Chapter Nineteen #2
It’s bittersweet thinking that once again, life under my parents’ rule awaits me on the other side of today. Like all the good years spent becoming who I am were just the delicious innards trapped in a sandwich made of horrible, moldy bread.
My stomach rumbles. It’s only been a few days, but damn, I miss fresh baked goods.
We splash the kayak into the water, and Maisie hops in while I hold the boat steady.
She then returns the favor, using an oar to anchor us while I half step, half crash into the back behind her.
Chicken is not amused, and I earn a spitty hiss right against my throat at the uneven, lurching rock of the kayak.
The bone-gray water is cold and harsh against my knuckles as we push off from shore, but the sight of New York’s concrete and steel fingers scrabbling for the blue sky fills me with awe, just like it always has.
It takes me a second to realize Maisie’s twisted in her seat, gazing at me.
“Y’all good?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Why?”
“You’re crying, Chicken’s gone angry limp, and your oar is floating away.”
“Oh!” I hastily wipe my eyes and yank the tethered oar back. “Sorry, just…” I blow out a breath. “Big feelings.”
“Big feelings,” Maisie agrees, her face softening.
After a few minutes of awkward, jerking effort, our rowing falls into a purposeful, driving rhythm, gliding us forward.
We’re quiet as we cross the river, the city growing larger before our eyes.
The glass-faced buildings reflect back the pale-yellow morning light, and all around us is calm and serene.
It’s honestly surreal. New York without its choking fumes, its honking, its constant movement.
As Maisie helps me disembark the kayak, it feels like I’ve walked onto an abandoned movie set.
An incredibly vivid backdrop, which I guess is all New York really is without its tired, poor, huddled masses all yearning to breathe free.
The few people outside stand stiffly on the sidewalks, tinier versions of the skyscrapers frozen above them.
Maisie is, unexpectedly, delighted.
She spins around in the middle of Thirty-fourth Street, unfazed by the unnatural quiet, the abandoned cars, the emptiness.
Maybe this is the best version of New York for her—one without people, where the only danger is already known and prepared for.
The existential dread gripping me by the heart loosens, finger by finger, as she lifts up her chin and stares in open wonder at the city’s remains.
“Come on!” Grinning, she gestures me over to a rental-bike rack.
I pluck out my near-useless wallet from my jumpsuit’s pocket and, snorting, run my credit card through the machine still holding these bikes hostage.
The locks disengage on two shiny blue bikes, and Maisie rolls hers out. For a second, she frowns.
“Wish you had a helmet?” I pull my bike out and throw a leg over the top.
Maisie gives me a wincing smile. “It probably seems weird to worry about dying from a bike accident after voluntarily entering a city full of flesh-eating zombies, huh.” She swallows. “It’s probably weird to worry about dying at all.”
I’m about to agree when I realize I don’t.
Three days ago, I might have, but that was before I realized that my life could be more than the grayscale version I’d been living in since Louise died.
And now that my heart’s beating again painfully in my chest, now that I have this second chance to actually live my life instead of just existing within it, I feel more protective of my future than ever.
Because for now, Maisie’s in it. And any future with her, no matter how short and gruesome, is worth protecting.
“First food-delivery zombie we see, we’ll yoink its helmet. Deal?”
Maisie’s small smile returns, like the sun reappearing from behind a cloud. “Deal.”
“Okay, buckle up, because your very exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime tour of the Biiiiiiig Apple,” I say in my best TV-announcer voice as I kick off the wobbly blue bike, “begins now!”
With Maisie’s laughter trilling behind me, the bite of cold, almost-fresh wind against my face, we weave down Thirty-fourth Street between stalled cars and the occasional parked zombie, with me calling out points of interest, like the High Line, the old AMC multiplex, and the best place to get your cellphone fixed if you break the screen.
The only mobbed place we pass is a Dunkin’ Donuts, its wall-to-ceiling windows shattered, zombies hanging half in, half out of the display cases, as though they passed out mid–donut raid and will pick back up later.
As we pull up to the intersection with Eighth Avenue, Maisie glides to a stop, her eyes aimed forward into the sky.
“Up ahead you’ll see New York’s most iconic tower—the Empire State Building—which has been featured in countless movies such as Sleepless in Seattle, Independence Day, and a personal favorite, Elf,” I say, still in NYC-tour-guide mode.
I am high on the brisk bike ride and spouting off facts, two of my favorite pastimes.
“The tower’s spire was originally built as a docking mast for dirigibles, believe it or not. Dirigibles!”
“Can we get closer?” Maisie asks.
I come to a full stop in the middle of the intersection, but there’s no oncoming traffic and might never be again. Still feels wrong. “Don’t you want to get to your grandparents’ house?”
Maisie’s eyes flicker between mine and somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. “I’m…not ready yet. Can we play tourists for a little while first?”
I steer my bike over to hers, then reach out and give her hand a squeeze. We stay like that, holding hands in the road, for a long second. I crack a small smile. “Whatever you want, birthday girl.”
We coast the rest of the way, the feeling of wild, nihilistic freedom rattling through my chest as we abandon our bikes on the ground right out front of the ESB.
You don’t realize just how much of a rule follower you are until suddenly, you no longer need to follow them.
We stand in front of the gilded doors. There are at least three zombies trapped inside the revolving glass, stunned into submissive statues by the sunlight pouring onto them.
“Let’s go in,” she says decisively.
My head whips to hers. “Really?”
Maisie steps closer to peek through the window. “The lobby is full of sunshine, and nobody’s moving. It’s pretty empty in there.”
I press my lips into a line, then remove two Tasers from my belt, one for each hand. They spark to life.
“All right. Let’s go sightseeing.”
We enter the lobby ready to fight, but no need—the few zombies inside remain dull-eyed and still as we stride purposefully toward the elevators. It feels like forever before the car arrives, its doors twinkling open. Empty.
We exchange a surprised glance, then step inside. The car whizzes up to the eightieth floor, vibrating slightly as it picks up speed.
“I thought the observation deck was on the eighty-sixth floor.” Maisie frowns as the floors tick steadily upward, one by one.
“It is. We have to stop at the eightieth floor and transfer to a different elevator.”
Maisie’s eyebrows rise. Floor seventy-six. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight.
She steps into fighting stance.
Seventy-nine…the elevator slows, as if it’s reconsidering our decision for us.
Eighty.
The door dings open. The stench of gored flesh hits first, then the mass of upright corpses making it. Chicken hisses, then yowls, long and low.
Maisie’s arms arch high, her Tasers spitting voltage. Mine do the same, and I yelp out a weird heee-yaah! that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
Eight former humans stand clustered around the elevator, as if they’ve been waiting for a very, very long time. A red-haired fellow missing his nose tips forward inside, but only because he appears to have been waiting with his entire body smushed against the doors.
Maisie dispatches him quickly.
The rest don’t rush us—they stand frozen to the spot, their faces dumb and decaying in real time.
Behind them, the eightieth floor is filled with gleaming, brilliant sunlight due to windows on every wall and bright, silvery surfaces, thank god, or else we’d have quite the fight in front of us.
As it is, though, the zombies won’t move.
Maisie glances at me, questioning. I shrug, then zap a big, beefy fellow hulking over us.
“Excuse us, coming through.”
Zap. “So sorry.” Maisie joins me. Zap.
“Pardon me,” I add as I step over the last body and accidentally crunch its hand.
Maisie releases a choked giggle as we race over to the next set of elevators, punch the up buttons furtively, board, and finally arrive at the eighty-sixth floor.
We spill out onto the observation deck, clutching each other and laughing as though we could expel the adrenaline firing through our veins like air.
I let Chicken down immediately to do her own sweep of the area.
The deck is almost entirely empty, though there’s one woman standing alone at the north end, staring out blankly at the city before her.
It quiets us. She stands so still, unmoving, even as we approach on either side, our Tasers at the ready.
Her blond hair blows in the wind, whipping against her face in matted, tangled clumps.
No gore on her clothes, no wounds. She died up here, alone, and now she stands here, reanimated and still alone, haunting the tower without food or prey or end. Dead days and restless nights. Waiting.
I lift my Taser pole and place the live end directly against her heart.
Her blank eyes watch me do it. Maybe I’m just an excessively maudlin film professor, but the moment feels loaded and heavy, like somewhere a pensive violin solo should wail over the gusting winds as her body slumps to the ground.
Maisie holsters her Tasers, and so do I. Together, we wordlessly drag Sleepless in Seattle to a bench where she can finally rest. We leave her to her peace, and Maisie finds my hand, squeezes.