand, and waits for Not-Logan to come for her. I slide between parked cars as she allows him to fumble on her coat. His fingers curl around her left forearm, and her knife rises as his mouth dips. One yank and Grace will be on the ground beneath him, but she knows they go for the simple bite, the shortest path, not the long game. By the time I reach her, he’s on the ground and Grace stands on the wall like a warrior, knife in the air.