Chapter?21 (Joshua’s?POV)

  I angled west, keeping the crumbling skyline at my back until the gutted towers gave way to the broad, ragged mouth of Central?Park’s southeast corner. From here I could just make out the ruined sprawl of Columbus?Circle: statues toppled, barricades rusting where soldiers once tried to hold a line. Now only weeds and warped rebar stood guard.

  A cracked sign still read “E 59th?Street – Park Drive” in chipped green enamel. I stepped beneath it and entered the tree line, boots crunching over glassy grit and last year’s leaves matted to pulp. The park had always been a rectangle of manicured calm, but seven years without gardeners had turned it feral. Grass grew waist?high in patches, thorny vines climbed lampposts, and shattered walkways zig?zagged like broken bones beneath moss.

  My goal was simple: cut northwest across the lower paths, skirt the southern ponds, then emerge near the old Dakota and keep pushing up toward Morningside Heights. The cottage sat somewhere beyond that, half?forgotten in a neighborhood of row houses. If I kept my bearings—and avoided anything hungry—I could make it before sundown.

  The air inside the park was different: cooler, moist, alive with buzzing insects. Under the leafy canopy the city’s rot thinned, replaced by the musk of wet earth and wildflowers forcing through asphalt seams. It almost smelled like spring—until the breeze shifted and carried a whiff of stagnant water from the lake mixed with something unmistakably dead.

  I stayed low, weaving between toppled benches and splintered picnic tables. A rust?flecked playground slide jutted like a shipwreck’s prow, its ladder half?swallowed by ivy. Here and there, sun?bleached bones lay in the grass—mostly animal, I hoped. I kept scanning for roamers, listening for that telltale wet shuffle or throaty moan, but for now the park felt deserted.

  Halfway up a cracked service lane, I stumbled on a stroke of luck: a bicycle leaned against a wrought?iron fence, front wheel bent but still attached. The frame was dusty, chain rusty yet intact. My pulse kicked. Riding would cut travel time—and noise, if I kept it steady—by half. I tested the handlebars; they creaked but held. I straightened the front wheel as best I could, spat on my fingers, and rubbed a spot of grit from the chain links, then gave the pedals a tentative spin. They moved with a gritty rasp but didn’t seize.

  “Don’t fail me,” I muttered, slinging my pack across my shoulders. The war?hammer I lashed sideways along the frame with a length of frayed bungee cord I found in the basket. Awkward, but better than pedaling one?handed.

  I mounted, pushed off, and the tires lurched over uneven pavement. The first fifty yards were a clumsy wobble; the front wheel kept trying to veer left. But momentum carried me, and soon I was gliding along the old carriage road, dodging fallen branches and potholes. Wind streamed across my face, lifting the stink of sweat and gore from my clothes—though I could still smell myself, rancid and sour beneath the fresher breeze. A shower, I promised again. Hot water, soap, maybe even a clean shirt.

  The park blurred past: dead cherry trees, stone bridges crusted with moss, the skeletal remains of a horse?drawn carriage flipped on its side. At the southeastern pond a gaggle of geese paddled through algae?thick water, oblivious to the apocalypse. The scene almost felt peaceful until a movement near Bethesda Terrace caught my eye—two roamers wandering aimlessly, clothes sloughing off like wet tissue. I coasted behind a marble balustrade, breath held, wheels whispering over marble dust. They never noticed me, too busy gnawing at something unidentifiable on the steps.

  Northwest I rode, standing on the pedals to climb a gentle rise. The cracked path rattled my bones, but the bicycle held. The city’s distant moan faded behind layers of leaves. Only the hiss of tires over grit, the clack of a loose spoke, and the whisper of wind in branches kept me company.

  At last I emerged near the western edge—Central?Park?West sign still dangling, bullet?pocked. The Dakota’s fa?ade loomed ahead, windows blown, but the street beyond looked mercifully clear. I swung off the path, guided the bike through a gap in the fence, and bumped down onto asphalt. The front tire complained, wobbling, but stayed true enough.

  Stolen story; please report.

  From here it was a straight shot: past the museum’s shattered steps, north along Columbus and Amsterdam, weaving around barricades, always pedaling, always scanning. The skyscrapers were behind me now, replaced by rows of battered apartment blocks, fire escapes twisted like spider legs. Far off, I heard a single gunshot—maybe Empire, maybe scavengers—but it echoed away, not my fight.

  Every few blocks I coasted to a halt, listened, then pushed on, tires crunching over glass and broken tile mosaics. The late?afternoon sun threw long spears of light across the avenue, and I aimed for them, heading toward Morningside Heights and the hope of that decrepit cottage.

  The thought of a door that locked, a bucket of water I could heat over a fire, and maybe a scrap of soap felt like salvation. I gripped the handlebars tighter, bent low, and pedaled harder, leaving the park’s haunted greenery behind, carrying twenty?seven pearls, two grimy guns, The bicycle’s bent front wheel wobbled, but I coaxed it north along Amsterdam?Avenue, past cafés reduced to blackened shells and storefronts with awnings flapping like shredded flags. My calves burned; every bump shot a jolt through my spine. Yet each yard gained felt like a victory pried from the city’s jaws.

  A grocery mural—once bright with produce—now looked like a war?torn fresco, paint blistered, windows punched out. As I coasted by, a lone roamer shuffled from the entrance, arms dangling bonelessly. I kicked harder, chain rasping, and the creature’s gurgling moan dwindled behind me. The air smelled of sour garbage and distant smoke; even over my own stench, it was foul enough to make my eyes water.

  I passed 96th?Street—the sign half?torn but still readable. Not far now. My mind flashed to the cottage: peeling clapboard, the copper basement door waiting in the dark. I pictured rigging rain barrels, boiling water, scrubbing days of rot from my skin. Maybe even sleeping without clutching a weapon. First things first: barricade, inventory, breathe.

  A sudden clang echoed from a side street. I jerked my head: three roamers spilled from a bodega, drawn by the bike’s rattle. One had no lower jaw, its tongue lolling obscenely. They lurched toward the road. I swerved, tires skidding on loose gravel, handlebars bucking under my grip. The front wheel fishtailed, but I righted it and pumped the pedals, heart battering my ribs. Their moans faded behind brick fa?ades.

  Blocks blurred: graffiti?tagged churches, a schoolyard overgrown with weeds tall as children, yellow buses rusted into immovable monuments. I glimpsed the cathedral spires of St.?John?the?Divine rising through broken trees—Morningside Heights at last. Relief fluttered, tempered by exhaustion.

  One final hill tested the bike’s cracked frame. I stood on the pedals, quads screaming, sweat stinging my eyes. At the crest, the street dipped toward a line of modest row houses, their roofs sagging but still recognizable—my father’s old neighborhood. My pulse thrummed with something like hope.

  I slowed, coasting past overturned trash cans and a sedan fused to a lamppost by years of rust. No roamers in sight. The hush felt eerie after the city’s constant drone. I turned onto a narrow cul?de?sac, tires crunching over glass. There—half?hidden behind an ivy?choked fence—stood the cottage. Shutters hung askew, paint blistered, but the bones were intact.

  I braked hard, dismounted, and let the battered bicycle clatter to the curb. My legs trembled from the ride. For a long moment I just stared, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin. The setting sun painted the fa?ade in dull gold, highlighting every crack, every memory.

  “Home,” I whispered, voice hoarse.

  Twenty?seven pearls rattled in my pack. The grimy pistol and bent shotgun weighed heavy at my hip. And for the first time since stepping through that copper door, I felt the faintest stir of control.

  I stepped onto the weed?choked walkway, war?hammer ready, and crossed the threshold into the cottage—determined to claim this ruin as a refuge before the night, and the undead, closed in once more.