The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious by Sarah Lyons Fleming

since Matt, my one and only long-term boyfriend, told me to look him up when I got my shit together. He was tired of my mother’s calls and my nighttime rambles through the apartment. I had no plan to look him up, but I thought I’d do better next time. Next time seemed so close, and now all I have ahead of me is another round in the commercial kitchen and an assload of dishes to wash.
    I should’ve freed myself from my mother years ago, but if I didn’t answer the phone she might show up. That was my excuse, at any rate. What may be closer to the truth is that I spent so many years fixated on my mother it’d become a habit I couldn’t quit. A habit I wanted desperately to be free of, although I’m sure you could say that about every addict. Perhaps even my mother.

Chapter 7
    There’s no news, no nothing, for the next two days. Bart’s phone is officially non-operational, and the transistor radio they brought to the roof played only emergency broadcasts that urged us to head to Safe Zones we can’t reach. When Jorge, Kearney and Clark came down from the roof yesterday, the day after the bombs, Grace fled to the bathroom upon their report that New York still burned.
    Basement living isn’t all that taxing, but I’m tired. I’m tired of cooking and spending nights awake and reminding Nancy, the old lady with dementia, of my name for the hundredth time. I’m tired of imagining what exactly is going on outside. And I’m particularly tired of Dawn, who has finally come out of her trance to boss us around the kitchen.
    Her loud laugh is tinged with sarcasm. “You beating that soup or stirring it?” she asks Grace, who makes a face behind her back.
    “That’s the way I did it before,” she says to Prisha, who cooks the French fries as per Dawn’s instructions but is somehow off the mark. “You got a problem with that?”
    Prisha mutters something in another language. The words are foreign but the sentiment is quite clear. So, when they ask for help with the signs, Grace and I volunteer.
    “I swear I’m going to beat her if she says one more word about my cooking,” Grace says.
    I laugh, relieved to be out of the kitchen. They’ve set sheets on the hallway floor along with every pen they could find. I outline large letters with a Sharpie while Grace fills them in. The lights flicker for a moment and then burn steadily, albeit a touch dimmer.
    Jorge walks into the hall a minute later. “That’s the generator kicking in.”
    We’re now on borrowed time. If we stay the thirty days, we’ll have to move to a safe spot on a floor with windows before the generator dies, or else be thrust into darkness in the basement. Once we relocate by elevator, we’ll be stuck until the stairwells and lobby are full of motionless dead bodies rather than moving ones. Our other option is to leave the hospital by the kitchen loading door, outside of which there are hundreds of zombies. And, beyond that, millions more.
    Craig is slumped against the hallway wall, silent as usual. He drums his fingers on his leg. “I’ve got to get home.” Well, Craig is silent except for that one sentence, repeated in various permutations throughout the day.
    Grace squats in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get home, Craig, but you’ll never make it home right now. Just focus on getting there when we can leave. If you picture it, you can make it happen.”
    Next she’ll have him create a vision board—she loves those glorified collages. But it’s better to see her this way, and it works because Craig wipes his nose on his sleeve and looks more upbeat. “I want to go to the roof again. I might be able to see my house.”
    The basement is a giant sensory deprivation tank. Even the window of the stairwell door has been papered over to keep zombies from banging at the sight of us. That was a welcome upgrade, but the lack of outside exposure could almost convince me the city isn’t as destroyed as it is. I’m afraid