Chapter Twenty #2
So we do, picking up with the decision to leave Durham, what we’ve seen along the way, and all we’ve learned.
When Everett continues the ruse that we’re married, Corinne accepts our shared last name without any questions, which is good.
I’ve never been to a wedding, and I’m not exactly sure what one entails.
Like Julio, she’s particularly overjoyed to learn that a quick jolt of electricity to a zombie’s heart disrupts their reanimated rhythm, and that once disrupted they can’t restart.
“That changes everything,” she says, pressing her mouth against her steepled fingers. “We didn’t even know their hearts still beat.”
“It’s a limited, erratic beat,” Everett says, his eyes pained.
He’s probably thinking of Sandeep when he tried to resuscitate him, which he told me all about during our long, cold night in the fort.
I rest a hand on his leg, and he takes it into his.
“Like a busted car battery jump-started one last time. It doesn’t take much. ”
Corinne shakes her head slowly. “This situation gets harder and harder to understand.”
I frown. “You don’t think it’s just the virus?”
“We think that it’s the virus plus something in our food supply,” Corinne says evenly. “The American food supply.”
“What do you mean?” Everett asks.
“Every American survivor we’ve met has some kind of special diet.
Vegan, gluten-free, carnivore, diabetic, low-FODMAP.
And without fail, every survivor thinks it’s their diet that protected them from the infection and gave them immunity.
That meat’s the problem, or gluten, or poor misunderstood nightshades.
But how does that explain our healthy Korean brothers and sisters that operate our neighborhood’s Asian food market, who eat all of those things?
How does that account for the fact that Chinatown is thriving right now?
” Corinne shakes her head again. “There’s only one commonality I can find. ”
Everett’s eyes widen slightly. “They’re not eating the standard American diet.”
Corinne nods. “Personally, I’m a nutritionist, and our family limits our exposure to processed foods.”
Beatriz straightens, standing behind her mother. “Three or more ingredients, and we don’t play with that,” the young girl says, a knife-edge to her tone.
“And here we are, safe,” Corinne adds. “Something’s in American processed foods, and that, coupled with the virus, has killed off the majority of the country.”
“So if you don’t eat some special, fussy, difficult diet because you don’t have the resources, or the time, or frankly, the energy to eat better, you die?” Everett says, his face twisting in disgust. “That’s so—so unfair.”
Corinne huffs. “Living in America has never been fair. Why would dying be any different?”
My head whips to Everett. “The patents. From the Oval Office.”
“What patents?” Corinne leans over.
“We found a stack of chemical patents, all filed by the same corporation, in a file about the zombie outbreak in the Oval Office,” I explain. “We thought it might be for a cure, but maybe they were looking for whatever’s in the food supply that did this.”
“Where are they?” Corinne asks, her voice louder. “If I could see them, I could maybe identify the ingredient—we’d be able to expand our food rations to include safely processed foods!”
Everett winces. “We left them in our rig.”
“But we’ll figure out a way to share the information with you,” I add quickly. “Somehow.”
“Even if you could make it back safely, we’re leaving soon.
” Corinne’s shoulders deflate, a resigned look to her jaw.
She gazes up at her daughters flanking her.
“The birds have taken over Prospect Park, and it’s only a matter of time before they infest Queens, too.
The rats are getting bolder, and soon even daytime won’t be safe for travel.
We have to leave before it comes to that. ”
“Where will you go?” I ask.
“Our group’s headed to West Point,” Corinne replies, and Everett nearly falls out of his chair.
“What?” he sputters.
“The military’s established a settlement there that’s guarded and secure, with far greater food stores than we have here. We’re packing up as much food and supplies as we can safely transport, then heading out day after tomorrow.”
Everett’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Corinne frowns at him, then looks to me to explain.
“That’s where we’re headed, too. Everett’s family is supposed to be there, but we haven’t been able to contact them. We didn’t realize there’d be a whole settlement.”
Corinne’s head lifts in understanding. “I see. We’re in communication with Colonel Greer, one of the leaders of the outfit. Would you like me to ask about your family before you leave? You can speak to her yourself if you like. The radio is in the back.”
Everett makes a choking sound, and wordlessly, Beatriz fills a glass of water and hands it to him. He takes several long drinks while Corinne and her two daughters stare at him incredulously.
“He’s processing,” I explain.
“I’m definitely processing,” he manages. “Colonel Greer is my mother.”
Corinne’s eyebrows rise. “So, the other Colonel Greer is—”
“My father, yes.” Everett looks miserable. “Have they mentioned my sister, Dr. Gemma Greer? She’s the only one I—is she okay?”
“Yes,” Corinne says gently, taking in everything Everett’s not saying, too. The change of his last name. The way he’s clutching my hand. The clear and unmistakable fact that he’s softhearted and lovely and meant for the indoors, decidedly not military material.
“I spoke to her yesterday. She’s heading up their research lab.”
“That’s our Gemma.” Everett smiles half-heartedly but looks relieved all the same. “Listen, if you talk with them again before tomorrow night, would you mind not mentioning me? I need more…time. Before I decide what to do.”
And there it is again, that stab of hope.
Everett doesn’t want to go back to West Point.
But that doesn’t mean he wants what I could give him instead—life in a bunker, tending to an old, ornery man, learning how to farm with none of the creature comforts that made life worth living for him before.
And that’s if I could convince Gramps to let Everett stay.
He’d be furious if I just showed up with Everett.
Exposing the location of your bunker is the highest form of betrayal to a prepper.
But how would Gramps ever believe me when I say that I trust Everett?
Yes, it’s only been a week, and yes, my feelings have gotten involved, but I trust him.
And more than that, I want to trust him. I want to give him everything.
Corinne agrees to let Everett’s presence remain secret for now.
With a deep breath in through her nose, she rises from the table.
“Okay, I’m satisfied. You can bunk with us tonight, and Julio will help you back to your kayak in the morning.
I have one question left, though.” She pauses, her hands on her hips.
“What possessed y’all to come to New York today? ”
“It’s Maisie’s birthday,” Everett says, his arm wrapping around my shoulders like he’s done it a thousand times. “And she’d never been.”
“I know it was dumb,” I rush out, a hot blush enveloping me head to toe.
Corinne is clearly a cunning survivalist, both caring for her family and building a community in the middle of an impossible situation, all while planning their safe way out.
And here I am, wearing an I NY shirt pecked to shreds by rabid zombie pigeons.
Corinne’s eyes are warm, though, not judging. “Did you have a good time?”
I clear my throat. “We were almost eaten by rats.”
“Not what I asked.”
The events of the day sweep over me, but it’s the sensations of it that stand out most. The city’s silver reflection rippling like silk as I cut my oar neatly through the river.
The feel of wind in my hair and Everett’s laughter in my ears as we coasted down the middle of Thirty-fourth Street.
Coming loudly with Everett deep inside of me, the whole world laid out before us, not lost to us. Not yet.
“Yes,” I breathe, and Everett holds me tighter.
“Then it wasn’t dumb,” Corinne says matter-of-factly. Kindly. And somehow her permission to enjoy the day I asked for is just what I needed to hear.
“It’s her birthday, Mami,” Ayana says, the first words Corinne’s older daughter has uttered in our presence. She faces her, a question in her expression.
Corinne tilts her chin to the side, a small smile growing on her face. “I hear you, baby. Let’s introduce the Shenandoahs to the community.”
Corinne and her daughters lead us to the large window in the living room with the fire escape beyond.
A well-used welcome mat lies in front of the window, along with a pile of shoes, as if this is the family’s main entrance to their apartment now.
Beatriz cranks up the window and steps out through the frame.
Beyond the fire escape’s railing, a clever setup of scaffolding and platforms links the Acevedos’ apartment to the hotel’s fire escape next door.
With greenhouse tenting over top, they’ve formed a sheltered passageway between buildings, safe from the tallest zombies and bloodthirstiest pigeons, removing any need to use the street below.
The window on the other side deposits us into a ballroom full of round tables, flamboyant carpeting, and blown-glass chandeliers in whimsical colors.
Several groups sit casually around the room, their conversations pausing when we come in.
The sight of so many living, breathing survivors not wearing yoga pants is uplifting in a way I didn’t see coming.
“Everyone, this is Maisie and Everett Shenandoah. They’re staying for the night,” Corinne announces.
Not knowing quite what to do, I lift a hand and wave tentatively.
Everyone waves right back. Tears prick my eyes.